Break Free (Smart Girl Mafia Book 1)

by Amiee Smith

  “She’s not shy at all. She’s a writer. I like her. A lot.”

  Lynn is not tall or fair. She doesn’t wear designer dresses or Louboutins. She doesn’t stand around, waiting for something to happen. She’s a pixie who lives in a colorful world where, even on the worst day, she can turn it around and make it magical (in flat shoes).

  “If this is new, why are you in a rush to relocate? Maybe she’ll move to L.A.?” Paul asks.

  “No. She owns a duplex in the City, and has made it very clear she doesn’t want to do long distance or move back to L.A.”

  “Shit, man. You do like this woman. You’ve let girls come and go over the last seven years without flinching.”

  Paul is right. If I can’t figure out how to make a woman happy, I let her go. Lynn told me exactly how to make her happy and I want her even more.

  “I don’t mind moving. The change would do me some good, but I need a job and a place to live. Man, I can’t take a pay cut. I started from the bottom before, I’m not sure I want do it again.”

  “You shouldn’t. Listen, my old man has been trying to partner with a contractor for years. He has a lot of respect for what your dad has done in L.A. I want to expand into larger projects, but building costs continue to be an issue so we aren’t getting those contracts. One of the reasons I keep having you consult on projects is because you understand building and design. That’s rare. You can keep crews within budget and on schedule. We’ve considered creating an in-house construction team, but we keep very little capital in the firm and distribute most of the profits at the end of the year. The bonding costs would drain us dry. You guys already have the bonding required. Why don’t we team up?”

  “Like a merger?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes. A merger is an excellent idea. You and I believe great design and great construction go together. If we work together, we can reduce the inefficiencies involved with delivering projects to our clients. We could make our mark with my sustainability process and your understanding of the technology side. My old man is going to retire in the next five years or so. Your old man—”

  “My dad is going to work until the day he dies,” I say.

  “Maybe he’s waiting for you to take some initiative so he can retire? If we merge, you and I can grow the business up here and expand our model into L.A.”

  “Damn. Why didn’t I think of this?”

  “Because you’re the brawn and I’m the brain. No offense,” Paul says.

  “None taken. So, how do we do this?”

  “Let’s go to my house and work on our plan. We can’t do this half-assed. Tomorrow, let’s try to get your dad up here for a meeting or do a video chat. I need to call Mandy,” Paul says.

  He leaves the conference room. While I wait, I drop a text to Michael to let him know I won’t be around for dinner. After a few minutes, Paul returns.

  “Mandy is going to order Thai. Let’s stop by the dispensary and pick up some Blue Dream. I’m going to need a little extra energy tonight.”

  “Great. I’ll get an indica for later,” I say, following Paul to his black Porsche Cayenne Hybrid.

  I spend the next eight hours at Paul’s dining room table working out the merger. I arrive back at Michael’s by way of an Uber a little before 1:00 a.m. He is nowhere to be found. So, after changing out of my suit and into warm-ups, a T-shirt, and my North Face jacket, I go outside to the large patio area off the first floor. I spark a pre-rolled joint of Grand Daddy Purple and text Lynn.

  Thursday, 1:14 a.m.

  Nick Willingham (dream guy): Long shot… are you awake?

  Thursday, 1:15 a.m.

  Lynn Scott: Yeah. Slept all afternoon.

  Thursday, 1:15 a.m.

  Nick Willingham (dream guy): Can I call you?

  Thursday, 1:15 a.m.

  Lynn Scott: Sure.

  I hit “call” and wait for her to pick up.

  “Hey.”

  Her voice is like a full body hug.

  “Hey. This is the first time we’ve talked on the phone,” I say.

  “Umm… I never wanted to be the person who only communicates over text, but I guess that’s what I’ve become. This is really late for you, Nick. Are you not going to swim before work?” Lynn asks.

  Shit, she doesn’t know I’m still in the Bay Area.

  I’ll tell her when I know more. There is a possibility my dad won’t agree to a merger.

  “I got in late,” I say.

  “Hot date?”

  “No, Lynn. I met up with a friend from grad school.”

  “Did you have fun?”

  “I did. What are you up to?”

  “I just finished watching the second ‘Twilight’ movie.”

  I take another drag of the joint. Is she Team Jacob tonight?

  “What did you do for dinner?” I ask.

  “I made a pot of vegetable barley soup when I woke up.”

  “How did it turn out?”

  “Fine. You would’ve made it more flavorful and your knife cuts would’ve been better,” Lynn says.

  I laugh. “I look forward to cooking for you soon.”

  “Umm. Nick food would be so nice,” she says.

  “I miss you, Lynn.”

  “I miss you too, Nick. More than I can explain. Listen, I should go. I’m doing a marathon of all five movies.”

  “Ah…Okay. Enjoy your movies.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  “Night.”

  I put out the rest of the joint and head up to bed. My phone vibrates.

  Thursday, 1:23 a.m.

  Lynn Scott: Planned to send this earlier, but I fell asleep. Wine-n-weed baths aren’t as fun without you. Sweet dreams. [pic]

  In the photo, Lynn is in the bathtub. A glass of white wine and her rose gold vaporizer sit on the edge of the tub over her shoulder. Bubbles cover the top of her voluptuous tits and only the silver chain of her necklace is visible. Her hair is still in the French braid from last night. She’s smiling her vixen-grin, but her eyes look weary.

  Lynn definitely is not shy.

  It takes all my resolve not to request an Uber and go to her.

  CHAPTER 31:

  LYNN SCOTT

  I wake up at 9:06 a.m., on the sofa and wrapped in my SARK “How to be a Happy Writer” blanket. The Amazon app is opened on my smart TV to “The Twilight Saga: Eclipse” movie banner. Without hesitation, I rise and swap my white nightgown for yoga pants, running shoes, a bra, a faded Google T-shirt, and my Patagonia jacket.

  I stop by my bathroom to brush my teeth and splash water on my face. Grabbing my sunglasses and orange Coach wristlet, I descend the stairs and head out the door.

  Halfway down the block on Haight Street, I realize I forgot my phone. If I go back, I won’t leave the house. In the emotional malaise of yesterday, I skipped running. Missing another workout is not an option.

  Five minutes in, my legs find their rhythm. A little fatigued, I’ll run to Golden Gate Park and take the bus home. The best part of being in my city is I always can get home without stress or panic.

  I only trek out to the park on Saturday mornings, so it’s interesting to see people hustling on to buses and company shuttles to go to work. A light stops me at Divisadero and Haight.

  “Lynn?”

  I turn to find hipster Marc (aka Venus Bar hook-up), holding a takeout coffee cup. His skin is paler than I remember. The tattoo peeking out from his collar, less intriguing. (My dude is golden and tattoo-less.)

  “Hey, Marc.”

  My voice used to get sultry, like warm organic maple syrup, when I spoke to him. Today my tone, like aspartame. Misleadingly sweet with a bit of a manufactured aftertaste.

  “I sent you some text messages last weekend and didn’t hear back. I figured you were in L.A.”

  Everyone I’ve ever met since I moved to the City eight years ago knows I go to L.A. once a month.

  “Yeah. I was in L.A.”

  “Wow, you’ve lost
so much weight. Paleo?”

  “No.”

  “Listen, I’ve got thirty minutes before the next Apple shuttle arrives. You were always so good. You want to get down? Show me what you can do with your new body?”

  Thankfully, the light turns green.

  “Not today, Marc. Good to see you,” I say, dashing across the street.

  For the first time, my inner fat girl is silent. A quickie with Marc used to be so invigorating. Thrilling. After our initial hook-up after a Thursday night happy hour at Venus Bar, I’d run into him at the coffee place in our South Beach neighborhood. We’d get down (his words) in the bathroom while people stood in line waiting for their triple shot lattes with almond milk. Afterwards, I’d board the company shuttle and work on one of my stories all the way to the Google campus. I was living the City life. Both of us worked long hours for the largest tech companies in the world. That was the relationship: fast, impromptu sex.

  Things changed. I moved to Hayes Valley and exchanged shuttle life for spending quiet mornings in my imagination. He got a promotion and bought a place in the Lower Haight. Our situation became sporadic late-night booty calls. We never had dinner together or gave each other presents. We were just well-paid nerds in a city of well-paid nerds having sex when we could fit it into our schedules.

  I want to hate on Marc right now. The demigod, Nick Willingham has, in such a short time, reshaped my consciousness of what a good time with a man can be.

  A thought blindsides me. I’m living right now as if Nick and I are going to work out, but what if it doesn’t? What if he doesn’t move here? What if soon there is a new period of my life I label A.N. (After Nick)?

  I slow my pace. I’m running in time with my thoughts, which will burn me out. It’s at least another mile to the park. I spy a new juice bar on the other side of the street. Like a junkie, I jump in line and pay twelve bucks for a clear cup of grass-green liquid.

  I’m in the center of the Haight-Ashbury district; lots of bars, boutiques and head shops selling tie-dye clothes and artisan glass bongs. I walk-n-sip toward Golden Gate Park and discover a crystal shop. I’ve hit up every New Age store in the City, but this one seems to have popped up out of nowhere. Stepping in, chimey bells sound as I push open the door.

  “Welcome. Welcome. Are you shopping for anything in particular?”

  A woman who looks like the character Candace from “Portlandia” (I swear) appears at the counter. Long, gray, stringy hair, with masculine facial features, and decked out in a beige, wool librarian skirt, a melon cardigan, and Birkenstock sandals.

  “So, I’m into this guy. I gave him this rigorous, but totally healthy requirement for dating me. And I think he’s going to meet it, but I don’t know. I mean it’s pretty challenging in this real estate and job market to do what I’ve asked quickly… So, I want to be prepared if he’s like, “J/K I’m gonna get a girl in my ‘hood, even if she’s not as great as you.” I’m a really awesome lady. And he’s really awesome too. And handsome. Like, totally. And so kind and thoughtful. I swear when he dies he’s going to be knighted or crowned or whatever by the gods… But if he doesn’t choose me, I want a crystal to always remember I can be with an amazing guy. And I never have to go back to before-work sex in the bathroom of Cathouse Café,” I blurt out in one steady stream, the last sentence, a sob.

  For the first time in forever, amongst the energetic stones and clutter and dust (a Divine requirement for a metaphysical shop), I do what I never do— I cry.

  “Where is it? Where is it?!” she booms, handing me a tissue.

  I swear this woman sounds like Candace too.

  “What?”

  “The rose quartz you have on. Awesome lady, you’ve clearly drawn your soulmate to you.”

  I pull out the necklace always wedged between my breasts.

  “Get going, awesome lady. You’ll be fine. Come to me when you two get married and I’ll sell you a wedding crystal.”

  The woman shoos me out of the shop. I cry and slurp my way down Haight Street. Thank Goddess for sunglasses.

  I write happily-ever-afters, but I haven’t really believed in my own. I keep telling myself to focus on my work. Focus on my transformation from the little lost L.A. girl to writer woman living her dream. In my pursuit, a real relationship fell to the bottom of my to-do list.

  Before Nick (B.N.), I used men the way I used food. All thrill. No sustenance.

  It’s time to open my heart to real, healthy love. I need to believe in Nick. Believe in him the way I believe in romance novels, magical crystals, and unicorns. I need to believe in my strong, handsome, generous hero.

  Our relationship will only work if he and I live in the same place, but maybe I need to give it more time? Give long distance a try? I’d take a life with him, even if a requirement of our happily-ever-after is traveling to L.A. A little more. Hopping on a plane is better than wondering what if. I’d give up some of my freedom in the short term, so I can watch him cook… preferably naked. If I had my phone, I’d text or… call him, but it’d interrupt his work day. I’ll just try patience on and see how it fits on my new slimmer, fitter (hopefully wiser) self.

  I reach the Redwood Grove in Golden Gate Park and sit cross-legged under the trees with my crystal in hand. Breathing. Full inhalations and exhalations. My constantly cluttered mind quiets. No characters babbling at me. No ADHD ramblings. No Smart Girl Mafia. No parents. Not even Nick. Just me, my rose quartz crystal necklace, and the trees.

  Holy Unicorn, meditation— taking a beat— is as dope as all the New Age gurus preach.

  • • •

  Two hours later, I emerge from Golden Gate Park feeling Divinely refreshed. I bus back to Hayes Valley and pop into the nail shop across the street from the MUNI bus stop. I usually have to get stoned to get my nails done because it takes me forever to pick out a nail color. I literally touch every bottle until out of sheer exhaustion, I shut my eyes and hand the technician whatever color I’m holding.

  Today, I pick a vibrant pink and sit on the white leather sofa to wait my turn. No toe tapping or magazine flipping, just stillness. Even as the esthetician waxes the stray hairs on my upper lip, I’m as calm as lemonade on a summer day. Instead of dashing out of the salon, I wait until my nails and toes are completely dry. Carrying my running shoes in hand, I walk the two blocks to my place in the disposable, pink, foam flip-flops.

  After a serving of leftover soup, two pieces of avocado toast and an apple, I watch the last two Twilight movies in the series. The credits appear on the screen, and I seek out my phone lodged between two sofa cushions under my blanket.

  Two reminders. Take B-12 (which I’ve already done), submit online payment for the house cleaner before Friday (which I did on Monday), but not a single missed call or text message. I even check to make sure my phone is not on DND and my calls are not being forwarded to voicemail. Goddess, I’m so on top of life today.

  I do what I never do— I call people.

  I call my assistant to just check-in and say “hi.” I call my agent to say “hi.” I call each of the girls, including Brit, just to say “hi.” I call a few friends from my grad program, Google, and my sorority just to say “hi.” I even call my parents to say “hi.”

  No drama. No cross examinations. And no one mentions Nick. Just good-quality, casual conversation with the people I love. In avoiding calling people to evade the drama, I’ve contributed to it. The people who love me just want to know I’m okay and the best way to let them know is by picking up the phone and saying “hi.”

  Even in my newfound tranquility, I’m still a stoner and a writer. I spend the rest of the evening in my writing studio, streaming KCRW, vaping on some Sacred Sour, and writing love letters. Astonishingly, I don’t have the desire to write an exchange between my characters from any of my series. New voices show up in my mind.

  My Dearest Superstar,

  Today, I tattooed your name on my finger. Under my Tiffany wedding band.

  It hurt lik
e a motherfucker, but way less than the thought of life without you.

  After five years, the sound of your name still gives me hope and pride. As your wife, I move through life less brittle and a lot more me.

  Life is easy with you. The drama and deadlines are less impactful when I sit in our living room you designed in your mind. I’ve spent hours gazing out the windows overlooking the city where we’ve shared so many kisses.

  I never imagined I’d be here again…. enduring smog and traffic. But our life together takes the edge off. You take the edge off me.

  Waking up before the sun, to watch you eat breakfast and drink coffee is the best part of the day. You make me happy.

  Thank you. Your care. Your attentiveness. Your strength.

  You’re better than my favorite fantasy.

  I’m so lucky to have you.

  Our kids are so lucky to have you.

  Always,

  Your Horny Girl

  I click print on my favorite letter of the night. My phone rings from the living room. Glancing at the screen, sparks of joy spread all over my body. I hit the green button. Curling up on the sofa, the clock on the cable box reads 12:06 a.m.

  “Hey. Another late night for you?” I ask.

  “Yeah. It was a long day.”

  Nick’s voice is cheerful with sprinkles of exhaustion.

  “Good long or bad long?” I ask.

  “I’ll know more tomorrow. How are you?”

  “Good. Really good.”

  “Did you eat dinner?” Nick asks.

  “Not yet, but there’s cut-up pineapple and kale chips in my kitchen. Soon they’ll taste like the best food ever. There will probably be a bowl of soup thereafter.”

  Nick knows my munchies routine. The night of the dinner party and our first night as a couple, I woke up at two to eat kale chips and drink green juice. He found me naked and humming to myself in his kitchen… gosh, I miss the Nick kitchen.

  Nick laughs. “What are you getting stoned on tonight?”

  “Sacred Sour. It’s a private reserve strain from SPARC… my favorite dispensary. What about you? OG Kush?”

  “No. I had a bag of Blue Dream before dinner. Now I’m finishing a joint of Grand Daddy Purple.”