by Amiee Smith
(I’d loved to be watching the game with her... and him tonight.)
“Woman up and get me the job! I’ve been working overtime to help you get dates. I don’t like basketball, and I’ve watched every playoff game this season.”
“And you’ve gotten laid after most of the games. I’m your wing woman instead of the other way around,” I say, dropping my wallet into my bag.
“I can’t help it. It’s Oakland and Blasian is in vogue. Besides, you sabotage your dates with radical honesty. But I’ve found a workaround. A girl in my marketing class told me about a new app called Luck.”
“Luck?”
“It’s a total hook-up app. You load a picture and then it connects you with other people seeking a hook-up in your area. There’s no lengthy profile to complete. All you do is match with a dude you find attractive and use the chat to set-up your hook-up. I’ll download it to your phone. Once we get to the bar, I’ll post your pic. By the end of the game you’ll have a hook-up set up.”
“I don’t know, Emma. That seems so impersonal,” I say, leaning back in my chair and peering at the ceiling.
“You can chat him up for the hour your pic is live to make sure he’s not a douche.”
“But if I’m chatting on the app, I’ll miss the game.”
“I’ve seen you conduct a band, sing, and play three different instruments over the course of one song all while gracefully strutting around the stage in ridiculously overpriced shoes. You can multitask. Since you’ll be watching the game, you won’t have time to tell him some unattractive facts about yourself.”
“Wow. You really have thought of everything. You should be a member of the Smart Girl Mafia,” I mutter, staring at the white ceiling tiles. (They remind me of the tiles on the ceiling of Alex’s first DTLA office. The office where I spent so much time. Those were the days. Those were the days when I was married.)
“Girl, I’ve already put it on my vision board! I want to be inducted during my internship this summer in L.A. at Willingham Wealth Management.”
Emma does a little chair dance, bouncing her slender shoulders up and down.
“If you execute your plan, the girls will love you.”
“Yeah! Now let’s get this office cleaned up so we can get you laid.”
“Ugh, that probably means I need to go home, shower, and clean up my apartment.”
“Brit, I don’t know how a model-beautiful woman with thick thighs and a genius brain can be so...”
“Gross? I’m a weirdo.”
“No, I was going to say, checked out. You gotta snap out of your ‘I’m going through a divorce’ coma and embrace the wonderful wild world of dating in app culture.”
I sit up in my chair. “Oh. I have been in a coma. Way back when, in between trying to get a pair of Manolos, I used to be hella fun. I gotta get my fun back, Em.”
“Yes! That’s the spirit. I doubt you’ll meet a man as hot as your ex-husband in Oakland, but you can still date a smart hipster guy who’ll eat your flower in between political rants.”
“Alex was great at eating flower.”
“And why are the two of you divorcing?” she mutters.
“Because he wasn’t attracted to me and we got married for money.”
“I find it hard to believe he wasn’t attracted to you, but who cares. Let’s go have fun with some Oakland guys!”
“You’re right. Let’s go have fun with some Oakland guys!”
***
Freshly showered, wearing non-natural deodorant and dressed in dark skinny jeans, a heathered blue tight-fitting Warriors tee, and yellow suede pointy toe 105mm Manolo pumps, I sit at a tall bar table in the packed Athletic Club with Emma in the Uptown District of Oakland.
To ensure we got a table, she left campus and came directly here. She’s still in the short black mod dress and black loafers she had on earlier but managed to meet a brotha selling bootleg Warriors argyle socks while waiting in line to get into the sports bar.
Our server appears.
“I’ll have a Hella Hoppy, a double order of the chicken wings extra spicy, the fries with a side of ranch dressing, the pulled pork nachos with extra jalapeños, and the mixed greens side salad,” I say.
“No. She’ll just have the beer and the salad. And I’ll have the Piedmont Pilsner and the Temescal Burger.”
The server continues to the next table.
“Emma, I’m so hungry! I didn’t get to eat because I had to pick up the clothes on the floor of my apartment and change the sheets on my bed for my potential hook-up.”
“You just ordered enough food for a small family. I know what you’re trying to do. You’ll eat all that food and then say you’re too full to hook-up tonight.”
“Dammit. You are Mafia,” I pout, slouching in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest.
“Sit up straight! You’re always posed and poised, but in a bar where you can meet a potential boyfriend, you get all awkward. Give me your phone.”
I drag my battered phone from my purse and hand it to her.
I miss the days when Alex would get my screen replaced. I also miss the cleaning lady he paid to come in three times a week to keep the mansion tidy. I also miss watching games with him on the sofa.
He’d let me order as much food as I wanted. I could unapologetically yell at the TV with my mouth full of something delicious. And then pass out as soon as the clock ran out on the fourth quarter. He’d always cover me with a blanket before leaving or he’d fall asleep next to me. Those were the days. Those were the days when I was married.
Now, I’m a single lady watching the game in this piercingly loud sports bar with only a salad to eat. On the plus side, I can pick up the tab for tonight because I have two streams of income and a sizable savings.
This year, I paid my own bills, maintained a budget, barely did any shopping, and still donated money to Greenpeace and Planned Parenthood.
Alex would be so proud of me.
The server arrives with our beers. Emma opens the Luck app and loads a black and white pic of me sitting at my piano in a white kimono she took one Sunday morning. We were working out an arrangement for Alex’s favorite Duke Ellington song, originally composed by Billy Strayhorn, “Take the A Train.” I assigned it to the all-female big band ensemble I led this semester. Dragon would have been so impressed by their performance.
“OMG. This man is hot! Doesn’t he look like Kid Cudi?”
I barely hear her over the incessant chatter in this stuffy, overcrowded bar. Ugh, I bet I won’t be able to hear the commentators once the game starts. The Athletic Club is filled with TVs so at least I’ll see every play.
“Did you say Kid Cudi?” I ask.
I glance at the screen she’s pointing in my direction. It’s a pic of Will in a lavender dress shirt, a mirror selfie taken in the bathroom at the Willingham Wealth Management office.
“Ah, that’s Will. Alex’s partner. The app’s GPS must be broken because that pic was taken in L.A.,” I say.
“Maybe the pic was taken in L.A., but it says he’s nearby. That’s the guy I’ll be working for this summer?! I’m going to have to carry a change of underwear to work every day because there is no way I can look at him without getting wet.”
(In many ways, Emma reminds me of Lynn.)
“Click out of the app! I don’t want Will to see me and tell Alex I’m on a hook-up site. Click out, Emma!” I wail.
“Heck, no! I just hearted him. Maybe he’ll heart you back, so we can chat and land me a job for the summer. Better yet, maybe he’s at a bar around here and I can meet him. He’s probably watching the game. Is he a Warriors fan?” she asks, craning her neck and scanning the bar.
“Yes, he’s a fan. But please, click out. I don’t want to meet up with him. He’ll tell Alex!”
“Girly, your hot ex-husband has probably app’d all over L.A. for the last eight months. He’s single and you’re single which makes you both free agents.”
Emma says what I
ponder most nights. Alex, my Dragon, is a free agent.
I slip back into my “I’m going through a divorce” coma.
I wish I were hermiting-out in my apartment, wrapped in a kimono, waiting for the game to start, and eating too many chicken wings.
CHAPTER 13
ALEX WILLINGHAM
“Man, your first meeting back and you killed the presentation. I just got an email from Jansen Concrete. They want to move forward,” Will says, staring at his phone.
We’re sitting in the back booth of a too-loud sports bar in Oakland. Will dropped some cash so we didn’t have to wait in line for a table to watch the Warriors playoff game.
The room is packed with people and I feel as if I could overheat. Removing my charcoal blazer, I roll up the sleeves to my Warriors-blue dress shirt.
I haven’t been in Oakland since last October. Well, that’s the lie I told our new clients this afternoon. But I’ve been in the Bay Area four times since then.
Twice in February to help my brother with the renovation of his house before Lynn moved in, and twice this spring. Once to visit Malachi and Alisha. And once to see Herbie Hancock at SFJazz, a gift to myself for my 32nd birthday.
I may have also attended the spring big band recital at Mills College and made a sizable donation to the music department, but no one needs to know that.
Every time I’m here, I drive by Brit’s lake-facing apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, hoping to see her. I “happened” upon her address in our divorce paperwork.
In the last eight months, I’ve taken a backseat in the business. Partially because of the SEC and FBI investigations, partially because I needed to reduce my stress, but mostly because I’m in the middle of a divorce. A divorce I don’t want.
While the FBI found no evidence of wrongdoing, the SEC slapped my hand with fines and a six-month trading suspension. They felt I violated my fiduciary responsibility to screen a potential client. I can still sell our services, but until today, I have not participated in any new business sales meetings.
I still attend weekly staff meetings and hold conference calls with longstanding clients I met by way of Brit’s time at Canyon. However, all my calls are monitored and recorded by our compliance director and adjustments to their investments must be executed by Will or a junior manager at the firm.
Last December, Will launched a new service, managing mid-size companies’ retirement plans. It was a tactic to lessen the risk of an individual client using the firm for criminal means and increased our total revenue by 35%.
Since many of our clients own companies, he just used our existing database to build a book of business. Jansen Concrete was a referral from Jordan, Michael Ahmed’s business partner.
What I haven’t fully dealt with... during my leave of absence, I realized I didn’t miss the stress of helping the ultra-wealthy stay ultra-wealthy.
I cradle my glass of Hella Hoppy and watch Will type something on his phone.
“Don’t write them back tonight. It will make it seem like we’re too eager. Call them first thing in the morning and thank them for the business. Have Megan send a gift basket,” I say.
“I know the drill, Alex. I’m on the Luck app.”
“That app is garbage,” I grumble.
I’ve used Luck, but it’s mostly bots and men posing as women. I met one woman on the app for a drink, a petite real estate agent, but was turned off after she pounded her cocktail and said: “Let’s get down, daddy.” I told her I had to pick up my dog from daycare and bounced.
“I know you haven’t had much luck, but I’ve met a few freaks on here. Had a great time, every time. Since we’re staying overnight, I wanted to see who I could meet here in the Bay. Oh, snap.”
“What’s up?”
“Be cool, man. Brit is on here. She hearted me. It says she’s nearby.”
Will shows me a black and white pic of Brit at the piano, wearing the white kimono and studying a piece of sheet music.
My wife is stunning.
Why would she heart Will? She always said she found him attractive, but he’s my business partner! She wouldn’t cross that boundary, would she? I have always done right by her! I have gone against my attorney’s advice in our divorce settlement. I need to know she wouldn’t do that to me!
“Heart her back. Let’s see what she says,” I say, calmly.
“You sure, man?”
“I’m sure.”
Will taps the screen. On Luck when two people match it immediately takes the user to the messaging screen.
I sip my beer, anxiously waiting.
“She’s typing,” Will says.
The server approaches our booth. “Do you want to order food?”
“Not right now,” I say.
The server proceeds to the next table. Will reads the message, his rich, deep voice easily heard over the chatty crowd in the bar.
“Hi. The app may be glitching. Are you in Oakland?”
Nerves claw at my insides. Will types a response.
“Cool. Why are you here?”
Will types out another message.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I wrote I’m here for a meeting.”
“Ask her where she is,” I bark.
“You sure you want to know, Alex?”
(Fuck, yes! Why is she on a hook-up app?)
“Yeah, man. It’s cool,” I say, flatly.
Will replies.
“I’ll tell you if you’ll give me a job for the summer.”
“What the hell! This must be a scam,” he says.
My stomach drops in disappointment. It must be a catfish using Brit’s pic. On one hand, I’m relieved. On the other hand, I was hoping to see her. It’s fine. I know I’ll see her next week at my brother’s wedding. Jen will probably have her on lockdown, but I’ll definitely get to lay eyes on her.
“Close out, man. I’ll tell Lynn to let Brit know someone is using her pic.”
“Hold up, they’re typing again. Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Hey Will. This is Brit. My friend Emma is trying to help me date more. Sorry to disturb you. She’s an MBA student at Mills College and is seeking an internship for the summer. I’ll talk to you guys about it at the wedding next week. Hope you had a good meeting and you’re having fun wherever you are. Enjoy the game.”
Will looks at me, apprehensively.
“What should I say back?”
“Tell her she can talk to us now. Ask her where she is. We’ll go to them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’ll be fine.”
Will types out a message. I reach into my pocket and retrieve my wallet before motioning to the server.
“It’s Emma. Brit wants to know who you’re with, Will.”
“Who do you think,” Will mutters as he types.
“Hey Will. This is Brit again. Was Alex in the meeting? He’s not supposed to be trading. Please. Please. Remind him of the ramifications of violating his suspension.”
God, I miss Brit. She’s always watching out for me.
“Ask her where she is,” I say again like a skipping record.
He types out a message.
“It’s Emma. I will tell you where we are if you promise to give me a job for the summer.”
“Who is this girl?!” he balks.
“Just tell her she has a job,” I say.
“We haven’t met this woman! Clearly, she’s a little batty.”
“Nah, man. She’s persistent. Besides, she knows Brit.”
“The woman you’re divorcing?” Will mutters.
“Hire her,” I command.
“You’re the boss,” Will mumbles, typing out a message.
Will is totally right to want to screen a potential employee, but I’m the boss and I get the final word, even if my reasonings are flawed. Even if my reasonings are crazy. I’m a weirdo with a grown-up job. A weirdo desperate to see his wife. My heart flutters and the Art Blakey tune,
“Moanin’” plays in my inner ear. Excitement. Joy. Elation.
Will scans his phone before looking up at me.
“What did she say? Where are they?” I ask.
“They’re here.”
***
“So, you’re the crazy lady...,” Will starts, sliding into the barstool next to a tiny Asian woman with giant blue glasses.
I interrupt him and flash a smile meant to charm. “You must be Emma. By far our most creative internship applicant this year. I’m Alex Willingham,” I say, extending my hand across the table.
I stare at the top of Brit’s head, waiting for her to acknowledge me. She smells fresh, like baby powder and her floral shampoo.
“Nice to meet you, boss man. I’ve heard so much about you. I applied for the internship program last night. You should have all my contact information to send my formal offer letter. Thank you for hiring me. You will not be disappointed,” Emma says, energetically shaking my hand.
I release her hand, smiling. “My partner, Will, will personally prepare an offer letter once we return to L.A. Is this seat taken?” I ask Brit.
“No. Please, sit. We’ve already ordered food.”
“What did you order?” I ask, sliding into the barstool next to her and sitting my beer next to her glass.
I sense her nerves, or annoyance. It’s difficult to know.
“A side salad.”
“Bullshit, you don’t eat salad unless it has a side of everything else on the menu.”
“Brit is eating light because she’s going to get her flower smas—,” Emma interjects, but stops.
I fight a frown. “Are you seeing someone?” I ask in a whisper.
“No, Dragon. Ignore Emma,” Brit says before taking a sip of her beer, which is my beer.
I don’t say anything. Instead I take her glass, and I have a drink. She ordered the same beer as I did. This is us.
Will says what I want to say.
“Were you trying to meet some dude to take your virginity off the Luck app?”
“How do you know about that?!” Brit asks.
A slight pink appears over her light brown cheeks. As always, no makeup except eyeliner.
