Lovebirds

by Lisa Moreau

  “Eat more,” Gretchen demanded.

  “Why? You haven’t even touched yours.”

  Gretchen huffed, grabbed a spoon, and vigorously stirred the thick liquid. She grunted and signaled Sydney, who rushed to the table. Sydney looked as though she were about to say something when a woman sitting beside them screamed like a banshee. She took something out of her mouth and plunked the object into her bowl. Gretchen sprang to her feet, pushed Sydney aside, and thrust her hand into the woman’s soup. She whirled it around a few times, grabbed the object, and clutched it in her fist.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Emily jumped up. Why was her girlfriend’s hand covered with a stranger’s tomato soup?

  Fire blazed in Gretchen’s eyes as she pointed at Sydney, red sauce dripping from her fingertips. “You idiot! I told you mushroom, not tomato.”

  The manager, in a suit two sizes too small, rushed to the table. “What happened?”

  Gretchen wagged her finger, causing drops of tomato juice to dot Sydney’s white shirt. “Your idiot waitress just ruined the most important moment of my life!”

  Emily nervously looked around the restaurant, all eyes on them. She wanted to shrink to the size of a mouse and scurry into a hole. She’d been taught never to make a scene. Her own mother’s hair could be on fire, and you wouldn’t hear a peep out of her.

  Sydney’s eyes narrowed, fists clenched. “You switched it at least five times yesterday. I had to keep crossing it out and rewriting the order.”

  “I want her fired,” Gretchen demanded.

  “I’m not losing my job over your stupid idea. Who the fuck proposes to someone with mushroom soup? You should have done it during a Dodgers halftime like every other moron in this city who thinks love lasts a lifetime.”

  Wait…what had Sydney said? Gretchen was going to propose?

  The manager pointed at Sydney. “You. Behind the counter. Now.”

  “Un-fucking-believable.” Sydney shot invisible death rays at Gretchen and stalked away, yelling over her shoulder, “And I’m not an idiot!”

  The manager attempted to wipe Gretchen’s dripping tomato hand with a napkin, which did nothing but make a bloody mess. “I’m so sorry, miss. There’s no charge, of course. Can I bring you another bowl?”

  Gretchen shook her head. “It’s too late. The damage is done.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said and headed straight toward Sydney.

  Emily lowered herself into the chair, knees suddenly wobbly. “You’re going to ask me to marry you? With mushroom soup?”

  “This isn’t how I planned it. I spent an hour explaining my idea to our idiot waitress yesterday.”

  Gretchen plopped into her chair and shot Sydney a dirty look. Emily blinked wildly, still not comprehending what was happening. Marriage? That seemed so…permanent.

  Gretchen dipped the ring in her water glass and wiped it on a napkin. She scooted her chair closer and focused on Emily. “We’ve been together for five years now, and it seems that the next reasonable step in our relationship is that we get engaged.”

  Gretchen grabbed Emily’s hand and slipped a diamond ring on her finger. Emily’s gaze jumped from the sticky, red-from-tomato-sauce ring to Gretchen’s expectant expression. Emily waited for more words to come, but none emerged. She’d never been proposed to before, but wasn’t it supposed to be in the form of a question and weren’t you supposed to wait until after the woman accepted to put the ring on her finger? But then again, wasn’t Emily’s response inevitable? She and Gretchen were perfect for each other. Both were practical, responsible, and had the same values. Gretchen was right. It was the next reasonable step.

  “Well?” Gretchen asked, concern filling her brown eyes.

  “Yes. Of course I’ll marry you.”

  Gretchen smiled and looked as though she were about to kiss Emily, but refrained. She wasn’t one for public displays of affection. “I think we should make the announcement tomorrow night at your parents’ dinner party.”

  Emily nodded, knowing that everyone would be ecstatic.

  “So what do you think?” Gretchen motioned toward the ring.

  “It’s so…big. And beautiful.”

  The diamond was huge, probably five carats. Too garish for Emily’s taste, but she certainly couldn’t complain. It must have put Gretchen, or rather her parents, back over ten thousand dollars. She guessed this meant she needed to get Gretchen a ring now. She certainly couldn’t afford something this expensive.

  “You don’t seem very excited,” Gretchen said.

  “I am! I’m just surprised. Actually, I thought you were going to talk to me about the magazine.” Emily chuckled nervously.

  “That’s second on my agenda.” Gretchen pulled a stack of papers out of her bag and shoved them at Emily. “As your accountant I must tell you that The Tweet is in serious trouble.”

  Emily had no idea what she was looking at, but all those negative numbers couldn’t be good. She knew her business was losing money, but was it that bad?

  “You’re headed toward financial ruin. And need I remind you that you’re nearing the deadline.”

  Two years ago, Emily had quit a high-paying marketing-manager position to start a bird magazine, despite horror-filled gasps from Gretchen and their parents. She’d promised that if she couldn’t make a success of the publication in two years, she’d shut it down and go back to the corporate world. But that was the last thing Emily wanted to do. The Tweet was everything to her.

  “If it weren’t for Owen…” Emily scowled.

  “You can’t blame him,” Gretchen said adamantly.

  Actually, she could.

  “And now that we’re getting married, you need to think about our future,” Gretchen said. “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s time to grow up and get a real job.”

  A real job? Emily had worked harder at the magazine than she ever had in marketing. It never felt like work, though, since it was her passion. Gretchen never had understood Emily’s love of birds. She’d tried to explain it to her many times, but it was like talking to a potted plant. She hadn’t comprehended one word, not that Emily could blame her. Most people thought birding was for nerds.

  “You promised. Remember?” Gretchen flashed a stern expression.

  Emily lowered her head, the glint from her diamond ring momentarily blinding her. “I know. Maybe you’re right.”

  It would be devastating, but closing the magazine would be the responsible thing to do, and Emily was all about being responsible. In fact, quitting her job and starting The Tweet was the only irresponsible thing she’d ever done.

  Chapter Two

  Pole Power

  Click-click-click.

  That’s what Sydney Cooper heard when she turned the ignition on her eleven-year-old Ford Fiesta.

  “Come on, baby. Don’t do this to me now.” She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and cranked the engine again, with no success.

  “Fuck.” Sydney banged the heel of her hand hard against the steering wheel.

  It’d been one hell of a day, and the last thing she needed was a dead battery. Sydney glared at the Little Bird Café through her bug-stained window. She couldn’t go back in there and ask for help, not after getting fired thanks to that dreadful couple. She couldn’t believe that Gretchen woman had called her an idiot. That had stung worse than getting canned.

  Sydney rolled down her window when Jill tapped on the glass.

  “Are you okay? I saw what happened.” Jill eyed the inside of Sydney’s car disapprovingly.

  Due to a break-in last month, the passenger window had been smashed, the CD player ripped out, and the carpet and seat were stained. It wasn’t like she lived in the safest LA neighborhood.

  “I’m fine.”

  That was a lie, but Sydney certainly wasn’t going to say otherwise, especially to someone as put-together as Jill. She was a fifty-something rich widow who worked as a waitress because she thought it was “fun.” She had houses in
Beverly Hills and Palm Springs and a cabin in Ojai Valley, and she was going to Europe soon on vacation for a month. Some people had all the luck.

  “You know,” Jill bit her bottom lip, “you really shouldn’t yell at the customers or, God forbid, use the F-word. You might have a bit of an…anger problem.”

  Sydney stuck her tongue inside her cheek to keep from pouncing on Jill like a Tasmanian devil. She really didn’t want a speech right now about her temper. She’d heard it all before.

  “Riiight. Well, I don’t want to keep you from work.” Sydney nodded toward the café.

  Jill stood upright and said, “Good luck. You’ll need it.” She’d whispered that last part just loud enough for Sydney to hear.

  After Jill disappeared into the Little Bird, Sydney sat back in her seat and fumed. Monica would throw her out of the apartment for sure this time. Sydney had barely been able to come up with her half of the rent for months, and she certainly couldn’t do so now. Maybe Sydney’s mom had been right after all. Maybe she was a loser.

  Sydney grabbed her phone and pressed the speed dial. “Hey. It’s me.”

  “Hi,” Monica said, breathless. “What’s up?”

  “My battery is dead again. I thought maybe you could pick me up.”

  “Sorry, but I’m running out the door for work. Did your shift end early?”

  “Um.”

  “Syd?”

  “Wellll.”

  “Christ. You got fired again, didn’t you?”

  Sydney could picture Monica standing in their 4x4 pink-painted kitchen with a hand on her hip, smoke practically coming out of her ears.

  “I know…I know…but it wasn’t my fault.”

  “You should stop screwing around with crappy jobs and come back to the club.”

  “No way.” Sydney vigorously shook her head.

  “Cruz said you were the best pole dancer he’s ever had. He’d hire you back in a minute.”

  “The last thing I want is to entertain sleazy, drooling, drunk men and the occasional seedy lesbian. No matter how much they pay me. It’s demeaning.”

  Hopefully, Sydney hadn’t just insulted Monica, considering she was Leave It to Beaver’s top dancer. Actually, Sydney was grateful for the five years she’d worked there. It had gotten her out of her mom’s house, and she’d met Monica, who introduced her to pole dancing, which had changed her life in ways she’d never anticipated.

  “Fine,” Monica said and blew out a strong puff of air. “I’ll get Victor to jump-start your battery, but he can’t do it until late tonight.”

  “Tell your muscle-bound boyfriend thanks. And don’t worry. I’ll find a way home. I’m a survivor.”

  “All right, tough girl, but how do you plan to pay your half of the rent?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “If you need me to loan—”

  “No…no. I can handle it.” The last thing Sydney wanted was a handout.

  “Whatever. I gotta run. Later.”

  After quitting Leave It to Beaver three years ago, Sydney had gotten fired from so many two-bit jobs she’d lost count. Most times it was because of her so-called “bad attitude,” but there were always extenuating circumstances that weren’t her fault.

  “Enough,” Sydney said to herself.

  No more crappy jobs.

  No more hateful customers.

  No more being broke.

  She knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life. And this time she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Sydney opened her wallet and frowned at a lone five-dollar bill. That wouldn’t get her very far in a taxi, and she didn’t have much more than that in her checking account. She got out of the car and stuck her thumb in the air. Hitchhiking probably wasn’t the safest thing to do, but with her good looks she usually nabbed a ride within minutes and always had a can of mace in her backpack in case anyone tried to get fresh.

  An hour later, Sydney wound her way through a courtyard, behind manicured bushes, inside a gate, and stood in front of PowerBar, Beverly Hills’s hottest women’s pole-dancing studio and where her dream job resided. It’d taken her days to find the place the first time she’d heard about it. It was tucked away with no signs in sight, like a dirty little secret. Not the way Sydney would have done it if this were her studio.

  Most people thought pole dancers were strippers or even prostitutes. What Sydney loved about it, though, had nothing to do with getting men hard but just the opposite. She wanted to teach classes that empowered and liberated women and to help them get in touch with their bodies through physical expression. After all, pole dancing had saved her life years ago.

  Sydney examined her white shirt splattered with tomato soup. It looked like she’d been in a gang fight. Damn that Gretchen. It wasn’t bad enough she got Sydney fired, but she had to wag her finger around spraying soup everywhere. Oh well. She didn’t have time to go home and change. She grabbed the steel handle and yanked open the heavy wooden door.

  Sydney nodded at a tall, lanky woman wearing enough bling to blind ten people, strode purposefully to the main desk, and stood behind someone talking to the receptionist. Sydney wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

  “I can’t do that,” the woman said.

  Sydney cringed at the word can’t, which wasn’t in her vocabulary.

  “I have no upper-body strength.” The woman rolled up her sleeves and attempted to flex. “Plus, isn’t it for younger women? I’m not in my twenties anymore. I have at least ten extra pounds on me. They’re practically…naked.” She whispered the last word, as though it were obscene.

  Sydney couldn’t stand by and listen to this nonsense any longer. She loudly cleared her throat, which prompted the woman to turn around.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Sydney said, “but I’ve been pole dancing for years, and while those are typical reasons why someone wouldn’t try it, I have to say that they’re not altogether accurate.”

  “Oh, really?” The woman’s tone oozed cynicism and a little irritation.

  “First, the lack of clothing has to do with the fact that dancer’s legs, arms, and stomach need to be exposed in order for skin to grip the pole. It’s a safety concern. And it doesn’t matter how strong you are, your age, or even your size. There are maneuvers that anyone can do.”

  The woman chuckled. “You don’t know me, honey. I have two left feet. I’m just here picking up my daughter. She’s into this stuff.”

  “I know several routines you’d be amazed that you could accomplish. The more you do it, the stronger you get. There’s no judgment, no competition. Everyone goes at their own pace.”

  The woman leaned close to Sydney and whispered, “Just between us, it is something I’ve always wanted to try. You really don’t think I’m too old or thick around the middle?”

  “Not at all. More than anything, it’s about letting go and trusting yourself.” Sydney pulled out her business card and handed it to the woman. “Why don’t you give me a call? I give private lessons in the comfort of your home.”

  The woman studied the paper. “Hmm…I might just do that, Sydney Cooper.”

  Sydney watched the woman walk away, knowing full well she’d probably never hear from her. Too bad. She was just the type of person Sydney wanted to help.

  Sydney leaned across the receptionist’s desk. “Hi. Is Sue here?”

  “She’s finishing a class and should be right out. Oh, there she is.” The receptionist pointed down the hall.

  When Sue, PowerBar’s owner, met Sydney’s eyes, her wide smile dropped. She approached and cocked her head. “You? Again?”

  “Just checking to see if you have any openings.”

  “Since the last time you asked two days ago? No.”

  What an exaggerator. It had been at least four days.

  “If you’d just give me a chance to show you what I can do, I’m sure you’d—”

  “Sydney, as I’ve said before, you don’t have t
he…qualifications I need.” Sue eyed Sydney’s tomato-stained shirt and shook her head slightly.

  Qualifications, my ass. What you really mean is I’m not posh enough.

  Sydney bit her tongue, literally, and paused to reel in her rising temper.

  “All I’m asking is a chance to demonstrate my skills. You have no idea how good I am. Sue, working at PowerBar is my dream.” Sydney batted big baby blues and flashed a pleading expression.

  Sue rubbed her forehead like she had the worse migraine ever and drummed her fingers on the desk. This was a good sign. She’d never done that before. It was always an immediate no.

  “All right, listen. I do have an opening, and we’re having auditions at the Ojai Women’s Festival.” Sue reached across the reception desk, grabbed something, and handed Sydney a piece of paper. “Fill out this application, bring it with you, and I’ll let you audition.”

  Sydney’s heart ballooned to the size of the Goodyear blimp, her lips curling into a smile. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been this excited.

  “You won’t regret this. You’ll see. I’ll knock your socks off.”

  Sydney rushed out of the studio before Sue could change her mind. She’d lost a job today, but she’d just gained a lifeline. Now all she had to do was find a way to Ojai, the small valley town two hours from LA, and come up with enough money to pay for a hotel. She’d figure it out. Nothing would stand in her way.

  Sydney glanced at the application she was clutching, her heart suddenly deflating.

  Crap.

  Question number five could not only stand in her way but completely obliterate any chance she had.

  Chapter Three

  Where the Lovebirds Are

  Emily’s stomach soured the moment she walked into the Little Bird Café and heard that crackly, grating voice. Owen. Backstabbing, con artist, lower-than-the-lowest-slug Owen. He was sitting at a corner table, yapping to someone. Owen ran For The Birds magazine and was Emily’s biggest competitor, but that’s not why she despised him.