And then I know that everything is fine. Linden doesn’t know we slept together. James doesn’t hold any grudges. We were able to sleep together and move on. Everything is back to normal.
Everything is back to normal.
It’s too bad my normal now has Linden attached to someone with no appendix.
But I’m adult enough now to push that aside.
***
When a knock sounds from the storeroom door at fifteen minutes to ten (when I open), I can’t help the low growl that escapes from my lips. I’m always rushing around at this time of morning and rarely tolerate early customers hoping to jump the gun.
But when I look up from the cash float I’m going through, I retract that growl.
It becomes something more sexual instead.
There’s a male model outside my door.
At least, that’s what he looks like. In fact, I’ve never been so sure of someone’s occupation – or life purpose – in all my years.
I quickly glance at the ornate, jewel-lined mirror on the wall (just $325, get it while you can) and deduce that while I still have sleepy morning face, I don’t look half-bad. My hair was dyed an ombre color last week, platinum blonde up top with baby pink at the ends and all the spin-classes I’ve been doing to counteract my rapidly-expanding ass seem to give my face a healthy glow.
I walk over to the door and unlock it, opening it a crack.
“We’re not open for another fifteen minutes,” I tell the guy, my head craning back to stare at him.
Wide green eyes stare right back.
“Sorry,” he says, “I know I’m hella early but I just wanted a chance to talk to you before you opened.”
Hella, huh? He’s definitely a Nor Cal boy.
“Okay,” I say, making sure I’m not smiling like fool as I briefly take in his golden, lithe frame, the dark blonde hair that falls across his brow. He’s got a bit of a Chris Hemsworth meets Matthew McConaughey kind of vibe. “How can I help you then? We don’t actually carry men’s clothing.”
“But do you have any plans to?” he asks.
I shrug. “Hopefully. I just opened last week so I’m still not really sure what I’m doing yet.” Then, feeling flirtatious I look up at him through my lashes and say, “Don’t tell anyone.”
He grins. His smile is crooked but it’s cute. “I won’t, don’t worry.” Then his smile fades and he anxiously rubs the end of his nose. “Well, my brother Mick, he’s started a men’s clothing line earlier this year so I’m just helping him out and going around to see if anyone wants to carry it.”
He reaches behind him into a leather messenger bag I only just notice and pulls out a manila envelope. He tries to hand it to me but he drops it. He’s a bit flustered, awkward, but I like that.
He picks it up and this time I take it from his shaking hands before he can drop it again.
“So your brother is putting you up to this?” I ask him, sliding out a catalogue and peering at it. It’s hastily put together but the shots are professional. They’re also of the guy I’m talking to.
I wave it at him. “You’re a model.”
I knew it.
He nods, looking a bit bashful. “Yeah. At least I’m trying to be one. I’m doing this to help both of us out, you know. He was thinking maybe if he found the right store, that they could do an exclusive line together. And I would be the model.”
The funny thing about being in your late twenties is that slivers of adulthood slowly find their way into your everyday life. Maybe it’s putting money aside in a 401K, staying home on a Saturday night because you want to wake up early so you can go to the gym, having meetings with your accountant, taking omega-3 and calcium supplements, making expensive night cream part of your daily regime, and so on.
It doesn’t happen all at once but when it does you’re hit with, “Whoa, I guess I’m a fucking adult now. Look at me!”
This was one of those moments. Granted, it was probably a delayed reaction from opening day, but this good-looking sunny boy was asking me if I wanted an exclusive men’s line in my newly minted clothing store and fuck it if I didn’t feel like I’d finally arrived.
That didn’t mean I knew what I was doing, though.
“So,” I say, trying to find the right words, “you’d model the clothes, the clothes I’d be exclusively carrying?”
“It depends if the other stores get back to us, I guess.”
My heart fluttered anxiously at the thought of the competition. “Who were the other stores?”
He shrugs and scratches the back of his head, looking totally adorable. “I’m not really sure. I gave them my stuff, not the other way around. The owners weren’t as pretty as you though.”
My cheeks grow warm and I find myself staring coyly at the ground.
“By the way, I’m Aaron,” he says, extending a hand. “Aaron Simpson.”
“Stephanie Robson,” I tell him, returning the shake. His hand is warm, fingers long and slender.
“Aaron and Stephanie,” he says. “Sounds good together.”
I raise my brow. Just who is this awkward, nervous yet bold model standing across from me? I’m not sure but I really want to find out.
And that means taking his offer rather seriously.
“It does,” I slowly agree. While the whole “you’re so adult” and “you have no idea what you’re doing” feelings competing inside of me, I open the door wider and gesture inside. “We still have a few minutes before I open. Why don’t you come on inside and we can talk.”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
“For sure,” I say. “I’m always looking to do business.”
A heated look passes between us over that last word as he steps into the store.
I have a feeling that business as usual is about to take on a whole new meaning.
CHAPTER SIX
30
LINDEN
“Do you know what time you were born at?” Nadine asks me before taking a sip of her gin and tonic.
“No idea,” I tell her. “Having that knowledge would mean I have a mother who would indulge in pithy little shit like that. Or a mother who pays attention.” I lean back in my chair and breathe in the salt air. It’s nice as hell out, one of those Aprils that sing with fresh air and spicy sunshine. There is no fog and the bay dazzles before us, the water lit from within.
It doesn’t feel like it’s my birthday. That’s a good thing. I’ve been dreading the countdown to thirty for a year now and feel like I’ve been dragged into it, kicking and screaming.
“Maybe you can ask her tomorrow,” she says but I only stare out the sailboats sluicing to and fro. I don’t want to think about the fact that my parents arrive in the city tomorrow morning and that I have brunch planned with them. I don’t want to think about the fact that I haven’t seen them in years and this is the first time they’ve been to the West Coast to see me. I don’t want to hear about their expectations and the wee ways I’ve failed them.
I just want to sit on this patio and drink all the beers with my pretty girlfriend and usher in thirty like it’s no big deal. That’s originally why I opted out of any “dirty thirty” parties and all that stupid shit. I want today to be just like any other day.
Yet I know it isn’t. Absolutely nothing should change by turning from twenty-nine to thirty but I can feel the churning, the conversion, somewhere deep inside, like I’m slowly becoming a werewolf or a non-sparkly vampire.
It has absolutely nothing to do with a little pact I had set for myself. No, that shit is over now. I have Nadine and it’s serious. That whole clause of “if we are not in a serious relationship at the time we hit thirty thing”? Well, Nadine is my serious.
“Yeah,” I tell her, even though I know I won’t be asking my mother anything. Nadine is staring at me curiously, her brow furrowed and I can feel a question building, the question that’s been plaguing her ever since I told her they were coming.
“So it’s going to just be the three
of you?” she asks.
I nod and down the rest of the beer. “I’d invite you, but, you know. It’s complicated.”
I know she’s been looking for an invitation or at least some explanation of why my girlfriend of six months won’t be meeting my parents, but that’s really all I can give her. The question is, I’m not sure what’s more complicated – my relationship with my parents or my relationship with her.
Maybe we’re not as serious as I like to think.
“I can handle complicated,” she says and I can tell she’s hurt. Actually, it’s extremely easy to tell, she wears her feelings on her sleeve, on her face, everywhere.
I reach across the table and tap her hand. “Babe,” I implore. “It’s just easier for me this way. Don’t worry about it, you’re not missing anything worthwhile.”
She crosses her arms in a huff. “I’d still like to meet your parents, you know, find out a little bit more about you, where you came from.”
“You know where I came from,” I remind her patiently. “I was born in Aberdeen, Scotland, my father was a diplomat. My mother used to breed horses once upon a time. He got a job at the UN. We moved to New York. End of story.”
“Is it because I have to call him His Excellency?”
I give her a look. I’ve heard that all the time, especially when I was in high school. I got the shit kicked out of me more than once because of my father’s job, until I finally learned to fight back.
“He’s not the ambassador to Britain,” I explain. “He’s a few steps below that. No one has to call him His Excellency. Thank god.”
Her eyes widen. “Still sounds major.”
“I guess,” I say and start looking around for the waitress. Another beer or six would be great right now. “I’ve gotten used to it. He was on some security council and was the deputy director of something or other before that.”
“Something or other?” she repeats.
I sigh and run a hand through my hair. If it makes my throat feel tight just to talk about them, I don’t know how I’m going to survive tomorrow. “I don’t know. I spent most of my teens drinking, having sex and riding motorcycles. Whatever my dad was involved with was all the same to me. He was part of that world and I had my own.”
“And your brother?”
“He did the same. But somehow he’s the one who got away with it.” I shake my head to myself. “Still does.” I eye her warily and see that she’s just eager for more information. “Come on, let’s get another round. The food was great but the beer here is pouring even better.”
Maybe it’s all the talk about my family life or the two extra pints but when we leave the restaurant and weave our way through Pier 49 and onto the Embarcadero, I don’t really feel like going home anymore.
My phone rings and the moment I see James’s caller ID on the screen, I know I’m saved.
“What’s up, brother?” I ask him, sounding more jubilant than I meant to.
“Hey, you done dinner yet?” His voice is loud and I can hear music thumping behind him.
“Yeah, just finished. Where are you, the Lion?”
“Yeah but we’re heading up to Kozy Kar later. You should come. I mean it’s only your fucking birthday and everything.”
I slowly bring my eyes over to Nadine. She’s staring up at me expectantly, maybe even a bit viciously. She had been extremely happy when I said I wanted to spend my thirtieth birthday with just her and I know that if I deviate from the plan, I’m going to get it.
Fortunately I’m used to getting it from her and it rarely stops me from doing anything.
“All right,” I tell him. “We’ll go home for a bit and meet you there. Eight? I know that place fills up early and I really want to hang out in the shagging wagon.”
Nadine reaches out and punches me in the gut. I let out a small oof that James doesn’t seem to hear.
“See you then. Happy birthday old timer.”
“Fuck off, James.” I hang up and then look at her incredulously. “What?”
“What the hell?!” she exclaims. “You said it was just going to be you and me tonight!”
“Yeah, well,” I say, rubbing my hand along the heavy stubble on my jawbone and avoiding her eyes, “things changed. I feel like going out now.”
“This was supposed to be our night,” she says through clenched teeth.
I frown at her. “Give me a break, it’s supposed to be my night. We just had an amazing dinner Nadine, now we’ll head back to my place for some amazing sex before going out to see my amazing friends.”
“You can forget about the sex,” she sneers.
I raise my palms, immediately on the defense. “Okay, hold up. No fucking birthday sex? That’s not fair.”
“Your choice. Sex or your friends,” she says in a sing-songy voice. She sounds like she’s joking but I know she’s not. She hoards sex like an Italian fat kid hoards Nutella.
“That’s really not fair,” I tell her. “You know I’m powerless against sex.”
“Is that why you want to hang out in the shagging waggon?”
I roll my eyes. “Have you seriously lived here your whole life and never been to Kozy Kar? It’s an SF institution, like Pete’s and the Giants and Kirk Hammett. All the seating in the bar is in old waterbeds and actual cars and VW buses. The ground is made of porn mags. Porn mags!”
“Sounds delightful,” she says dryly.
“It is!” I exclaim. “Come on. I turned thirty, let it be dirty.”
“It can be dirty but it won’t be with me,” she huffs.
Aurgh. Sometimes she really makes me want to pull my hair out. And I don’t want to do that. I have very nice hair and I hear it’s easy to lose at this age.
“Fine,” I concede, knowing that I’m still going to try and leave after we get down.
And it works. Once we’re back at my place, I tear her clothes off and have my way with her. I go for the ass as I always do, thinking I may finally have a shot on my birthday, but she butt-blocks me and I end up coming all over her back. Oh well.
An hour later, when we’re on the couch and I’m rubbing her feet while we watch TV, my phone rings.
“Don’t answer that,” she says.
“It could be my parents,” I tell her.
“But does it say it’s your parents?” she points out and I can feel her glare.
“It could be an emergency,” I go on and answer.
I can hear her grumble “Why doesn’t he just text” to herself and I say to James, “Hey buddy.”
James tells me there are a bunch of people now waiting for me and to get my ass over there or our friendship is over. He makes as many threats as Nadine does, but being the good friend he is, he’s never serious.
I look pleadingly at Nadine. “Can we please go? My best friend would really like to spend my birthday with me. He’ll cry if we don’t. And visa versa.”
“What about your other best friend?” she asks and I note the edge to her words. Though she was friendly with her at first, Nadine has never really been a fan of Steph’s, despite the fact that Steph gives her clothing discounts and has tried to get to know her on numerous occasions.
“Is Steph there?” I say to James.
“Not yet,” he says, “but she’ll be here soon.”
“All right, see you in a few.”
“You fucking better,” I hear him say before I hang up.
“Linden!” Nadine yells, yanking her feet away from me like I’m suddenly radioactive. “I hate you.”
I groan. “No you don’t. And you don’t have to come, I’ll drop you off at your place.”
“Like I’d let you go without me.”
I squint at her, my jaw tensing. I remember to speak with calm precision. “Nadine, there is no letting me do anything. I am my own man, okay?”
I stare at her until she relents.
“Sorry,” she mumbles and I can see her bristling from it all over. Maybe some guys wouldn’t bat an eye at her choice of words bu
t it always rankles me. Nadine has these controlling qualities that I’m really not a fan of. “Fine, let’s just go.”
Victory is mine.
Soon our brusque cabbie drops us off on Van Ness Ave and we briefly stand in the small line outside. The air is chilled now but I’m still warm in my cargo jacket and I don’t mind waiting. In the past I would have bribed the doorman or played some foreigner’s angle, really jack up my accent, in order to slide past the line but now I don’t feel the hurry. I’m content to just wait.
Maybe I really am getting older.
Once we reach the door, the bouncer wishes me happy birthday. Inside I see James and Steph at the bar. They turn to me, raise their drinks in the air with raucous smiles and suddenly all is right with the world.
Those two people. They’re all I really need.
“It’s about time!” James yells at us. He’s drunk and he’s a funny little bugger when he’s drunk. Gets all ultra-emotional, leans on you, tells you how much he loves you. I expect a lot of that tonight – I’d be insulted if I didn’t get it.
I grab his hand and slap him on the back, but true to his drunken ways, he pulls me into a big bear hug. I can feel the beer from his glass spilling onto my neck.
“You’re finally old like me,” he murmurs.
I pull away and say, “But the beautiful thing is that you’ll always be older.”
He glares at me. “Fuck you.”
“Fuck you too, buddy.” But as usual, I say it with a grin.
I’m aware that Stephanie is staring at me with those big Bambi eyes of hers. One of the things I love most about her is that she has no idea how fucking special she is. Even now she’s here in the bar and though she’s standing shoulders back and confident, in her acid-wash skinny pants and some crazy halter top that looks like it’s been fastened out of a skinned shark, she’s so much more than she thinks.
“Happy birthday,” she says to me with a quiet smile. Normally she would hug me too but she’s acting shy, showing restraint. I frown and then catch her eyes briefly trailing to Nadine and back. Nadine, who is standing behind me and probably not wearing the most welcoming of expressions.