Surviving San Francisco

  “I do need more business.”

  “Everybody does.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Everitt says.

  “You can start by using the new business card. Then you can replace these crappy posters.”

  “Crappy? This one’s about spay and neutering. Plus, I’m sentimental about the cat.” He glances up at the poster over his head.

  “It has Bob Barker in it. You need to update to something a little more current.”

  “I wish I could but I can’t afford new materials or a marketing campaign right now.”

  “Maybe we can come to a compromise,” Leah says. “You treat Fur Elise for free, and I help you with your marketing.”

  “I’d like that.” Everitt grazes his finger over her hand, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies quiver from Leah’s heart to her throat.

  “There’s one more thing,” she says.

  “Anything.” His voice is a breath. And the word—the way he says it—makes Leah crave more than just the glissade of his hand on hers.

  Leah unearths the art opening invitation and hands it to Everitt.

  “I need a date…to an art opening. Just friends,” she says before he can protest, before he can tell her he’s not hers for the taking.

  “Friends?” He deflates. “What about Clint? Shouldn’t he be your date?”

  “No.” Leah’s eyebrows twist. “Why?”

  “You bought furniture together.”

  “I bought the furniture. He helped me shop. We’re just friends.”

  Everitt processes the new info. “Oh.” There’s a lift in his voice.

  “Like you and I are just friends,” Leah adds.

  Everitt’s tone takes a downward spiral. “Oh.” Everitt scans the invite. “No scrubs, huh?”

  “No scrubs.”

  Everitt’s eyes catch on Leah’s lapel. “Hey, what happened to your pin?”

  Leah looks to the place it once was. “I hocked it.”

  “Why?” He sounds genuinely concerned.

  “It was the only thing of value I owned.”

  Everitt tries to puzzle out her words.

  “So my place? 7:00?”

  “7:00.”

  Leah nods, wishing for the tenderness from before, but the moment has dissipated like a rabbit in a hat.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Leah stands at the bathroom mirror, assessing her appearance. She looks the same as she did when she left Zion, but somehow something is different. Sure, there’s a more modern flair to her hairstyle, and she wouldn’t have been caught dead in thrift store clothes a month ago. But it’s more than that. Something she can’t pinpoint.

  Leah spots the prescription bottle on the counter. She moves to pick it up. Instinct. But despite all the troubles San Francisco has handed to her, she finds she doesn’t want the meds right now. Her mind isn’t racing. Her heart feels steady.

  Leah emerges from the bathroom in her designer, thrift store dress. Her last hoorah in San Francisco unless a miracle happens. She’s down to five days until eviction, and goodness knows she can’t afford to fight Mrs. Puccini. She has no legal legs to stand on anyway. But she hasn’t told anyone. Not Clint. Certainly not Everitt.

  “You look like a princess,” Clint says. “Albeit a chic, San Francisco one. You’ll turn the head of every man in the city.”

  “Unless he’s gay.”

  “Even if he’s gay.” Clint takes a beat. “But I suspect there’s only one head you want to turn.”

  Leah blushes “What do you mean? We’re just friends.”

  “Not after he lays eyes on you.”

  Clint pulls Leah into a hug. It’s the only consolation he has to offer.

  Leah draws back.

  “You look amazing yourself.” Leah gets reacquainted with her designer heels. She clicks over to Fur Elise, pets her, and then moves to put the cat in her kennel. She spies the broken music box; Leah won’t make the mistake of leaving Fur Elise out again—at least not until she can be trusted.

  There’s a knock at the door, and Clint goes to it.

  He nods to Everitt who stands in the hallway wearing a single-breasted suit jacket with a vest. Instead of tousled, Everitt’s hair is sleek with pomade.

  Leah pivots and becomes completely arrested by the sight of Everitt. A deluge of words rushes across her mind. Dapper. Handsome. Beautiful. She sets the cat down and touches a hand to her face to hide her rising blush. Her nerves tremble.

  Clint assesses one and then the other. The chemistry is obvious.

  “I’m off. Don’t want to be late for my own party.”

  Leah cannot tear her eyes from Everitt who steps past Clint into the apartment.

  “You will be there, right? You’re not going to, um…” Clint’s attention continues to volley between the two.

  Everitt tucks his hand into his jacket pocket, maybe to hide his own nervousness.

  “You look…” There are no words to complete Everitt’s thought. He breathes out a sigh, cannot lift his attention from Leah.

  “Beautiful?” Clint prompts.

  “Oh yes.”

  “7:00,” Clint says as he scuttles out into the hall. He fans himself before closing the door on the couple. He opens up one final time and peeks his head inside. “Don’t be late.”

  Then the door latches.

  Everitt collects himself and drags his vision away from Leah to Fur Elise who preens herself on the floor.

  “There she is.” Everitt goes to the cat and picks her up, no concern for the impeccable suit he’s wearing. “How have you been, sweet girl?”

  Leah watches, near drunk on Everitt’s looks, his charm, his everything.

  “She’s been good. Healing well.”

  Leah moves to Everitt’s side and strokes Fur Elise’s back. Her eyes reach up to meet Everitt’s.

  “Looks like it,” he says, but his focus moves away from the cat to Leah.

  “Gorgeous night for an art opening,” Everitt says. He nods toward the window, its curtains pulled back to reveal the sun as it slips behind the buildings, leaving a blend of sangria and creamsicle across the sky. The lamplights blink their eyes and sparkle.

  Leah watches Everitt tuck Fur Elise in her cage. She wants to tell him that she can’t keep the cat, that she’s already considered putting an ad online; she’s even driven past the nearest humane society. But she can’t because of the ache she feels at his tenderness and the way he touches a finger to the feline’s nose as if she’s a child.

  Another time, because telling him now would spoil the magic of the night. And Leah needs a fairy-tale evening no matter how temporary it may be.

  “All set?” Everitt asks, scooping up Leah’s midi jacket from the back of the chair and draping it over her shoulders. They drift toward the door, stop just shy of it. Leah loses her balance, clutches the end of the table.

  “Darned heels,” she says.

  The music box almost teeters and falls to the floor, but Everitt catches it.

  “Almost a goner,” he says. He’s set to give it to her, but then he studies it.

  “Pretty.”

  “The prettiest thing I have,” Leah says.

  Everitt’s eyes dance up to meet hers. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  There’s interplay in their looks, but Leah withdraws. “It used to play Chicago, but Fur Elise broke it.”

  Everitt opens the top to confirm. The box is silent.

  “Mind if I take it. I think I know someone who can fix it.”

  “Really? If it’s no trouble.”

  Leah is close enough to smell Everitt’s soap and a hint of aftershave. She’s close enough to study his dark lashes and the smooth line of his jaw.

  “It’s not.” He runs a finger over the decorative inlay. “You miss home?”

  “Yes.” She outlines his features with her eyes. “And no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I miss my family—most of t
he time, especially my grandma. My brother, not so much. Do you have siblings?”

  “A sister.”

  Everitt is hooked on Leah’s words.

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  “I need a new beginning. Unfortunately, my new beginning seems to be the opening of a horror story.

  “San Francisco can’t be that bad.”

  He bridges the gap.

  Leah swallows down her surfacing feelings—the ones she promised herself she wouldn’t give into again.

  “I guess not everything about it is bad.”

  She bites her lip.

  “We should…” Everitt’s hand lingers in the space between them. It seems as though he’ll caress her cheek, but his fingers graze her jacket instead. He helps her into it, and she sinks with disappointment.

  “Ready?

  And then Everitt rests the palm of his hand on her back, and she knows she has lost all urge to resist.

  “Ready.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Everitt parks on the downward slope of a road on Potrero Hill near the gallery, which is tucked in a string of both residential and commercial buildings. He exits the car and zooms to the passenger’s side, opening Leah’s door for her. He offers his hand, and she takes it.

  The wintery air prickles Leah’s skin and she shivers. But Everitt’s hand is a study in contrast to the brisk night—unwavering, solid, an invitation to warmth.

  Leah and Everitt stand face-to-face, basking under the glow of the streetlamps and the waxing moonlight. The gallery is lit up behind them with a plethora of Chinese paper lanterns. Downhill, the lights of downtown San Francisco twinkle against a now inky backdrop.

  But they hardly notice the enchanted view as they glide toward the gallery hand in hand.

  The refurbished, wooden door to the gallery is thrown open, the window a looking glass into the mingling art aficionados, artists, and their works. A light accompaniment of piano jazz plays, and there is the hum of chatter.

  Leah shrugs free of her coat, and Everitt takes it, his vision lingering a moment too long on the bare skin of her shoulders. Someone whisks the coat away, another hands glasses of crimson wine to each of them.

  Leah’s insides quiver. But this is different than the anxiety she’s always felt. Different even than with Charlie. This time, it’s something she wants to sink into, not medicate away.

  The walls are lined with paintings in a deluge of color. The paper lanterns are actually part of an artist’s exhibit, and each one dangles from the ceiling in a dizzying combination of blues and purples. They look like candles in the sky.

  Leah spies Clint leaning against a wide section of piping, which is painted in white and designed to look like an Ancient Greek pillar. He chats with a guy dressed in beatnik black, and Leah wonders if that’s his investor.

  “Want to say hi?” Everitt asks.

  But it’s too late. Another patron wrangles Clint’s attention.

  “Later.” She sips her wine, drinking in every moment of the night.

  Leah and Everitt drift in and out of conversations about art and relationships and life. They peruse a section of nature-themed oils.

  “Looks like Van Gogh,” Everitt says when they stop in front of a painting of a moon-bathed tree.

  “Starry Night.”

  Everitt slides over to the next exhibit. Leah recognizes the style right away. The painting is the one that was dumped in the hall. But this time it’s finished, bold, and rich in perspective like the one in her apartment.

  “Red poppies,” Leah says.

  Everitt surveys her.

  “With butterflies.”

  Guilt takes a bite out of her.

  “Maybe it will come back to you,” Everitt says. “The pin.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t see how.”

  “You never know.” He glimpses around, spies a patio out the back of the gallery. “Want to go outside? Get some air.”

  Leah nods, and Everitt guides her out. His palm rests against her back again. It’s an awakening, a scorch.

  Leah leans over the railing, glimpsing the San Francisco skyline in the far distance. The chill of an early February wind isn’t enough to cool her down.

  “You know what keeps coming back to me?” Leah asks.

  “What?”

  “How much she loves to play Yahtzee.”

  “That’s what happens when we miss people,” he says, studying the contours of Leah’s profile. “We remember the quirky things about them.”

  “Are you saying Yahtzee is quirky?” Leah pretends to be hurt.

  “No, not at all.” A smile waxes. “In fact we should play it some time.”

  Leah gives Everitt a playful push, and the touch sobers him. He leans in beside her. “I’m glad you asked me to come.”

  “As friends.” She dares to gaze at him.

  “As friends.”

  Leah absorbs the city as it basks in the aftermath of sundown.

  “It’s so inviting from this distance,” she says. “From here, you don’t see the imperfections, the homeless people, you don’t have to worry about rejection.”

  “It’s safe.”

  “The illusion of safe,” Leah says.

  “You can feel safe here.”

  Leah’s not sure if he means here in the city or here with him.

  “I want to. But it’s not just that. I came to San Francisco expecting more.”

  A new song filters through the speakers.

  Everitt takes Leah’s wine glass and puts both of them down. He rests a delicate palm at her waist and pulls her near. He closes his eyes, dips his nose toward the perfume of her hair and breathes in.

  Leah glimpses the cityscape, wishing things could stay this way for so much longer than they will.

  “This is nice,” Everitt whispers.

  It is.

  Leah draws back abruptly at a tug at the front of her dress. The button has popped open. Her hand flies to it; she’s mortified.

  “Clint wanted me to buy thrift store,” she says. “This is so embarrassing.”

  Everitt’s not embarrassed. He maintains his cool.

  I was dancing with a fellow—not your grandfather. He twirled me so hard that a button popped off and my boob flew out. I could have used a sewing kit then. Instead, I danced all night like this.

  She’s not Grandma Gina. Yet she cinches the front of the dress, not knowing what else to do.

  “Come here.”

  Leah raises an eyebrow. Everitt pulls Leah close to him, and then he removes one of his cufflinks. He asks her permission with a glance. Leah nods.

  Everitt feeds it through the open button hole. “I might ruin your dress,” he says.

  “That’s okay.”

  He pierces a hole and locks the cufflink in place.

  “There.”

  His touch lingers, and Leah’s breath catches.

  He studies her. “You said you wanted more.” His voice is so soft, Leah’s not sure she heard him. But then he brushes his arm against hers.

  The words, the gesture, electrify her.

  Her takes her chin in his hand and turns her toward him. “I want it to be more.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “I know enough.”

  Leah angles away. “Your heart belongs to someone else.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve already been down that road, a road I don’t want to travel again.”

  Everitt tries to piece together Leah’s words. “I don’t understand.”

  “The flowers in the exam room, the woman on your apartment steps. If I’m with someone again, he has to be all in.”

  Everitt’s jaw firms. “She and I are over. Have been for a long time.” He moves away to take in the distant lights. “She cheated on me, left. Then she took her cat—something I actually loved, which is more than I can say for her. In fact, I’m more heartbroken over the
loss of the cat than I am her. It’s the reason I’m not ready to take Fur Elise.”

  He looks away from the view and back to Leah.

  “I know about being fully committed to a woman. I do.” Everitt pauses, ensnares her eyes. “I want all in with you.” He takes in his surroundings as if for the first time and eases for a moment. “You’re strong, independent, feisty, beautiful. Thing is, you have me 110 percent if you want me. But, honestly, I think you’re the one who doesn’t want all in.”

  The words smart, and tears come. Leah brushes one away, but another plummets. Leah’s throat is too tight too speak; the surge of emotion strangles her words. She needs to tell him about Charlie, but she can’t revisit that right now.

  “I’m giving Fur Elise away,” she says instead.

  “What?”

  “My landlord found out. I’ve been evicted.”

  “Geez.” Everitt runs a hand over his forehead. “But you can’t—”

  “I have to. Even if I stay in San Francisco, I can’t afford to keep her. I don’t even have a job.”

  “Wait. You’re thinking of leaving?”

  Leah says nothing.

  “I thought you were going to help me with my marketing plan. I thought…”

  The feedback of a microphone interrupts their conversation. Leah and Everitt are forced to turn their attention inside where a woman speaks.

  “Thank you for coming tonight. I am honored to be a part of this exhibition…”

  “We should go in,” Leah says, heading for the lit-up innards of the gallery.

  Everitt follows, but he freezes at the sight of the woman at the microphone.

  “…enjoy the wine and the art of Eliana Vinstein, Marco Rossi…” The woman’s eyes connect with Everitt’s, and she beams, “and Clint Holloway.”

  She hands the microphone off and waltzes over. “Everitt.”

  “Tess.”

  At the exchange, Leah recognizes the woman for who she is: the one on the steps; the one who sent the flowers; Everitt’s ex-girlfriend.

  “Is this your…friend?” Tess asks.

  Everitt doesn’t know how to refer to Leah, especially after their exchange outside.

  “This is Leah. Leah, this is Tess.”

  Leah extends her hand in polite, midwestern fashion. Tess’s shake is limp and weak.

  “My pleasure,” Tess says. Clearly, it’s not.

  “Are you stalking me?” Tess sets her hand on Everitt’s arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  Everitt ignores the comment and only stares down at the unwanted clasp on his arm.

  Tess doesn’t remove it. Quite the opposite, she strokes the texture of his suit jacket—an intimate gesture.

  “I’m not here to see you.”

  “So this isn’t an impromptu visit.” Tess looks at Leah. “Like the other night?”