Wish You Were Here

  I held up my palm. “Not mine.”

  “Braggart,” he whispered as he leaned in, watching my mouth.

  We met halfway and suddenly we were kissing. Slowly, delicately. No other body parts touching but our lips.

  He pulled away and opened his eyes. “Do you want to come to my house and have a sleepover?”

  “You asked me already.”

  “What was your answer again?”

  “My answer was yes, absolutely, without a doubt. Let’s go back to your place.”

  He pulled out his wallet and threw some money on the bar before holding up the bottle of wine to the bartender. “Can we take this?”

  The bartender pushed the cork back into the half-empty bottle and then placed it in a paper bag and handed it to Adam. “See you soon, Adam,” he said.

  “Yeah, you too, man.”

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “Sure. He’s the bartender here.” He held out his hand to help me off the stool. “Come on, kid, let’s have a pajama party.”

  We walked hand in hand toward Adam’s apartment building. “You don’t seem lawyerly,” I said.

  “What’s lawyerly? Like, douche-y?”

  “No, like . . . disciplined. Tightly wound. High-strung. You were roaming the streets in the middle of the night, wearing flip-flops and offering Chinese food to strangers.”

  “You must not know very many lawyers. Anyway, now I’m roaming the streets in the middle of the night, wearing flip-flops, carrying Chinese food, and holding your hand. I win. And there’s nothing more lawyerly than winning.”

  I laughed. “Should I prepare myself for a ridiculously clean and organized loft? Like, will I have to take my shoes off?”

  “It’s a total mess. I’m actually a little embarrassed,” he said, but I don’t think he was truly embarrassed. He just seemed too confident to be embarrassed about anything.

  Adam stopped suddenly when he spotted a BMW parked crookedly in a space on the street in front of his building. It was decorated with several orange envelopes, which I recognized as parking tickets. “Shit, I didn’t even notice those earlier.” He began pulling the envelopes off one by one until he was holding a healthy stack.

  “Is that your car?”

  “No, I’m going to pay this poor fool’s parking tickets. Yes, it’s my car, silly.”

  “Are you going to pay those?”

  “No. I’m going to throw them away.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am. I’ve learned lately that I only have so many fucks to give. I’ll move my car tomorrow, but tonight, I don’t give a fuck about these parking tickets, or the car.”

  “What do you give a fuck about?”

  “Getting to know you.” He squinted. “Maybe even painting you.” I didn’t believe for one second he was going to throw the tickets away, but I was getting the sense that Adam was undergoing some sort of change in his life. People who become lawyers aren’t the type to forget their phone at home and amass a ton of parking tickets. I wondered what happened at his job that had turned him into the person in front of me at that moment.

  When we got to the top of the stairs, he stared at his keys for a while. “Here we go,” he said, but the first one didn’t work. The second one opened the door. “You know the bartender at that bar we were just at, but you don’t know which key opens your front door?” I teased. He just winked at me.

  It was a traditional high-beamed, open loft space with big floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the street. The other walls were exposed brick. There were canvases, tarps, and paint supplies everywhere—literally hundreds of paintings just leaning in stacks against the walls. Other than a few kitchen appliances, a dresser, and a small table with two chairs, there was only a bed. No other furniture. The bed was unmade. I noticed the first four paintings I saw were of women. One in a park, one in a taxi, one lying across a bed in a flowing orange dress, and one looking out onto the ocean.

  The loft was, in fact, a mess. It wasn’t filthy—it was actually quite clean—but there were items strewn about everywhere. I spotted a bra hanging over the chair near the table. I spun around and glared at Adam.

  “You never answered me. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No, that’s my friend’s. She models for me.”

  “It looks like you have a lot of friends who model for you,” I shot back.

  He looked at me curiously. “Does that bother you?”

  “No,” I said lightly, suddenly feeling insecure.

  “Are you hungry? I’m starving. And we need to finish this.” He held up the bottle of wine. “Plus, this is the best Chinese food ever.”

  I had a feeling I was heading straight for bedpost-notch town. I’d never been there and frankly never wanted to go down that road. Until I met Adam.

  “Okay,” I said. So what if he slept with a bunch of girls and then painted pictures of them? He was an artist. Isn’t that what artists were known for? Weren’t they so romantic that they’d cut their own ears off and mail them to the women they loved?

  Wait, that’s not romantic; that’s insane.

  Helen’s dumb bucket list had all kinds of things wrong with it, including being someone’s muse. If I became Adam’s muse, just for one night, would I get an ear in the mail the next day?

  I banished my crazy thoughts and continued to walk around Adam’s apartment. His paintings were gorgeous—truly stunning. They were current but also felt classic, in the way that figurative paintings sometimes are. Some of the portraits were photorealistic, and others were intentionally out of proportion, like a Picasso. I wondered if my image would ever get lost in a stack somewhere in his cluttered loft.

  I followed him into the kitchen area. He dished the food out onto two plates and then stuck them in the microwave. When I leaned against the counter near the microwave, he took my hands and spun me around to lean against the counter on the other side. “You shouldn’t stand near the microwave when it’s on.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll cook your brains.”

  “You don’t actually believe that.”

  He opened his eyes wide. “Yeah, I do.”

  I chuckled. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “We’re chilling. We’re hanging out,” he said with his back toward me.

  “This feels way too comfortable for two people who don’t know each other at all.”

  He looked back at me. “We don’t know each other?”

  I laughed, but it didn’t seem like he was kidding. He smiled, finally. “It does seem like that, doesn’t it? Let’s embrace it. We’re getting to know each other. What else would you be doing right now?”

  “Um, sleeping? It’s pretty late.”

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” He took two steps before I was pinned against the counter, his body pressed to mine. “If you don’t want to be here, I understand. I can walk you home.”

  My head tilted back and I looked him in the eyes. Our faces were inches apart, and then centimeters, and then millimeters, and then we were kissing.

  I was dizzy when he pulled away. “I’ll stay for a while,” I said.

  “Good, let’s get naked!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The microwave dinged. “Okay, let’s eat then.”

  I was in love with his spontaneity. I envied it. We sat at the small table, drank wine, and ate the warmed-up Chinese food.

  “So tell me everything about you, Adam.”

  “Well, I’m twenty-nine. I grew up in Northern California. My dad was one of those guys who got in early on a little company called Google, so we had lots of money growing up.”

  “Oh that little company? Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Go on.” Jeez, this guy must be loaded. No wonder he paints all day.

  “I went to law school here at Loyola, and that’s about it. Up until now, my adult life has always been about work, work, work.”

  “You always painted on the side, though?”

  ?
??No, I just started a year ago. I just have an affinity for it.”

  I looked around. “You’re kidding me. You painted all of these in a year?”

  “I’m fast.”

  “I guess.”

  “Not at everything though.” He winked.

  Adam didn’t have any framed pictures of family or friends anywhere. In fact, it looked like he didn’t really live there, like maybe it was just his studio. “Do you live here?”

  He laughed. “Yes. Why would you ask that?”

  “Well, there’s not really any personal items around.”

  “What, like tchotchkes?”

  “Yeah, or vacation pictures.”

  “I had a really boring life when I was a lawyer. I thought I was doing the right thing all that time, billing hours and living for work, but then . . .” He hesitated. “One day, I just sort of woke up and realized I didn’t want to waste another minute of my life. I had been working so hard to make money, but I had no time to spend it. I lived and worked in a high-rise downtown, but when I ‘woke up,’ I realized I was suffocating. I bought this place, quit my job, and started painting. And I’ve never been happier.”

  I was dying to know what had triggered his breakthrough moment. I had a feeling I wasn’t getting the whole story, but I didn’t want to pry.

  “Do you have siblings?” I asked.

  “No, I’m an only child. My parents were of the mind-set that people should do one really well.”

  “Did they?”

  “I’ll let you be the judge.” Before I could ask another question, he said, “Do you like donuts?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  “Uhhh . . . maple bars, I guess?”

  “Shut up, me too! I know this place that’s open twenty-four hours. They make maple bars as big as my arm. Wanna go?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. Why do you think I brought it up?”

  “Okay. Can I use the bathroom?”

  “Of course.” He pointed to the only other door beside the front door.

  Once there, I checked my hair and reapplied lip gloss. I stared at myself in the mirror and mouthed, What are you doing?

  “Come on, Gidget! Let’s get those donuts!” he called from the kitchen area.

  “One sec!”

  When I opened the door, he was standing on the other side with his shoulders slumped. He looked dejected. He raised his gaze from the floor to my eyes.

  “Hi,” he said, his voice low.

  “What’s wrong? You were excited about donuts thirty seconds ago.”

  “I’m still excited about the donuts. I just got sad thinking that this night will eventually have to end.”

  My heart thumped. “Well, let’s make it last as long as possible.”

  He smiled. “I’m in. Oh, and you’re beautiful. Did I tell you that already?”

  I didn’t say anything. He could tell me as many times as he wanted to.

  “Donut time,” I said.

  We held hands down the stairs. At the bottom, I realized it had gotten way colder out. “Oh shit, I forgot my sweater.”

  “I’ll get it.” He quickly ran back up and returned with my sweater and a backpack.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Just some stuff. You want to help me?”

  “Help you what?”

  “Paint something. We have to be fast, though.”

  My heart raced. “What?”

  He pulled me along, “Come on, kitten.”

  “You promised me donuts.” I was suddenly worried about getting arrested.

  “Your payment for being my assistant will be a giant maple bar. I’ll even feed it to you.”

  4. Blind Eye

  We ran down the street, hand in hand, but at the end of the block, he pulled me back from the curb and slapped his hand over his chest like he was having a heart attack. “Oh jeez, I thought there was a car coming. Sorry.”

  It was completely quiet out—not a car on the road or even the sound of one in the distance. At least he was being careful? We crossed the street and then he stopped in front of a concrete wall about two blocks down from his loft. “I only have enough paint for a small one.” He removed two small cans of paint and about twelve brushes. Then he started painting frantically.

  “Holy shit. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Keep watch.” It felt like the craziest thing I had ever done, but it wasn’t like he was defacing the building; he was creating art.

  He was hyperfocused. His hood was up and he was humming a mindless tune. “I think this will make sense someday,” he mumbled.

  After what seemed like hours, I turned around.

  “Voilà,” he said.

  It was a profile of a man, wearing a black suit and top hat and looking down at his feet hovering off the ground. The only other color Adam used was baby blue to paint a stunning set of wings sprouting from the man’s back. “Wow. That’s breathtaking, Adam. What is this?”

  “It’s a man with wings, genius.”

  “I know that, genius, but what did you mean when you said it’ll make sense someday?”

  “Did I say that?”

  Behind him, I saw headlights in the distance. “We better go. Are you going to sign it?”

  “Nope.”

  I looked at it one last time. Adam’s brushwork bore a striking resemblance to the mural on the side of my building. “Adam, did you paint those wolves on my building?”

  “What wolves?”

  Guess not. “Let’s go.” I took a picture of it with my phone and texted it to Helen.

  Me: Adam just painted this!

  Helen: Glad you’re alive. It’s not even 1 am yet so I haven’t reported you.

  Me: I’m going to get donuts now.

  Helen: With spontaneous artist dude?

  Me: Yeah, my dad would be over the moon.

  Helen: Yeah, he would disown you.

  Me: I like him, H.

  Helen: Figures. Does this mean I’ll see you in the morning?

  Me:

  Remember when I said I was a bit scattered? It wasn’t just when it came to jobs. I had a slew of strange ex-boyfriends, too. There was George, who liked to wear my underwear . . . everyday. Not just to prance around in—he wore them under his Levi’s at work. As a construction worker. That didn’t go over well with his co-workers once they found out. He works at Jamba Juice now. I don’t think anyone cares about what kind of underwear he wears at Jamba Juice.

  Then there was Curtis. He had an irrational fear of El Caminos. Yes, the car. He just hated them so much that he became really fearful of seeing one. He’d say, “I don’t understand, is it a car or a truck?” The confusion would bring him to tears. When we were walking on the street together, I had to lead him like a blind person because he didn’t want to open his eyes and spot an El Camino. If he did, it would completely ruin his day. He would cry out, “There’s another one. Why, God?” And then he would have to blink seven times and say four Hail Marys facing in a southerly direction. I don’t know what happened to Curtis. He’s probably in his house playing video games and collecting disability.

  After Curtis came Randall, who will never be forgotten. He was an expert sign spinner. You know those people who stand on the corner spinning signs? Randall had made a career of it. He was proud and protective of his title as best spinner in LA. I met him when he was spinning signs for Jesus Christ Bail Bonds on Fifth Street. He was skillfully flipping a giant arrow that said, “Let God Free You!” and his enthusiasm struck me. I smiled at him from the turn lane. He set the sign down, waved me over, and asked for my phone number. We started dating immediately. He called himself an Arrow Advertising executive when people would ask what he did for a living. He could spin, kick, and toss that sign like it weighed nothing. But when he’d put his bright-red Beats by Dre headphones on, he could break, krump, jerk, turf, float, pop, lock, crip-walk, and b-boy around that six-foot arrow like nobody’s business. He was the
best around and I really liked him, but he dumped me for Alicia, who worked at Liberty Tax in the same strip mall. She would stand on the opposite corner, wearing a Statue of Liberty outfit, and dance to the National Anthem. They were destined for each other.

  After Randall was Paul. Ugh, Paul. That, I will admit, was completely my fault. I had zero foresight with him. Helen and I were working at this massage place called Dharma. She was the receptionist and I was trying to build a clientele there. You know what they don’t tell you in massage school? They don’t tell you that bad things are happening in some of the nicest massage establishments. They don’t tell you that no matter where you work, you will occasionally get that random guy who thinks you’ll give him a happy ending for an extra twenty. Helen jokingly called Dharma the best little whorehouse not in Texas.

  Paul came in one day and seemed like an absolute gentleman. Good-looking, too. I gave him a massage and then he asked if he could take me out. We started dating pretty seriously . . . or so I thought. Every once in a while he’d come into Dharma on his lunch break and we’d have a quiet little romp while listening to the trickling sounds of some Zen meditation soundtrack shit they’d pump through the place on a loop.

  One day, when I was late and Helen was home sick, the back-up receptionist told me that Amy, another therapist who we called Airbag Amy because of her enormous fake breasts (and because we hated her), was using my room for a client. “Why?” I had said.

  “The client said the bed was better.”

  Something made me walk through that door, some force I couldn’t fight. It was truly divine intervention that led me to Airbag Amy riding Paul, reverse cowgirl style, on my massage table, her giant tits bouncing like vulcanized rubber. I quit the little whorehouse that day and never saw Paul again. Bullet dodged.

  I hadn’t won any awards for picking men, so a part of me was just waiting for the other shoe to drop with Adam.

  We arrived at Donut King, located in a short building among tall ones. It looked like an afterthought of a building. There was no door, just a window and a line halfway down the block.

  “I didn’t even know this place existed.”

  “It comes to life at night,” Adam said.

  “You bring all your dates here?”

  He shook his head.