“It’s Josie, right? I remember your face, but I’m having a hard time placing where we’ve met.” A smile that perfect must have bankrupted Golden Boy’s family in orthodontic bills. Beyond his wide pecs, heaving while he catches his breath from his run, Golden Boy has a vibe about him that takes my thoughts places they haven’t strayed in a while. He may not completely remember me, but there’s no way any man or woman with a pulse could forget him.
“You met us at the Fairchild Country Day School tour with your husband,” Roan says, magically appearing at Golden Boy’s side and giving him an obvious once-over. “Why don’t you sit your sweet self down and join us for lunch?”
“Sure, uh, let me just run over and grab my order. I mean, put my order in and, uh . . . I’ll be back in a minute.” Golden Boy seems flustered by Roan’s presence.
We both watch in silence as Golden Boy jogs away. Even at a slow pace his buns bounce on a beat. I dig into my fries, no use pining after something I can’t have.
“I’m not convinced he’s throwing down 100 percent on my side,” Roan ventures.
“There you go with your twenty-first-century gaydar again. Millennials think everyone is on an elastic sexual spectrum. Can’t someone just be plain ol’ gay or plain ol’ straight anymore?”
“BORING,” Roan says, pretending to yawn.
“What are you two talking about?” My hand automatically covers Roan’s mouth. Appropriate conversation outside the halls of Fairchild is not his strong suit.
“Have a seat.” I shift down the bench hoping Golden Boy’s sweat doesn’t stink. Or drip. Roan shoots me a look that says, Move to the other bench so I can sit by this hunk of man. I hop to.
“Does your husband know you’re out here on this gorgeous fall day parading around the Presidio in those microshorts?” Roan asks, propping his chin in his hands and looking straight into Golden Boy’s eyes. I should have kept my hand over his mouth.
“Do you run, Josie?” Ty asks me, eager to escape Roan’s wistful gaze and tactless question. His question sends Roan into a fit of laughter. The subject of me and running is one of Roan’s favorites.
“A few years back I trained for a 10K in Golden Gate Park for breast cancer awareness,” I share, which is 100 percent the truth.
“Oh, yeah, how’d it go?” Ty mumbles through a mammoth bite of his falafel gyro.
“Well, I raised twelve hundred dollars for the cause which was great, but then the day before the race I went to pick up my number at registration and they gave me a hideous bubble gum pink shirt. They said all the runners had to wear them in the race.”
“What happened after that, Josie?” Roan giggles, giving Ty a flirty slap on his bicep. “This is my favorite part of the story.” I kick Roan under the table. He doesn’t flinch.
“I took the shirt home and tried to make lemonade out of lemons. I cut off the sleeves, shortened it to above my hips, turned it into a V neck, and then I tried to cut it into a racer tank in the back. The shirt chose to unravel rather than submit to more surgery.”
Ty laughs. “So did you go ahead and race in what little was left?” A hint of naughty, naughty in his tone.
“Nah, I sent in the money I raised and went out to brunch with girlfriends the next morning instead.”
“Which was probably best because Josie’s idea of training was walking on a treadmill in the Fairchild gym gabbing to her best friend, Lola, on the phone,” Roan shares, trying to catch Ty’s eye. If Roan even attempts to bond with Ty on the athletic front I’m going to call foul. I’ve never even seen Roan in sneakers.
“Hey, I’ll have you know I was a track star when I was at Fairchild. Two of my records still stand. It’s just, without a coach barking down my back I seem to lack the motivation to run on my own. It takes some effort in the morning to look this good, I don’t want to go messing it up during the day.” I toss a lock, to show Roan he isn’t the only one with mad man skills.
“I could tell looking at you during the school tour you were a runner. You definitely have the build with all that leg. You should give it a go again. Maybe race with a master’s club. I’ve tried, but I have a tough time doing anything with consistency given my work schedule.” This is so typical of an applying parent. Mentioning “work” in general terms so I will take the bait and ask what they do. Then the humble brag of their extensive résumé goes on and on far longer than it should. I’m not falling for it today, not in the mood to feign being impressed.
“Yes, Josie, you would probably slay in the women-over-forty category,” Roan offers up. He’s enjoying this whole conversation at my expense a little too much.
“I’m not forty,” I insist to Ty, though I don’t really know why it matters if he knows my age. I guess I can’t help but care what a handsome man thinks.
“K, neither am I.” Ty shrugs and smiles. “How are the sweet potato fries? I’ve been meaning to try them, but I always end up getting the same thing. Creature of habit, I guess.”
“They’re okay if you like food that will help you live to a hundred, unless the lack of taste and satisfaction kills you first.”
“HA! No kidding, I’d much rather be saddled up at the Big Easy Beignet food truck over there. My vice is Southern cooking. I’ll do anything for a Po’Boy. I run so I can eat. New Orleans has got to have the best food in the country.”
“I was born there,” I say, smiling at our connection. I wouldn’t have thought this West Coast white boy had an ounce of humidity or hot sauce in him.
“Really? You’re from New Orleans? I don’t hear an accent,” Ty says.
“I don’t hear one in your voice, either,” I volley back, uncomfortable with the spotlight on me, and suddenly aware I’m on the verge of breaking my rule about no personal chitchat with applicants.
“I’m not from New Orleans, but I did a fellowship for a year at Tulane. Practically every older woman I met wanted to feed me, and then they wanted to adopt me when they failed to marry me off to their neighbor’s daughter or their own niece. I showed up there with two biological aunts but came back with three new ones. I still write them all. Well, actually two, the third learned to FaceTime at eighty. Now I can’t get her off the damn iPad.” Roan and I give each other a quick Who knew? glance. There’s more brain to Golden Boy than what pleasingly meets the eye.
“I have an aunt from NOLA, too,” I offer, surprising myself by sharing another personal fact.
“Does she still live there?”
“No, she lives here now. With me, actually.”