“Busy with your career?”
“Yes, but it’s not that.” I chew off another bite before telling him the next part. “I’ve sort of sworn off men. I’m not ready to meet someone.”
“Oh, honey, but that’s the worst thing you can say if you don’t want a man.”
“Why?”
“Because the moment you stop looking, that’s when Prince Charming will come knocking on your door.”
Two
Archie
Three Weeks Later
Something is wrong.
Sunlight filters in through the blinds, piercing my closed lids. Plenty of light, more than there should be. But why is the excessive brightness an issue? I’m between jobs, which means I can sleep in even if it’s Monday.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling something is amiss.
I blink awake, already alert, taking in the entirety of my rented studio apartment in one eye-sweep. The house seems in order. No signs of a break-in, or a fire, or a gas leak. Nothing wrong there.
Next to me, a redhead stirs. Brittany, Tiffany, I can’t remember her name from last night. We met in a bar as opponents in a game of beer pong. And I don’t recall who won, only that we decided to move the celebrations to my place.
I peek under the sheets.
Yep! We’re both naked.
Definitely nothing wrong with that!
Why hasn’t the nagging stopped, then? The sensation I should be doing something else—be somewhere else —stays put.
I shake my head, dog-coming-out-of-water style, trying to clear my brain. I’m too old to play beer pong and still expect to wake up fresh as a rose the next morning.
Careful not to disturb Brittany/Tiffany, I slither out of bed and hop into the shower. No better way to regroup.
When I come out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, wearing sweatpants and a clean T-shirt, the lady is still sleeping.
Mmm. How to wake her without being unpleasant?
I settle on making coffee; the grinder is loud enough to raise an elephant. The beans’ capsule is running low, so I open a new pack, top the container, and switch my beauty on. Fancy coffee is a luxury I treat myself to, at least when I’m in a civilized place. The drip coffee maker with a built-in grinder was expensive, but worth its while. Nothing better than a pot of freshly ground java to start the day, whatever the hour. I make sure the water tank is full, turn the machine on, and wait for the magic to happen.
As predicted, the noise is enough for Brittany/Tiffany to stir awake. She rolls over in bed, blinking, and asks, “Is that coffee I smell?”
“Yep,” I say. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”
She pulls herself up on her elbows, using the sheets to cover herself. “Mind if I use your bathroom in the meantime?”
“Absolutely,” I say, and to give her some privacy, I turn my back to the bed, pretending I’m busy checking the machine.
I follow her movements around the apartment with my ears. The rustling of fabric, the padding of feet on the hardwood floor, and at last, the click of the bathroom door closing.
When Brittany/Tiffany comes back out—already dressed, I note with pleasure—I’ve just taken the first delicious sip of my superior Crema Arabica blend.
“Want a cup?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, sitting on a stool at the kitchen bar.
As I turn to grab her a clean mug, my eyes land on the couch and the half-packed bag laying open in its middle.
Shit!
I check the date on my watch, which confirms that, yeah, I’m screwed.
Logan’s wedding is today. Well, not the actual ceremony, or I’d be a dead man. Thanks to my lucky star, the schedule only includes one meeting today. Starting tomorrow, the week will get busier and busier until the main event on Saturday. Guests will arrive between today and the next few days. But as best man, I’m supposed to get in the trenches with the first wave. And I have to report to the wedding planning Marshall at four for a comprehensive debrief on all my best man duties for the week. A destiny I share with the other wedding party recruits.
I stare at my watch again. Half past two.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I make a quick mental calculation. From Berkeley to Napa it’ll take forty-five minutes on the bike. An hour tops if traffic is bad. If I hurry and skip breakfast or lunch—whatever my next meal would’ve been—I could still make it on time. But I have to finish packing and get rid of Brittany/Tiffany first.
“Hey,” I say. “Actually, would you mind if I made that coffee to go? Sorry, but I just remembered I was supposed to be somewhere else like five minutes ago.”
Brittany/Tiffany shrugs. “No problem.”
“You need me to call you a cab or something?” I say, opening the cupboard above the sink to pick up a paper cup.
I fill the cup with steaming coffee from the pot, asking, “Sugar? Cream?”
“Black is fine,” she says.
Great, she’s making the goodbyes easy on me. I cover the cup with one of the plastic lids piled above the coffee machine and offer it to Brittany/Tiffany.
She takes it with a raised eyebrow, probably assessing the fact that I keep a stash of morning-after, to-go paper cups in my kitchen. Oh, crap. Is this going to turn into one of those mornings after? With shouting and accusations being thrown around?
But, stoic, Brittany/Tiffany raises her cup at me in a cheers gesture and takes a sip. Guess we were both clear last night wasn’t about forever and ever.
“Sorry,” I apologize again. “I really don’t mean to rush you, but I’m running super late. Do you need me to call you a cab?” I repeat my offer.
She takes her phone out of her jeans pocket and unlocks it. “No need, I already called an Uber.” She checks the screen. “It should get here any minute. I’ll be out of your hair right away.”
I round the kitchen bar and walk her to the door, where we both stop, undecided how to say goodbye. Should we hug, kiss? We land on an awkward sideway hug, and Brittany/Tiffany is gone. Out of the house and out of my life.
I shut the door and rush back to the living room, running around the apartment like a Tasmanian devil, mentally compiling a list of everything I have to bring with me:
Best man speech—hilarious, charming, and with a few tear-jerking passages for the ladies in the audience to swoon over—check.
Rented tux. Will pick up at the location, will check off later.
Enough clothes for a week and a mix of casual and formal occasions? Nuh-uh.
Last night I only went as far as packing socks and underwear. A quick fix. I yank shirts at random from my closet, doing the best I can to fold them quickly but decently enough they won’t get too wrinkled. I don’t have time to make a conscious selection, so I overpack and have to struggle to pull up the zipper on my duffle bag.
But hey, packed bag—check.
I’m one step closer to making it to Napa in time.
I sling the bag over my shoulder, grab the keys of my bike from the nightstand, and stare at the apartment.