My dad is a retired architect, but his love for his profession never went away. Poppy asked about the plans a few days ago, but I’ve been holding this card in my pocket for this exact moment.
“Of course!” His eyes light up, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the architecture help or the fact that if Poppy wasn’t a grown woman, he’d try to adopt her. And, since he’s convinced (accurately so) that I’ll never have kids, Ace is his unofficial grandkid, and he spoils him accordingly. “Tell her to bring them over and if she wants any changes, we can look through all of my Architectural Digests for ideas.”
“I’ll let her know. She said Ace might tag along, if you don’t mind.” I told Poppy he wouldn’t care, but she still forced me to ask. I think she’s finally starting to come to terms with the fact that we will never be sick of her or her cute-as-fuck family.
“I never mind! Plus, I found a Messi jersey the other day for him—this way I can give it to him.”
See? Pseudo-Grandpa.
And just like that, all conversations about Maxwell Lewis are long forgotten and instead, my dad fills me in on his plans to camp out at a soccer field for Ace’s tournament this weekend.
Something I barely hear, because my mind is still stuck on the note, and my stomach flips at the thought that Maxwell will be back . . . and soon.
Five
The windows on my Land Rover are down, the weather too perfect to even think about using my air-conditioning. The crisp air is tinted with just the barest hint of marijuana from the strip of dispensaries I just drove by. My old *NSYNC CD is blasting from my speakers, blessing those I pass with the vocals of a young JC Chasez, who was really the star of the band. Don’t @ me. I’ve already been honked at a few times because I accidentally swerved into another lane when the urge to do the “Bye Bye Bye” dance moves was too strong to resist.
I make a left onto a one-way street, navigating my way through the grid of downtown Denver to the local brewery I’m planning on ordering next month’s beer for HERS from. It’s barely even noon as I pass the Pedal Hopper full of people pedaling and chugging beers. I still can’t decide if I want to do that or not—I feel like it might be too much work for me. I’d definitely place myself in the “lazy drinker” category.
It’s still so crazy for me to think that I went out of state for college when there’s so much to do here now.
I thought Colorado was “too slow.” I wanted excitement and something new, so I applied only to out-of-state colleges. I ended up at the University of Texas.
I lasted a year.
It was too hot. There weren’t enough seasons. I decided I hated barbecue and Tex-Mex.
My sophomore year I attended the University of Colorado.
Now, besides the very rare vacation, I don’t ever want to leave again. I’m a firm believer that there is no place better than Denver, and any native will agree.
I circle the block for longer than socially acceptable seeking out a metered parking spot, but after the car in front of me snags a spot, sending me to the brink of insanity, I accept defeat and park in the expensive-ass lot around the corner from Barley Remix. After I pay the astronomical fee to let my car sit unattended for a couple hours on cracked pavement, I reach for my phone and send a text to Charli letting her know I’m here. After the stress of final cuts, Charli couldn’t say yes to day drinking fast enough.
My best friend, Naia, moved to New York for college and unlike me, she never came back. I was so focused on work and not becoming my mom that my lack of a social life never bothered me. Naia and I talk when we have a free second to chat, and whenever she visits, we have the best time, but it wasn’t until Marlee showed up in my bar that I realized how lonely I’d been. Then Marlee moved and I came to terms with all of my friends leaving me for the Big Apple. But then Poppy came, and along with her, she brought me an entire crew.
I talk shit about the Lady Mustangs, but the truth is, I adore most of those women.
I push through the heavy iron-and-glass door of Barley Remix, and after a quick glance tells me I beat Charli, I take a seat at the bar.
The bartender, a redheaded hipster with a beard I know Poppy would appreciate, greets me, sizing me up behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses before he reaches me. “Hey, can I help you? Or are you waiting for a boyfriend?”
This is why all of my employees are women.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Not because he’s picking me up. He’s not. He just doesn’t think a woman would ever go to a brewery on her own. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with this. For some reason, people seem to think women don’t drink beer and we don’t know how to order anything that doesn’t come with an umbrella or sugar-coated rim. It’s a common misconception. I’ve found working at HERS that women love beer just as much as men do, but we have better taste. We like good beer and won’t chug pee juice out of a can for shits and giggles.
“Yeah, I’m Brynn Sterling. I set up a tasting with Darren so I can place an order for my bar.”
His glasses act as a magnifier as his eyes triple in size. “You’re Brynn? Not sure why, but I thought you’d be a dude.”
“Misogyny.” I shrug.
“I—wha—ummm,” he stutters, color rising in his face, his skin nearly matching his red beard. “Sorry.”
I ignore the apology, even though I do take an immense amount of pleasure at his discomfort. “A friend is joining me, so I’ll need two sets of the tasting flights, thanks.” I dismiss him and grab my phone when a text lights up the screen.
I’m so sorry to bail so late, I have a migraine from hell. But I sent someone to meet you. Don’t hate me. Love you!
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!
I know a setup when I see one.
And not only because I’ve been the mastermind of more than one. But because I’m friends with a bunch of sneaky snakes who are dead set on setting me up with a Mustangs player so I can officially be a Lady Mustang . . . something I’ve never, ever wanted to be. I text Charli back, resisting the urge to fill the screen with middle finger emojis.
You are all on my shit list for the foreseeable future.
So when a gust of warm air hits me as the door opens behind me and Misogynist Mike’s eyes glaze over with the childlike joy only a professional athlete can bring forth in grown men, I know who is sliding into the seat next to me before he gets there.
The hairs on the back of neck stand, and goose bumps pepper my arms with recognition. My brain might not be his biggest fan, but my body is clearly not in accord.
I school my face to my most uninterested look as he fills my peripheral vision.