My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark, neon lights coming into focus, the floor beneath my heels sticky. Only two figures at the bar, neither which were blond. The bartender, a redhead pixie who shoulda worn sunscreen earlier in life, raised her chin at me. “What’cha need?”
My palms are suddenly clammy and I wipe them down the front of my skirt, trying to think of some plausible need for my presence. “Do you have a restroom?”
She pops her gum, the crude, loud crack grating my nerves. “It’s outside, past the bookstore. Down that hall.” She points, and my eyes follow the path to a dingy hall, just past an open doorway. Glossy paperbacks are stacked on either side of the door, on wooden chairs that seem to sag beneath their weight. Curiosity makes my eyes linger, the reggae music from inside draws me closer to the door.
An arm chooses to snake out the door, startling me, coming from the height of a small child, pushing a heavy hardback out the door until it bumps into an adjoining stack. I step forward, peering inside, and see Stewart’s blonde sitting, cross-legged on the floor, books stacked all around her. She works here. The realization that she is not a barfly is relieving. I step backward but her head snaps up, and our eyes meet for one terrifying moment.
She smiles. “Please don’t leave. I can turn the music off if it bothers you.”
“Oh no – it doesn’t bother me.” I wipe my annoyingly sweaty hands on my skirt, trying to find my mindset. Why had I come in here? What was my ball-busting plan of attack? Suddenly, my lack of designer shoes seemed to be the least of my poor planning. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”
She frowns regretfully, a ridiculously adorable gesture that made me want to throttle her. “Damn. I was hoping for a reader. It’s been crickets today.” She stands, brushing off her shorts, leaving the pile of books behind. “Want me to show you the way?”
“No, it’s okay.” I glance around. It’s a small space, a few rows squeezed into a small room lined with floor to ceiling shelves, shiny new books squeezed next to worn paperbacks with broken spines.
“I know that look. What’s your weakness? Steamy billionaires with foot-long junk? Or a serial killer taking out half the women in Mississippi?” She shoots me a wicked grin, winking conspiratorially.
I blush, hating the smile that is fighting its way to my face. This is not how this is supposed to go. She shouldn’t be cute, or likable. I had expected upper crust, snooty, digging perfectly manicured fingers as far into Stewart’s money pile as they could possibly go. “Janet Evanovich.”
“Oooh! I knew I liked you.” She jogs past me, humming along with the music as she drags a stool over to a shelf and stands, reaching up and trotting her fingers over titles. “You want the latest?”
“Sure.”
“Have you read Stephanie Bond?”
I glance around the store, trying to pick up clues in the brief moment of her distraction. “Uhh.... No.”
She jumps off the stool, crouching down briefly and skimming over a second shelf, snatching a quick book from the rack and tilting her head towards the register. “Anything else before I ring you up?”
I shake my head, reaching into my pocket for some cash.
“If you like Evanovich, you gotta check out Bond too.” She held up the second book. “It’s used, so I’m gonna toss it in no charge. Just ignore the worn pages. She is freakin’ awesome. If you get a chance,” she shrugs. “Check it out.”
I smile, counting out bills and passing them over. “Thank you—I will.”
She bags the books and walks around the counter, handing me the green plastic bag with a smile. “Thanks for coming in. You want me to show you to the bathroom?”
Right. My imaginary need to pee. I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks for the book.”
I take a right out of the store, walking down the dim hall and locking myself in the dirty bathroom, standing in the middle of the germ-infested space and trying not to touch anything. I take a deep breath and try to relax. Two minutes later, I use a paper towel to flush the toilet and open the door handle. I avoid looking into the bookstore, walking quickly through the dark bar and back into the bright light. The bench where I sat with Shannon is empty, a pink post-it stuck to her spot, an intense frowny face drawn on it in blue ballpoint pen. I glance around, seeing no sign of her, and crumple the sticky note, dumping my coffee into the trash and casting one, final look for Paul. Then me, and my green bag of deception, left the sandy boardwalk of Venice Beach.
VENICE BEACH, CA
MADISON
I am, for the next two years and three months, sterile. Then it will be time to pull out the hormone implant in my arm and replace it with a fresh one, and I can make that humongous decision again. To have a kid or not to have a kid. That is the question. It was an easy decision two years ago. But I am already waffling now. In two years I will probably be beside myself with the hefty choice. In a way, choosing a kid will be like choosing between my boys. It will be a conversation I will have to have with both of them, and I can already foresee their stance on it. Stewart won’t have time for a child, and will tell me so without hesitation. Any financial obligation he would support. But anything more... I’d be on my own. It’s just the facts of his life. Paul will ask what makes me happy. And whatever I say, he will go with. It is how our relationship has always been. He does what makes me happy. It is why he accepts the fucked up threesome that we currently live. While Stewart wants me to have a second man to keep me off the streets, to keep me from being lonely, to keep me in his life – Paul accepts that I have a second man because it was what he signed up for. And now, as in the beginning, he’d rather have half of me than none of me.
Paul and my first experience, under the Santa Monica pier, led to dinner—meat lovers pizza under the dim lights of Joe’s, cold beers downed, our bare legs brushing under the slanted brick bartop, knowing smiles exchanging space with flirtatious looks.
I thought that’d be it, but he persisted, got my number, called the next day. Showed up at the bookstore and pestered me till he snagged a second date. He didn’t have to work too hard. I knew who he was, had wandered down to the surf after Bip went oh-my-god-that’s-Paul-Linx crazy, spilling words like ‘surfing god’ and ‘sweetheart’ as if he was onceinalifetime special. I sat on the beach, sand smudging up my dress and sticking to my skin, and watched him on his board, watched the speed and dare of his ride, and let my mind wander down the what if road. What if I went on a second, then third, then fourth date? What about Stewart? What about his idea of a second, consistent boyfriend? Could I bring up that scenario? And if I did, how would Paul respond?
I watched him, admired the flex of muscles as he crouched, then jumped into the water, emerging with a big smile, his gaze catching and lingering on me in the sand, a question of recognition in his eyes. Then he waved, the smile broadening, and I waved, and I knew I would have to try.
I broached the subject on our fourth date, at which point I had grown a little attached to his quick smile and always-ready cock. I waited till after sex, when we were stretched out on his bed, his hand running gently down the line of my back, the room quiet, save our contented breaths.
“Bring many girls here?” I teased, the words playful, the thoughtful look he gave me not.
He reached over, dragging me atop him, till my head rested on his chest, my bare breasts on his stomach. “Not since I met you.”
“Well that’s an impressive feat,” I joked. “Seeing as we’ve screwed in this bed ... What? Three of the last four days?” I pushed up with my arms, crawling forward with my legs and sitting, straddling him. I tucked my hair behind my ear. “No girlfriend’s clothes hanging in that closet?” I tilted my head to the door—an accordion-style set that was probably, ten years earlier, painted white.