Perfect on Paper (11 page)

“Coming right up.” He handed me my change, and as I waited for my order, I looked at the other people in line and nodded. Yep, they pretty much all fit the profile. On weekend mornings, Noah’s had two shifts of customers. Before ten o’clock, it was filled with early birds eager to take on the day: spandex-clad bikers fresh from a fifty-mile ride in the Marin Headlands; yuppie couples dressed in matching khaki pants and white sweaters, baby stroller in tow, on their way to the farmer’s market; the overly enthusiastic Team in Training pack after a ten-mile run. And after that, the sloths rolled in: sleepy, dressed in baseball hats and sweats, and looking for a hangover cure. It never failed. When I was with Aaron, I’d usually been part of the early shift, but on my own I was more likely to be pulling up the rear. I looked down at my sweatpants and put my hand on the baseball hat I was wearing and chuckled. Today was no exception.

When I got back to my apartment, I kicked off my shoes, sat down on the couch, and unwrapped my egg mitt. Then I opened the newspaper and immediately flipped to the comics. I’d noticed that the best way to read the newspaper is to start with the comics, because everything else is so depressing.

After breakfast, I called McKenna. She picked up on the first ring.

“Hey,” she said

“Hey,” I said.

“Sorry I missed you guys last night. How was the big night out?” she said.

“I’d give it a seven and a half, although I’d give my hangover a solid eight. We missed you though. How was dinner?”

“Delayed. I waited for Hunter for nearly two hours at the hospital.”

Just then I noticed a business card lying on the coffee table. I picked it up and turned it over. “Darren Anderson? Who the hell is that?” I said.

“What?” McKenna said.

I put my hand on my forehead. “Oh Jesus, Darren. I totally forgot.”

“Wave, what are you talking about?”

“Oh, sorry. I just found this business card from a guy I met last night.”

“And?”

“Well, I’m not sure who it is.”

“What?”

“I mean we met two Darrens, one early on and one really late, and I’m pretty sure I kissed the late one.”

“Excellent. What does he look like?”

“Which one?”

“Hello? The one you macked?”

“Uh, I sort of don’t remember. Brown hair maybe?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Nope. Many margaritas were consumed.”

“Excellent. And the other Darren?”

“He was very cute.”

“But you don’t know which one’s card you have?”

“Nope. I thought I’d exchanged cards with both of them, but there’s just one sitting here.”

“Excellent. Now that’s the Waverly I know and love. Okay, I’m on my way out the door to run some errands, so I’ll catch you later.”

“Okay, bye.”

I put Darren’s card down and leaned back on the couch, where I spent the next half-hour leafing through the newspaper. Then I did a nose dive into my bed and slept for the rest of the day.

Andie called me at work Tuesday morning.

“We’re going to the Warriors game tomorrow night,” she said.

“The Warriors? As in basketball?” I said. “But we hate basketball.”

“Should you say that out loud while you’re at work?” she said. “I mean, isn’t that, like, your job?”

“But we hate basketball,” I whispered.

“Well, the Warriors play the Hawks tomorrow, so we’re going. Maybe seeing that trainer guy Jake again will help take your mind off running into Aaron.”

“Take my mind off who?” I said.

“Waverly …”

“Hey, do you think it’s going to rain tomorrow?” I said.

“Waverly,” she said. “Enough of the act. I know you’re hurting right now.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “It’s just easier to change the subject.”

“I’m on the Warriors’ Web site right now,” she said. “No arguing.”

I bit my lip. Maybe seeing Jake again
would
help. Those blue eyes … God, he was so cute.

“All right, let’s do it.”

A few minutes later we had tickets to the game. They were semi-nosebleeds, but we were going.

The next afternoon I was getting ready to leave work early so I could go home before the game. I knew my chances of seeing Jake there were smaller than the chances of Barry Bonds coming back to San Francisco to take the press on a tour of his chemistry lab, but I was still looking forward to going.

I was walking out the door of my office when my phone rang. I set my coat down and walked back to my desk.

“Waverly Bryson,” I said.

“Hi, Waverly. It’s Darren.”

I froze.

“Uh, from the other night?” he said. “How are you?”

All I could do was run with it. I sat down in my chair and faked a smile in my voice.

“Hi, Darren. I’m good. How are you?”

“I’m good too, thanks.”

Awkward silence.

He cleared his throat. “Well, it was really nice meeting you, and I, um, was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me on Friday.”

Hmm.

Was it too late to ask him an identifying question? Like, perhaps,
Did we swap spit?
”

I took a deep breath.

What the hell. Why not?

“Okay, sure, that sounds nice,” I said.

“Great, great. There’s a new restaurant in Russian Hill that I’ve been wanting to try. Have you been to Lola’s?”

“No, not yet, but I’ve heard it’s good,” I said. At least mystery Darren was up on the hip new places to eat.

“Yeah, me too. How about I make a reservation there?”

“Okay, sure, that sounds fine.”

We made plans to meet up on Friday night at the Kilkenny for a drink before dinner. Then we said goodbye and hung up.

I stood up, put on my coat, and turned off the lights. Oh well, at least I wouldn’t be sitting home alone on Friday night.

At six thirty that evening, I walked out of my apartment wearing a pair of charcoal grey flare trousers with a sleeveless black sweater, a thick pink silk scarf as a headband, and a jean jacket. The outfit wasn’t entirely weather-appropriate, but what cute outfit was weather-appropriate anyway?

As I headed for my car, I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t moved it that morning. Damn it. When I approached the old green Saab, I immediately saw the parking ticket under the windshield wiper. I don’t think I’d ever gone a full month without getting a ticket for not moving my car during street cleaning. It was just too complicated to keep track of which days those trucks were going to come by and on which side of the street and at which hours.

I pulled the ticket off the windshield and tossed it between the seats. Then I turned the key in the ignition and drove over to pick up Andie. Hers was my favorite building on the block—a dark red brick with bright white shutters that always looked recently painted. I pulled up in front and called her from my cell phone.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey, I’m outside.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Two minutes later, she came outside and jumped in the car.

“Hey, hot stuff, how’s it going?” she said.

“Good. Hey, have you ever noticed that no one in San Francisco actually rings anyone’s doorbell anymore?” I said.

“Huh?”

“We always call outside from the cell phone. Why?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s just easier to stay in a warm car than double-park.”

“But doesn’t it seem weird that no one finds this rude?”

“I guess I never really thought about it.”

“Oh well, whatever. Anyhow, I like your outfit.” She was wearing a long brown corduroy skirt, knee-length brown boots, and a bright yellow denim jacket over a yellow Tweety-Bird baby T-shirt. “I don’t know how you pull it off, but you can wear the craziest stuff and make it look fashionable.”

She looked down at her outfit. “This thing? Totally old.”

“Well, it’s super cute. I can’t wear yellow. Makes me look too pasty.”

“I guess that’s one benefit of being a blonde, even if I have to pay a hundred and fifty dollars a month for it.”

I laughed. “I think McKenna’s the only blonde I know who doesn’t pay her hairdresser for the privilege of having more fun.”

“That bitch,” she said, taking off her jacket. Then she picked up the parking ticket and looked at it. “Street cleaning, huh?”

“Of course.”

“Ya know, it’s really not that complicated to figure out when you have to move your car,” she said.

“I know, I know. But I just can’t be bothered to pay attention. And besides, sometimes it’s easier to pay forty bucks than give up a good parking spot.”

“Good point. I’ve got some friends in North Beach who pay almost as much in parking tickets each month as they do in rent,” she said.

“That’s what they get for living in North Beach. Have you ever noticed that it’s easier to go to China than it is to find a parking spot anywhere near Chinatown?”

She nodded. “
That
, my friend, I’ve noticed.”

It turned out that our seats to the game weren’t semi-nosebleeds at all. They were full-on nosebleeds, and I was pissed.

I took my coat off as we walked up and up and up toward our “midlevel” seats in outer space. “All right, I’m writing a letter to the VP of marketing,” I said.

Andie looked at me. “The VP of marketing? Why not customer service?”

I shook my head. “Nope, gotta go with marketing. I’ve noticed that it’s the marketing people who actually care about the image of their company. Plus, they’re the ones who have the most power to give you free stuff to keep you happy. Maybe I can score us some courtside seats to a future Warriors game.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “Let me know how that works out.”

We finally reached what was nearly the very last row and put our coats down. “We should have brought a sherpa,” I said. “All right, I’m heading back down to earth for peanuts and a beer. You want something?”

She gave me an
Are you crazy?
look. “You’re going back down already?”

I shrugged. “What can I say? I’m hungry.”

I clomped back down the steps, and fifteen minutes later I was loaded up with a cardboard tray of snacks for us, fighting my way through the crowded circular hallway of Oracle Arena to start the steep hike back up the stands. When I entered the main dome, I looked down toward the court. The players from both teams had emerged from the locker rooms and were doing warm-up drills to a hip-hop song I was clearly not cool enough to recognize. I scanned the court until my eyes stopped, and I froze.