Chapter 29
LUCY
“I’d likeyou to meet Tyler Brooks,” I say to a Sarge and a couple other coworkers.
We’re having an after work happy hour and Tyler has a moment to swing by before he catches a flight… somewhere. I am having trouble keeping up.
“Good to meet you,” Tyler says to everyone with a big smile.
It’s amazing how comfortable he is with new people. Guess he’s used to it.
Everyone is friendly but because I know these people really well, I also know they’re taking their time deciding whether they like him or not. A free weekly newspaper attracts a lot of ‘alt’ people, the kind who, when growing up, were definitely not part of any kind of ‘jock crowd,’ and to this day have little or no interest in sports. But Tyler can be hard to resist.
Ask me how I know.
“I’ll get us a couple beers,” I call to him, leaving him chatting with the one person on our staff who seems to know what the sport of hockey is.
Sarge is standing next to the keg, where he hangs out at every work gathering. I don’t know how many beers he’s had, but they’ve definitely loosened his lips.
“Is that the guy you’re writing the book about? How big of a douchebag is he turning out to be?”
That’s a lot from one-word-Sarge, but really?
“How do you know about my book? And he’s not a douchebag, either,” I hiss.
“Daley, get a grip. Everyone knows. There are no secrets here. We’re the Freekly.” He lets loose with a booming laugh, deep and raspy thanks to years of smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
Nobody knows how he is still alive.
“Well, he’s not a douche. He’s nice.”
He raises an eyebrow at me and I know he’s got my number. “Objective journalism. It’s a thing. You know, that little ethical code they talk about in our profession where you’re supposed to avoid conflicts of interest?”
I cross my arms. “Sarge, where are you going with this?”
I totally know where he’s going. I’m just playing dumb.
“Do I need to spell it out for you, miss I’m-dating-a-hockey-player-who-I’m-pretending-not-to-like?”
Goddammit. I am so busted.
I look around and see that Michaela’s now chewing Tyler’s ear off. She’s not going to say anything, is she?
“Lucy, I’m not like most of the other people here going through life with their heads up their ass. I may not say much, but I see everything. And I saw you come in here last week wearing some guy’s shirt. You probably thought no one would notice because we don’t pay attention to things like that here, but you don’t wear men’s clothes, and so I did notice. And, maybe not so coincidentally, that shirt just so happened to be the same size as Mister Handsome Guy over there.”
I want to run. Sarge is right, he observes all, even if he doesn’t say much, and his words are a sort of kindly warning.
“Get it together, Daley,” he says and wanders off.
Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
A second later there’s a hand on my elbow. I swing in the direction of the touch. “Hey, Tyler, wanna get out of here?—”
But it’s not Tyler.
“Don’t leave yet,” Michaela says. “Everyone is having such a nice time.”
“Oh, hey. I have a massive… headache,” I lie. “And Tyler needs to catch a flight. But don’t worry, I can stick it out longer. This is a great little gathering, Michaela. Thank you for putting it on.”
“You betcha. Hey, that Tyler’s really something,” she says admiring him from across the room. “Is he part of your research?”
Stomach drop.
“Oh, well, um, sort of, yeah.”
“I don’t know, Lucy. He doesn’t seem like a jerk to me. Not at all.”
I look at her with wide eyes. “Oh, he is. You wouldn’t believe it.”
She frowns. “Really?”
I nod vigorously. More lies. “Yes. Totally.”
She shrugs. “Well, what do I know? Hey, what’s up with the bathroom article?”
Ohthankgod. Change of subject. Although this isn’t exactly the thing I wanted to talk about, either.
“Right. As you know, I ran the survey in the paper and got a ton of responses from the readers. I’ve narrowed them down to the top three. Tomorrow I’ll check them out and take some photos.”
Michaela looks excited. “Oooh, tell me which are the worst.”
How does someone get excited about dirty bathrooms?
“Supposedly there’s one in Golden Gate Park, another at the gas station on Ninth Street, and one down at Fisherman’s Wharf.”
She rubs her hands together. “This is so much fun.”
Easy for her to say, she doesn’t have to don plastic gloves and a face mask and hope she doesn’t step in poo.
Yes, there’s poop on the floor of these public bathrooms. Which makes my career plan of writing books even more appealing.
Problem is, I’m not off to a very good start, thanks to getting involved with my research subject.
“Hey, baby,” Tyler says in my ear, snapping me out of my daydream. “Your coworkers are fun. I like them.”
Of course he does. And they like him back, it’s easy to see.
Lucky me.