Twenty-three
Danica
The clink of my glass with Marisa’s echoes in the cozy corner we’ve carved out for ourselves at Bubbles, the effervescence of sparkling wine tickling my nose. Marisa’s smile warms me more than the drink, and her presence calms the thoughts that swirl around Austin’s sudden dinner plans. I was looking forward to seeing him after my big day, so it’s a letdown.
“Cheers to new jobs,” she beams, raising her flute higher.
“Cheers,” I echo, letting the crisp liquid dance on my tongue. “The interview at SHN went surprisingly well. Emerson was gracious, funny, self-deprecating, and she is a fantastic mentor. And the team… I can actually imagine fitting in.”
Marisa’s eyes sparkle. We’ve been through the trenches together, and any victory for one feels like a shared triumph. “Well, that sounds wonderful. But moving on… Tell me everything about your weekend,” she urges.
“Later,” I promise, my mind still processing the day and reprocessing the weekend in light of it. “For now, let’s just enjoy the moment.”
Marisa nods, and her gaze turns soft, almost amused. “How’s Mischa?” she asks. “She’s like no other cat I’ve ever been around.”
“I think it’s a Maine Coon thing,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “Playful as a puppy. Followed me everywhere. Slept with me all three nights you were gone.” She pauses, sipping her wine. “But get this—she would only eat chicken breast. She turned her nose up at the tuna. Are you sure she’s not part dog?”
I laugh. “That sounds exactly like Mischa. She has her quirks, but she’s got character.”
“Character,” Marisa repeats with a chuckle. “That’s one way to put it.”
A little while later, stomachs grumbling, Marisa and I decide to ditch the chic atmosphere of Bubbles for the comfort of my loft. Sinking into the couch with a greasy pizza sounds like heaven.
“Pepperoni okay?” I ask as I unlock the door, already pulling out my phone to order.
“Add some mushrooms to that, and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she replies.
Once the pizza is on its way, we settle onto the plush cushions. Marisa props her feet up on the coffee table, giving me a look that says she’s ready for the scoop.
“Emerson was really impressed with my startup experience,” I begin, tucking a stray strand of my hair behind my ear. “She thinks I’m a good fit.”
“Of course you are,” Marisa encourages.
I smile at her enthusiasm. “There’s this startup SHN has invested in, and I’d be working on their site over by Oracle Park. Just knowing I’ll have people around to bounce ideas off of… It’s so different from Red Rabbit.”
“Sounds amazing, Danica. What about Austin’s company?” she probes.
“I wondered if they might put me with his company, but Emerson shut that down quickly.” I shrug, trying to sound nonchalant.
Marisa lets out a breath of relief. “Good. You don’t need any complications right now.”
“Speaking of complications…” My voice trails off as I remember the voicemail that’s been nagging at the back of my mind. “Brandon left a message.”
“Brandon?” Her brow furrows. “What did the prince of poor decisions want?”
“His mortgage payment,” I mutter, fiddling with my sleeve. “He’s blaming me for not being able to make it because I paid the staff. Even threatened to sue me.”
“Let him try,” Marisa scoffs with a wave of her hand. “You followed the law, Danica. It’s not your fault he squandered everything and ran the company into the ground. Not to mention, what about everyone else’s mortgages and rents? What a selfish bastard.”
Her certainty should reassure me, but anxiety lingers. “Still, it’s unnerving to think he might sue me.”
“Look at me,” she insists, waiting until I meet her gaze. “You’re going to be fine. Brandon is just trying to intimidate you because he knows he screwed up. Don’t give him any money. Can you imagine him in front of a judge trying to explain that you paid his employees for their work, and so there wasn’t enough to pay himself? That would be priceless.”
“When you put it that way,” I murmur. She’s right, of course. She usually is. But Brandon’s angry desperation has a way of seeping into the cracks of my confidence.
The downstairs buzzer rings, and I realize all over again that I’m starved. I trot downstairs to meet the delivery guy. A quick exchange and a tip later, the scent of cheesy goodness fills the loft as I place the box on the coffee table.
As I take a big bite of my pizza, Marisa’s eyes gleam with mischief. “So, there I was, in a janitor’s closet at City Hall,” she begins.
“Wait, a janitor’s closet?” I interrupt.
“Uh-huh.” She nods, taking a sip of her wine. “With him. You know, the city supervisor?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Doesn’t he have a—”
“Only on paper,” Marisa cuts me off, gesturing with her slice. “You know, for the constituents. Nothing to worry about,” she assures me.
My gut says the smarmy guy with the pregnant girlfriend is still spinning lies to her. I have to hope she’ll figure that out eventually.
For now, I school my features. “And you almost got caught?”
“Almost.” She grins devilishly. “We heard someone stop the custodian right as he put the key in the door. He was pulled away over some commotion in the ladies’ room. Saved us from having to explain why we were, well… you know.”
“Wow, Marisa.” Shaking my head, I can’t suppress my laughter.
“Perfect timing,” she says, reaching for her wine again. But then she locks eyes with me, suddenly all business. “Now, spill about Yosemite with Austin.”
I hesitate, a lump forming in my throat. My words come out slowly. “He said something…that he knew I was perfect when I told him why I don’t ask for long-term commitments.”
“Danica!” Marisa practically chokes. “Why would you tell him that? Are you sure that’s how you want things?”
For a moment, I’m silent, gathering my thoughts. “I…I think so.” It’s complicated, and Marisa, of all people, knows why. “Your parents have been married how long now?” I ask.
“Thirty years,” she responds with a proud smile. “And my grandparents are coming up on fifty-five.”
“Right.” I nod, picking at the crust of my pizza slice. “But I guess I’ve always expected men to be like my father. It’s easier that way. You’re not disappointed when they let you down.”
“Danica, your dad was an idiot for cheating on your mom. But that shouldn’t determine your expectations. And anyway, she should’ve given him an ultimatum the first time he did it instead of just taking him back over and over again.”
I sigh, the truth of her words settling heavy in my chest. “Yeah, I know.” But I think Mom worried we wouldn’t make it without my father’s money. Somewhere deep down, I do cling to the hope that maybe not every man will turn out to be like him.
“However,” Marisa adds, “Austin has a fuck pad five miles from his house. That doesn’t scream faithful to me.”
“Maybe not,” I admit, my heart sinking. “But we’re just working through the condoms.” I take a bite of pizza.
“Hey,” Marisa reaches across, squeezing my hand. “Just remember, you deserve someone who wants the same things you do. Don’t settle for less, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, grateful for her unwavering support. Maybe one day I’ll find what I’m looking for. For now, though, I’ve got pizza and a friend who understands me better than anyone else. And before too long I’ll be working at a great job. That’s more than enough. “Thanks for the drinks at Bubbles and for listening to my crazy stories. And for watching Mischa.”
Marisa hugs me tight. “Anytime.”
We manage a couple more slices, and then Marisa is ready to call it a night. With a final wave, she slips out the door, her steps echoing down the hallway. I lock up behind her, leaning back against the cool wood, my thoughts drifting to Austin. I wonder if he’s home yet. Where is my phone anyway?
I pat down my pockets before remembering I left it on the kitchen counter. As I pick it up, I see a notification, a message from Austin.
“Shoot,” I mutter, swiping the screen. He won’t be here tonight. I’m disappointed, but it’s good that he thought to tell me, right? Maybe his dinner meeting was just that, something for work. Not anything nefarious. And I suppose I could use an uninterrupted night of sleep. Who would have thought I could be addicted to sex? Austin makes me crave him. I shake my head.
Me: I’ll miss you and can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
He doesn’t need to know I’m disappointed. My heart does an anxious little dance as I wait for the familiar ding, signaling his reply.
But it doesn’t come.
Minutes trickle by, each one stretching longer than the last. I try to distract myself by cleaning up the pizza box and trash, but my mind keeps circling back to why he hasn’t responded.
“Probably just busy,” I tell myself, trying to tamp down the fear that he’s out there with someone else. I have no claim on him. And we must be getting close to the end of the condom box, considering all the time we’ve spent together.
I curl up on the couch, pulling a throw blanket over my legs. Don’t let him hurt you. It’s only until the box is gone , I tell myself. But hope is a fragile thing, easily shattered, tough to piece back together.