Thirty-six
Danica
It’s a fabulous fall Saturday, and I’m meeting Marisa at Early to Rise for breakfast. Autumn is beautiful in San Francisco, and it’s nice to have a moment to enjoy it, as I’ve been working seven days a week with Unmanned for the last couple of months, except for the occasional weekend of wedding planning with Yardley. But it’s good to take a Saturday off now and again. I step into the café, greeted by the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, and find Marisa at our usual spot by the window. She’s gazing out at the bustling streets with an unreadable expression.
“Hey,” I say as I sink into the chair opposite her. The server hands me a menu and pours me a cup of their coffee, and we quickly order.
“Danica! How are you holding up?” Marisa’s voice is warm, pulling me back from the edge of my worries.
“Good,” I lie, then sigh, deciding against pretense. “Actually, it’s been tough. Anna’s coming back in two months, and I’m stressed about finding a new place. I need another set of eyes so I don’t do anything impulsive.”
Marisa smiles. “You’ll find something perfect. You always do. And I’m happy to help.”
“Thanks.” I force a smile and sip the bitter coffee, letting it ground me. “How’s work and the center of San Francisco’s power?”
“It’s fine.”
I lift my brow at her.
“Truly. Strictly business around the office these days. I’ve been emailing with a guy who lives in the City and commutes to Palo Alto for some startup.”
“That sounds like an intense commute.”
“It is. But he seems nice. He was married for a while, but no kids. And he has a black lab who is cute as can be.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like he might check several big boxes on your list.”
She shrugs. “I actually confirmed he was divorced. I won’t be lied to again.”
My hand stretches across the table. “Not all guys are dogs.”
“Still, there are way too many wild and feral dogs in this city.”
“Tell me more about him.”
Our breakfasts arrive, and she regales me with stories of this new man. I love that despite her past experiences, she’s not giving up. She’s back up on the horse and dating. I know I need to do that, too, but I’m not ready.
“Still rocking it at Unmanned?” she asks.
“Rocking? More like drowning.” I laugh, but the sound is tired. “We’re swamped. With their upcoming IPO it’s crazy. I’ve got my hand in too many pies.”
“Do you have stock options?”
“No, I wish. SHN owns a little under half the company. After they go public, I’ll find my replacement and move on to another startup.”
“Sounds intense.”
“Intense is an understatement, but it’s also exciting. I’m learning a ton.” I finish my coffee, ready for another. “But enough about that. My sister’s wedding is getting closer. I ran back for my third wedding-planning trip last weekend, but this time, we met in Portland and drove over to the wedding location. It’s going to be so beautiful.”
“That’s great. Does it feel okay to be helping with the wedding?”
“Surprisingly good,” I admit, allowing a genuine smile to break through. “It’s going to be wonderful, but it also means Anna is coming home.”
“Any word from the man of mystery?”
I shake my head. “No, and I’m getting to where I’m okay with that. One day at a time, right?”
“Right.” Marisa nods firmly.
“I don’t want to talk about my drama. There’s nothing new to report. But are you ready to be my second pair of eyes on this apartment hunt? Do we need another coffee to go?” I ask, eager to shift focus from my tangled emotions. I can’t believe I need to line up an apartment so early. I still have more than two months before Anna returns, but everyone has warned me that I need to lock something down as soon as I see it and give myself plenty of time.
“Lead the way,” Marisa says, standing up with a stretch.
We stop by the counter for one more steaming cup, and then step out into the fray of the City.
The first apartment is just a short walk into Chinatown, above one of those hole-in-the-wall restaurants that tourists love. As soon as we climb the narrow stairs, the smell hits us, a pungent mix of fish and spices that’s probably delectable during dinner hours but now clings to the walls like a lingering ghost.
“Wow, that’s…potent.” Marisa wrinkles her nose, fanning the air in front of her face.
“ Potent is one word for it,” I murmur, trying to imagine coming home to this scent every night. I know there’s nose blindness after a while, but it’s strong enough that I wonder if it would seep into my pores. Would I smell like this all the time?
We continue into the tiny space, and I feel the walls closing in on me. It’s nothing like the loft, nothing like what I’ve grown accustomed to. But it’s not just the smell or the cramped quarters. It’s the realization that my life is changing faster than I’m prepared for.
“Danica?” Marisa touches my arm, bringing me back. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I reply. “Just thinking.”
“Look, you don’t have to settle,” she assures me, reading my distress. “There’s something out there for you. We’ll find it.”
I nod, grateful for her optimism. “Thanks. Let’s keep looking.”
We leave the scent of fish behind, stepping back onto the street. Next we trek up the steep incline of Lower Nob Hill. I pause to catch my breath, not from the climb but from the tight knot of worry in my stomach.
“Here we are,” I announce as we continue down the block to stand before a faded, bland, three-story building, any charm buried beneath years of city grime.
“Let’s see if it’s better on the inside,” Marisa says.
As we enter, the hallway offers peeling wallpaper and a musty odor that tells stories of better days long past. The landlord, a wiry man with darting eyes, leads us upstairs to apartment 2B, unlocking the door with an apologetic smile.
“Original features,” he boasts, gesturing vaguely at the splotchy windows.
Historical, perhaps, but the layers of paint on the windows are so thick they might as well be part of the wall. I try to pry one open, but it’s sealed shut, a prisoner of countless hasty repaintings.
“Is there…a view?” I ask, hoping for some redeeming feature.
“Of course!” The landlord beams. He points out the grimy glass to the dumpster below, where a furry shape darts across the alleyway.
“Did you see that?” Marisa whispers, her nose scrunching.
“Yep, that was definitely a rat,” I reply.
“City life, am I right?” The landlord chuckles.
“City life,” I echo weakly, knowing we won’t linger here much longer. “Thank you. We’ll think about it,” I say as we make our exit.
“Danica, don’t lose hope,” Marisa consoles, squeezing my hand as we step outside. “There’s more to see, right?”
“Right,” I affirm, drawing in a deep breath. “The Marina.”
We call a rideshare and take the short ride up and over Nob Hill to the water.
The contrast between Lower Nob Hill’s dense architecture and the Marina’s sprawling streets is like night and day. We arrive at a three-story building painted in cheerful pastels, the sun casting a warm glow over its fa?ade.
“Looks promising,” Marisa comments, and I dare to feel a flicker of optimism.
Inside, the studio apartment is flooded with light. But as I step into the main room, that flicker quickly dies. It’s so narrow I can stretch out my arms and touch both walls without fully extending my elbows.
“Cozy,” Marisa offers, but her tone lacks conviction.
“Like a shoebox,” I counter, picturing my few pieces of furniture crammed into this elongated space. “Where would I even sleep?”
“On the bright side, you’d always be within arm’s reach of everything,” Marisa jokes.
“True,” I concede with a half-hearted laugh. “I know all I can afford is a studio, but I think I need a little more space than this.”
“We have one more stop.” Marisa gives me a side hug when we return to the sidewalk. “Apartment hunting in San Francisco is a slog.”
“Thank you for coming with me,” I say again. I can’t imagine navigating all this alone. As we leave the Marina behind, the reality sinks in. San Francisco may have stolen my heart with its beauty and energy, but finding a slice of it to call my own is going to prove harder than I ever imagined.
I push open the door to the Russian Hill apartment, last on today’s list, and the creak of its hinges is loud through the empty space. The listing boasted “unique architectural features,” and my heart soared. But as I step into the living room, I’m met with a sight that plants my feet firmly on the ground.
“Wow,” Marisa breathes. “That’s…something.”
“Something” is the only way to describe the massive raised section of floor in the center of the room. It’s as if a giant bubble has appeared where a coffee table might sit, but it’s taller. I walk up the two long steps onto the elevated bubble, feeling like an actor about to deliver a monologue to an audience of dust motes.
I stand on top of the bubble, and it bounces. “Is this what they meant by ‘elevated living’?” I jest, trying to mask my disappointment.
Marisa chuckles, but I can tell she’s as baffled as I am. “It’s perfect for… I don’t know, indoor step aerobics?”
I sit down cross-legged on the wooden dais, running a hand over the smooth surface. It’s a structural issue, that much is clear, but it’s utterly impractical. My gaze travels to the walls where I had imagined shelves of books, framed memories, a space that could become a sanctuary. Instead, I find myself in the center of a quirk too bizarre to work around. The bubble leaves no real floor space for anything.
“Danica, you okay?” Marisa asks, sitting beside me.
“Sure.” I force a smile. “Just envisioning how this would look with a throne.”
“Ah,” Marisa nods sagely. “Every queen needs one.”
The laughter we share is fleeting. Marisa gives my hand a squeeze. “Come on,” she says, standing up. “We can find more places to see.”
But as we leave, my thoughts are far from hopeful. The loft has been more than just a place to stay. It’s a refuge in a city that felt both exhilarating and overwhelming. It has tall windows that capture the morning light, hardwood floors that gleam, and space—so much space. Now, I stand on the sidewalk, watching people pass by in their own little worlds, and wonder how I’ll ever find another place that feels like home.
“Maybe I’m just not cut out for this,” I confess to Marisa as we walk.
“Hey, don’t say that,” she admonishes. “You’ve just got high standards because of that loft. Who wouldn’t? What did Austin tell you? It’s an eight-million-dollar property. But we’ll find something you’ll love. You’ll see.”
“High standards or spoiled?” I murmur. The loft has been a taste of something beautiful, something that felt undeserved yet cherished. But now, it’s made everything else impossible. With each disappointing viewing, the fear that I might have to let go of this city digs its claws deeper into my heart.
“Maybe I should move back to Seattle,” I say. I hate the idea of giving up, but I also hate the thought of squeezing my life into one of these shoeboxes masquerading as apartments.
“Seattle?” Marisa looks at me. “But your job, Danica. You love what you do for SHN.”
She’s right. Despite the mess and endless hours, creating a company that could change the world with Unmanned has meant more than I want to admit. And who knows what challenge will come next?
“I do,” I acknowledge with a sigh. “It’s just hard, you know? I never realized how much that loft was a haven until now.”
“Then we keep looking,” Marisa says. “Your haven is out there. And I’m going to help you find it.”
For a moment, I allow myself to believe her.