Eight #2
After circling for what felt like an hour—but was more like ten minutes—London found a spot blocks away and trudged toward the restaurant. She’d been back in Leavenworth for two weeks and already melted back into its small-town ease. The city hadn’t missed her.
Seattle in December was a different kind of grey than east of the mountains.
Dark. Reflective. Pavement shining under streetlights and people moving with purpose, shoulders hunched and faces shrouded in hoods to protect against mist that couldn’t commit to being rain.
Not an umbrella in sight. Seattle didn’t do umbrellas.
Her best friend was already inside when London walked in, shaking the cold from her coat.
The restaurant could have been anywhere in the city—narrow and warm, exposed brick and bulbs hanging from the high industrial ceilings.
An espresso-dark bar ran the length of the room, heavy lacquer catching light from the yellow hued bulbs.
The steady buzz of conversation was the soundtrack behind the soundtrack—mellow indie rock.
“There she is.” Laurie stood and wrapped London in a hug.
“You picked a loud one,” London said, slipping onto a backless barstool.
“I picked a good one.”
A bartender with an impressive moustache and bow tie set two menus in front of them. “We have old fashioneds on special tonight. Two for one. Or two dollars off well calls.”
London studied the menu.
“I’ll give you a moment,” he said on autopilot, already a step away.
London asked Laurie without asking her. A simple look was all it took. London’s eyes said “fuck it” and Laurie’s agreed.
“Actually—” London called for him. “We’ll have the old fashioneds.”
“Good choice,” he said. “I’ll be back with those and get your food order.”
Laurie tilted her head. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. The inn flooded. My mother was just confusingly lucid.
I drove 125 miles wondering who Harper had coming to help her today.
I’m great,” London turned the glass of water in front of her, making an increasingly large water mark on its paper coaster.
“I don’t want to talk about me. Tell me about you. Tell me something good.”
“Well,” Laurie said, tenting her fingers and tapping them together as if she were about to spill a deep secret. “I’m training for a marathon.”
“You hate running!” London instantly regretted her tone. “Don’t you?”
“I did, but something shifted. I don’t love it.
I’m becoming fond of it. It’s cheaper than therapy and helps me keep this killer bod.
” Laurie put her hand on her hip, imitating a Marilyn Monroe pose while sitting.
The bartender shook a drink with theatrical vigor, ice cracking against metal with rhythmic intensity.
“Good for you. That’s—wow. I’m sorry I sounded judgy. I’m proud of you. When’s the race?”
“Oh, not for months. I figure I’ll add a mile a week and in twenty-six weeks, I’ll be ready. I’ve got to go to Tucson in May for a case. So, it’ll be a work trip.”
Now this made sense. Laurie could chase a major accomplishment while work was paying. She prided herself in maximizing work benefits. Said she gave so much to her firm, it was her duty to make sure she got something in return.
“So how far are you running now?” London mouthed thanks as their drinks arrived.
“One mile.”
“Sorry?”
“It’s week one. I ran a mile today. Next week, I’ll run two miles. It just makes sense, if you think about it.” Laurie delivered her logic like she was offering closing arguments to a case.
“So, by ‘becoming fond of it,’ you mean?”
“I mean, I’m becoming fond of it.”
“Gotcha,” London pulled the cherry off its stem with her teeth and chewed. “And this plan—this is how training works? I’ve never trained for anything.”
Laurie leaned closer so she could be heard over the din of conversation and cracking of ice. “This is how it’s going to work for me,” she insisted. “Twenty-six miles, twenty-six weeks. Makes perfect sense.”
“If you say so.” London raised her glass. “I’m ready for this. Salud.” She took a sip and winced.
“Still don’t like bourbon, huh?”
“Yep, Don’t. Like. I never understood why Harper liked these.”
The citrus hit late and didn’t cut the burn.
They were insulated in their bubble, two friends out for dinner, just as they’d done dozens of times since London moved back to Seattle. The location changed, the bartender changed, the beverage changed. But the easy comfort of Laurie’s company didn’t change.
“Why don’t you order something else? They’re two for one, so that one’s basically free anyway.” Laurie waved to the bartender.
“Oh, it’s okay, don’t—” London started. A woman at the far end of the bar caught her eye. Dark hair. Leather jacket. Confident posture. She looked away when London met her eyes.
Was that?
No, couldn’t be.
But was it? The woman she’d swiped right on months ago, on the app she’d since uninstalled. The one whose bio said she was fluent in Spanish and Sauvignon Blanc. Who London had found funny because of it. They’d messaged on the app a few times. It went nowhere.
“Anyway, I figure it’s just time and determination. I mean, I can walk if I need to.” Laurie was still explaining race logic.
“Mm-hm.”
“And I can get reimbursed for the workout clothes through our Get Active program, so what’s there to lose?”
More work benefits.
“Right.”
“What the—?” Laurie finally noticed. “What’s going on behind me?”
The bartender appeared again, sliding a small bowl of olives and a glass of red wine in front of them.
“The olives are on the house, but the wine is from her.” He motioned with his head in the direction of Dark and Stormy, as London had taken to calling her in her head. She thought her name was Miranda. Or Marissa. Definitely an M name.
Laurie turned over her shoulder. “Apparently, she likes her women mid-meltdown. It’s a strategy. I question it. But it’s a strategy.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” London waved toward the end of the bar.
“She sent you a glass of wine without knowing if you wanted it—or would like it. Or her.”
“She knows I would like it,” London took a sip. So much better than that vile cocktail.
“Excuse me? Have you been holding out on me?”
“Not at all. We texted a few times. Nothing happened. We’ve never even met.”
“You texted with someone new and didn’t tell me?” Laurie was so close she was practically sitting on London’s stool. The volume in the bar was reaching get-close-and-shout levels.
“I just told you, it was nothing. I downloaded an app in the summer. I was lonely. Missing the comfort of having someone to talk to. That’s it.”
“That’s fair. But you have me. You have the girls. We’ll talk to you.”
“And I appreciate that. It’s not the same, though. I just wanted to be wanted. We flirted a bit. It fizzled fast,” London said.
The restaurant swelled around them and London felt like she was looking at her friend through a pinhole. It was all darkness and noise and clanging glasses. A server squeezed behind them, tray overhead. Somewhere, a group sang a sloppy rendition of “Happy Birthday. Indie rock continued.
“Are you going to at least go say thank you?” Laurie took a taste of the wine and puckered. It didn’t go with old fashioned.
“I should.” London looked down the long bar casually, unbothered. Dark and Stormy had her phone in one hand, glass of what she only guessed was sauvignon blanc in the other.
“So why don’t you? She’s hot. And I’m pretending not to be offended that she doesn’t think we’re together.”
London swirled the wine in her glass. “I think I like knowing I could, but I don’t want to.”
“What, knowing you could find a hook up?”
“Oh, God. No. More like, knowing—I’m still desirable. I’m not over the hill yet.”
“Babe, you’re very desirable. Once you get your shit together, I mean. And you told me about that birthday list. Wasn’t kissing someone new on it?”
“Yes, but so was meaning it. And so was throwing pottery. And travelling. And cleaning out my closet.”
“Sounds like deflection to me,” Laurie said.
“There’s a lot on the list.” London sipped the wine without looking toward its sender.
“Cleaning your closets?”
“Yep, I’m going to Marie Kondo it all. If I don’t—”
“London.” Laurie used a tone that sounded eerily like Harper did when there was no room for discussion.
“What?”
“Go say thank you.”