Chapter 3 Friday Night Monkey
FRIDAY NIGHT MONKEY
SKYLAR
I’m still fuming an hour later as I flip through a rack of vintage handbags. “Can you believe the gall of that guy, critiquing my dog’s humping style?”
The thrift store smells like old books and good deals, while some kind of indie pop plays faintly overhead.
Trevyn holds up a sequined silver clutch against his glowy ebony complexion, raising a What do we think?
eyebrow. Mabel inspects a full set of Le Creuset baking dishes, which are, for some reason, displayed next to the bags.
“I stopped Simon before anything happened,” I continue, still indignant at my uptight neighbor and insulted on Simon’s behalf.
“There was no need to insult his technique. Some dogs just have urges. My mom’s Chihuahua humps a stuffed monkey every Friday night.
She even calls it Friday Night Monkey—so what’s the big deal? ”
Trevyn chokes on a laugh. “I—okay, wait. Friday Night Monkey?”
Mabel sets down a cherry-red pan, tilting her head, her big brown eyes curious. “That’s a lot to unpack. I’m not even sure where to start,” she says, tucking her chestnut waves behind her ears.
“It’s not like they’re going to make some freaky little Chihuahua-Dachshund-Corgi-German Shepherd mix,” I argue. “Simon’s neutered.”
I pluck a faux leather tote from the shelf next to a set of whisks.
This store off Fillmore Street is nailing the gadgets-and-accessories theme.
I desperately need a new bag for my meeting today—something stylish, professional, and eco-conscious.
I also desperately need this job. Being a one-woman shop is hard, and it means hustling for every job.
The corporate design firms keep getting bigger and gobbling up more work, so a job for a whole house is a big deal.
I waggle the bag for my friends. “Is this the one?”
Trevyn and Mabel stare at me.
“Then why are you so mad?” Mabel asks, ignoring the bag question.
I huff, lowering the bag. “It’s the principle of the thing.”
“The principle of not wanting your dog to be banged by a rando on the street corner?” Trevyn doesn’t play devil’s advocate. He is the devil’s advocate. “Look, if someone’s Yorkie tried to get it on with Barbara-dor, I would cut them with my sharp wit.”
“And his wit has a razor’s edge,” Mabel remarks, patting Trevyn’s strong arm.
“Thanks, doll,” he says, flashing her a bright smile.
Ugh, I hate that they’re right. “Fine, maybe Simon was…” I roll a hand, then concede, “Uncouth.”
“You think?” Trevyn says with a snort-laugh.
“Just a little,” I mutter, then sigh again. “It’s just that Mister Porch Yoga was so…put together.”
“And that bothers you?” Mabel asks.
“Of course it bothers me. His dog walked in perfect heel, his clothes were neat—they were gym clothes, and yet it looked like he’d ironed them. Ironed them.”
“Give me his number,” Trevyn says with an appreciative purr.
“So you object as someone who detests ironing?” Mabel presses.
That’s not what’s really irritating me, of course. Mabel stares at me, tapping her Converse-clad toe, and I can tell my friends see right through me.
“Fine,” I say, tossing up my hands in surrender. “He’s irritatingly hot. He’s infuriatingly sexy. The furrow in his brow. The ruler-straight line of his lips. And the way his blue eyes are so…icy hot. But he’s a dick, so now I can’t enjoy staring at him every morning. He’s ruined my routine.”
“Your routine of checking out the hot neighbor you just discovered today?” Mabel asks, deadpan.
“Yes! And I only moved in six weeks ago, so I think I’m well within my hot-neighbor discovery window.”
Trevyn cracks up, then drapes an arm around me. “You and Simon are a perfect match.”
“Like this bag and you,” Mabel says, holding out a faux leather tote with a little more structure to it. “This bag says I don’t have a frisky frankfurter, and I definitely didn’t walk around the block in a robe while meeting my hot neighbor who hates me because of my dog.”
I snatch it from her grasp. “Then I’d better get it.”
Trevyn sighs dramatically in relief. “Thank god.”
“Please, you love thrifting,” I say. “I’ve seen you get lost in thrift shops.”
“Not the way you do,” Mabel points out.
“Well, it is my job,” I reply. Well, specifically, my job is scouring consignment shops. As an eco-friendly interior designer, my mission is to help clients find sustainable furniture and decor. That makes me a huntress of sorts.
And this bag? It’s clearly made to last a hundred years, so it represents my brand well. I don’t skimp on quality when I hunt for deals.
“And since it’s your job,” Mabel says, “we decided you also need this blazer.” She pulls a pastel sky-blue one from a nearby rack—the exact shade I love. “It’s a vintage power blazer. Pair it with a T-shirt—”
“Plus nice slacks and this bag,” I continue, my excitement building. “It says I have range. It says I can achieve a lasting style that won’t hurt the planet. It says I can track things down.”
Yep. A few new accessories, and I’ll be ready to nail this meeting and win a new client. I slide my arms into the blazer, and it fits perfectly. I spin around, modeling it.
“Like a glove, baby,” Trevyn coos.
I beam, stroking the soft fabric. “It was made for me.”
Mabel nods. “I approve.”
I let out a long exhale. “I feel better. Thanks, friends. I needed this.”
“Good. You don’t smell angry anymore,” Mabel teases.
“Did I smell angry?”
“Oh, I’d say the scent of annoyance was pretty strong,” she adds. “But now? You just look like a badass babe.”
Mission accomplished.
I march to the register, saying hi to Hetty as I swipe my phone. Then I drop the blazer and bag into my reusable canvas tote, and we head out onto the busy block, past cute boutiques with sidewalk sales and a perfume shop that just opened and peddles the prettiest vintage bottles.
As we near the crosswalk, Trevyn stretches his arms and grins. “So, are we going to talk about the hot neighbor discovery on the podcast?”
I run a design podcast, co-hosting with Trevyn and Mabel, that just cracked eight hundred fifty—count ‘em, eight hundred fifty—subscribers. Add in our video version, and it makes nine hundred thirty-one. Technically, Hot Trends, Classic Spends is all about how to get the look you want without the waste. But somehow, we always circle back to dating instead of design hacks. Dating is a never-ending well for content, especially since I’ve been single for over a year after Landon, AKA Mister We’ll-take-the-next-step-as-soon-as-I-open-my-board-game-store, left me in the lurch.
Five years together—five years—and in one afternoon, he packed up and left. That’s how I learned my biggest lesson: I deserve the best, and I’ll never come in second again.
“No,” I say firmly. “I won’t give my hot neighbor the satisfaction. Just like I won’t give him the satisfaction of me checking him out tomorrow morning.”
Mabel laughs. “So you’re going to punish him by not ogling him?”
“Sounds about right.”
“Sounds like you’re punishing your eyes.” She squeezes my shoulder with affection. “Ever heard of cutting off your nose to spite your face?”
“Check him out tomorrow, Sky. Just check him out,” Trevyn goads.
Right now, I need to go home and review my notes for my meeting. I’m going to nail this job. This gal is not going to let that happen again. I’ve got a new bag, a new blazer, and a can-do attitude. Try and stop me.
I say goodbye to my friends and head to my temporary home in Hayes Valley.
When my brother Adam, a scientist, landed a coveted year-long research post studying efforts to reduce carbon emissions around Europe, he took it.
Then he asked me to move into his home to look after his cat while he’s traveling.
Um, hell yes. Of course, I pay him rent too.
Adam’s place is right at the end of a cluster of townhomes, which means Hot and Mean Yoga Guy’s house is a little bigger than my current abode. But it’s a great deal on a fabulous place, even though I have a bone to pick with my brother.
I let Simon into the tiny backyard for a bathroom break when I get home—refusing to look at Hot and Mean Yoga Guy’s yard—and then call Adam.
It’s evening in Amsterdam, where he is this month, so he answers with a question. “Did you break the water heater? The dishwasher? The dryer?”
I gasp. “Excuse me. I’m handier than you.”
“Did you, Skylar?” he presses.
“No! I didn’t break anything, and I could fix all of those if I did.”
“Did Cleo escape then?”
“I don’t only call when there are problems,” I point out.
“Is there a problem?” he counters.
I sigh as I head back inside with Simon at my feet. “Yes, a big problem. Why didn’t you tell me your neighbor is hot?”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, in a softer voice, he says, “Jessica? Yeah. She’s something, isn’t she?”
“No,” I say, rolling my eyes at his mention of the artist who lives down the street and sometimes shares seeds with me for planting. “Though, yes, she is quite pretty and nice. I mean the guy right next door.”
“Oh,” he says with a snort. “The hockey player.”
“He plays hockey?” But of course he plays hockey. That explains those strong thighs and the buns of steel. Plus, that to-go cup save, darting out his hand like a superhero. I hate him even more now.
“I’m pretty sure,” Adam says. “I mean, we’re not friends. But I did talk to him once when there was that windstorm and a tree from my yard landed on his property. He was cool about it, and some neighbors are dicks. He offered to help haul it off and plant another one.”
“Really?” Ugh. I hate that he was cool about it. I double hate that he wanted to plant a tree. I mean, I love it, and I hate that I love it.
“Skylar, why are you asking? Are you causing trouble with the neighbor?”
Shoot. Adam would not be happy to hear about the argument this morning. “Of course not,” I say, upbeat. “I was simply curious. I noticed him from the catio.”
“Good. Because the world is community-based these days. We all need to get along with each other,” he says.
He’s right. Maybe I should leave, I dunno, a nice gift on his front porch to say sorry from Simon. Like some shishito peppers. Just in case one is super-hot and burns his tongue. Not that I’m being petty or anything.
“I get along with everyone,” I say breezily. “Even Cleo, and you know what she’s like.”
“A cathole,” he says with a laugh.
I smile, and we catch up on his work for a few minutes before we say goodbye.
Then, I settle onto the couch to prep for my meeting while Simon snoozes on my lap.
I review the notes that the potential client sent me.
His name is Devon, but that’s all I know about him.
The job is for an old house that needs an updated look, and he and his mother love my eco-friendly approach.
And they need someone to start immediately.
I’m their gal.
I grab my stuff and head out for my meeting in Sausalito—but not before peeking at the house next door, making sure my neighbor isn’t outside.
And dammit.
Mister Haughty Hockey is bounding down the steps confidently.
He’s wearing charcoal slacks, a short-sleeve button-down that shows off his biceps, and aviator shades.
Why must he wear aviator shades? That just makes it harder not to stare at him.
I give in as he strides to a gleaming silver car parked by the curb.
Of course his ride is spit-shined. Probably smells like new car and efficiency.
I bet the inside doesn’t have a single food wrapper or rogue fry.
I growl under my breath, wait until the coast is clear, then I take off for the bus stop. On the way, I pick up a leftover cardboard takeout box from the sidewalk so I can toss it in the recycling bin.
Well, you have to practice what you preach.