5. Chapter Four Gloria
Chapter Four: Gloria
M y penguin looks nothing like a character from Happy Feet .
As I dip the brush in more paint, I’m convinced this penguin is going to be disfigured beyond repair. His beak is a lopsided orange triangle, making him resemble a puffin that’s been in a bar fight. His eyes, which were supposed to be cute and round, are more reminiscent of the villain in Saw .
“How are you so good at this?” I grumble. London sits across from me, calmly painting stripes on his butter dish.
“I don’t pick projects that require artistic skill,” he retorts, gesturing his paintbrush in the direction of my clay penguin.
We’re at the pottery painting shop, Colouring World, which is attached to a cafe whose lattes are to die for.
It’s the perfect screen-free, relaxing Friday afternoon activity after a long work week.
Afterwards, we usually get dinner at the nearby sushi place (frequented by the celebrities Poppy and Naoya Sugawa!) or a Korean barbecue restaurant.
“Your butter dish looks pretty difficult to me,” I retort. His brows furrow in concentration as he adds yellow dots to the purple stripes he painted.
“You mean I don’t make pottery painting look effortless?
” London contorts his face into a dramatic pout that draws attention to his lips, which are unfairly full and soft-looking for a man’s.
Does he use lip balm? Vaseline? Laneige’s lip sleeping mask in their berry flavour?
Why am I thinking about London Young’s lip care regimen?
“No. More constipated than effortless.” I focus on my penguin—puffin?—that I’ve decided to name Archie. As I paint his wing, however, my brush slips and I smear black onto the white portion of his body. Groaning, I set down the penguin and watch London work instead.
He fixes his gaze on the butter dish with surgical precision. I only have that kind of intense focus at work. The second I trade my pumps for Keds, I transform into a relaxed woman who practices deep breathing and doesn’t care if her painting is sloppy. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“Are you okay there, Ria?” London asks, eyeing me with a look of concern. He’s the only person who’s ever called me that. I secretly like that he has a nickname for me that no one else does. “I could’ve sworn you let out a growl. Is your penguin threatening you?”
“No. Archie has been perfectly nice to me, unlike other men.”
“Who’s Archie?” His brows push together in confusion.
“Archie is the penguin.”
“That’s a great attitude for your dating life. ‘All men are evil, except for this clay penguin that looks like Frankenstein’s waterfowl.’” London’s playful smile tells me he’s joking as he pushes his glasses up his nose.
“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with Archie.” I was having the same thoughts, but I can’t admit that. “He’s a very good-looking penguin.”
“ Uniquely good looking.” London holds back a laugh. “Seriously, though. What happened to your coffee date with that other guy? After Jeb?”
I take a long swig of my latte instead of speaking. Maybe it will give me the fortitude to recount my horrendous coffee date with Richard. “He said he worked in the energy industry. Guess what his job was.”
“Engineer?” London says. I shake my head. “Wind turbine mechanic. Pipeline technician. ”
“He was a gas station attendant . He pumped gas.”
London snorts. “Are you looking down on the lowly gas station attendants?”
“No, except he was too broke to buy a small black coffee and told me he forgot his wallet, so I had to pay for it. After that, he dropped the gas station attendant bomb, and I hightailed it out of there.” I shake my head. “I wasted forty-five minutes of my life on that guy.”
“Does that mean you’re throwing in the towel on dating?” London asks. He leans toward me, putting down his paintbrush and butter dish and fixing his dark eyes on me.
“I don’t know.” I rub my temples, remembering the list I made with Raina at her party. “I thought about your advice.”
“Did you realize I’m always right?” he jokes.
“No. I realized you’re right sometimes, and our conversation in the break room was one of those times. You told me I need a dating strategy, remember? So I made a list.”
“A list,” he repeats. “A list of potential suitors?”
“A boyfriend list. A list of all the qualities I want in a man.”
“Hmm.” There’s something he’s holding back.
“Say it.” I poke him in the arm. His surprisingly muscular arm. I mean, we go to the law firm’s gym together, so I know he works out, but I didn’t know it was enough to warrant muscles like that.
“No.” He refocuses on his butter dish, picking it back up. I poke him again.
“Come on, Leeds.”
He sighs. “Can I see your list?”
“No!” I don’t know why I yell that syllable like he just asked for my firstborn child and my social security number. But the idea of London seeing my list makes me feel strangely vulnerable. Like he’d see right through me and tell me something I don’t want to hear.
Probably something straightforward and practical, like where are you going to find a man who rides horses in L.A.?
Does he have to know how to ride horses and surf?
What if he hates SB19?
But another part of me wonders if London could meet all the qualities on my list. And that confusing thought is definitely another reason he should never see it.
“Okay.” London sets down his butter dish, holding up both hands in an ‘I surrender’ motion. “You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to, Ria. I was just curious.”
“Why?” The question tumbles from my lips before I can stop it. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. “I mean, you haven’t dated anyone in a while. What’s up with that?”
“I’m busy,” he says. “Plus, I’m not interested in having kids.”
“Maybe, but there are women who aren’t interested in having kids. I’m sure they’d be happy to date you.”
He shrugs and paints more yellow dots on his purple stripes.
“You’ve never had a relationship that lasted longer than two months in all the time I’ve known you.”
“That’s not true,” he rebuts automatically. “What about Jessica Palmer?”
“You started dating her on Martin Luther King Day and then broke up on Valentine’s Day. Which was incredibly cruel, if you ask me.”
“I just forgot that it was Valentine’s Day! And that’s basically two—I mean, one—month.”
“No. That was the longest relationship you’ve ever had. Also, how do you forget that it was Valentine’s Day? ”
“She kept asking me if I had any plans for the fourteenth, and I couldn’t think of anything so I just said I would surprise her.”
“Well, you surprised her alright.” I snort. “You broke that girl’s heart.”
“That was in freshman year of university. I’ve changed.”
“Then go on. Date someone for more than two months.” I’m not sure why I’m egging him on so much. Probably so he’ll stop annoying me about my love life.
“How about this,” he says. “I’ll date someone for more than two months if you meet and are in a relationship with a man who fulfills every quality on your boyfriend list by August 1st.”
That gives me approximately four months to find the guy who checks all my boxes. How hard could it be?
“It’s a deal.” I reach across the table to shake his hand… and upend the bowl of water we were dipping our paintbrushes in.
It spills directly onto his lap. Panicking, I seize handfuls of paper towels from the stack by the sink near us.
I’m shoving wads of paper towels onto his khaki pants when the realization hits me. I’m touching London Young’s thighs.
“Um…” I snatch my hand back like it’s on fire. London jolts up from his wet chair and grabs more paper towels to clean up the mess. Red tinges his cheeks. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. Just—no joking about how I wet my pants, okay? I think it might get in the way of my dating someone for more than two months.”
“You mean it would put a damper on your love life?” I say. “Because your pants are—“
“Damp, I get it.” He shakes his head, but can’t disguise the grin spreading across his face.
I don’t miss the way his now-wet pants are clinging to his thighs.
Why does a man who works a desk job have such muscular quads?
Does he play badminton or secretly compete in powerlifting competitions? “That’s an awful pun.”
“Seriously, though, I’m sorry about your pants.” I gesture toward the now-flooded table. “And everything else.”
“So, that deal,” London says. “We should draw up terms.”
“That’s such a lawyer thing to say.” I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
The words are nonchalant enough, but inside, my heart is racing. Why did making this simple bet feel like it changed something fundamental about the core of our relationship?
After the table and his pants are mostly dried off—from London awkwardly standing in front of the small fans used to dry paint—we sit back down, writing on a napkin from the coffee shop.
“I, London Young, promise that I will date someone for longer two months or 61 days, if you, Gloria Romero, find a man who fulfills every quality on your boyfriend list by August 1st.” He glances up at me and frowns.
“If I never see the list, how will I know whether he fits all the qualities? You could just make stuff up and pretend he’s your dream man. ”
“I’ll show you the list when I meet the guy,” I blurt out. “Also, there’s no consideration for this contract. What do we get out of it? What happens if one of us can’t meet the terms?”
He runs a hand through his hair, putting his forearms on full display thanks to his rolled-up sleeves. “If you can find a man who meets all the listed qualities by August, I’ll go to karaoke with you and Raina like you’re always asking me to.”
I grin, rubbing my hands together. I’ve been bugging him to come to karaoke and sing for ages, but he insists he has a terrible voice and always refuses to. “You’ll actually sing a song, though, right? And can it be of our choosing? No rap. ”
London turns up his nose at the mention of rap music. He’s such an elitist when it comes to music. “I assure you, I don’t listen to, nor will I sing , a rap song. If you can even call that singing.”
“You’re such a snob,” I tease. “And what if you can’t meet the terms by August?”
“Then I’ll get you concert tickets to SB19.”
I nod. Little does he know that’s an item on my boyfriend list. “Okay, my turn. If you date a woman for longer than two months, I’ll…”
“Come to my sister’s wedding with me in October,” he says abruptly. Then he blinks, like he even surprised himself.
“If you have a girlfriend, wouldn’t you go to the wedding with her?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I don’t want to expose her to my family.”
I remember my few interactions with his family.
His parents have a troubled marriage, and it hasn’t gotten any better from the few things that he’s told me over the years.
London doesn’t open up about his family a lot, but I can tell that they weigh on him.
Yet, he goes back every week for family dinners.
“Okay.” I don’t love being around his family from my few experiences with them, but it’s for London. My friend. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to Savannah’s wedding with you.”
“Thank you, Gloria.” The sincere gratitude in his voice suggests more than relief at not needing to go to his sister’s wedding alone.
“And if I can’t meet the terms of the agreement…” I try to think of something London would like. “I’ll get you a Colouring World gift card?”
His brown eyes meet mine for a second, like there’s a secret he knows that I’m not being let in on. “I’d love a Colouring World gift card.”
We return to drafting the contract. He’s written all the terms in his messy scrawl— the one thing about him that’s not neat—and we read them before signing.
If London Young meets and dates a woman for longer than two months, Gloria Romero will go to his sister’s wedding with him. If he is unable to do so by August 1st, he will buy her concert tickets for SB19.
If Gloria Romero meets and dates a man who fulfills all the qualities on her boyfriend list by August 1st, London Young will go to karaoke with her and sing one song of her choosing. If she is unable to do so by August 1st, she will buy him a Colouring World gift card worth $100.
We both sign it.
Somehow as I push the napkin over to him and our fingers brush, it feels less like a joking contract between friends, and more like the start of something much more substantial.