15. Coyote Flame #2
“A little,” I admit grudgingly. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m quickly approaching middle age and I have nothing to show for it. Well…” I check myself. “Unless you count my job, but we both know that’s dangling by a string.”
“On the bright side,” he points out, stealthily checking his watch, “you’ve been able to stretch that string beyond its breaking point.”
Rhys makes sense.
I may be careening toward middle age without the prospect of love or marriage on the horizon…
My biological clock is close to ticking its last tock…
But at least I’m successful in my career. And yes, that’s all built on a sham, and I don’t feel fulfilled. Not even a tiny bit. I have one thing going for me. I’m a resourceful spinner of the truth, a cat who always lands on her feet.
I’ll be okay.
“I feel better now,” I declare. “You’ve made me feel better.”
“Good.” He nods, then adds. “My great aunt had a cheetah coat. Now that I think of it, she had a number of cheetah items in her closet.”
I blink, confused. “Why are you telling me this?”
He side-eyes me. “Didn’t I see you in cheetah the other day?”
He’s referring to my midi skirt. I’ve had that piece in my closet since 2016. I hadn’t worn it for a long time and thought, ‘waste not, want not.’
“What about my skirt?” I ask, slightly anxious.
Rhys nods to the dance floor, where one of my fellow millennials was rocking the same skirt.
I mean… It was a trendy skirt in its day, now, after ten dusty years, it kind of looks like the lady, my age mate, is desperately clinging onto her youth.
Rhys’ memory about his dead aunt is coded to say, ‘you are set on the road to cougardom.’
“Oh my god… I don’t even like cheetah print!
” I sputter in a mad panic, “I’m not sure I’m a cheetah type of girl.
” I’m frantically waving down a server, raising my empty margarita glass.
“Another one, please.” I eye Rhys’ scotch on the rocks.
“And I’ll have what he’s having. And a big rack of ribs.
What am I watching my figure for, anyway?
Actually, do you have something stronger? Keep the tab open.”
Rhys lowers my hand discreetly. “Coffee for her. Black. I think she’s had enough.”
“Don’t speak on behalf of your elders,” I bark. “I haven’t even begun.”
The server looks to Rhys, who shakes his head and draws a line across his throat. “Ribs and coffee it is.”
Defeated, I slump in the booth. “Is this what a midlife crisis feels like?”
“You’re hardly ready for a midlife crisis,” Rhys says dryly. “If you’re anything like me, you still haven’t solved your quarter-life crisis.”
“Leave it to me to collect crises like trophies,” I mutter, noting that Rhys sounds a lot calmer now that he’s had a drink in him.
Either that, or I’ve relieved him of his anxieties by dwarfing them with even bigger anxieties.
His dates are now half an hour late, and it’s become clearer by the minute that they’ve stood him up.
Not that he cares, he’s on a date with a cougar right now... Who’s the cougar, you may ask? It’s me.
Me!
I’m starting to hyperventilate. Grey dots swarm my field of vision, blurring faces and neon and discreet tweakments.
My mind is a torrent of regret, my lips loosened by alcohol.
“How can I be hurtling toward cougarhood when I haven’t even had a chance to be young?
I haven’t had a serious relationship that lasted more than six months.
I’ve never been in love. I should look into freezing my eggs...
I don’t even like data analytics. All I’ve ever wanted to be was a marine biologist! ”
“A marine biologist?” He takes a swig of his drink. “You’ve mentioned that before. I thought you were crazy.”
“Yeah,” I say pathetically. “I have a bachelor’s in marine biology.
The only thing that gave me true joy was when I’m by the sea, wading in the tide pools.
I have a fondness for the tide pool ecosystem, barnacle colonies and algae growth patterns, sea turtle migration and hermit crab reproductive cycles... ”
Our drinks arrive. Rhys hands me a steaming cup of Americano and watches me sip it. “You sound different when you talk about tide pools.”
“Different how?”
“More yourself,” he notes, his gaze skimming my face. “If you love marine biology so much, why didn’t you become a marine biologist?”
I shrug. “One thing led to another. One moment you’re measuring barnacle growth patterns, the next moment you’re stuffed into a corner office with an ocean view. It sucks.”
“A tragic life you lead,” he says dryly. “To fall ass backward into a six-figure job, an office with an ocean view.” He rubs his fingers together. “Know what this is?”
“What?”
“The world’s tiniest violin.”
“But you don’t understand! I have an ocean view but no time to even go to the beach.”
“Carina?” Rhys shakes his head. “Who are you kidding? You have three-hour lunches and spend half your day staring out the window. You, above anyone, have all the time in the world.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I grumble. “But I can’t just slip away to the beach during work hours. I have an example to set.”
Rhys seems amused by my serendipitous career change. “Remind me again how you became a data analyst and,” he pauses with a raised brow, “ASSET expert.”
“How long do you have?”
“I have all night.” He shows me the time on his phone. His dates are now forty minutes late. Now we’re both counting. “It’s safe to say they’re not coming. This is what you get when you try to date two cougars at once. I guess I bit off more than I could chew.”
I laugh, forgetting for a moment that I’m supposed to be wallowing in misery.
“So how did you end up at Rylan,” Rhys presses, “and lying through your teeth about the ASSET?”
Drunk as I am, I detect no malice in his question. Just simple curiosity.
“I was doing a paid internship at the Long Beach Aquarium. There was an opening for a data analytics and logistics position at the Port. I collected some data on some barnacles and thought, what the hell? I could use a raise. Ten years, three companies, and five promotions later, I have a corner office at Rylan.”
Rhys coughs. “All because of barnacles?”
“The growth pattern of barnacles during a lunar tide, to be exact. But yeah, barnacles and a $2/hr raise sent me on a trajectory of success in data analytics. And now, I’m the ASSET expert. The ocean is right outside my window, yet I don’t go outside anymore.”
“Tragic,” he says. “Cue the tiny violin.”
I nudge him with my shoulder. “You’re not taking me seriously.”
“I can take you seriously while thinking you’re the queen of bullshit.
The two are not mutually exclusive.” He runs his index finger down the ring of condensation on the table.
“That being said, your situation does have a certain amount of irony. You love the sea. And yet you’ve thwarted yourself from the one thing you truly love with your own greed and propensity for self-promotion.
” He shakes his head in mock pity. “And every day, you sit in your air-conditioned office, staring at the one thing you’ve denied yourself. Sad.”
I nod frantically. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but you understand me more than anybody!”
“Carina,” he sighs. “I hate to break it to you, but I’ve hung around you for more than is good for me.
I’ve come to know you well.” As he turns to me, his lips curl into a lopsided smile, underlining that there’s no meanness to his observations, just a friendly pull of my leg. “You’re not that deep.”
I frown. “I’m a little deep.”
He leans back in the booth. “You’re as shallow as the tide pools you love.”
“And yet,” I fire back, “within the shallows are pockets of depth.”
He scoffs. “I’ve yet to find one with you.”
“That doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
Our eyes lock for an awkward minute. Finally, Rhys relents. “You could be right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m always right,” I say, my conviction falling flat.
All this talk about tide pools has only reminded me of how far I’ve fallen from my dreams and desires.
Sure, becoming a marine biologist might not even be the solution to my life and I bet if I were to talk to a marine biologist now, they’d probably wish they were in my shoes, making my salary over earning a pittance for their research.
I should be grateful that I fell ass backward into success. I should be happy.
And yet, I’m happily miserable.
“I haven’t been to the tide pools in years,” I say at last. “I just want... I want...”
“What do you want?” Rhys leans toward me, his eyes intense.
“I do not want to be a liar anymore.” To my mortification, my eyes suddenly fill with unshed tears for the death of my idealistic younger self. “I want to quit.”
“Then quit,” he says softly. “You’re smart. You’ll land on your feet.”
“I can’t.” I swipe at my eyes. “I’m in too deep and my rent is so… so high.”
Rhys has the decency to remain silent. “Marine biologists don’t make half of what you make.”
“I know it.”
“Those golden handcuffs are on real tight.”
I hold out my wrists. “Unbreakable.”
“Now I do feel sorry for you.”
“I feel sorry for me too.”
“Listen,” he pats my shoulder, “maybe you can…”