8. Cactus Attack #2
I put the phone away and check the numbers on the storefronts.
The gallery’s on the next block. As I walk the final fifty feet, I steel myself.
Frieda didn’t like me when I begged her to let me in on Sunday.
There’s a very good chance she won’t help me tonight.
A great one, in fact. But this is my only recourse.
If I can convince her to give me Wesley’s last name, I can track him down.
The Internet and me are tight, and I can find anything on it.
All I need is that one tiny detail.
I’m prepared, though, to bargain with the ice queen. I researched Frieda, learned she studied art history in London, she loves fine wine (I don’t have the budget for that), fine art (definitely don’t have the budget for that), Antibes (as if), and cactus plants.
Yay, plants! I picked up a tiny bunny ears cactus and I’m hoping to use it as an apology gift, and, well, a lubricant. After all, when I first met Frieda, she pretended to be someone else so as not to have to deal with me.
When I arrive at the gallery, I gather my nerves and head inside the sterile place with futuristic art. My shoes clack louder than they do at the library, echoing around the white walls, adorned with nightmarish visions.
“I’ll be right there,” she says warmly in a somewhat British tone from a back room.
Butterflies flap in my chest as I say, “Thank you” as cheerily as I can.
But when Frieda emerges, her expression turns stony, a brow elevating in disdain as she sizes me up. “I see you discovered the existence of clothing stores.”
I absorb the blow, deflecting it. “I did. I wanted to thank you. For letting me into your event the other night.”
Her right eye twitches. Like she doesn’t want to say it wasn’t her choice.
“I do so hope you were able to locate your phone. Maybe consider a lanyard or a crossbody bag to attach it to next time. That’s what parents do for young children,” she offers with so much false kindness it’s as impressive as the white pantsuit with the plunging neckline that she wears.
“Great tip. I appreciate it,” I say, trying my best to appear upbeat and undeterred. “I’m here to offer a little thank you gift.”
“You’re going to buy a piece of art? How lovely. Come on now, darling. I’ll show you around.”
“Actually, I can’t.”
“Oh, why not?” It’s asked with so much concern.
Because each piece of this horrid art is over five thousand dollars, you snob. “I don’t have the budget,” I say honestly, then brace myself for the toughest ask of all. It feels like scaling a ten-story wall. In Louboutins. “I was hoping you could give me Wesley’s last name.”
She blinks, peering at me first with utter confusion then villainous delight. “Your date? Your plus-one? The one who likes to surprise you with his fantastic date ideas, so he told you to meet him here?”
She parrots my words back to me so precisely that my stomach twists.
I knew this wouldn’t be easy. I didn’t know it would be this hard.
Make me feel this small. But she has the moral high ground and the information, so I can’t argue with her.
“Yes,” I say, swallowing roughly. “Do you think you could give me his last name?”
I hold out the plant in a peace offering.
“Do you not have it, darling?” Her tone is dripping with concern.
Sadly, I shake my head. “I don’t.”
“Let me see if I can remember it. Hmm.” She sighs, taps her chin, stares at the ceiling. “It’s coming back to me.” She lowers her face, smiles serenely, and says, “His name is…”
I hold my breath. She’s not an evil ice queen after all. She can melt.
“Wesley,” she continues, then mimes typing on a keyboard. “The guy I met at a gallery who doesn’t want to see me again. There. Just put it into Google. Just like that.”
I feel two feet tall. Talk about a slap in the face. I’m reeling as she crosses the distance in her spiky heels, sticking out a bony hand, reaching for the plant. “The bunny ears, please.”
Briefly, I fantasize about flicking my hair, channeling the scarf power even though I’m not wearing it, and saying ever so coolly, “You can find it online. Just search for unkillable plants that even I could kill with my bitchiness.”
But I don’t. Instead, I yank the plant closer to my chest, spin on my heels, and get the hell out of there, race-walking away from her gallery, powered by my own frustration.
It was stupid of me to think that could work. Just foolish to believe I could pull off that kind of request. What’s the point anyway? Frieda’s smack back is probably a sign the one-night stand is supposed to stay a one-night stand.
As I unleash an annoyed sigh, my phone rings.
I’m reaching for it when I realize too that my chest feels a little strange—a bit scratchy and uncomfortable.
But before I can figure out why, I check the screen.
It’s a 415 number from Johnson Properties—that’s the place I’m moving into tomorrow.
The landlord probably wants to give me the passcode or something.
“This is Josie,” I answer.
The rough, gravelly voice on the other end says, “Hey, hey, hey, Ms. Winters. This is Barry Johnson. I have some good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
Probably a broken pipe. Possibly a toilet installed upside-down. I can handle either. “Bad news, of course,” I say.
“Cool. I’ll start with the good news,” he says.
Why did he even ask? “Okay.”
Barry wastes no time. “So it’s more like world’s greatest news since I just signed a sweet deal to sell this building. Ten percent above asking price.”
This is worse than I’d imagined. I feel like I was just dropped out of a plane without a parachute. My stomach bottoms out as I say weakly, “The bad news is I don’t have a place to stay?”
“You are sharp, girlie,” he says with a whistle, like he’s genuinely impressed with me adding up two plus two. “But the other good news is I have a buddy, Donny, who’s got a deal for a short-term rental, just for my referrals. He can lease a one-bedroom to you at a bargain.”
There’s hope on the horizon! “Where? When can I move in? How much?”
“Russian Hill. Sunday, and a helluva deal at $3999 a month.”
My eyes bug out. “I can’t afford that on my starting salary.” I wouldn’t be able to afford that for many years. If ever.
“No worries. He thought you might say that. More good news is this—he’s got a one-bedroom that you can share with three other people as long as he doesn’t disclose how many are on the lease. Plus, there’s a bathroom down the hall for you all to share.”
I stop, lean against the wall of Better With Pockets, and close my eyes for a beat. When I open them and look down, my chest is bleeding right above the neckline of my shirt. Great. Just great. The cactus has pricked me.
“Thanks, Barry. But I’ll have to pass,” I say, then hang up.
My throat tightens as my chest bleeds into my white shirt. Tears well behind my eyes. From Frieda’s insults to the cactus attack to the terrible news, I can’t deal anymore with my upside-down luck that seems to flip-flop by the day.
My eyes sting, but I suck back tears and stab my brother’s name. I hate doing this. I truly do. Especially now when he has his hands full.
I call my brother.
* * *
Christian’s blue eyes are tired but also pleased.
The gold flecks in them almost seem to be twinkling.
Which is a weird reaction to me telling him my sob story on the back deck of his spacious home on California Street, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, as he holds Cooper while Caleb nurses inside with Liv.
But I try not to read anything into his reaction—he’s a new dad and is also in the starting lineup for tomorrow’s season opener.
He has a lot on his plate. Which is why I wish I didn’t have to come to him.
“Don’t worry, Jay,” he says, reassuringly. “I’ll help you out.”
I look at him with still-wet eyes. I can’t believe I’m crying over a lost rental.
But it’s not only the rental falling through.
It’s how much I want this job. I’m three days in and I already love it.
I don’t want to lose it simply because I have no place to stay.
Jobs like this are hard to come by. Cities like San Francisco, though, are even harder to live in.
Maeve volunteered to let me stay with her, but her place is too small. And, well, The Kid haunts it. So here I am, with a Band-Aid on my chest, a bloody shirt, and an attacking cactus, asking my brother for help. I hate asking anyone in my family but my aunt for anything.
But I have no choice.