13. Three Strikes
13
THREE STRIKES
Gage
At the start of happy hour that evening, I do my best to put the disappointment behind me as I set down a beer for Carter and a scotch for Monroe. “And then to sell it to the judge and the jury, she said she accidentally sent me a book of love poems. She just came up with this romantic story on the fly,” I say, still downright impressed with Elodie even as I wish the tale had a different ending.
Carter smacks a big palm on the bar approvingly. “Dude, she is good .”
I flash back to Elodie’s finesse there in Felix’s office as I recount the tale for my audience of two—Carter’s the star receiver for the San Francisco Renegades. Monroe is a shrink and podcaster, and we’ve been friends for a long time. I’ve only gotten to know Carter recently, but he’s a good guy too and plays a mean game of golf.
“She sure is,” I say, a little regretful. I’m not sure what I’m missing most—another chance with her or the shot at the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Both, really.
Monroe clears his throat, all dry and deadpan as he lifts his tumbler. “But let’s get back to the part where you cock-blocked yourself with the first great date you’ve had in years. Tell me more about that.”
I groan in annoyance. “What choice did I have? You can’t bang a business partner. That’s just a fact.”
“Or your best friend,” Carter adds with a sly grin. He fell in mad love with his best friend and now they’re getting married soon.
I point at him. “You’re the exception. Not the rule.”
“And you ruled against your dick,” Carter adds.
“Yup. You put your dick on ice so you could go into business with her, and now you’re not in business with her. You should be drinking,” Monroe says, then toasts in obvious mock sympathy.
Carter clinks his glass to Monroe’s, then looks to me. With less ribbing in his tone now, he says, “You really should. But since the deal didn’t work out, does this mean you’re going to see her again?”
I blow out a breath, shaking my head. “I don’t think so.” And that’s a damn shame.
“But you’re not going to go into business with her?” Monroe asks, sounding perplexed.
“Yup,” I say, drying a glass from behind the counter.
Carter hoots. “You didn’t just get cock-blocked. You got sacked in the end zone.”
“Yes, and I lost the game too,” I say dryly to the too-amused football player. “It’s called Nothing Works Out . Story of my life.”
“Hey now.” Monroe fixes me with a look that says you’re a pessimist and always have been . “Things can work out if you work on them.”
“Like muscles,” I say. “Relationships, though? Different story.” I lift my index finger. “Exhibit one. My marriage to Hailey.” Another finger. “Exhibit two. My major league career.” One more finger. “Exhibit three. My relationship with Kylie.”
She was my first and only serious girlfriend after Hailey’s death. A few years ago, I fell for the software designer, she fell for me, and Eliza fell for her too. Kylie came to Eliza’s softball games, made dinner with me, and stayed over and watched movies since Eliza’s obsessed with movies, like many kids her age. We air-popped popcorn and watched animated flicks on the couch. I was finally feeling like romance as a single dad was possible. But when Kylie was offered a job in New York and she moved two weeks later, that was that. A little more than a year after it started, the relationship was over with barely a second thought. Eliza asked why Kylie didn’t love her enough to stay. It broke my heart all over again.
“But on the other hand,” Carter begins, “you have Sticks and Stones. And your daughter. Those worked out just fine.”
“All true,” I concede.
Monroe lifts his glass. “Be a glass-half-full guy.”
“I’m a moving on guy,” I say with a full-speed-ahead attitude. Monroe’s right in that I shouldn’t dwell on the past and the things that didn’t happen. Sour grapes and all. “We had one great date. She was incredible. Captivating. Gorgeous. Kept me on my toes like no one ever had. The chemistry was out of this world. And then…it was cut short. Our business thing isn’t going to happen. That’s two strikes. Which is more than enough.”
Carter sets down his glass with a thunk. “I think you’re getting your sports metaphors wrong. Sounds like it’s time to take a third swing and fucking mean it when you do.”
I love baseball analogies, but I’m not following his. “What pitch do you want me to swing at?”
Carter stabs the counter with his finger, adorned with one of his Big Game rings, bright and gleaming, a shining sign of the ultimate triumph on the gridiron. “You’ve got this goal of opening this other bar. Literally the only thing standing between you and this other bar is an engagement ring.”
“But it’s a ring that got us in this messed-up situation in the first place. She wears this gigantic cocktail ring, and that’s why he thought we were engaged.”
“Maybe that’s kismet,” Carter says. “Maybe she ought to wear yours for a few months.”
“You’re saying I should do this?”
“Take a swing. Take a big swing, man.”
“It can’t be that easy,” I point out.
“Or maybe it can’t be that hard,” Monroe puts in.
I check the clock on the wall. I don’t have time to hash this out right now. I set down the cloth. “And on that note, I need to go take this meeting with Celeste.”
I say goodbye, leaving the bar in Zoe’s capable hands, then head to the most coveted block in the Marina to see Celeste. Her building is right next to the location I want for my upscale Sticks and Stones and I stare longingly at the brick facade, the bright green door, the windows that invite passersby to come on in, put up their feet, let the day go.
I snap my focus to the office building, then head inside. Celeste’s waiting for me. She wears a black pantsuit and a slicked-back bun and barely offers a hello. “I appreciate you coming down here, and I like the ideas you laid out for the location, but I’d still need to know how you’re going to market it. I need to know you have a name and a brand and some buzz. I need to see that and I don’t right now, Mr. Archer.”
Talk about a punch in the gut. But I don’t show an ounce of emotion. Just resolve as I say, “I understand.”
Three strikes and you’re out.
* * *
Deflated, I head to my home in Russian Hill, trying but failing to shake off my funk as I bound up the steps of the sky-blue building. My grandma helps out both with the bar and with Eliza, so she picked her up from school today.
Time to focus on them, and only them.
“Hey, my favorite ladies,” I say as I kick off my boots, then set my phone on the table in the foyer.
“It’s mac and cheese and cauliflower night, and I’m not mad about that,” Eliza calls out from the kitchen.
“Me neither. Grams makes the best mac and cheese.”
“Grams makes the best everything,” Eliza says, and when I reach the kitchen I give her a hug.
Right here, I have everything I need. I’d do well to remember that.
“Including chocolate chip cookies,” I point out, then wink at Grams.
“Are you trying to steal my recipe again?” Grams asks.
I scoff. “Steal? I developed that with you when I was…what? Ten? I suggested we add the?—”
“Shh. Enough about my secret recipe.”
“ Our ,” I mutter.
She pats my head, then winks at me, whispering, “ Maybe ours.”
I smile, but it disappears too soon. Today just didn’t go the way I wanted. At the dinner table, Grams shoots me a curious look. “All right, what did you mess up today?”
“Why do you assume I messed something up?”
With her fork midair, Eliza says, “Because you’re in a funk, Daddy.”
And maybe I didn’t shake off my mood. With a sigh, I set down the utensil and tell them about the meeting this morning and the one a little while ago. “But we’re not going to get the pop-up. Shame because it would have helped with the second bar.”
“But pretending you’re engaged sounds like fun,” Eliza says as her fork dives into the cheesy goodness. “Like a game of make-believe. What’s the big deal?”
“That’s an excellent question. What is the big deal?” Grams asks, meeting my gaze with a serious one of hers.
One that says I’m being a stick in the mud. And the fact is, they’re probably right, too, like my friends.
After dinner, as I take the trash to the street, I click open my text app to send a note to Elodie when I find one from her.
Elodie: So, I have this idea…
Gage: Yeah. Me too.
Elodie: You go first.
Gage: It’s been brought to my attention it’s NBD to pretend we’re engaged.
Elodie: What do you know? Same here!
Gage: Yeah? Who told you?
Elodie: Amanda. She basically said it’s so patriarchal if we don’t pretend we’re engaged.
Gage: Explain.
Elodie: Apparently wanting two people to be involved is patriarchal, so faking an engagement is an act of defiance along the lines of fuck the patriarchy, which is something Amanda is big on, and I suspect Eliza will be too.
Gage: It’s a new world. We’re just living in it.
And the thing is, I want to do more than live in it. I want to thrive. I don’t want to be the nothing works out guy. I want things to work for me. As I close the lid on the trash, I kick the last remnants of my funk to the curb, sending her another text.
Gage: Want to be my fake fiancée for the next three months to get the shop?
Elodie: Is this your proposal? Because if so, let me put down the dishes and squeal.
Gage: You’re doing dishes? I was taking out trash. That is kismet.
Elodie: Then, I’m not even stopping doing these dishes as I say yes to your temporary fake fiancée-ship.
A smile tugs at my lips as I write back, glad we’re on the same page with the plan and the timeline.
Gage: Let’s call it a Special Edition Engagement. Same rules?
Elodie: Same, sad rules. But alas, they’re for our own good.
She’s right there too. It’s a bad idea to mess around with your business partner, especially when you already like her. Keeping this attraction on ice is the wise thing to do. It’s the adult decision. The mature choice.
Gage: They are. By the way, what was your idea?
Elodie: Same as yours.
Gage: Kismet.
The real kismet comes when I go back inside to email Felix and see how his other meetings went, and he tells me the place is ours if we want it.
I say yes so fast. When I tell Grams the details as I clean the kitchen, she says, “That cocktail ring she wears might fool a man, but I knew it was costume jewelry when I saw her at the bar. She needs a real ring.”
“Yeah. She will. What’ll that set me back?”
Her eyes flicker with mischief. “It’s free.”