Page 89

Oh, who am I kidding! I don’t want another girlfriend!

I sit in the courtyard of Cher’s apartment building. It’s on 22nd Street, a residential stretch between the bouncing businesses of NW 21st and 23rd. Usually, I love coming here and enjoying the sunshine in these touristy areas. But ever since I ran out on Julianna, I can barely love anything but sleep.

Today is no different.

Cher is out with her friends. I should be out with mine, but Selkie went back to California for the summer, and I don’t know what happened to the others. Maybe they’re avoiding me because they think I’m too busy with my rich girlfriend.

Eventually, I take a short walk. It’s funny how money is such a non-issue for me right now. With Julianna having paid my rent since we got together, I was able to save up all my earnings from that internship and subsequent job as her executive assistant. She also gave me a hefty allowance that I never went through – why would I, when she gave me her credit card?

I don’t even think about it when I stop into a café and drop almost ten bucks on an expensive drink and a tiny macaroon that I’ll inhale in one bite without thinking. I sink into one of the plush chairs and tell myself I’m not going to obsess over Julianna anymore.

I’m not going to think about the money.

I’m not going to think about the lawsuit.

I’m definitely not going to think about the sex. The cuddling – naked – in bed after making sweet love. The whispers as I fall asleep. Waking up to her spooning me and saying she wants to start the day off right. The liaisons in her office and how many times we could get away with having sex at her desk…

Nope. Not going to think about it.

Two young women sit at the table by the window. They both carry designer purses and walk in shoes that scream money. Even though one of them is wearing flats and the other stilettos… I recognize those brands now. One woman wears a black Chanel dress, simple but radiant on her petite body. The other is in distressed denim shorts, a white tank top, and a blue plaid long-sleeved shirt that accentuates her tomboyish personality. Looks like that don’t fool me, though. These are women who could shop at thrift stores and dress their thrifty clothes up with expensive jewelry, hair, and shoes. They carry themselves like they know what they’re about.

Their mere presence puts a sour taste in my mouth. I wish I hadn’t drained my phone battery on music, because their conversation does nothing to make me feel better.

“Told her going to Mexico City was going to be a huge mess,” the woman in the Chanel dress and sunglasses says. She threads her fingers through the stray dark hairs uncoiling from her Audrey Hepburn bun. She’s so Portland that I almost want to gag. “Half her family is there, and they hate my gringa guts.”

“That’s what you get signing on for that kind of money.”

“I mean I definitely love the money, but I love her more, you know? I almost wish she would cut off contact with that side because it’s bad enough I have to deal with her mom’s boyfriend next door. We spent a whole night arguing about what to name the bed and breakfast.”

“Call it Halls of Fornication, ‘cause that’s all it’s ever going to be.”

“God, I wish.”

“Yeah, so, meanwhile, my girlfriend’s mom keeps calling me to give me the 411 on how many heirs she expects me to have. She wants no fewer than three grandsons one day, okay? Honestly, I think I’ve been cursed. Three boys? Who wants to deal with that?”

“I’m hiring the best nanny in Portland if I ever have a kid. You’re going to need five to raise three boys around here.”

“Seriously. I’ve been cursed. With any luck, they’ll want to go to some boarding school.”

“Hope and pray!”

Listening to their rich lady problems makes me both roll my eyes and want to gag. I can only imagine what Serena Marcon would expect of me had I ever married Julianna…

Me. Marrying Julianna. Having kids and spending the rest of my life with her, whether I had to deal with her mother or not.

I get up before I even get my drink. Because if I don’t get to the bathroom right now, these rich ladies are going to see me cry, and none of us want that.

As soon as I latch the door behind me and turn on the loud, grinding fan, I let the waterworks start.

Julianna…

I haven’t cried much since I left her. My brain has been too consumed by anger and humiliation to give a fuck about crying out of loss and sadness. But now? I don’t know what else to do. I miss her. God, do I miss her. I almost wish she would call me one last time. I want to hear her voice. I want to hear her calling me out of this nightmare. I’ll wake up in her bed and realize that this was all a terrible dream. She wanted me, damnit. She invited me up to her office for seduction not because she wanted to winsome stupid bet, but because she wanted me. I need to know that none of that was a lie.

It takes me a few minutes to regain my composure. By the time I step out of the bathroom, my eyes are swollen and red, but at least it’s the right time of year for me to pass it off as allergies. My drink is waiting for me with the rest of my stuff.

I can’t stay here. Not with people glancing at me, wondering if I’ve been crying. I pick up my to-go cup and leave, half-trudging back to 22nd Street, bypassing lost tourists and people asking for handouts, only to have a strange feeling that someone is following me.

My head cranes over my shoulder. Nobody, except for a woman on her phone and walking her Pekingese.