Page 16 of Square Waves (Big Fan #2)

XV

Richard Kerrigan’s order is big, and he wants it fast—like, the next day. Which is fine except that his studio is all the way out in Stinson Beach, easily two hours from the store.

Willa offers to make the trip. Leon and I both roll our eyes at her. She has five days until her grand opening, and a lot of what’s left involves decisions only she can make.

Which leaves the two of us. Leon will be fastest at loading and unloading all of the ceramics and second-best at talking to Richard, but Leon doesn’t have a car.

“Well, but, Cass, you can drive, right?” Willa asks through a yawn.

I can drive. And I’m curious to meet this Richard and see his supposedly very cool house.

But between my conversation with Willa and my interactions with Leon yesterday.

.. the idea of having all of that time alone with him makes me nervous.

It feels like we’re on the precipice of something.

I’m just not sure that I’m ready to see how close we are to the edge.

But Willa doesn’t wait for my answer. “You guys go, I’m gonna see what I can get done here today,” she announces with a nod that says it’s settled. The only appropriate thing for me to do is get my keys.

Thirty minutes later, Leon and I are cruising across the bridge and into San Francisco. I put music on; I’m hoping that it will give us something neutral to talk about, like it did yesterday. But so far, no dice. I guess Dog from Hell is a touch too underground to be a conversation starter.

It’s just after 10a.m., but the morning’s marine layer remains thick in the air.

The city looks gray and cozy, all of its sloped hillsides crammed tightly with houses.

It’s not Manhattan, but still, it’s dizzying to think about how many people live on this relatively small spit of land.

How hard people fight to be this close to the coast.

“Have you ever been to Stinson?” Leon asks as I merge onto the 101.

“I don’t think so.” I’ve been to other parts of Marin County, but Stinson—which is mostly famous for its beach—was never really my parents’ scene. “We drove down to Yosemite a lot when I was a kid. What about you?”

“My uncle lives there. It’s where I learned to surf.”

“That’s so classic.”

“Classic?”

“Just—so California. Learning to surf at Stinson Beach.”

“I guess.” Leon shrugs. “You talk like you didn’t grow up here too.”

“Sometimes I feel like I didn’t. I’ve never even been on a board.”

“Do you want to learn?”

“I’m pretty sure I’d be terrible. I’ve been doing Pilates for like a decade, and I still don’t have much core strength.”

“You need arms too. To be able to paddle.”

“I don’t have those either.”

“Well,” Leon says, “if you ever want to try, I’d teach you.”

It’s too easy to imagine: his hands on my shoulders, at my waist. Giving me a tiny adjustment here and there. His mouth next to my ear again, his breath hot on my skin. A tiny shiver runs down my spine, and I redirect the AC so it isn’t pointing directly at my face.

We’re heading into Tamalpais Valley now, following the 1 as it snakes toward the coast. I remember how much I loved this landscape when I was a kid: The trees, tall and dark and towering, felt like a protective netting, a canopy that covered me wherever I went.

The sun is getting ready to poke through, lining the clouds in silver light.

We don’t talk much for the rest of the drive, but the silence between us feels less charged. More comfortable.

This field trip feels like it was designed by the universe to get me to think more about my feelings toward Leon.

And it’s not not working. But there’s no future , I remind myself.

Just because I like being back in Berkeley doesn’t mean my life is here.

And if it were, what, would Leon and I just.

.. date? Simply because we’ve finally put aside years of bickering and started occasionally being nice to each other?

You could at least fuck him again before you leave , the most annoying part of my brain reminds me.

When we get to the coastal portion of the drive, Leon rolls his window down, and the car fills with the scent of the sea mixed with eucalyptus. I take in deep lungfuls. I don’t know what it means, exactly, but it is undeniable and not a little inconvenient how deeply this place feels like home.

Richard Kerrigan is a tall man, rangy and thin, with a craggy face and a Scottish accent that’s gone soft at the edges after decades in America. He’s wearing a chambray shirt tucked into a pair of faded Levi’s when he comes out to greet us on his front porch.

“I’m so glad that Willa was able to get these to me so quickly,” he says as we unload a box of serving platters. “I’m having a few people over for dinner tomorrow, and I really wanted to be able to show off her pieces.”

“Willa’s thrilled that you wanted them,” Leon says. He seems genuinely awed by Richard in a way that’s charming to witness. “Should we drop them in the kitchen, or...?”

“Take them straight through to the back,” Richard directs. “My assistant, Louisa, will catalog them for my collection. I keep track of everything I buy—even if I’m going to put a roasted chicken on it.”

“I hear you have some of Roberto Lugo’s early pieces,” Leon says.

“Yes—though those have never made an appearance on my dining table. I can show them to you when you’re done unloading.”

“You don’t have to—”

Richard flicks his wrist. “That might be the only thing I enjoy very much, at this point. I’ve grown very curmudgeonly in my old age, I don’t know if you’ve heard.”

But he follows us through to the back room and chats easily with Leon while we unpack Willa’s pieces.

I’m trying to act like I’m not as impressed as I am with the house, but it’s hard to hide my reverence.

It’s paneled in dark, glossy wood, but there are windows everywhere, endless panes of glass that allow the outside in.

We’re surrounded by trees, and beyond that, I can see the roll of the ocean.

When we’re done, Richard takes us on a tour of his collection—or what’s out, anyway. I don’t recognize many of the names, but I can see why Willa was so excited that this man likes her work. He has incredible taste.

As awed as I am, I have an unsettled feeling, one that’s familiar. I have the sense that Richard is... looking at me. In an I recognize you but can’t place you way.

I doubt his scrutiny would be obvious to anyone else, but for me, it’s impossible not to notice the way his gaze keeps sliding back in my direction, distracted.

Like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve. You’re being paranoid , I tell myself.

And maybe it’s true. Maybe that bro at the bar is making me see things.

But I’m pretty sure it’s not just me. And the whole thing is another unwelcome reminder that wherever I go, there I am: Cassidy Weaver, a face you almost know.

A piece of scandalous pop cultural trivia.

A person who makes you think of one thing and one thing only.

When it’s time to say our goodbyes, Leon is practically beaming, in ecstasy over the whole experience.

“It was wonderful to meet you,” Richard says.

“I told Willa, but I’ll say it to you too—I’m always looking for young artists to add to my collection, so if you come across anyone whose work should be on my radar, please do be in touch.

I’m tired of buying up the big names, people who already have blue-chip-gallery representation and pieces in the collections of major museums. I want to spend the end of my career helping launch other people’s. ”

At least one of us can have a dreamy afternoon , I think. “Leon is an artist,” I say, the words falling out of my mouth. “A painter.”

“Oh really!” Richard’s excitement is palpable. “Do you have anything on you? A portfolio I could look at? I’d love to see—”

“I’m not that kind of artist,” Leon says firmly. “It’s just a hobby.”

I remember that conversation he had with Willa yesterday. How it seemed like he wanted her to encourage him. Push him a little bit. I pipe up, “Yeah, but—”

“No,” Leon says more sternly.

“Are you...” I trail off when I see the look on his face. Leon does not look secretive and pleased. He looks like he wants me to shut the fuck up. “Okay.”

Richard shakes his head. “You’ve got a good one,” he says to Leon. “You’re lucky to have a girl who believes in you like that.”

If I was feeling the tiniest bit more surefooted, the look on Leon’s face would make me laugh. He’s trying to figure out how to put Richard off without making him feel worse, and all he can do is stutter. “Oh, I’m not—she’s not—”

“We’re friends,” I say, and I realize, to my shock, that it’s actually... true. Friends who had sex once, but still: genuine friends. We’ve never been anything remotely close to this before. It’s kind of a big deal.

Leon seems to think so too. “Friends,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word to see if it will hold our weight.

“Friends is good,” Richard says. “Friends is good too.”

With our awkward finale officially wrapped, Leon and I head back to the car. We climb inside; I put my key in the ignition but don’t turn it. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to—I guess it probably came off as—I was just trying to be nice,” I say, turning my body toward his.

Leon sighs. “I know that.” He stares straight ahead. “But trust me: I’m not Richard Kerrigan material.”

“Okay.”

There’s a pause. Leon runs his hands through his hair. “It was nice,” he says. “Ill-advised. But nice.”

I start to turn the car on but then stop again. “To be honest, I’m jealous that you have any direction at all. A thing you like doing. I’m still totally at sea.”