Page 3 of Your Every Wish

Dex is moving around his bedroom like a tornado. He’s always like that after sex. A twister with boundless energy. Almost manic.

“Come back to bed,” I plead, feeling immediately bereft of his body warmth.

“Where?”

“Home.”

“Can’t we have breakfast together?” I sit up, clutching the blanket around my bare breasts. “I’ll make us biscuits and eggs. ”

“I don’t want biscuits and eggs. I want my bedroom back. Come on, it’s time for you to skedaddle.”

“Okay. But let me make the bed first.” I slide my legs out from beneath the covers and immediately regret it. “It’s freezing in here.”

“Then get dressed.”

I force myself out of bed and press my naked self against Dex. “Mmm, you’re nice and toasty.”

He squirms away. “Don’t you have that little column of yours you have to write?”

I pretend not to hear the condescension in his voice. Dex doesn’t approve of my job writing “Dear DilEmma Girl,” an advice column for the local paper. He thinks I’m woefully underpaid, which I am, and that I’m in no position to be doling out advice, which I’m probably not.

“My deadline isn’t until five.”

“Well, maybe if you get done early you can spend some time looking for a better job,” he says as I slip into the shirt he wore last night. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting dressed, like you told me to.”

“Uh-uh. That’s a two-hundred-dollar Faconnable. Here.” He reaches into a puddle of clothes on the floor and tosses me my blouse.

I finish getting dressed, and make Dex’s bed, tucking the top sheet underneath the mattress just the way he likes it.

Dex is in the kitchen, making one of his green protein shakes. His apartment is in a high-rise with big glass windows that look out over San Francisco Bay. From the living room you can see the Bay Bridge. I love to watch the boats with their billowing white sails glide along the water.

Everything is neat as a pin. Dex is kind of anal when it comes to cleanliness.

No glasses in the sink or books off the shelf, or stray shoes on the floor.

Everything is tucked away exactly where it’s supposed to be.

He has a lady come twice a week to clean and is the only person I know who has a laundry service.

“Have you thought more about what we discussed last night?” I ask, running my hand through his hair. Dex has the best hair. It’s thick and a rich mahogany, more brown than red, and reminds me of fine antique wood.

“There’s nothing to think about. As I told you, it’s a bad idea, Emma.”

“It would only be for a few weeks. Just until I get my inheritance and have enough money for a first and last month’s deposit on a new place. Besides, it would be so much fun. I could cook you dinner when you get home and we could binge-watch stuff on Netflix.”

“We can do that without you living here, you know?”

“I wouldn’t be living here, just staying until I can make other arrangements.”

“That’s the thing, Emma, you’ve had months to make other arrangements and . . . well, here we are.”

He has a point. Like all writers, I’m a procrastinator. But finding a place to live in this city on my budget isn’t easy. Because like most writers, I’m broke.

“I’ve tried to find something.” I plop down in the barstool next to his. “I really have. But . . . I don’t have to tell you how expensive San Francisco is.”

“It wouldn’t be if you had a job that actually paid a living wage. But you insist on working for peanuts. Look, we’ve been over this a million times. I’m not in the market for a roommate.”

“A roommate? Jeez, Dex, I would hope I’m more to you than a roommate.”

“You’re right. You are. So think of this as tough love. You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure something out.” He gets up, rinses his glass out in the sink, and kisses the top of my head. “And why are you still here?”

“I’m going,” I say and reluctantly get to my feet. “Are we still on for Friday?”

“Change of plans. I got Giants tickets.”

“Oh, okay, maybe we can meet the gang after the game. I think the band plays until midnight.”

“Uh, I’m taking Forbes. He took me last time. And I know baseball bores you.”

“I don’t know where you got that from.” I wrap my arms around him for one last hug before I go, then sling my backpack over one arm. “Tonight, then?”

“I’ve got to work late. Maybe tomorrow night.” He pats my butt and gives me a playful shove toward the door.

I’m halfway out when he crooks his finger at me to come back, then wraps me in his arms and kisses me so thoroughly that it leaves me breathless.

“I’ll call you later,” he says and brushes a light kiss on my neck.

It’s barely light outside and nippy. I stand at the curb deliberating on whether to Uber home or take a bus. In the end, I decide to walk. Why not get my steps in for the day? Besides, it’ll give me time to think, time to come up with a plan of where to live until I find something permanent.

The city is changing at a rapid pace. I’ve lived in the Bay Area my whole life and never saw so much construction.

Even the building I’m living in, a former 1920s boardinghouse for single working women that was converted into apartments in the 1960s, is being torn down to make way for luxury condominiums. Hence the reason I’m about to be homeless. Seven days and counting.

By the time I reach my neighborhood, the sun is out with the promise of another balmy day.

Nothing like San Francisco in September.

I take the old cage elevator up to the fifth floor of my building, wend my way around the packing boxes scattered across my studio floor, grab my laptop, and head back down.

Perk Up is on the corner, my office away from home. There’s a line today and all the café tables on the sidewalk are taken, so I set up shop at a two-top in the corner, next to the window.

“Your usual?” Leon the barista calls to me.

“Yes, please.”

“Any luck finding a place to live?”

“Not yet. You have any leads?”

“A couple of friends of mine have a place in the Haight.” Leon brings over my latte and a poppy seed muffin on a white ceramic plate. “They’re looking for a third roommate. If you’re interested, I could hook you up.”

It’s been a while since I did the roommate thing and would prefer to live alone but don’t want to seem ungrateful. “Okay.” I rifle through my backpack and hand him a dog-eared business card. “Here’s my contact info.”

He tucks it in the pocket of his apron. “I’ll pass it along.”

“Thanks, Leon.”

I turn on my laptop and wait for it to fire up as I nibble on my muffin and send Dex a heart emoji text. He doesn’t respond but the market just opened on the East Coast.

I open my DilEmma Girl inbox and scroll, trying to decide which letter to answer today. Jerry, my editor, likes me to mix it up. In other words, he wants a broad array of problems, not just the angsty lovelorn ones (his words, not mine). I could do those all day long.

I write the column five days a week but try to do an extra one to keep in what we journalists call an evergreen file to publish on holidays, vacation days, or sick days.

Or sometimes, I’ll just thread together a greatest hits of columns past. Readers seem to love those.

I’m hoping someday to be syndicated, like Dear Abby or Carolyn Hax (my personal favorite).

In the meantime, it’s just SF Voice , an alternative newspaper that lives in the shadows of San Francisco’s two larger, mainstream papers.

The pay is crap, but the work is great. And the perks are nothing to sneeze at. I get to write from home, am occasionally allowed to take fun junkets, and despite Jerry’s grumpiness, he’s a terrific editor. And at the end of the day, I hopefully help people, which is its own reward.

Dex of course thinks I’m wasting my life. But I’m only thirty-two. Most writers my age would kill for a job like this.

My phone vibrates with a text message, and I grab it off the table, hoping it’s from Dex.

Not Dex, Mom. Diana wants to know if I’m available for dinner tonight.

She and Sam are making pad Thai, one of the recipes they learned in their cooking class.

Since Dex is working late, I accept her invitation with a thumbs-up emoji and a “What should I bring?”

“Just your lovely self,” she responds, making me smile.

She and Sam have already offered up the couch in their one-bedroom bungalow until I find a place.

But as much as I love my mother and her boyfriend, she can be stifling with her overprotectiveness.

Plus, their cottage is already so cramped that having me underfoot would be a major imposition.

If need be, though, it’s a solid last resort.

The thing is, my financial situation is about to change for the better. And then I’ll be able to afford a decent place to live.

I rifle through my backpack, searching for the lawyer’s letter.

I’ve read it so many times that I should know it by heart now.

The gist is that Willy Keil, the man who spent his time gambling and doing God knows what else instead of being a father, died and left me in his will.

From everything I know about Willy, which isn’t a whole lot, his estate is considerable.

Kind of ironic because all I ever wanted was for him to know me. Love me.

I used to dream that we’d do daddy-daughter things, like he’d be the one to teach me how to drive or fix the tires on my bike when they went flat or take me ice-skating in Union Square at Christmastime.

My mother spent much of my youth making excuses for him. That he was out saving the world or some other tall tale. I used to think it was because she never got over him leaving us, that she still loved him. But the excuses were for me, so I wouldn’t feel unwanted. Or ashamed.

Now, the only piece of him I’ll ever see is his money. I suppose I should be thankful because the bequest, his parting gift to me, couldn’t come at a better time.