Page 25 of The Boyfriend Goal

I reach the exit, then walk past the fire station next door. Some of the guys who work here are out washing their cherry-red truck. I smile a hello, and the three of them smile back. I continue on in the San Francisco evening. It’s warm since it’s October, but I still instinctively reach for my scarf to wrap it around my neck. But of course, it’s not here. A pang of sadness hits me every time I do this phantom move. I realized when I left the hospital on Monday afternoon, after cuddling my little nephews as much as I could, that I’d probably left the accessory behind in the hotel room.

But when I popped into The Resort that evening to see if it was in their lost and found, the clerk checked and then frowned an apology.

“Sorry, Greta,” I say to the sky, since that scarf was her favorite. It was the scarf I’d played dress-up with as a little girl when I’d stayed with her. I’d wrap it around my head, put on her glasses, and pretend I was a granny. Or we’d dress up her rescue Labrador, turning Lulu Blossom into a cowgirl with it, or Rosie the Riveter.

“Scarves are the unsung heroes of the fashion world. They add personality to an outfit, they add flair, and they add a certain je ne sais quoi,” Greta had said, then tucked a finger under my chin. “And you, my love, are a je ne sais quoi type of person, so wear it that way.”

I’d like to think wearing it as a belt on Sunday night was so very je ne sais quoi.

And if I had to lose the scarf, leaving it at the scene of my night in sex heaven seems the perfect place to let that part of me go. I straighten my shoulders and walk like I’m still wearing it. I’ll find another one. I’ll hit the thrift shops this weekend once I move into my new place. Once I’m settled, I can tackle the rest of Greta’s list in earnest. I’ve already started researching the second item she left for me to do. Now that I’ve tackled the first one, it’ll be easier—I think—to work my way through the list.

But even though I’m researching item two, I can’t stop thinking about item number one.

The way Wesley touched me. The way he teased me. The way he talked to me. A hot shiver slides down my spine.

And the way I see it—I was faithful to the list when I checked that first item off. It was a one-night stand with a sexy stranger through and through. Since I completed the task so perfectly, I figure I’m free and clear to see him again. Not as a one-night stand.

I mean, the logic holds up. That is, if I can find him again. My stomach dips with nerves and hope.

I’m almost tempted to tell my mom I started doing the list her sister gave me before she died. Mom hasn’t seen the list, but she knows it exists. She’s asked me a few times about it. Right now though, she’s way too focused on her athlete son’s babies. Understandable. Truly it is. Though, she’s always been focused on him. She’s a former athlete, so I get it. My dad is too. Mom played college volleyball and won an NCAA championship, and Dad ran track, so they’ve always just had their bond with their firstborn who skated before he walked. It’s fine. I’m used to it. Mom’s flying in this weekend to help out for the next week.

As I walk, I text Maeve since she knows about my plan to try to find Wesley tonight.

Josie: I’m doing it! I’m on my way.

Maeve: I know, my little tiger!

My brow knits. She knows? I voice dictate my reply as I weave past early evening crowds in the Upper Haight.

Josie: How do you know?

Maeve: You’re on the corner of Webster and Hayes. You’re almost there!

Dammit. I never turned off my location tracker.

Maeve: Also, looking at your location history, I see you went to Elodie’s Chocolates today at lunch. I’m hoping you got me some. But I’m most interested in this visit you paid last night to my favorite “toy store” after work. I thought you were just going to the plant shop. Did you go into Risqué Business and pick up a battery-operated gift for your girl? You holding out on me?

Red splashes across my cheeks. Of course Maeve would notice that. She was the devil to my angel one Halloween in college after all.

Josie: Yes, but your toy is so big it’s requiring a forklift. Hope you can carry it up the stairs!

Maeve: Now that just makes me want it even more!

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.”

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