Page 5 of Your Every Wish
“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 justSF 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.
