asked, “Should we box up the rest?”
It was nothing.
And if it wasn’t, maybe I didn’t want to know.
We ended up wandering through the outdoor mall in Pleasanton, an area of big-box stores swamped with shoppers on a weekend night. This was the sort of thing we used to do, back in our old life—drool over an area rug or linger in front of a sectional, wondering if it would fit our tight rental space. But there wasn’t really a point to it anymore. We had everything we needed; we had plenty of things we didn’t need at all.
The sidewalks were crowded, and sometimes Phil and I broke apart to pass a slow-moving couple, but we always found each other again, even if our hold was as tenuous as the touch of two pinky fingers.
* * *
Phil’s phone started buzzing at six thirty the next morning, its hard case rattling against his nightstand.
“Ignore it,” I murmured, throwing one of my legs over his. “It’s Saturday.”
He groaned. “There’s that golf tournament, though.”
“Oh, right.” I’d successfully avoided Myriam’s pleas to work at the tournament, a fund-raiser for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. She already had Phil wrapped up in every stage as an unofficial project manager. His role, as far as I could tell, was to be on hand for the inevitable complaints, the patrons who had one too many shots at the bar after the first nine holes and needed to be discreetly plied with coffee. I ran the length of my leg against the length of his. “Well, Myriam can make do without you for a few minutes.”
Phil laughed, wrapping an arm around me, his hand cupping a breast. Then his phone buzzed again, and he sighed, reaching over his shoulder.
“A sprinkler head malfunction,” I guessed. “A dead bird on the course. A trash can that wasn’t emptied.”
Phil struggled to a sitting position, began scrolling through the texts. “Shit,” he said finally.
“Did the landscapers forget to blow a leaf off the parking lot?”
He hopped out of bed, pulling on the clothes he’d shed the night before—the boxers, the jeans. He held up the shirt he’d worn on our pizza date, decided it was too wrinkled and went to the closet for one of a dozen Parker-Lane logo polo shirts. I watched him, propped up on my elbows, the comforter pulled up over my breasts.
“What is it?”
“The bathrooms. Some kind of vandalism.”
“Oh, my God. Do you want me to—”
But Phil was already putting on his shoes. He hustled down the stairs, and a few seconds later, the front door slammed behind him.
I showered in a rush, toweled off my hair and threw on yesterday’s jeans and a sweatshirt before heading over to the clubhouse. It was just after seven, and golfers had already started to arrive. About a dozen people in white pants and pastel polo shirts were milling around the clubhouse.
Helen Zhang and Daisy Asbill were standing near the entrance, wearing crisp white shirts and black pants, name tags affixed to their pockets. Helen gave me an unsubtle up-and-down look, taking in my jeans and tennis shoes.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Phil said something about the bathrooms—”
“Liz, for God’s sake.” Helen took me firmly by the elbow, leading me a few steps away. “We need to keep our voices down.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I just—”
Up close, Helen’s eyes were almost black, flecked with bits of yellow. “They’re making a decision now, I guess. Myriam’s beside herself, as you can imagine, and what with people arriving...”
Daisy put in, “It’s horrible. I mean, thank God I had an extra cup of coffee this morning and had to pee, or else we might not have discovered it until later. If one of the donors had discovered it, can you imagine?”
“So, it’s that bad, then?”
“Well, the toilets were flooded, for one thing, and someone had spray-painted these horrible things all over the walls and stall doors...” Daisy began.
I inhaled sharply, thinking of Phil, the hours of work
It was nothing.
And if it wasn’t, maybe I didn’t want to know.
We ended up wandering through the outdoor mall in Pleasanton, an area of big-box stores swamped with shoppers on a weekend night. This was the sort of thing we used to do, back in our old life—drool over an area rug or linger in front of a sectional, wondering if it would fit our tight rental space. But there wasn’t really a point to it anymore. We had everything we needed; we had plenty of things we didn’t need at all.
The sidewalks were crowded, and sometimes Phil and I broke apart to pass a slow-moving couple, but we always found each other again, even if our hold was as tenuous as the touch of two pinky fingers.
* * *
Phil’s phone started buzzing at six thirty the next morning, its hard case rattling against his nightstand.
“Ignore it,” I murmured, throwing one of my legs over his. “It’s Saturday.”
He groaned. “There’s that golf tournament, though.”
“Oh, right.” I’d successfully avoided Myriam’s pleas to work at the tournament, a fund-raiser for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. She already had Phil wrapped up in every stage as an unofficial project manager. His role, as far as I could tell, was to be on hand for the inevitable complaints, the patrons who had one too many shots at the bar after the first nine holes and needed to be discreetly plied with coffee. I ran the length of my leg against the length of his. “Well, Myriam can make do without you for a few minutes.”
Phil laughed, wrapping an arm around me, his hand cupping a breast. Then his phone buzzed again, and he sighed, reaching over his shoulder.
“A sprinkler head malfunction,” I guessed. “A dead bird on the course. A trash can that wasn’t emptied.”
Phil struggled to a sitting position, began scrolling through the texts. “Shit,” he said finally.
“Did the landscapers forget to blow a leaf off the parking lot?”
He hopped out of bed, pulling on the clothes he’d shed the night before—the boxers, the jeans. He held up the shirt he’d worn on our pizza date, decided it was too wrinkled and went to the closet for one of a dozen Parker-Lane logo polo shirts. I watched him, propped up on my elbows, the comforter pulled up over my breasts.
“What is it?”
“The bathrooms. Some kind of vandalism.”
“Oh, my God. Do you want me to—”
But Phil was already putting on his shoes. He hustled down the stairs, and a few seconds later, the front door slammed behind him.
I showered in a rush, toweled off my hair and threw on yesterday’s jeans and a sweatshirt before heading over to the clubhouse. It was just after seven, and golfers had already started to arrive. About a dozen people in white pants and pastel polo shirts were milling around the clubhouse.
Helen Zhang and Daisy Asbill were standing near the entrance, wearing crisp white shirts and black pants, name tags affixed to their pockets. Helen gave me an unsubtle up-and-down look, taking in my jeans and tennis shoes.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Phil said something about the bathrooms—”
“Liz, for God’s sake.” Helen took me firmly by the elbow, leading me a few steps away. “We need to keep our voices down.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I just—”
Up close, Helen’s eyes were almost black, flecked with bits of yellow. “They’re making a decision now, I guess. Myriam’s beside herself, as you can imagine, and what with people arriving...”
Daisy put in, “It’s horrible. I mean, thank God I had an extra cup of coffee this morning and had to pee, or else we might not have discovered it until later. If one of the donors had discovered it, can you imagine?”
“So, it’s that bad, then?”
“Well, the toilets were flooded, for one thing, and someone had spray-painted these horrible things all over the walls and stall doors...” Daisy began.
I inhaled sharply, thinking of Phil, the hours of work
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