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Chapter Three

Chapter Three

FINN

My mother had taught

me to be a better man than that. Even at sixty, she’d kick my ass if she knew how badly I’d behaved with Annie.

Enjoy your night?

I should have my man card revoked.

As the only boy growing up in a house with a supremely talented mom and five empowered sisters, I was schooled early and often in the importance of always treating women with respect and honesty.

As the Uber drove me toward my house, I had ample time to think about how poorly I’d scored on both counts. I hadn’t given Annie much relevant information about myself, and I certainly hadn’t been honest about my early curfew and the reason for it, not that she needed to know. Talking about olives, otters, and nebulae was a welcome distraction from the rest of my currently-shitty life.

Besides, it was a wedding and she was the maid of honor. Drinks were being poured; twinkle lights were twinkling. It was hardly the time for long, sordid tales about arrest records and complicated excuses. No one wanted to hear that sort of stuff at a wedding reception.

Well, she might have wanted to hear it. Of anyone I’d met lately, she was the first who seemed to be fighting her instincts to have a deeper conversation and trying to convince herself that the better route was a meaningless romp on a chaise. I could see her struggle, and it interested me.

And because bright, shiny, fascinating things always lured me away from the straight path I was supposed to follow, I chased her and threw out all my rules for the evening. Of course, there had been rules. I was to attend the wedding ceremony, stay at the reception until I could have a face-to-face moment with Nikki, at which time I’d congratulate her and tell her she looked beautiful. Then I would ghost the party, and she’d be too busy dancing and mingling to notice.

The rules were made—by me—to avoid just the sort of situation I’d found myself in with Annie. I hadn’t planned on talking to anyone, which was why I was lurking alone when I saw her trying to navigate the throng of wedding guests jockeying for a spot in line at that stupid ice bar.

I couldn’t just leave her there in that morass when there was a perfectly good empty bar nearby. But I should have given her the necessary piece of advice and left it at that. She was a bridesmaid and she was beautiful. She’d have no trouble finding people to talk to at the reception. I didn’t need to babysit her.

But I wanted to, and wanting things has always been a slippery slope for me. It was how I’d found myself in trouble with the federal government and ended up on leave from a job I loved.

Looking through the fogged backseat windows, I smirked at the stupidity of a Ferrari in the next lane over, revving its engine on Sunset Boulevard like there was the remotest possibility for a road race. In my years living in LA, I’d never gotten used to the cars, some of which cost more than three times the average American annual income. Not that I didn’t spend money—just not on cars.

I rolled my eyes, but with the fogged windows acting like a mirror, I was rolling them at myself. Completely appropriate, I realized. I could smirk at cars all I wanted, but it wasn’t going to distract me for long from feeling like a grade-A asshole.

Actually, it wasn’t even anything as subjective as

feeling

. I was an asshole, objectively, and in all countries, territories, and jurisdictions.

“How’s your night?” The abrupt intrusion of the Uber driver jarred me from my downward spiral of thoughts.

“Oh, okay, thanks. How about yours, Abe?” I noticed his startled expression in the rearview mirror when I called him by name, but his name was on the app when it confirmed my ride, so it only seemed like common courtesy to use it.

“Not bad, not bad. You at a party?”

“Yeah. Something like that.” I was being vague so he wouldn’t think he had to keep me entertained with conversation. In fact, I’d read several articles and internet posts about how rideshare passengers complained so much about drivers who made idle conversation that the apps had considered inserting a click button option to let the driver know to stay silent.

I’d have to remember to investigate the status of that option.

Even if I talked to Abe for the rest of the ride, it wouldn’t blunt the ache in my chest. What kind of guy leaves a jaw-droppingly stunning woman—a woman who’s clearly smart, a woman who’s made it clear she wants nothing more than wedding night sex—and dashes away like a common crook?

Well, I suppose I am a common crook, as far as many people are concerned… maybe leaving with few words of apology sums up exactly the kind of person I am. The kind of person I’ve become.

“Abe, are you married?” I asked.

“No, sir. Two ex-wives, though.”

I tried to get a better look at him by moving to the other side of the bench back seat. He looked younger than me, but with a few days’ growth of facial hair and a hat pulled down over half his face, it was hard to tell. “I know, you’re thinking, ‘what kind of crazy-pants lady lets a guy like me walk away? Let alone two of ‘em.’ Am I right?”

“Seems like a crime.” I willed myself to engage with him. I didn’t want to be in my head. Maybe he could distract me from myself for a few minutes. “How long were you married?”

“Not long, either one. I’ll tell you what, the first one, she was a white girl, loved me more than I deserved, but her parents didn’t like the idea of her marrying an Armenian man. Wouldn’t support us having a wedding. Drew a line in the sand about it. We eloped but that didn’t sit well with them and they threatened to cut my bride off from her inheritance if she had mixed-race babies. Actually said it like that—made it clear it wasn’t me they had a problem with. My

parents

were from Armenia. I was born here but that didn’t matter to them. And she couldn’t stand up to ‘em.”

“That’s a shame people can’t see beyond the labels.”

“Exactly. Welcome to my world, man. I feel it on the daily, people thinking I’m Persian, not even knowing it’s not the same thing. And not like it would matter anyway since they probably have assumptions about anyone who doesn’t look like them.”

“You’re a hundred percent right, Abe. Some people can’t get past what they see.” It made me think about my own troubles and the fact that guilt seemed presumed in my case.

He turned around and looked me squarely in the eye, showing me a wide toothy grin in appreciation. The problem was he was still driving forward at forty-plus miles an hour. I felt my eyes unconsciously dart past his face to watch the road—because that seemed more important than our moment of connection. His head swiveled quickly around to the front, and he slowed the car a bit, which saved me from having to piss my pants.

“And you were married a second time?” I asked, hoping he’d keep his eyes on the road.

“Yeah, I married my girlfriend in Las Vegas after a Grateful Dead show. We were high on a bunch of stuff I’d best not mention to you since you’re trusting me to get you home.”

He looked at me in the mirror, raising his eyebrows.

“Kidding. I’m stone cold sober now. Don’t you worry,” he said.

“I’m not worried.” I was worried, but I was always a little worried when I got in the car with a stranger. Everyone should be.

“That marriage was more like a weekend thing. We got it annulled and then dated for another year or so. It was never serious. Still, I like to say I was married twice. Something to talk about anyway.”

The few minutes of talking distracted me enough from the workings of my mind that I didn’t notice we’d shifted off Sunset and started climbing into the hills above the famous Strip until we were rounding the bend at the top of my street. A few moments later, Abe deposited me beside the wall that wound around the front side of my house. “This is fine,” I said. He looked uncertain because we were stopped on a wide curve in the road, and the wall didn’t look like a welcoming entrance to anything.

“Yeah? Okay, man. Thanks for the chat.” He held a fist out, and I bumped it before shutting the door behind me and watching his car churn up the hill.

I punched in the code and waited for the gate in my wall to swing inward. It was a good, solid gate in a good solid wall. I’d liked that when I first looked at the house. Not like I’m a privacy nut or anything, but if a person’s going to have a gate and a wall, they might as well be sturdy. I’ve never understood the low decorative gates that don’t serve to separate anyone from anything except maybe their pride if they trip when hopping it.

My penchant for extra security was also a product of having a family of women. I wanted them safe from the world if they came to visit. I couldn’t help being a protective son and older brother.

I tried to ignore the impression I had every goddamned time I walked through the gate that I was entering a fairy kingdom, but it was impossible.

My yard was lit like the set of

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

, courtesy of a landscaper who insisted on low voltage path lights and small upward spotlights on various plants, along with strings of bulbs and twinkling vines twining up the branches of various trees. On the plus side, as a result of her elfin touches, no one would ever get lost on the way to my front door. On the downside, someone with a pacemaker might die before ever reaching it from the strobe effect.

“I don’t need lights twinkling out here,” I’d told her.

She looked at me the way she’d probably looked at countless other clients whom she assumed to be lacking in their ability to visualize the landscape. “You do need them.”

“I just need to be able to see. Anything beyond that is superfluous.”

“You need to trust me. I’m doing my job.”

I wanted to argue with her and tell her that her job was to outfit my yard with sustainable plants, which I wouldn’t have to water and would be native to the Southern California climate. This was why I’d hired her in the first place. But eventually, I came to see her lighting schematic as the price I’d have to pay to make her go away. I figured I could always unplug them. And then I forgot.

The first thing I did when I got inside was double check the time on my phone and the clock in the kitchen to confirm that I had, in fact, returned home before my curfew. There was no reason for anyone to chase me down and accuse me of violating my Supervised Home Confinement.

I always built in a cushion of time to make sure that nothing—red lights, stubborn front door locks—kept me from getting home and in the door at the appointed time. I was nothing if not punctual, and I didn’t want to see my probation officer any more than I had to. For fuck’s sake, I still couldn’t believe I had a probation officer.

The second thing I did was pour myself a healthy glass of tequila, the good stuff made for sipping. Not the crap they had at the wedding. I figured that was why Annie diluted hers with soda and lime, but I didn’t want to sound like an arrogant jerk who thinks only certain tequila is good enough. But maybe I am because I do.

The wedding reception would be going on for another two hours at least, so I’d just toast the happy couple from here. And I wanted to drink something that tasted decent.

Then I wanted to forget this whole night ever happened. I wanted to erase the fact that I’d blown what was maybe my one opportunity as a free man to get laid. And I wanted to blot out the fact that my overactive brain had me more interested in talking to Annie than trying to get in her pants. I was an idiot in so many ways, and I wanted to forget each and every one of them.

Then I wanted to forget her. She lived in San Francisco, and I’d likely never see her again. There was no point in adding to the misery in my life by thinking about her anymore.

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