Cold Feet (13 page)

CHAPTER 13

A
large red-and-white Muni bus pulled up on the opposite side of the street, and Dusty and I hightailed it over, waving it down like you can only do in a city where everyone is overly nice. As we boarded, I noticed that the plump middle-aged bus driver had a dog-eared Sidney Sheldon novel tucked into his side pocket, which I assumed he read on his breaks. Or brakes. The inexplicably touching image of this sweet man paging through a thriller while he ate a sandwich during his twenty-minute lunch tugged jerkily at my already weak heartstrings.

Unaware of my observations and over-the-top emotional response to them, the driver waited for us to board, motioning for us to deposit our money in the fare box and move to the back. The bus slammed into action, gliding down the electrical wires, while I searched for cash
and attempted not to fall. Finding a few dollars in the side pocket of my wallet, I was struck with an unexpected childhood memory.

My mom asking me to go upstairs to our landlord's room to look for loose dollars because I was small enough to fit under the bed. Me gathering up all the money I could find and delivering it to my mother, my face hot with shame, wanting to get the eleven dollars—I would never forget the number—off my hands as quickly as possible. We needed gas money. I shook my head to rid my consciousness of the uncomfortable memory.

“Plans tonight?” Dusty asked as I slid down in the seat next to him.

“Not really. More searching for Hunter, I guess, although who knows how.”

“I have an idea. Take a night off. Carrick's band has a show at a pretty cool bar in the Mission. Why don't you and Liv come along?”

“Hold on—Carrick is in a band?” I laughed despite myself. “I thought he was a venture capitalist.”

“He is, but music is his true passion.” Dusty grinned. “They're actually pretty good. Maybe it'll be good for you to take your mind off things.”

Dusty had no idea how right he was about that.

“You should have a little fun while you're here, shouldn't you? I don't know if you've realized this yet, but I'm really fun.”

Was he flirting with me? Or just being funny? Did it matter? After all, I was engaged to be married to someone who had cheated on me and lied about it for years. The feelings of anguish rushed
back, but I held them at bay. I would not start crying on a San Francisco city bus. I focused on his invitation instead. I did love live music—any kind. And despite the fact that I couldn't imagine having any
actual
fun, possibly ever again, it might be an okay distraction. Plus, Liv would probably love it, considering her smiles and hair flips in Carrick's direction the other night. Flirting or not, I couldn't spend another night with only the painful jumble of my emotions invoked by Sam and Hunter. I just couldn't.

“You know what?” I said before I could inwardly debate it any further. “That sounds great. Let me check with Liv, but she texted me that she was feeling better, so I bet she'll be into it, too. Thanks for the invite.”

I turned back to face forward, my eyes settling on an alert from the San Francisco Police Department.
If you see something, say something!
Under recently passed law, there is a duty to report in San Francisco. It is your legal obligation to report it if you are witness to a crime!
I'd read about this. In some cities not only was the crime itself illegal, but they were also putting a burden on any witnesses who failed to report the crime.

Without warning, my interaction with Dusty was washed away and a new distressing thought occurred to me. What about Sam's crimes? Was it possible that other people knew about those? My mind quickly flashed through a list of possible witnesses. Other friends in Venice? Dante? Some actress on their movie? I pictured this amorphous group of people shaking their heads behind my back, but not telling me a thing, and was struck with a fresh wave of rage at Sam for
making me look like such a pathetic fool. There should be a duty to report this kind of behavior, I thought for the first time in my life. It was necessary for a proper functioning society. If you were betrayed, you had a right to know. You had a right to expect someone, anyone, to tell you.

As we walked down Guerrero Street on Monday night, I contemplated how many of the dive bars from a few years before had gained a line out the door and a black-and-white photo booth inside. I couldn't believe how much had changed, but, as disconnected from reality as I felt, I barely cared.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Liv asked as we walked quickly through the cold night to the bar where Carrick's band, the Springfield Isotopes, was playing. It was nighttime in San Francisco, which meant we were subjected to practically subzero temperatures, but everyone was pretending not to notice.

“Yes, Liv, I told you, I'm fine. Part of me feels like crawling into a little hole and never coming out, and the other part wants to go down to L.A. and start exacting murderous revenge on Sam, but other than that, I'm fine.”

“You sound fine.”

“What about you? Migraine completely gone?”

“Yep. I napped and self-medicated. While you were gone I even stopped by Equinox—there's one right down the block from Carrick's—to see if I could take a yoga class or something, but they said my Manhattan membership didn't transfer.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“I know! But I love it there. And they have Kiehl's. I do it for the Kiehl's.” She sighed.

As we approached, Liv took out some lip gloss to freshen up. I considered asking her for some but then I realized it was pointless. There was no one I wanted to look cute for, nothing I cared about. My heart felt heavy at this thought. I vaguely considered running down the street and back to the room, so I could cry into my pillow all night.

Before I could make my getaway, I realized we were next in line, being gently pushed into the warm bar filled with people. The bar had a homey, lived-in feel. I felt the immediate urge to drink a martini, and surprised myself by being slightly comforted by the vibe. Maybe if they had pillows, I could cry into them here.

“You guys made it!” Dusty exclaimed, walking up. He was holding a beer and looking cuter than I remembered. I noticed that his green T-shirt hung perfectly on his broad shoulders. I inwardly checked myself. Did I need lip gloss now? Nope. The verdict was in. I no longer gave a shit.

“Hey, Dusty!” I attempted to summon some energy, even though all I wanted to do was lie down on one of the couches lining the wall. I reached for my inner steel core and reminded myself that if I was sad it would mean Sam had ruined my night once again. I forced my expression into a smile.

“Need a drink?” I asked. “We owe you a round or two from Saturday night. I'm headed up there anyway. You had Sierra Nevada the other night, right?”

“That would be great, thanks.” He smiled.

I headed up to the bar, relieved to have a task to perform and an excuse to take a break from people for a few minutes. My phone vibrated in my purse. Without a doubt, it was Sam. He had been calling and texting all day. So far I had successfully ignored his overtures, although I was leaving my phone on vibrate instead of silent, so I suppose one sick part of me was still interested in knowing how often he was contacting me. Was that a sign that I wanted to talk to him? Or did it just mean I was human? I settled on the latter.

I approached the bar behind a man dressed in a western shirt and worn jeans. The cowboy had longish sandy blond hair and appeared to be in his late thirties. I sidled up next to him, thinking how if he tried to hit on me right now, he would most certainly get slapped. Without warning, my adrenaline rocketed. It was one of those moments where you're certain something big is about to happen. All my senses were on alert. I knew implicitly to pay attention to my surroundings, but I wasn't sure why. He turned around and that was when I realized,
That's no cowboy; that's Sexy Tony Brown.
For a beat, we stared at each other in disbelief.

“Emma Moon?” he finally exclaimed, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek, which I attempted to resist as much as possible short of physically pushing him away.

“Hi, Professor Brown.” My mind worked frantically, trying to think of ways to get him out of the bar before Liv noticed him. Tell the bartender he roofied me? Then I'd have to play dead the rest of the night. Scream fire? That might involve jail time. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here, remember? And, Emma, you know you can call me Tony.”

“Right,” I said robotically. He lived in the Bay Area, of course. But I'd never even considered we might run into him on this trip. What was I supposed to say to him? I no longer had to be nice to him, I realized. He wasn't my professor anymore. I gave him the meanest look possible, narrowing my eyes in a way I'd only read about in books.

“Is there something in your eye?” he asked, concerned. I dropped the look.

“No, I'm fine. Are you still at Berkeley?”

“Sure am. Still teaching Torts to 1Ls who don't know what a tort is, just like you,” he teased. That joke again?

“I can't believe you still remember that. Good memory.” What I really wanted to say was, Get a new schtick, asshole. Isn't that what his class was for? To teach us? I hated him. “How are the kids this year?” I tried to make being a law professor sound akin to babysitting, in an attempt to win some ground.

“We've only just gotten started, but they seem great. Although, it's been much less interesting since you and Olivia left, I'll give you that.”

I fake laughed and turned toward the bar, managing to get the bartender's attention in record time—that's the trick, I inwardly noted, you really have to
want it
—and ordered a beer and two martinis, one gin, dirty, and the other vodka, with a twist.

“Vodka martini with a twist?” Professor Brown looked at me and raised an eyebrow knowingly.

Fuck. I forgot that Liv's drink was a dead giveaway.

I thought as quickly as possible, pretending I was in the back of his classroom being asked to recite the facts of a case I didn't read. Say something, Moon!

“You guessed it,” I said awkwardly. “Actually, we're here to see some guy who's in love with her. He's in the band,” I added, hoping that would intimidate him.

“Oh, really?” He laughed. “This I have to see.”

As I paid for the drinks, Professor Brown picked up his own, as well as Liv's, and indicated that I should lead the way. Dammit, I'd gotten cocky. I was trying to make Liv look hot and unapproachable in a way that I would tell her about later, when we were safely blocks away from Sexy Tony Brown and his odd western attire, but I'd crossed the line and piqued his interest. The scary part was—and I'd never admit this to Liv—he was somehow even more attractive than when we were in law school. Maybe it was the longer hair. Or the snap buttons.

I picked up my overflowing martini glass and Dusty's beer and walked back to Liv, trying to signal to her with my eyes that there was a surprise in store for her behind me, and not a good one. She looked up from the conversation, midlaughter, and glanced at me expectantly, until she noticed my face. But before my eyes could get out the full sentence, she saw him. You know how people say theatrically, “all of the blood drained from her face”? At that moment I realized it wasn't just an expression. It really happens. On making eye contact with STB, Liv looked like she had seen an
actual
ghost. Which I guess, in a sense, she had.