Trey turns in the opposite direction of L.D. and we start the walk back up Lombard Street. This time our slower pace gives me time to take in the details of the landscaped area and houses on each side of the roadway.We walk back up past all eight curves of Lombard Street, on the pedestrian steps this time. Once we reach the top of the hill we drove down minutes ago, the need to fill the space starts to claw at me. I try to pretend we're a normal couple, out for a cute stroll rather than what we are. And what are we? I can't even answer the question myself.My anxiety builds and I start to question what we're doing here more and more. I'm about to throw out one of the hundred or so reasons I've thought of to make my exit when Trey picks up our conversation as if no time as passed. "Do you like pizza?""Of course." Who doesn't like pizza?"There is a great place a block or so from my house. I'll order and we can pick it up on the way to my place. What do you like for toppings?"
"There must have been some good times in the beginning, right?" I ask to learn more about the young and ambitious Trey.He laughs in thought again. "There were tons of great times. Grant stayed at Stanford to finish his senior year. Ryland had already been recruited for a semi-pro team, so he left before finishing college as well. Finn and I were living in this tiny two-bedroom crap rental. We survived on soda and pizza for every meal. It was in a horrible part of the city, but we craved that coveted San Francisco address. It was the only place in Silicon Valley we could afford."As our memberships grew, we were forced to hire more coders. We'd have five or six guys sitting in our tiny living room all working together. It was my job to feed everyone and keep them motivated since I was little to no help with the code.""I'm sure your neighbors loved that.""They weren't too bad. Eventually we needed more servers, so we ended up renting office space in Oakland and putting them in
The dishes clank together as Trey throws my plate on top of his in the sink.I stand from my stool and wander to his large window in the living room. "I love your place.""Thanks, the view's better upstairs, but I think inviting you to my bedroom might be a bit presumptuous at this point in the night."I giggle snort from nerves in the most unladylike way imaginable. Get a grip, Simone.Trey crosses the area in the living room decreasing the distance between us. He throws his hands in the air, palms out. "I promise, no bedroom antics."For a split second I consider asking him to describe these antics, but I can't bring myself to do it.Trey prowls to his black leather sofa, his movements fluid like a large cat stalking its prey. I turn to keep an eye on him like you're supposed to do when faced with a predator.He takes a seat in the middle of the sofa and turns his head in my direction with a small smile. "Unless you'd like to find out what I'd do to you on my bed."I
Roger pulls his little red convertible into the half circle driveway in front of the white exterior of The Flood Mansion and we pause in the line of cars to wait our turn with the valet. So far he hasn't spewed comments about my attire so I'm hoping tonight's dress meets his standards. It's still a little black dress, but the satin material falls to the floor and the fabric shimmers in the light — more of an iridescent black. The fabric swoops at the top across the shoulders and gives the entire piece a fancier feel over what I wore to our last event."Beautiful, isn't it?" he asks from the driver's seat.The house is an actual mansion, not just in name. The long white building looks to be made from marble or some other stark white material. Details around the windows and roof match the formal entryway with its detailed columns and simple yet still grand front steps."I didn't realize San Francisco had this type of architecture. I thought it was all Queen Anne.""The Flood Mans
I try to bring the can't-be-Trey couple back into my line of sight, but people have moved in front of them. As Gloria approaches me with two flutes of champagne I stumble against a small table as the pictures of Trey from my Internet search flash in my memory. It was over a month ago, from a computer in the Atlantis Resort, but the woman he was featured in photograph after photograph with was a redhead. Could it be a coincidence?I plan to take two steps toward the couple to try and confirm my suspicions when the Trey look alike turns around completely. My stomach twists and I worry I might vomit. Thankfully, Gloria grabs my arm before the-man-who-is-most-definitely Trey sees me. It's with her help that I make it back to the area we left Roger and her husband.My breathing is shallow, but my heart beats rapidly as I race to work through my thoughts. Trey is here and with the girl from all the pictures. The girl who definitely isn't his sister or some other family member. Have I bee
Ugh. Thoughts of Trey kept me up half the night and without enough sleep, the warmth of the water from the shower spray isn't helping to energize me for the waiting day. I'd turn it cold if I had more self-control, but who in their right mind makes the decision to take a cold shower? Not even learning Trey's an asshole of epic proportions can make me that insane.Trey stalked away from our group and I spent the rest of the night being the perfect companion to Roger. I smiled pretty and shook hands like nothing was wrong. But Trey's look of betrayal before he turned and left played on repeat in my mind. By the end of the night, I regretted my final words to him. It was never about getting his account to Lowry, Lowry, and Fink, but in a time of weakness I played on his insecurities.I press my head against the cool tile of my shower as water flows over my eyes. I'm not sure why I'm even concerned with how he feels. Why do I feel miserable and guilty over what I said? The man has a gi
I buckle my seatbelt before the flight attendant walks the aisle and my mind wanders back to my earlier conversation with my father. I can't remember anything concrete after he said my mother, the woman who brought me into this world, had thirty days to live.I brought a bag on the plane with me, but I'm clueless to what's in it. Hopefully clean underwear or socks, maybe some pants. I move a hand to my temple and push on the space in frustration at myself. Isn't it amazing that in a time of turmoil my damn brain is worried if I packed clean underwear? Is it my feeble attempt to try and keep it together?I've done well so far. Maybe this is what people call shock. Thirty days to live. How can doctors calculate thirty days? Where does this number come from? Is there some demonic cancer calculator floating around the Internet? My other hand reaches up to rub the opposite temple as I lean both elbows on my knees. Who has the right to tell my mother she only has thirty days left on Eart
IT'S ONLY the first week of November, but there's an extra chill in the air as I'm the last to exit the car back at my parents' house for the post-funeral luncheon. The cold set into my bones as we stood outside at the gravesite and I worry I'll never be warm again. Of course I've been cold for more than the last month, so this might be my new condition. Cold. A little dead to the world.The three of us are silent as we walk in the house we once shared, but never will again. My sister continues to the kitchen while my father and I stop in the living room to our right. He sits in the old green chair he's called his for more years than I remember, and I take a place on the matching couch. It doesn't actually match, but its close enough in color that when my mother found it a few years ago she bought it on sight. Then sent me pictures and text messages for the next week about how amazing it was to find a piece of furniture the exact hideous pea green color of Dad's favorite chair. She l