Maybe that’s why seeing his stuff gone doesn’t lacerate me. Maybe I’m a little bit lucky.
I turn around and meet the eyes of my crew. “Thank you. I appreciate this so much.”
“Do you want me to stay the night?” Olive offers, all kind big eyes and giant heart.
“Anything you need, I’m here for you,” Emerson adds, and my other friends chime in with similar sentiments.
“Thank you, but I’m good,” I say. I love them but I need a break from sympathy.
“Do you want to stay with Janice and me in Sausalito?” my father offers; he and his new wife have a lovely home on the water, with a view of Richardson Bay from the guest room.
“I appreciate the invite, but I’ll stay here,” I say, because it sort of feels like mine again.
And mostly because their pitying looks—though well-intentioned—might drive me crazy, especially when I’m feeling the tiniest bit of this-is-a-blessing-in-disguise.
“Call me tomorrow,” Emerson says, making her way to the door.
“And don’t answer your mom’s calls,” my dad adds.
“Not a problem. I blocked her already.”
“Good girl,” he says, and they leave.
Once I shut the door, the walls instantly close in.
I’m all alone.
The silence is claustrophobic.
I was wrong. This is the last place I want to be.
Even with all his things gone, I can’t stand being here alone. I don’t want to be by myself, but I don’t want to be with friends right now either.
What do I want?
To be with this city.
Yup. That’s what I need.
I kick off my stupid white satin heels, march into my bedroom, and yank open the closet door, scanning for something to wear that’s not this dress.
Maybe a cute V-neck, or some jeans and cowboy boots. Something that’s the opposite of a wedding gown.
I pluck at the chiffon.
But damn. I like this dress. Hell, I love it. I bought it because it’s my style. It’s fun and pretty.
Screw it.
Might as well make some new memories in this dress.
I’ll make it the perfect outfit for a solo night on the town with these babies. I grab a pair of fuchsia cowboy boots from the closet, tug them on in a flurry.
Yup. This is me now.
My dress, my boots, my style. From a shelf, I grab a purple wristlet that Emerson gave me for my birthday. Go Ahead, Underestimate Me adorns one side in a curlicue font.
Indeed, world.
Underestimate me.
I am not staying in.
I am not curling up and downing a carton of Häagen-Dazs.
I am taking myself out in my goddamn dress.
Stuffing my phone into my colorful clutch, I get the hell out of my apartment, hitting the sidewalk on a Saturday night.
I wander through Russian Hill, weaving unnoticed through crowds. Across the street, a woman dressed as a leprechaun skips down the block. As I round the corner, a man in a porkpie hat rides a unicycle. No one gives the woman in the wedding dress a second look as she wanders the city solo.
San Francisco is awesome and wonderful, and this is why I loved and missed this city when I was in Los Angeles building my business.
I walk, and I walk, and I walk into the night until I see a sign for Pinup Lanes advertising a Saturday night special on tequila and bowling.
I’ll take what’s behind door number one, thank you very much.
I head inside. It’s so old school, and this is what I need right now.
Brimming with orange Formica, and fifties tunes, this place is nothing at all like the Legion of Honor, my mural artist almost-husband, or the ceremony I didn’t have.
I head to the bar, order a shot, and knock it back.
It burns all the way down.
I order one more, and when the bartender sets it down, I notice footsteps growing louder on the linoleum behind me.
I turn my head. Glance over my shoulder.
Is that . . .?
No way.
Tonight, after all these years, my eyes land on the guy who got away.
4
Harlan
Holy smokes.
She is a sight.
As sexy as Katie was more than seven years ago, she’s somehow even more stunning today. Her hair is all done up and clipped back, with lush, dark blonde strands curling over her shoulders. Her skin shimmers. Her high cheekbones slant in fantastic contrast to her pert, freckled nose.
The last seven years have been very good to her.
And yet, everything about the woman is incongruous. It’s not a stretch to imagine there’s something wildly wrong tonight. A woman doesn’t wear a wedding dress solo to a bowling alley bar on a Saturday night in July without a reason. But I don’t want to make any assumptions. Hell, her groom might be in the little boys’ room, taking care of business.
Or waxing a big old bowling ball.
Or playing a speed sesh of Pac-Man in the video game lounge.
But a quick glance around tells me she’s not here with the mister after saying I do. The place is mostly empty with just a few groups of old dudes in bowling shirts left of the crowd, and no one who looks like he got hitched today. So I’m thinking Katie and her man didn’t rush off to Pinup Lanes for an ironic game of bowling to celebrate their nuptials.