“My name’s Nina, and you’re too old to have regrets,” I offer in a mock scolding. So schoolmarm of me. The bartender finally moves toward us, taking away my new friend’s attention. I hope I’m not left awkwardly hanging with half an introduction. We’re passed over for the brosman ordering multiple shots of something that will surely light his insides on fire.
We both chuckle at our invisibility. Twenties trumping forties. “Nice to meet you, Nina. I’m Leo. And while I regret waiting this long for overpriced water, I don’t regret meeting you.”
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
“Look at you, having a homent,” Marisol accuses, opening our room door looking smug, catching me in the five-star hotel walk of shame. “Struggling with your hand-eye coordination this morning?” She looks rested and is wearing the plush hotel robe I had been dreaming of, the smell of maple smoked sausage encasing her like a breakfast angel. I, on the other hand, look delirious and am wearing the scent of a one-night stand with a total stranger. “You gonna share where you’ve been with . . .”
“Leo. His name’s Leo.” I giggle into my hand like a fifteen-year-old whose crush just walked by her locker. I’m eager to get out of these clothes, brush my teeth, and chug the carafe of coffee I spy over Marisol’s shoulder, but she’s blocking the door to our room.
“Leo. And are we going to have to play twenty questions and end up late for our facials, or are you going to give it up easily to me this morning just like you did last night with Leo? You know I’ll be pissed if I get shortchanged on my HydraFacial waiting on you to spill it.”
“You get one question. The rest of the deets by the pool after our treatments, if I have the strength to relive all the work me and Leo put in!” I smile and hug myself by the elbows, squirming in my clothes as I recall the feel of Leo’s hands rubbing all over me last night. And this morning. “I have to shower before we head to the spa. I don’t need some judgy aesthetician deciding she smells marathon sex sweating out my pores.”
“Seriously? Only one question now?” Marisol fake whines and places a hand on her hip in defiance of my boundaries.
“One question, so make it a good one.” I stand frozen, waiting for whatever lecherous detail Marisol is going to ask for in the hallway of this reputable hotel.
“I wanna know just how high that vanilla cone stacked up after a lifetime of chocolate.”
I’m sitting by the pool, sipping a tall iced tea, trying to read my book. Too distracted with memories from last night to focus, I instead sneak a voice mail check-in at school before Marisol shows up and calls me on our “no phones weekend” pact. July 1 is technically my first official day as head of school, and I don’t want to blow it out of the gate by missing an important communication.
Whew, only one voice mail, and not surprisingly, it’s from Courtney Dunn. Every year, without fail, before she and her family trek off to the trendiest exotic locale according to Travel + Leisure, she lets me know the exact lineup of teachers she wants for her daughter, Daisy, and her stepson, Ben. And every year, I politely refer her to page 46 of the parent handbook containing the school’s policy on requesting teachers. It’s a not-so-fun annual game of control freak cat and uptight mouse we play. This year, however, Courtney has added a new twist. In addition to ranking her faculty favorites, she’s also asking to join the Royal-Hawkins board of trustees. I take a moment to consider it. That would be a no. I know I’ll hear from Courtney the minute the Dunns return stateside, so I’m not going to waste my precious pool time worrying about her. I cheers my self-restraint with a last chug of iced tea and flag down the pool boy making his rounds.
Ding.
I look left and right to see if Marisol’s glowing face is strutting toward our chaise longues before I check my texts. Xandra knows phone warden Marisol put me on a tech diet, so I’m not sure who it could be.
261 252 8600 12:20 PM
Are you having as hard a time concentrating today as I am?
Who is this? I don’t recognize the number on the caller ID. I start to write back wrong number, then stop myself. Wait, did I give Leo my info last night? Or this morning? I don’t remember doing it, but a few new things happened in the last twenty-four hours, so today anything’s possible. I was channeling a version of myself I hadn’t seen in quite some time. Maybe one of my other personalities sleeps with White guys and gives away her digits.
Nina 12:20 PM
Is this Leo?
261 252 8600 12:21 PM
It is.
Nina 12:21 PM
How’d you get my number?
. . .
Ugh, the dreaded three dots. Waiting for a text response is the worst, particularly when the response could be a humiliating one.
261 252 8600 12:22 PM
I ran into your friend Marisol in the lobby. She chewed me out for ruining her girls’ weekend. Then she yanked the pen out of my shirt pocket and wrote your number on my hand.
Of course she did.
Nina 12:23 PM
You carry pens in your pocket? That’s not sexy.
Whoosh.
AHHHH. Get it back, get it back. I want that text back! Why’d I call him out for not being sexy?! Damn trigger finger.
261 252 8600 12:23 PM
That’s not what you said last night. Besides, I’m a corporate lawyer at an employment conference. Something’s bound to be unsexy about me. But you . . . you look incredible in that off-the-shoulder yellow swimsuit. I think the pool boy tripped over his hormones on his way to refill your iced tea.
I drop my phone and survey every inch of the pool patio. I don’t see Leo. Or I don’t recognize him. God, I hope my thighs are looking more J. Lo than Jell-O. Please let me maintain my self-respect and spot the man I let crawl all over me within hours of meeting.
Nina 12:25 PM
How do you know I’m wearing a yellow swimsuit?
261 252 8600 12:25 PM
How do you not see me? I’m the one looking ridiculously overdressed in a blazer and slacks standing by the towel station. Or do you not recognize me?
I look directly behind me toward the towel stand. Leo gives me a warm smile and a thumbs-up.
261 252 8600 12:26 PM
Nice job, Sherlock.
Nina 12:26 PM
Come over here, pressed button-down and all. I’ll buy you a drink this time.
261 252 8600 12:26 PM
Can’t. I have to head back for my 12:30 session on updates in wage and hour law. But before I go, one question for you. What are you doing next weekend?
Nina 12:27 PM
Depends on how good the offer is.
261 252 8600 12:27 PM
Want to go to Yosemite with me?
Shit. This guy thinks Black people camp.
Nina 12:28 PM
For safety reasons, I should probably know your last name and have you buy me dinner before I willingly follow you into the woods.
261 252 8600 12:28 PM
West.
Nina 12:29 PM
Don’t you want to know mine?
261 252 8600 12:30 PM
I already do Nina Morgan Clarke.
TWO
This is not how this was supposed to go. I pull into the only parking spot I can find after circling the block four times. My back bumper hangs a foot into Leo’s neighbor’s driveway—the Silver Lake equivalent of felony trespassing. The day before school starts is predictably crazy, but I got to my office at 6:00 a.m. thinking if I arrived early, I could sneak away in the middle of the day while the teachers were working in their classrooms. Mimi, my assistant, said she’d have my back if anyone came looking for me. After ten years working under Headmaster Nevins, whose trademark communication style was reserved and efficient at best, she’s enjoying a shift in main office atmosphere. Mimi’s consistently ten steps ahead of where I have no idea I need to be, and my gratitude for her is endless. Every morning, I show up with two piping-hot lattes. I need to keep Mimi motivated on the ass-saving front through my first year as head of school. Second year I’m in charge, she can hang me out to dry for not knowing better. But this afternoon the fire chief showed up unexpectedly to test our sprinkler system, and even Mimi couldn’t get me out the door.