Roommates

Jimmy didn’t leave. He became as much a part of their apartment as their furniture. A smoking, beer-drinking armchair that hogged the remote control and was terrible at taking phone messages.

Furthermore, the grunting only became louder and more obnoxious. Justine’s moans and gasps could be heard even with water running at full blast. Nearly every morning since his arrival, Justine would stroll out of the bedroom, wearing one of his T-shirts and the smile of a satisfied cat. First she’d giggle. Then she’d turn to Elise. “I hope you didn’t hear us last night. We weren’t too loud, were we?”

Not only had their living room become a fogbank of cigarette smoke, but Jimmy hogged the remote control, watching episodes of MTV Cribs religiously. She had a strong hunch he was probably fantasizing about the day he’d be a guest on Cribs—if that day ever came. And that was a big if. Seeing how Jimmy didn’t even have a crib of his own, it would be a long time before his episode aired.

At night, Elise sought refuge in the private quarters of her bedroom. Occasionally, she would leave her room for food and water. During these quests she usually found Justine and Jimmy curled up on the couch, a look of pure contentment in Justine’s eyes and a look of childlike yearning in his while Blink-182 showed off waterfalls in their hot tubs and Tommy Lee took a ride in his elevator. Every time she entered, he always offered her a beer.

Once or twice she had accepted but couldn’t visit for long. The smoke had made her eyes water and then she’d remember that chilling commercial from the American Lung Association of the middle-aged woman with a voice raspier than Satan smoking a cigarette from a hole in her throat while attached to an oxygen tank. Then she’d return to her room. She often thought about asking them to smoke outside, but she also thought about moving at the first possible opportunity. Since she was secretly planning on bolting from the apartment the first chance she had, she felt bad setting smoking rules.

She’d gotten so used to Jimmy that when she wrote all day she knew he was behind Justine’s closed bedroom door. She could feel his presence even if he wasn’t in the same room as her.

He usually popped out of Justine’s half of the condo around two, made himself a late breakfast before skateboarding to the liquor store for a twelve-pack of whatever beer was on special that day.

“I’ll pay you back next week. I’m getting a check from the label, and I’m going to hook you and Justine up. I swear.” He headed for the kitchen. “Then I’ll make some money when I’m on the road, so I’ll be in good shape after that. I’ll be able to contribute more.”

Thank God his back had been turned and he hadn’t seen the shock that registered on her face. Elise knew he was going on tour in a month. He was supposed to be gone for several weeks, wreaking havoc all over the country doing Lord only knows what, but she didn’t know he planned to return to their apartment. Furthermore, his current status was supposed to be as a guest until his bandmates found another place. Justine had been acting as if he was moving in with his friends. Elise had never planned on a third roommate, especially an unemployed alcoholic rock star who left the couch only to grab another cold one from the fridge.

There was, however, one bonus of living with Jimmy. He was sort of a slob. If he made a sandwich, he left crumbs on the counter. He built pyramids with his beer cans on their coffee table, and he occasionally left empty dishes in the sink. His memory was horrible, too. His sister’s name had shown up on their caller ID once, and he didn’t even know who she was because he’d forgotten that she’d changed her name when she’d gotten married five years ago.

His bad memory combined with carelessness took a lot of pressure off Elise to be so immaculate. If she got sidetracked and left a mug in the sink, she could be certain that Justine would never be sure who had left the mess.

Several days after his arrival Elise fell into a writing groove, plugging out twenty pages. She had a feeling about this book. It was much better than her other one, and she prayed to sell foreign rights, perhaps even movie rights.

She was feeling pleased with her progress when a loud bang on their front door interrupted her. Time had flown, and she was stunned to see that it was three o’clock in the afternoon. She hadn’t heard any bling-blinging on Cribs, and it suddenly occurred to her that Jimmy hadn’t come out from his den yet.

“Coming,” she called. Rarely did someone come to the front door. For this reason she never made an effort to improve her appearance. She wore red and black plaid pajama bottoms and a University of Arizona T-shirt. Her reading glasses were perched on her nose, and her hair was tied in a bun on top of her head, thin pieces sticking up like overgrown weeds.

A little man wearing gray slacks with a button-down short-sleeved shirt and a clip-on tie greeted her. For a moment she thought he might be selling encyclopedias. However, he looked really familiar. She thought she recognized him as one of the tenants from upstairs. He was bald in the front and wore thick glasses.

“Hi. I’m Walt Carter, head of the homeowners’ association. I realize you guys are renting this place. But most of the tenants here are owners, and we’ve had some complaints about the truck parked in front of the building.”

“Well, apparently it belongs to a guest that’s been staying here. Several tenants have reported seeing a young man leaving this apartment to retrieve things from the vehicle.”

Jimmy. Elise knew he had a jalopy parked somewhere. She just didn’t know it was parked in front of their building. She’d occasionally noticed the truck when she had walked to her car. It was a small model from the early eighties, covered with rust spots and painted a shade of green that should only be reserved for the military. On the tailgate it read, “Yo.” Some clever little soul had decided to rip off the other four letters in Toyota.

“I’m serving you a notice and a fine of sorts. It’s a demand that you must move the truck within forty-eight hours, or it will be towed at your expense and you will also be fined an additional seventy-five dollars for failing to comply with the homeowners’ association. Also, every time you are served a complaint by the homeowners’ association it is accompanied by a seventy-five-dollar fine.”

“What about the couch that’s been sitting in front of the building for two months now?” she asked. “Why haven’t those people been fined?”

“That couch actually belongs to the neighboring complex, and it’s not in our jurisdiction. There is nothing our homeowners’ association can do about that. If you have a complaint you can take it up with the neighboring building or perhaps the City of San Diego.”

“Well, then it’s handed over to your landlord. He can choose to do as he wishes. But typically the landlords will deduct it from your deposit when you move out. Or he might raise your rent.”

He handed her a stack of papers, nodded his head, and was off. Elise looked over the papers. Sure enough, they had been cited with a fine and a notice to remove the vehicle from the premises. As soon as Walt was gone, Glorious D cruised up, a blue bandana tied over his head.

“Yeah man. That dude’s a prick.” He began to move from side to side, shifting his weight to opposite feet with each beat. “Walt. Walt. It ain’t his fault. He got no life. Takin’ a knife to yo door. Wreckin yo day cuz he can’t play.” He popped out of rapping mode. “Man, screw that asshole. What’d he do now?”

After she said good-bye to Glorious D she debated waking Jimmy. After all, most people had put in a full day of labor, and he hadn’t even crawled out of bed yet. Furthermore, he needed to make arrangements to move his truck within the next forty-eight hours. Who knew when the clock had started ticking with those forty-eight hours? This Walt Homeowners’ Association guy could’ve started the forty-eight hours whenever he wrote the citation, which could’ve been last night. She was heading toward Justine’s bedroom when the front door burst open.

Instead, a large brown upright piano greeted her. Behind the instrument she could see Jimmy’s shag haircut. A cigarette dangled from between his lips. “Lemme try to push it through, man.” He had company. She felt a flicker of hope that he’d brought Max with him. Then she realized that she was in her pajamas and wearing her reading glasses. She hadn’t even wiped the crust from her eyes from when she woke up six hours ago.

“You sure you don’t want me to get on the other side and lift it?” A male voice called. It wasn’t Max’s voice, and she felt a strange combination of relief and disappointment.

Elise watched as Jimmy pressed his skinny body against the piano, his bony shoulders shoving the wooden frame. The little wheels beneath the instrument jolted over the doorframe.

“Just set those over there, dude.” He turned back to Elise. “We just got kicked out of our studio, and we don’t have anywhere to store this stuff.” He motioned toward his friend. “Elise, this is my buddy Elliott Potter. He’s the drummer for our band.”

She recognized him from the flyer. He was stocky and had a head full of curly dark hair and long sideburns that extended to his chin. He wore jeans and a T-shirt that read, “Say No to Drugs.” They shook hands before he headed to the couch and proceeded to roll a joint on their coffee table, right next to five lighthouses.

Last week she was making herself dinner when Justine had presented him with one of the lighthouses. Elise had slyly eyed them from the kitchen while he opened the gift.

Elise remembered an episode of Oprah she’d seen the previous week. It had been one of those Let’s Take Cameras Inside the Homes of the Rich and Famous So the Rest of the Country Can Feel Totally Poor and Unstylish for an Hour episodes. They had toured makeup guru Bobbi Brown’s house and discussed heated towels and the television set in her bathroom before they were off to the grand designer of Pottery Barn’s home where she showed off her kitchen island and chic little chalkboards in every room. Watching this episode had unleashed a craving for heated towels and chalkboards that she couldn’t explain.

As she stood in her living room while they passed a joint across her coffee table, she wondered what it would be like if Oprah had an episode about them—those who can’t afford their home let alone heated towels, but rather roll joints next to a row of trinkets.

She wanted out. She wanted her own place with a matching set of dishes and fluffy white couches. She was too old for this. Five years ago she probably would’ve thought it was a blast to have a couple of musicians turning their living room into a studio and offering her pot. For a moment she considered a career change. Real estate? Pharmaceutical sales? But she was doing what she loved. Unfortunately, it was a career that involved a lot of sacrifices in the beginning—and had a very long beginning, for that matter.

She was about to tell Jimmy about his fine and the notice, but he left to gather more instruments. He returned with a giant electric keyboard. Their parade of instruments continued until four guitars, two trumpets, and several amplifiers occupied the empty space in their dining room. Within minutes, their apartment had become the Grand Ole Opry. Elliott sat down in front of the drums and banged out a drumroll loud enough for people in Mexico to appreciate. His curls shook over his forehead, and his mouth turned to a contorted line as he threw his heart and soul into the set. The whole time she couldn’t help but imagine the next visit from Walt.

“That’s awesome!” Instantly, Jimmy slid onto the bench in front of the piano and began to play music to accompany the drum set. She had to admit, they sounded great. She found herself caught in the moment, tapping her feet. She was about to ask the name of the song when she remembered the fine and notice in her hand.

“You need to move your truck. A man came by here a little while ago with a fine and a notice saying that you had forty-eight hours in which you needed to move your truck.”

“Listen, I have to hop in the shower. It’s my brother’s birthday, and I’m going out to dinner with my family tonight. But I’ll set the stuff right here on top of the piano.” As she headed back to her room, she prayed he wouldn’t forget.

“Coming,” she yelled. She threw on her robe and wrapped a towel around her head. She glanced at the clock just to make sure she wasn’t running late. Her parents weren’t due for another half hour.

When she opened the door a three-hundred-pound grizzly faced man with stubble and pants that were too small for him invaded her view. His hairy stomach bore a striking resemblance to a mohair sweater she had recently turned over to the Salvation Army, and his belly button was as deep and dark as the drain in her bathroom sink. She tried to remember if the helicopter that had been combing the area that morning had been looking for him. No. The fugitive du jour had been a young Mexican male, mid twenties, on a red bike.

She heard the sound of wheels rolling over concrete as Jimmy swiftly glided toward the driver on a skateboard. His bangs were blown back, and he held a paper bag in his hand.

Elise left them to sort out Jimmy’s truck issues. Minutes later, she heard the door open again. Only this time it was Justine. “I got here just in time,” she said, out of breath. “The guy almost wouldn’t tow Jimmy’s car without my Triple A card. I had to leave work.”

She set her purse on the counter. “I got the cable bill and electricity bills today.” She reached for them inside her purse. “I just split them in half. You can look them over if you want. But I’ve written down how much we each owe on the top of both bills.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll write you a check.” She was heading for her checkbook when it occurred to her that Jimmy had practically moved in. He watched television more than anyone, which used both cable and electricity. Furthermore, it didn’t seem as if he planned to leave until he went on tour next month. They should divide the bills three ways. And for that matter, they should be dividing the rent three ways as well. She suddenly felt as if she were being taken advantage of. The idea of confronting Justine seemed terrifying. However, if she wrote a check for half the bills, she’d feel like a spineless doormat, and that was worse than facing her roommate.

“Justine, um, do you think it would be possible for Jimmy to contribute? I mean, he watches television more than anyone and he, well . . . it seems like he, um, lives here.”

Justine stared at Elise, her eyebrows twisting into a sinister shape that Elise had not yet become familiar with. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned it. After all, he was leaving for his tour. Perhaps he was just a guest who had free rein of their television and refrigerator. She didn’t want to be The Evil Stingy Roommate that charged Justine’s guests rent.

“Fine,” Justine said. Her long nails curled over the bills, and her voice was as chilly as a polar bear’s breath. “I’ll tell him you mentioned that he should contribute.”

Elise wrote a check for her half of the bills, feeling as if she had just pulled a sweater from the sales rack at Nordstrom only to find when she’d paid at the cash register it had been full price.

Her parents arrived sharply at six o’clock. Her father wore a sport coat with crisply ironed gray slacks. Her mother had on one of her signature monochromatic matching pant and sweater sets. She had a million of these outfits. This one was various shades of pink. The sweater, made of fine silk, was a light rose, while her pants were a deeper mauve hue and didn’t reveal a single crease or wrinkle. A baby pink shawl was draped over her shoulders, and she wore expensive Ferragamo sandals. She was the utter image of sophistication combined with comfort.

Elise was dressed more appropriately for the Mexican restaurant Stan had selected in Ocean Beach. She wore jeans with flip-flops and an off-white peasant blouse.

Her mother’s round eyes immediately darted over the living room as if she were searching for some kind of evidence. “Where is he?” she whispered. “The boyfriend?”

No sooner than she had asked did Jimmy come strolling from Justine’s bedroom, bare chested and beer in hand. Unaware that Elise had company, he belched loud enough to raise the dead while scratching his crotch. “Oh, hey!” he said. “These must be your parents.” He set down his beer and wiped his hand on his pants before offering it to her mother.

He lifted his brows before shaking hands with her father. “Really. Well, I gotta say, it’s been great staying here. Elise is the coolest roommate Justine has ever had.”

“You’ve got quite the collection of instruments there,” her father said, surveying the new studio at their apartment. “Is that a trombone?”

“Used to play the trombone in my high school marching band,” her father said. This was something Elise had never known about her dad. “Do you practice here?”

“We might.” This was when Elise would no longer become the “coolest roommate ever.” They couldn’t have band practice here. She had to write, and he didn’t even pay rent!

“Uh, yeah,” he said before discussing trombones with her father. They visited with Jimmy for a few minutes before Elise shuffled her parents out the door.

She slid into the backseat of her father’s Mercedes sedan. As soon as he started the engine, the voice of a talk radio host joined them, as if he were riding along with the Sawyers to Rancho’s.

Her parents listened to talk radio so often that Elise imagined what it would be like to ride with them in the car without the sound of an aggravated and excited radio host. Furthermore, she often wondered why they listened to it. From what she could tell, it mostly just put them in a bad mood. If they heard something they didn’t agree with on a program, they’d spend the remainder of the ride fuming and ranting about the idiocy of the views expressed. Talk radio was so much a part of their lives that they spoke of the hosts as if they knew them, like they were personal friends they’d had lunch with that afternoon.

“Well, Dr. Christine mentioned that the problem with America’s youth today is all these working mothers,” her mother would say. “I always knew I was doing the right thing by staying home with you kids. Although sometimes I wonder about Stan. Maybe it was because I let him watch MTV. Dr. Christine says that’s a no-no, too.”

The other result of talk radio was that it unleashed a hostility inside her parents that most people outside the Sawyer family never caught a glimpse of. No one at their country club would ever suspect that smooth and polished Marge Sawyer with her monochromatic Neiman Marcus outfits and manicured hands had just been shouting some of the worst obscenities in the English language at a car radio only minutes before arriving at a tennis match.

“I hope you’re still planning on looking for a new roommate,” her mother shouted over the radio. “I don’t know how you can stand living there.”

“I just want to hear this one last comment,” he said before driving straight through a red light. Her mother’s scream made Elise’s ears ring. Elise covered her eyes and couldn’t hold back her scream, either.

“Good grief!” her father yelled as they miraculously avoided being broadsided by a Ford Ranger and made it through the intersection in one piece.

This was the other thing about talk radio. Elise had some serious concerns that talk radio might hold the fate of her parents in its agenda. She’d lost track of how many times they’d both escaped fatal accidents by a mere millimeter. She’d witnessed dozens of separate occasions when each one of them had become so wrapped up in a program that they just switched lanes without even looking. Elise had begun to theorize that most accidents could probably be attributed to Dr. Chrstine and that conservative host Roger Tremwhatever.

Whenever Elise passed some poor soul on the side of the highway holding an ice pack to his forehead and miserably surveying the bumper he’d rammed into, she thought of one thing: talk radio.

“Please. Would you just turn off the radio?” Elise said, her heart still racing at the near-death experience she’d just been involved in. “You guys are going to really hurt someone one of these days. I’m serious. I’m really worried about you guys.”

“I am, too, but I don’t know why you don’t just move home,” her father said as he parallel parked in front of Rancho’s. “Rent is such a waste of money. You may as well just take your five hundred dollars and throw it out the window every month. You’re just paying for someone else’s investment.”

“Why don’t you and Stan go in on a place together?” her mother said. “Right now is a great time to buy property. When I was at the club the other day I played tennis with Vicky Landon. She’s one of the top Realtors in San Diego, and she said if you went in on a place with Stan, the two of you could probably afford a nice condo.”

“I love hanging out with Stan. But if we lived together we’d kill each other.” Elise was far from Justine on the neat scale, but Stan was in completely different realm of the solar system when it came to cleanliness. She changed the subject. “So Melissa isn’t coming to dinner?”

Perhaps this was the only benefit of having a child. It got you out of everything, whenever you wanted. All Melissa had to say was Jeffrey wasn’t feeling up to it, and there were no questions asked. Not that she wanted to miss having dinner with her parents, but there were other things in life she wouldn’t mind having a hall pass for.

“Happy birthday,” Elise said, handing him the card and scented candle she’d gotten him. She thought a nice fragrance might add some appeal to his apartment.

Her parents gave him a hundred-dollar gift certificate to Jake’s. It was one of the best restaurants in San Diego, and her mother figured if Stan ever did go on a date he should pay. “Take someone out with this,” she said. “There has to be a nice girl you could take to dinner.”

The best part of Rancho’s was the menu. Of course it featured all the regular delicious Mexican entrees, carne asada and chicken enchiladas. But it also included vegetarian selections. Though she wasn’t even a vegetarian, Elise always ordered the shiitake burrito. The burrito was so good that she had actually debated abandoning meat for a healthier lifestyle. If things like this were so available, why not? Her father even ordered vegetarian, too, the shiitake chimichanga.

Elise really didn’t feel like going into it and quickly tried to think of something to divert their attention. “The date was not great, but I am kind of interested in someone else.” The moment the words left her lips, she regretted it. Her relationship with Max was little more than a crush, and furthermore, even if it did transpire into anything she’d have to gradually tell her parents about him.

She remembered her high school boyfriend, Greg. He had an earring and had taken it out as if he were concealing a weapon every time he came to her parents’ house. He and Elise had both feared the discovery of that earring, as if they were serial killers worrying about the bodies in their freezer being found. Their worst nightmare came true when by pure chance they’d run into her mother at the mall. After noticing the earring, her parents were so disappointed in Elise’s choice in boyfriends that there had actually been talk of sending her to a psychiatrist.

Then she remembered Stan. He had a small tattoo of a clover on his back. For five years he’d successfully kept it a secret. One Thanksgiving he’d spilled red wine on his shirt. Maybe it was the wine that made him momentarily forget the clover, but he made the grave mistake of removing his shirt in front of everyone. Her mother had reacted to the tattoo as if they’d discovered that Stan was secretly leading a double life as a gay porn star. The whole holiday was ruined. So ruined, in fact, Marge couldn’t continue cooking the turkey. She locked herself in her bedroom, letting only Hal in for consolation. Melissa had lucked out and was with her in-laws. But Elise and Stan went hungry while watching a lousy football game.

Every Thanksgiving since, there had been tears and devastation while Marge stuffed the turkey and sadly remembered the horrible Thanksgiving when they found out about Stan’s awful secret. Elise had spent the last three Thanksgivings in the kitchen saving the holiday and distracting her mother from dwelling too much on Stan’s tattoo, reminding her that it was only a clover, not a naked lady.

What would they think if she brought Max home? If they rode up to her parents’ house on the back of his motorcycle, his tattoos peeking out from all edges of his T-shirt? Every holiday for the rest of Elise’s life would be ruined.

Why had she ever brought this up? Why? But then something occurred to her. Stan knew Max. She could find out more about him. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of boots running toward their table. She looked over her shoulder and saw Jeffrey weaving through tables as he ran toward Stan with a gift in his hand. He wore his cowboy boots. This time with khaki shorts and a child-sized blazer with gold buttons.

They all watched as Jeffrey ripped the gift wrap from what was shaped as a book. It was a cookbook called Gourmet Cooking and featured a small piece of steak atop a pastry shell shaped like a basket.

She listened to her nephew ask for “condy” at least twenty more times while waiting for the cookbook to make its rounds to her. Her father passed it to her without looking inside. She was actually kind of curious to flip through the pages. She could use a few cooking tips. She opened the first page and noticed that Melissa and Brice had actually written something to Stan inside the book. What a sweet gesture , she thought. This made it so much more meaningful. Being nosy, she had to read.

After Rancho’s, Elise decided to head with Stan to Winston’s in Ocean Beach. She called Carly, who was sitting around waiting for Marcus to call, as usual. After several minutes of persuasion, she finally convinced her to meet them for a drink.

The ocean air was crisp, and she pulled her sweater tight around her shoulders. “They seem cool, and they’re cute. Why don’t you date one of them?”

“What are you looking for?” Having conversations about women with her brother was always interesting. His insight was a valuable and rare glimpse into the male species, and she was curious as to what made him stable.

“Brooke slept with two of my friends when she first moved here. Tracey gets drunk and tries to hook up with me, but something about her just turns me off. I don’t know. She’s kind of an airhead. I want someone who wants to have fun but also has her head screwed on straight.”

Elise was proud of him. She knew he had gotten plenty of action throughout bachelorhood. He could’ve easily taken advantage of his good looks, hooked up with both of them by now, and used them a million times for booty call. However, he was maturing into a good guy, looking for more substance than an easy fling. She hoped he found a great girl, someone that she could be friends with, too.

Winston’s was crowded when they arrived. A band Elise had never heard of was playing, and the lead singer reminded her a little of Pete Yorn. She was dying to ask Stan about Max but realized it was going to be difficult with all of his friends there.

Tracey had brought a date, and Brooke was dressed as if she were out on the prowl in her hip-hugger jeans and hot pink halter top. Brooke was one of those girls who had a way of making Elise feel like a Smurf—small and unshapely. Unlike Elise’s thin little body, Brooke had voluptuous J.Lo curves, and the kind of boobs people paid a lot of money for. She caught up with them for a few minutes before they said they wanted to hit the dance floor. Elise would’ve joined them but was waiting for Carly to meet her at the bar. She was standing by herself, sipping a Long Island when she felt a presence next to her.

She was afraid to face the person. If he was beastly and offering to buy her a drink, she’d be stuck making polite conversation. She always felt bad refusing drinks from a guy. She turned around and felt adrenaline rush through her veins when she looked at Max leaning against the bar beside her. “Hi,” she said, trying desperately to mentally murder the giddy little monster that threatened to reveal herself at any moment. “I had no idea you were here.”

“Yeah. I might go on the road with these guys next month.” No! She wanted to shout. Then I’ll really never be able to see you. “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“I think you have an awesome career.” He was really gorgeous, and she had to admit his tattoos turned her on. They weren’t loud and obnoxious like he was trying to be Mr. Tough and Trashy Tattoo like that motorcycle guy with the dreads on the Discovery channel. Rather, his tattoos were a little more chill, like Johnny Depp. He looked at the bartender. “A Long Island and another Budweiser.”

“You got it.” The bartender popped the cap off the beer and made Elise’s Long Island in a bigger glass. “No charge for these,” he said as he knocked on the counter.

“Me, too. Sometimes I think about riding in the bus with the guys, sharing stories from the night before. It makes me laugh. I love the memories, but I am where I am now, and it’s better this way. I’m thirty-two now.”

She’d thought he was a little older than she was, and was actually happy to hear that he had a few years ahead of her. She thought of Toby who was twenty-seven. She remembered how immature he was.

She watched as they shook hands, Max’s rough hands pulling in her tanned manicured hands. “Great to meet you, too,” Brooke said, giving him a huge smile and a flash of cleavage. “Are you a friend of Elise’s?”

“Who was that?” Brooke asked as soon as he was out of earshot. “He is the hottest thing I have seen since I moved here. I’d love to let that guy see what color my sheets are tonight.”

“Yeah, he is cute,” she said. She was feeling slightly irritated until something wonderful occurred to her and washed away any irritating Brooke thoughts. He had asked if she missed grad school. She’d never told him that she’d gone to grad school. This could only mean one thing. He’d been asking about her. Who? Stan? Jimmy?

“True. Looks like your little friend has her eyes on him, too.” They watched as Stan walked away and Brooke moved in, perching herself on a barstool next to Max. She was the only person in the bar who hadn’t been affected by the heat. There wasn’t a peck of sweat on her body, and Elise could tell by the way her eyes danced over his face that she was using all her charm on him.

They hit the dance floor, and Elise realized she was starting to feel pleasantly potted herself. She danced shamelessly with a bunch of Stan’s friends. When she left to fill up on another Long Island, she looked around for Max. He was near the stage, turning knobs on what looked like a gigantic speaker.

“Yeah, I’m just tired, and I have that convention tomorrow, so I want to get a good rest. But I’ll call you afterwards, okay?” She gave her a hug. “Have fun at the shower.”

After Carly left, Elise scanned the bar for the rest of the group. Her brother was nowhere to be found. She felt drunk and decided she should probably hop in a cab as well. She wanted to say good-bye to Max but didn’t want to disturb him while he was working, and he had left the stage anyway. She was turning for the door when she practically walked into his chest.

“There you are!” Brooke interrupted. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you, Elise. And Max, I wanted to say bye to you. Lemme give you my number. I’d love to stop by your shop sometime.”

She watched as Brooke whipped out a pen and scrawled her name, number, and e-mail address on a napkin. If Elise wasn’t mistaken, she thought she saw Brooke draw a heart next to her name.

Politely, Max took the napkin. “Well, you girls have a good night,” he said, nodding. Elise looked over her shoulder as she walked away, and he was still watching them. She felt as if she’d just turned on a fantastic suspense movie, and five minutes before the ending the electricity had gone out. If she wasn’t mistaken, Max was about to ask her something before Brooke interrupted. The title of her new book? Her phone number? She’d never know.