-Oct
Let’s face it, a normal person would have responded immediately with the requested text. But I am not a normal person. I lack gumption. And as soon as I am aware that I need to do something, I do nothing.
October texted me the next morning: Can you talk?
At this point she and I had spent a considerable amount of time together, but we didn’t know each other very well. Specifically, I didn’t think she knew me very well, because if she did, I reasoned, she wouldn’t have left me a note like that.
And if anyone had asked me back then, before she left the note, if I was attracted to her, I would have had a complicated, undoubtedly evasive answer. Obviously, she intrigued me. I thought she was beautiful, and unlike any woman I’d ever met. On top of that, she made me feel seen—she asked for my ideas, took my opinions to heart, and genuinely valued my contributions to her work.
But the truth is, it never occurred to me to be interested in her, or to allow myself to acknowledge any kind of real attraction, first and foremost because she was my boss, but also because, as far as I was concerned, she was so far out of my league that even fantasizing about her seemed like a joke, never mind entertaining the possibility that she could be attracted to me.
That’s why I acted like a loser.
I was terrified.
Moreover, and not inconsequentially, I knew October had a long-term boyfriend. She’d only mentioned him to me in passing, but I’d heard her talking to Rae about him one day when the two of them were having lunch on the lawn outside the studio. What I’d gleaned about the guy was that his name was Chris, he was constantly out of town for work, she’d only spent two weekends with him in the last three months, and, interestingly enough, they had something of an open relationship.
October was expressing to Rae that she felt disconnected from the guy, was tired of having an absentee boyfriend, and wanted to date other men. Then she said, “I’m allowed to, remember? We give each other that freedom.”
Rae scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Chris adores you, yeah? You’ve been together a long time. And trust me, dating in San Francisco is way worse than a boyfriend who’s never home.”
I remember being curious about the man October chose as her boyfriend. I remember wondering what “give each other that freedom” meant. But the idea that I had a chance with her never crossed my mind.
She texted again: Call me.
I’d quit FarmHouse as soon as October had hired me, but they hadn’t found anyone who could work on weekends yet, so I filled in for them when they needed help. I’d been parked in a driveway in Petaluma that morning, about to pick up a dozen boxes of heirloom tomatoes, and I was so caught off guard by October’s request for a call that I put my phone in airplane mode without writing back.
I couldn’t keep avoiding her though. I lived fifteen yards from her front door, for Christ’s sake. And as soon as I got back to Casa Diez that night and saw the light on in her house, I knew I had to respond. But before I did, I got out my blender and fixed myself a cocktail, adding considerably more tequila than necessary. I downed a glass, waited a couple of minutes for it to start kicking in, and then made the call.
“Hey,” I mumbled.
“Hey.” There was a pause. Then, “I’m sorry if I freaked you out with that note. I have this terrible habit of holding in my feelings for too long and then expressing them at really inopportune times.”
“It’s OK,” I told her, hoping that would be the end of the conversation; that we would pretend it never happened.
“You’re home,” she said, as if she’d just looked out her window to check. “I’m coming over.”
She knocked on my door five minutes later, barefoot, in threadbare sweats, a big gray hoodie around her shoulders, and carrying a pie.
“I bake when I’m anxious,” she said, handing it to me.
She’d used all of the extra piecrust to make little clouds and lighting bolts, which she’d placed around the top of the pie before she baked it. It looked like an edible storm.
“Thanks.”
“Blackberry. From the bushes in the yard. You should have some while it’s still hot.”
She followed me to the kitchen, and as I cut myself a piece of the pie, she eyed the frothy, mud-colored drink in the blender.
“I make cocktails when I’m anxious,” I explained.
“That looks disgusting.”
“Brown recluses are not disgusting.”
I grabbed a clean glass from my dish rack and poured her one. She slipped her arms into her sweatshirt, took the glass from my hand and held it at arm’s length, as if I’d given her shit, which, I admit, it did look like.
“I invented this cocktail,” I said with pride. “Tequila, chocolate milk, cinnamon, a pinch of cayenne pepper, and ice.”
“It sounds even worse than it looks.” She smelled the drink and made a face.
“There’s a word for that, you know.”
“A word for what?” she said.
“For a person who makes a disgusted face when they’re drinking liquor.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s the word?”
“‘Paper-belly.’ You’re a paper-belly.”
She tried to swat me with her hand, but her sweatshirt was too big and the sleeve kept sliding down so that not even the tips of her fingers were visible.
“Taste it,” I prodded.
The cocktail was thick and sludgy, and she had to tilt her head back and sort of pour it into her mouth, but she was nodding and smiling as she swallowed.
“Wow. This is way better than it looks. Like a spicy, boozy milkshake.”
“Exactly.”
Her hands were so small she had to hold the glass with both of them. She took another drink, and I took a bite of the pie. To be honest, it looked better than it tasted, but I didn’t tell her that.
“We should do a pie-making selfie,” I suggested.
She gave me a funny smirk.
“What?”
“You said we.”
“Sorry, I meant you.”
“No. I like that you said we.”
We stared at each other for a long, awkward instant. Then I refilled my glass and said, “I’m not good at this kind of thing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”
“Neither do I.” October took a long, deep breath, held it in, and then let it out as if she’d been underwater and had just resurfaced. She played with the zipper on her sweatshirt, up and down, up and down, the sound a feedback-like buzz. “Well, I mean, there are a lot of things I want to say, but they’re not really appropriate. Because we work together. And I’m your boss. And—”