Time of My Life Read online

  During his very first meeting with the marketing team at Blue Wave, he talked about his failures, how many mistakes he’d made along the way to success. He said he learned more from failure than from success, and he didn’t want anyone on his team to be afraid to fail, because fear prevents creativity.

  I wish I could be more like him. Fearless in the face of adversity, instead of just a scared failure.

  I could tell him the truth. I know him well enough to know he’s not the judgmental type, but opening up to people, especially people I respect and admire, is like being skinned alive. Rejection and lack of understanding is too common an occurrence.

  And yet.

  “I got fired,” I blurt out. Heat fills my face. I can’t meet his eyes, instead fixating on a crack in the sidewalk. Why did I tell him?

  “Oh, Jane. Hey.” He dips his head to meet my eyes. “That really sucks.”

  I wave him off, even though my eyes are stinging. This is humiliating enough without crying in front of Alex. I’m a lot of things, but a crier isn’t usually one of them.

  Maybe because I usually don’t talk to other people about my problems.

  I shove the thought away. Now is not the time for introspection. “It’s fine.”

  But it’s not fine. I blink back the tears. I hate this day. Over and over this damn day.

  “Hey listen, I’m in a band. We have a gig tonight. I mean, it’s not a big thing, we’re the opening act and it’s at the Saloon, but you should come. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Pity invite, huh?” I laugh, the sound brittle.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Not at all. You should come. Please?”

  Alex’s expression is careful, his hands shoved into his jeans.

  This is new.

  This is different.

  On the Mondays I don’t avoid Alex, he never asks me to this show. I didn’t even know he was in a band.

  A normal person would jump at the chance. But of course, my first thought isn’t about spending time with Alex. My first thought is about social anxiety. Go, by myself, to a bar I’ve never been to, to potentially hang out with Alex and his bandmates? Please. The old Jane would run so far and so fast, she’d leave a Jane-sized outline in smoke. I still want to say no. This is totally and completely outside of my comfort zone. I’ll probably do something dumb or make a total ass of myself.

  But . . . is this a sign?

  And if there’s no tomorrow, what does it matter?

  Why not go?

  It would be different. Different is good.

  I need to change something about this day. And if I do something awkward and embarrassing, as I do, it’s not like anyone else will remember because tomorrow will reset everything, so really, there’s no risk.

  I could show up wearing a G-string and cowboy boots and the slate will wipe itself clean overnight like it never happened.

  “Yeah. Maybe.” I straighten. “I mean, I’ll go.” My voice shakes only a little.

  His whole face lights up with his smile and I can’t help but smile back, even if my lips tremble with the motion. “Really? That would be amazing. Eight o’clock.”

  I give him a shaky nod and straighten my shoulders. “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Seven

  I’m going to do this. I am. I’m going to change something about this day and I’m going to go to this bar to watch Alex’s band. By myself. Not knowing anyone. All alone.

  The words pound through my head, each phrase ramping up my anxiety more and more the closer the train gets to my apartment.

  What the hell am I thinking?

  I can’t go to a bar by myself. I can’t even go to a bar with other people when I’m invited and I know them and have worked with them for years. The crowds. The smell. People watching me, wondering who is this loser at the bar alone.

  And what about after? The thought of spending time with Alex outside of work sends a swarm of crows with razor-sharp talons winging through my stomach. But the thought of showing up and not spending time with him is worse. What if he ignores me? What if he has a new girlfriend and she shows up too, and they both stare at me with pity and a vague sense of unease? What if he’s only inviting me because he thinks I won’t go?

  After all, I was removed from Alex’s team because of . . . I shut my eyes, but it doesn’t stop me from hurtling back in time, to when I thought there might be something more between us. One more idiocy to add to the mile-long list.

  “Did you get lost in here?” Alex asked one fateful day, coming up next me in the stock room.

  I had gone to get paper to replenish the printer but decided to take a minute to catch my breath. We’d been working together alone for hours, and being the object of Alex’s focus for long periods of time was invigorating, but trying not to say or do anything stupid was exhausting.

  Not to mention fighting the ever-present attraction, a live wire that bounced around, shocking me in the heart every time he gave me a lopsided smile or touched my arm.

  “Not lost. I’m just trying to, you know, pick the best one.”

  We stared at the identical stacks of packaged printer paper together.

  He rubbed his chin, considering the options. “It is hard to decide.”

  “And what about the ones I don’t pick. What if they feel left out?”

  He snorted. “Like getting picked last for dodgeball, something that happened frequently to me in middle school. I feel for the paper, I do.”

  I groaned. “Dodgeball is the worst. It’s torture. Who wants to be picked first for torture?”

  He turned to face me, standing only a foot away, his eyes dark in the low light of the closet. “What if being printed on is torture for the paper? Must be painful. Stacked in a dark tray, yanked through gears and machinery, and forcefully covered in ink.”

  I laughed.

  This was one of the many things I appreciated about working with Alex. I could talk to him about anything that popped into my head, even if they were completely random tangents. I could make ridiculous statements about paper feeling lonely and he would play along.

  He reached for my face then, tucking a strand of hair back behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my cheek. His eyes dipped to my mouth.

  Holy shit. Did he want to kiss me? Was this really happening? Was I dreaming? I wanted to pinch myself, but if this was real, there was no way I’d risk it.

  I leaned into him and shut my eyes, every cell in my body gravitating toward him like he was a mirage in the desert, and let me tell you, I was thirsty. His breath caressed my lips, and then . . . and then he pulled away.

  “Uh, here, I think this one is dying for torture.”

  I opened my eyes. He grabbed a ream of paper from the stack and left the room. Shocked, I stood there, staring at where he had been a moment ago. What had just happened? It took me a minute to collect myself. A long minute. When I went back to the employee area, we went back to work. Had I imagined the whole thing?

  He acted like nothing happened. And then, the next week, I was off his team.

  I’m sure he asked for me to be removed because of that moment with the paper. I, of course, spent weeks obsessing over it. What did I do wrong? Could he tell how into him I was and was embarrassed for me? Whatever he did, touching me, leaning in, he clearly thought it was a mistake.

  I thought we were friends. We bonded over a shared love of colorful design. I even helped him pick the colors for different levels of Bubble Crush. That’s when I told him about my own dreams of designing clothing. And he didn’t laugh or tell me it was a pointless dream like everyone else. He didn’t point out my drab work clothes and lack of visible style. He encouraged me. He sincerely appreciated my hidden creative streak. At least, I thought he had.

  Shortly after that, Mark showed an interest in me and . . . he’s not worth mentioning.

  I get home and try to work on a new pitch, but I can’t focus.

  My resolve wavers about forty-seven times over the course of the day.

  Figuring out what to wear is an agonizing decision. I want to look cool but casual, nice but not like I’m trying too hard, sexy but not overly so. I wish I could call Eloise or ask her advice, but the thought makes me queasy.

  Besides, I don’t have a phone.

  I finally settle on a pair of dark, stretchy jeans and a T-shirt Eloise gave me. It’s a multihued V-neck, colorful and vibrant and more eye-catching than I would like but there’s a bit of red lace in the bottom of the V covering my slight cleavage, and I have a little red jacket to match. She wore it to some teen choice award. I think she wore it as a dress, but it barely covers my ass so I’m not sure how she managed to pull that off.

  I use the dirty pay phone to call a cab and take it into the city, jangling with anticipation and unease the entire ride. I attempt to distract myself by gazing out the window as we drive over the Bay Bridge and into the city, the cables and towers dazzling in white lights, the city a glimmering jewel in the distance. But it doesn’t help.

  The cab drops me on the corner of Grant and Fresno, right in front of the Saloon. The building is two stories, with chipped and faded red siding.

  There’s no line to get in. I sort of expected one. I mean, Alex is pretty chill, but he is an up-and-coming millionaire. I’ve seen articles of him in The Chronicle regaling the locals about his successes and noting even who he’s dating and where he’s been spotted around town.

  The battered wooden front door is open but I stop at the corner, staring at the words painted on the glass front window: Saloon established 1861.

  Sounds filter out into the night, laughter, music, people talking, glasses clinking.

  My stomach churns, my body thumping with the urge to flee.

  No. I’m not running. I’m going to do this.

  I force myself to move to the front door and peek inside. Despite the noise, it’s only half full.

  Thank the heavens. If it was packed, my willpower might have run away along with the rest of me.

  The lighting is dim, which helps. If it’s dark, people can’t see me as clearly and therefore can’t judge my every move and outfit choice. Most of the patrons are in jeans and tees. I tug on the hem of my fancy shirt, beelining to the dark wood bar and the first empty seat I can find.

  I perch on a stool, avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone—especially Alex, who is onstage with a drummer to back him up.

  The setup is small, a raised platform in the back of the one-room bar. Along the wall opposite me is a long table lined with more barstools for additional seating.

  Once I’m somewhat settled, I manage to swallow past my dry mouth long enough to order a drink from the bartender. A few chords strum through the room.

  I swivel around in the stool.

  Alex is wearing the same clothes from earlier. The drummer is dressed just as casually, T-shirt and jeans, and he has the biggest, most well sculpted Afro I’ve ever seen.

  “Sorry, we’re not as good looking as the Flight of the Conchords,” the drummer says.

  “And neither of us has a sexy accent.” Alex strums the guitar along with his words.

  “Also we aren’t funny,” his bandmate adds.

  I laugh along with a few other patrons, the ones who are paying attention and not chatting or drinking.

  “We couldn’t even come up with a band name,” Alex says.

  “So we’ve decided to call ourselves Name This Band.”

  They segue into a song, a jaunty sea shanty about hats.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it’s not this. They aren’t just a band, they’re a comedy duo.

  I sip my drink and take in the show, my focus almost entirely on Alex with only occasional glances at the drummer. Alex is so comfortable there, onstage, singing in front of strangers.

  I could never do this.

  The words of the song blur into the background as I fixate on his fingers, long and capable, strumming the strings. He can sing pretty well, actually. Even though the songs are simple and silly, his voice is a deep tenor, sending chills up my spine and then back down, spreading heat through my stomach, quieting the nerves in my belly. Apparently, I have a thing for musicians. Or it’s just Alex.

  They aren’t getting rolling laughs from the small crowd, just the occasional chuckle and claps from the part of the audience that is actually paying attention. But they’re clearly having a blast, exchanging grins, singing alone and together with perfect timing. Even though it’s a small-time gig and they’re singing about sombreros versus ball caps. They would be enjoying themselves if the room were empty. It’s random and funny and their enjoyment is infectious.

  I have so much fun watching and clapping along that when it ends, I’m jolted back to reality. I’ve been sitting here alone, actually enjoying myself. I almost forgot to be apprehensive about being somewhere on my own and surrounded by strangers.

  Scattered applause breaks out across the bar. They bow and thank the audience, then Alex sets his guitar off to the side and steps off the stage.

  Three women sit at a table on the side—leggy blondes with short skirts—and Alex and Leon head in their direction. One of them jumps up and gives Alex a hug.

  Probably a girlfriend. I spin around in the stool, facing the bar, nerves that had settled during the show quivering back to life.

  I clench my empty glass. My drink is gone. I should leave now, while I’m ahead.

  He invited me because he felt bad, but I’m sure one of those women is his date. I’m just a friend. Not even that, more of an acquaintance. What if he comes over here and introduces one of them as his girlfriend? He’ll be able to tell I’ve dressed up, put on makeup. Made an effort.

  I’m hot and itchy. I should leave.

  I slide off the stool, my toes barely touching the ground when a voice stops me.

  “Hey.” Alex’s smile is bright and surprised, still flushed with adrenaline from the performance, no doubt. “You made it.”

  “I did.” My voice is a little shaky. Maybe he won’t notice over the hum of conversation permeating the space around us.

  He’s smiling at me, expectant, and I have no idea how to have a conversation with him outside of the office.

  Oh, crap.

  Tension grips my stomach in a tight fist. “The music—you did, I thought, um, it was really great. I know sea shanties are a thing, but I’m not sure I’ve heard one that’s also, uh, comedy.”

  His eyes dip to my midsection, where my hands clutch my purse like a lifeline.

  His smile droops. “Are you leaving already?”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want to intrude on anything.” I glance behind him, looking for the leggy blondes.

  “You aren’t intruding,” he says quickly. “Just stay for a little bit longer? I said I would buy you a drink, remember?”

  “Oh, um.”

  Anxiety whispers in my ear. You’re going to say something stupid. You have nothing to talk about. Nothing in common. He’s going to think you’re a weirdo. He probably already does. He feels bad for you and he’s nice and now he’s going to hate you.

  I want to run. I want to hide.

  But I have to remember the whole point of this. At least, what I think is the point. I can control me. If I do or say anything dumb, he won’t remember it anyway. I could jump up on the bar and yodel while beating my hands against my chest like an ape and no one would remember it tomorrow. Except me. And even knowing that to be the truth, it doesn’t stop the fluttering of my heart or the sweat in my palms.

  “Yes. Sure. A drink sounds great. Um. Gin and tonic.”

  He tells the bartender, ordering himself a beer, and we wait while the bartender gets our drinks. We stand side by side at the bar in silence. People jostle around us. More patrons file in through the front door.

  Alex shifts toward me as more bodies crowd the bar.

  He smells good. Like aftershave and soap. Simple. Clean. Much better than the cologne and beer filling the rest of the space. His scent is familiar since we’ve worked together and I’ve been this close to him before, sitting next to him in meetings and whatnot. But not like this. This is distinctly different.

  We’re not in the office, we’re in a bar, having a drink together, and he’s talking to me instead of one of the many women he could be talking to. My heart pounds in my chest, a heavy hammer of doom. He could be with anyone but me. Except he’s not really with me. We’re standing here in silence.

  Crap. I need to make conversation. My mind blanks.

  The bartender puts a glass in front of me and I take a few long sips through the little straw.

  This is one of the many reasons I avoid socializing. I have nothing of interest to contribute. I hate small talk. Most of the things my brain lands on are lame or boring or weird, and people look at me funny or immediately have somewhere else to be, someone else to talk to.

  Maybe that’s why I’m reliving the same day over and over again. Even the universe is tired of my awkwardness and inability to have a normal interaction with another human being.

  Say something! Anxiety spikes.

  “Um. Well.” I shove aside the straw and finish the drink in two long gulps. “Thanks for the drink. I have to go.” I slip off the chair on the opposite side.

  “Wait, Jane!” he calls.

  But I . . . I can’t do it. I weave around people, getting lost in the growing crowd, grateful for once to be surrounded by others so he can’t easily find me.

  Outside, I take deep gulps of the chilly night air, the cool breeze on my hot face a relief. I hurry down the sidewalk, arms wrapped around my middle like they might keep me from jumping out of my own skin.

  Why can’t I do this? Why can’t I be normal? What is wrong with me? Anger bubbles inside, threatening to explode.

  I’m so sick of myself.

  Routine. Control. Order. Those are the invisible clothes I wear every day. The ones that keep me from panicking, overanalyzing, or freaking out on a constant basis. Except it doesn’t work. It never works. It’s still there, like a tiger, waiting to jump out and attack at the worst possible moments.