“Jeans? Sneakers?”
“My suede moto jacket.”
“Plus, jeans and sneakers.”
“I’m cycling to the Wine Room, so yes. If I had one of those Santa Cruz boardwalk cruisers, I could maybe wear a dress without flashing traffic, but I don’t… and I don’t think I own any dresses.”
“That can be fixed. The main problem is, though: you’ll have helmet hair. Keep that genius brain safe, but—no, you know what?” Martina grinned. “I’ll drive you to the Wine Room tonight.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She hesitated while Jess approached with their plates.
“I won’t if you don’t want me to. But I’m curious about your mystery man.Bannister. I wouldn’t get in your way, but then if this really is some niche catfishing and he’s too good to be true—you saw those muscles and that dog!—I’ll be there for you.”
“How could it be catfishing? I was the one who reached out to him. And I know him now. I do. He’s a good man. A friend, even if nothing else comes of it.”
“I’m yourbestfriend.” Martina swirled hollandaise sauce across her Parma ham and croissant, tapping her fork for emphasis. “I’ll be thrilled for you if your date turns out well. But Bannister—whose real name you don’t know, I should remind you—is a stranger.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Maybe not. Still, you haven’t vetted him through any of the filters on a dating site. Which admittedly aren’t always accurate—what sort of person labels themselves as a political conservative and expects to match with anyone around here? But what I’m saying is that you only know what he’s told you about himself. You have no outside data. You’ve said that he doesn’t have much of an online presence. You can’t verify details independently. So, unless you tell me not to, I’ll be in the background tonight. Just in case.”
“Martina…” Erin punctured a poached egg onto her challah. Then she sighed. “Fine. You’re right. Honestly, Wes and Adrian would probably thank you.”
“Which is why I’m doing this. Not to snoop on your artist, or to drink Riesling in a swanky spot with cute shoes on.” Martina raised her mimosa.
“I’m glad I can facilitate your fun.”
“And my investigation of Jess’s boutique.”
They finished up brunch while Martina reviewed her progress lobbying Menlo Park’s city council for the preservation of her local pocket green space—the Perezes had lived in the area for generations in the same modest house, and Martina, her younger sibling Desi, and their father had seen the Peninsula’s eddies of gentrification and urbanization swell to a torrent—and then meandered up Santa Cruz Avenue to the boutique. A quick browse of the racks became an hour in a dressing room, Martina sampling herbal candles and assembling accessories, Erin abandoning her exercise clothes to pivot before a mirror in pretty, impractical outfits. She was careful to keep her phone out of reach. She didn’t want to accidentally send another picture to Bannister. She didn’t want the temptation of checking her work email, either. Not after Friday night. After…
“Try this one next.” Martina passed a sleek blouse with semi-sheer paneling that slid off its hanger on one shoulder through the curtain. “ThisI could authorize with jeans.”
Grateful for the distraction, glad to busy her twitching hands before she could cave and reach for her screen, she slipped the top over her head, then turned to evaluate herself. Shimmers of bronze in the dark, asymmetrical fabric highlighted her collarbones and a hint of her navel through the paneling. It really was gorgeous.
“Yes?” from Martina.
She shrugged at the mirror, smiling now. “Yes.”
Despite her earlier protestations, she was relieved to spend the afternoon with her friend. With the shimmery top purchased, they fetched Martina’s own colorful going-out clothes from her house. Then they returned to Live Oak Avenue for an assessment of potential jeans to pair with her blouse, decisions on what to do with her hair, and a wave at Kai and Ashley as her roommates headed out for a ride up Skyline Boulevard. Singing along to a golden oldies radio station kept her mind occupied and her nerves at bay while she showered, then sat still as Martina wove a slender braid behind her ear, brushing out the rest of her hair until it crackled with electricity and sweeping it over her shoulder.
When Wes’s watch read six forty-five—she’d refused to swap it out for a bracelet, though she’d conceded to wearing simple gold studs in her ears—she was dressed in flats with tapered dark jeans, the semi-sheer top skimming her ribcage and hips under her suede motorcycle jacket, her half-down hair a tangle waiting to happen, perfume on her pulse points, and walking down to Martina’s car on the street.
It was time.
“Are you feeling as good as you look?” Martina pulled her ancient coupe through the intersection onto El Camino Real. The vehicle trembled slightly with their southbound acceleration, but she ignored it to appraise Erin again.
“The physiological results of anxiety and excitement are the same.”
“So you’re excited.”
“I’m excited.”
They parked underneath Palo Alto’s city hall, then crossed onto Ramona Street. The pedestrian block between Hamilton Avenue and University Avenue was lined with European-themed restaurants, a popular cafe chain, tea shops, and a pricey salon. Balconies overflowed with wisteria, and art projects or political signs leaned in the windows of upper floor apartments. Rock tracks blaring from a college bar clashed with an Italian eatery’s Pavarotti mix. The tables encroaching onto the street and sidewalks were packed with crowds of Stanford students, patent tech lawyers, families with labradoodles, and couples leaning close over candle centerpieces. Waiters sped by with cocktails and artisanal pizzas. They edged through the crush, heat lamps blazing on their faces, twinkling lights shining from the trunks of trees in planter pots on the pavement, windows along the street fogged with exhaled conversations and alcohol.
Erin shed her jacket before she and Martina even reached the Wine Room. An adobe building modeled after the classical Old California style, exposed timbers upheld its roof above squashy leather chairs and a glossy bar. Open shutters spilled light and the shadows of bottles onto upright wine barrels doubling as tables outside. People sat on benches near the windows, leaning against the sills and trailing their hands into the fresh air, fingers tapping to the bass beats of barely audible music. Others chatted under a hanging sign by the door, friends and strangers mingling to enjoy the night and Saturday’s freedom from spreadsheets or quarterly earnings reports. It was packed. Despite the heat radiating out onto the sidewalk, she shivered.
“Not anxiety. Anticipation,” Martina reminded her. Taking Erin by the hand, she amiably pushed a path past the bouncer and into the front room, then cleared their way to a corner by one of the windows with smiles and elbows.
