Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 221

You guys,

He was short, bald, and so smiley as he locked eyes on mine. 

I stood before Sam and he gave me a firm handshake. We were guests at a week-long wedding event in Mexico. It was a brief interaction. 

Earlier that morning the bride stopped by the villa where I was staying and said, in a sing-songy voice, “Someone was asking about you last nighttttt.” 

Last night was the Welcome Cocktails. I already knew most of the bride and groom’s friends. If there was an attractive single person at the event I would have spotted him. I didn’t. 

“He’s so nice and so smart,” Sasha said. 

“That means he’s short and ugly,” I said. 

She wanted to introduce me to him, anyway, so that afternoon I went to her villa, where the bridal party was staying, and this time I spotted Sam immediately. First because I didn’t know him, and second because he was fixated on me. 

I had no intention of meeting someone in Mexico. It had been four months since my ex-boyfriend broke up with me and I was finally leaning into my solitude. I liked being alone. I liked writing my blog and reading books and figuring out what I wanted and needed. And right now I needed to be single. 

Later that night—after I gave a drunken impromptu speech at the rehearsal dinner that I was sure was awesome and hilarious but the groom told me later was sloppy and long-winded—a friend of mine heard about the potential pairing of me and Sam. 

She dragged me over to the bar where he was standing. “Sam, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Sam. You two are awesome. You should talk.” 

And between shots of Jameson we did. Of course I can’t remember the conversation. What I do remember was how after I said something his eyes would light up and he’d ask a follow-up question. How genuinely curious and interested he seemed. How we flowed from one topic to the next. 

This happens with whiskey and weddings, I assumed, so I didn’t pay it much mind. We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. 

At the wedding reception Sam found me at the bar again. It was early and I was still sober. I acted aloof and responded to his questions with one-word answers. After chatting for a minute he said, “Okay, well I don’t want to bother you so I’ll just leave you alone.” 

He started to walk away. “No!” I said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to act. I like talking to you.” 

We found our way back into easy conversation. I told him about my Etsy store and The Untethered Soul. He told me about podcasts and The 4-Hour Work Week. 

At the end of the night I went back to his villa and we floated together in the pool, my arms wrapped around his neck, my legs wrapped around his waist, and when we kissed I felt as though I could kiss him forever. When we weren’t kissing I wouldn’t shut up. I kept calling it “the magic of Mexico.” That’s all this was. Nothing more. The setting was too perfect. “I mean look where we are right now,” I said, and pointed to the ocean in the distance, and the full moon and stars in the night sky. Everything was beautiful. It was too beautiful to be real. 

At the airport Sasha stated matter-of-factly that Sam and I were going to get married. “No,” I said, “it was nothing.” 

But when I got back home I practically sprinted into the house to tell my friend Cara about Mexico. 

She opened her laptop. “What’s his name?” Her fingers tapped on the keyboard. “Okay, this guy is legit.” 

I looked over her shoulder and saw his profile picture on LinkedIn. “He’s really nerdy, though,” I said.

“Charlie,” she said, “nerds are cool.”

“Dave’s not a nerd,” I said, referring to her husband. 

Cara shut her laptop and looked me dead in the eyes. 

“He talked about the moon for two hours the other night,” she said. 

When I got on my computer later I saw what I was hoping for: an email from Sam. 

I’d lost my phone in Mexico and sent an email to the long text thread of wedding guests (“if anyone knows its whereabouts, please email me to receive your reward!”) so I knew Sam had my contact information. He wrote that he’d been thinking about me, and how much fun he’d had. He thought we could find another weekend “to see if the chemistry is still there,” but he also understood “if you’d rather have some space since I know you were planning to take some time to just focus on yourself.” 

Solitude schmolitude. I couldn’t type my message back fast enough. Sam booked his flight for a month later. I was moved out of Cara’s by then and cat-sitting for a friend of a friend in Echo Park. I had a new phone and was texting with Sam every day, but one night after a few glasses of wine I got the courage to call him. Texting was one thing but would it be awkward speaking? Would I feel the same way when I heard his voice? Would the conversation flow as easily? 

I sat on the couch. Then stood. Then sat again. I called Sam’s number and he answered after one ring. I did not know until this “Hello” that Sam had a sexy voice. I did not know I could even be attracted to a voice. We talked, we flirted, we laughed, and from then on, we spoke on the phone every night. 

Three weeks later I drove to the airport to pick up Sam and the same barrage of questions filled my head. What will it be like to see him in person? Will I be as attracted to his face as I am to his voice? Will there be as much of a connection? 

I pulled over at the airport and got out of my car. He fast-walked towards me, suitcase in tow, with that big smile on his face. He looked taller than I remembered. And so fit. And so crisp in his solid T-shirt, shorts, and bright white sneakers.

I laughed—I always laugh when I’m nervous—and said hello and wrapped my arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around my waist for a tight hug. We stayed like that, squeezing each other, until he loosened his grip. I didn’t want to let go, though, so I held on, and he squeezed back for an even longer embrace. 

We jumped in the car and headed down to Long Beach. I was moving there next month and today I had to drop off the deposit check for my very first apartment. I was 32 years old. 

Sasha’s friend had recently moved from LA to Long Beach. We talked about how crazy it was to move down there, and why would anyone want to move away from LA, but one night Sasha went to visit her and said Long Beach was actually nice—and way more affordable.

One day I drove down to check out the area. I went up and down streets and didn’t see any signs. At one point I passed a rental agency. I was about to give up but decided to at least see if someone there could point me in the right direction. 

The door was locked. The blinds in the windows were open so I shielded my eyes with my hand and peered in. An older man in a tropical shirt sat behind a desk. We made eye contact. He didn’t move. 

I walked back to my car and heard a door behind me open. 

“Can I help you?” he said.

“Oh, are you open?” I said. 

“Yes. Come in.”

I entered the small office. There were only three desks. We passed a bowl of snacks and he picked it up.

“Here. Have some,” he said. 

He continued a slow walk back to his desk. His name was Barry. He was older, big, with gray hair. He wore khaki shorts, which exposed a leg brace that I’d only ever seen athletes wear, and running sneakers. He sat behind his desk and motioned for me to sit down. I remained standing. 

“You’re looking for a 1-bedroom?” he said. “What’s your price range?” 

“A thousand dollars,” I said. 

“I don’t think we have any 1-bedrooms for that much,” Barry said. “We do have a studio for that.” 

I thought for a moment. “I guess a studio’s fine,” I said, “as long as it has a kitchen.” 

“All our studios have kitchens,” he said, and pointed to a stack of papers on the table behind me. “That’s what we have available right now.” 

I picked up the packet:

Page 1. A studio for $995.

Page 2. A 1-bedroom for $1,695.

Page 3. A 2-bedroom for some insane price. 

“This is all you have?” I said. 

He chuckled. “For now. There’s already two people chomping at the bit for it.”

“Can I see it?” I said. It felt like I’d already lost it. 

He couldn’t show it to me until next week because the tenant still lived there. In the meantime I could fill out the application, get my last two pay stubs from work, a copy of my license, and twenty-five dollars. 

I drove to the address. Even if I couldn’t see the apartment I could at least see the neighborhood. I parked and looked around. On either side of the building and across the street were beautiful houses that all had their own original flare except for the matching Spanish tile roofs. Two blocks west I could see the beach. Three blocks east was Second Street, full of shops and restaurants in either direction. 

The front door was open so I walked right in. There were less than twenty units in the old white building. I climbed the stairs to the roof and saw the ocean in the distance. I saw my future outdoor Etsy studio. I saw a little porch swing facing the ocean. I sat on it. No one was up here but me. I wasn’t sure how this place existed, but it was mine. It had to be mine. 

A couple days later I saw Barry again and this time I took a deep breath as I sat down across from him.

“Are you ready for my pitch?” I said. 

He looked bemused, then motioned with his hand and leaned back in his chair as if to say, Go right ahead.

I didn’t have a job at the moment, but I would get one soon. It wasn’t an issue. I always paid my rent on time. Always. I was dependable, reliable. I was all the things. I would be a great tenant. I would be his best tenant.

Barry looked at me for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “It’s yours.” 

The next time I saw Barry, Sam was at my side. I skipped into his office with my deposit and then drove over to my new apartment. 

Sam and I walked around the 500 sq ft space. One wall had three tall windows with teal trim. Another wall was covered by a thin mirror. The living space was also the bedroom but the kitchen was separate, and it may have been tiny, but it had a gas range stove and a full-size refrigerator. All the tile was teal, which under any other circumstance I would have hated. But here it was retro, cool, mine. 

I asked Sam if he wanted to see the roof. We sat on the little white porch swing—perfect for two people—and stared out at the ocean. There’d been a heat wave the past week, but this morning when I stepped outside it felt like the first day of Fall, and every now and then a refreshing cool breeze swept across my face. 

We sat next to each other, in silence, and held hands over my knee. Sam sat forward and turned toward me. He gently grabbed my face in both his hands. He was genuine, earnest, and so present as he locked eyes on mine, and we kissed, finally.

—

Until next week,

Charlie