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“Good. Coffee’s very non-committal.”Damien: Okay. How about Saturday afternoon at 3?
Chelsea: Sounds good.
Damien: Looking forward to it. See you then.“Well, that was pretty easy,” I said.
“You’ll get used to it. Just always keep in control. You make the decisions.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably not.”
“What?”
“How am I going to know that the guy isn’t a bad person?”
“You can’t really know a hundred percent. Use your instinct the best you can. And get his full name. I pay for this background check service. I’ll run the same one I do on all the tenants to make sure any guy you date is legit.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“What are friends for?”
“Oh…are we friends?” I joked.
“Yeah. Why not?”
And there it was: final confirmation of the fact that Damien wasn’t interested in anything more with me.
Handing him back the laptop, I said, “I’d better get back. It’s late.”
“Oh, hey. Before you go.” He walked over to the kitchen and unplugged the toaster oven before reaching it out to me. “Here.”
“You’re giving me your toaster oven?”
“I don’t use it much. I get the impression it might be all you use to cook. Am I right?”
“Mostly, yes.”
“So, here.”
I took it. “Thank you. I’ll give it back.”
“No need. If I ever need to toast something, I’ll just knock. Loudly. In case you’re holed up with a ménage book in the bathroom.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks again for dinner.”
“Sweet dreams, Chelsea.”
As I walked back to my smoky apartment, I couldn’t help the smile on my face. I also couldn’t help wishing the Saturday coffee date with Damien was real.CHAPTER SEVENCHANGE THE STORYA couple of weeks later, it was Arts Night at the youth center, and I’d found myself in a major pickle.
The event was our biggest art-themed function of the year and the only one I was held fully responsible for organizing.
Many of the center sponsors would be showing up to view some performances put on by the kids. There were also various workshops that featured a few local celebrities. I’d lined up a jazz musician, an actress from a Bay Area theater group and an oil painter. The idea was to have one person from each category: music, theater, and visual arts.
At the last minute, the painter, Marcus Dubois, called to say his flight home from London was cancelled and that he wouldn’t be able to make it. While the event would still have to go on without him, I knew that this wasn’t going to look good in front of the donors and wouldn’t bode well for center management or me.
Feeling desperate, I wracked my brain for a solution and immediately thought of Damien. I wondered if he would be willing to be my fill-in, if he’d be willing to demonstrate some of his talent. It would also include talking to the kids, which I wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable with.
Damien and I had only casually hung out a couple of more times since the night he made me pizza. Both times I had initiated it, knocking on his door and inviting myself in. At no point had he ever really spoken about his art, so I wasn’t sure how he would feel about running a workshop, especially on such late notice. But with two hours to go until people would be arriving, I was feeling desperate when I picked up the phone.
My heart was pounding when his voicemail kicked in.
My voice was shaky. “Hey, Damien.” I cleared my throat. “It’s Chelsea. I have sort of a huge favor to ask, but I’m not sure if it’s something you would even consider. Basically, it’s Arts Night here at the youth center. It’s a huge event, and the biggest artist I had lined up, Marcus Dubois—you might have heard of him—bailed on me. We have all of these sponsors here and are trying to make a good impression and well, this just looks really bad. I’m kind of desperate and freaking out, so—”
BEEP.
His damn answering machine cut me off.
Shit!
Now, I would sound like a total desperado if I called back. Deciding to try to forget about it, I did my best to suck up my embarrassment about having no visual arts presenter. I would explain what happened as best I could and cut my losses.
Feeling completely defeated, I went through the motions, letting the caterer in, helping to set up and eventually greeting the arriving guests with a fake smile on my face.
An entire section of the room that had been set up for Marcus Dubois sat blatantly empty.
Just as I was in the middle of explaining the Dubois situation to another sponsor for what felt like the hundredth time, I heard a deep voice behind me.
“Sorry I’m late.”
When I turned around, Damien was standing there in his classic gray beanie, dressed in all black and smelling like leather and cologne. He was carrying a massive bag around his shoulder. My weak knees felt like they were ready to snap from under me. So shocked, I stood there speechless until I finally found the words to introduce him. “This is—”
