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There's a long pause and I wonder whether she put her cell down or is busy doing something else – or doesn't like my question.
INDIA: No, but the truth is that I want a man in my bed, Jon. Is that so wrong?
JON: You could have that any time you want, India. All you need to do is signal your interest and you could have practically any man you want, seriously. You should already know that. God, you're smoking hot and smart and successful. A man would have to be a total moron not to want to be in your bed.
She doesn't reply and so I wait, knowing that she's also not promiscuous. She doesn't sleep around, even though she honestly could get any man she wanted in her bed.
INDIA: I want someone who loves me in my bed, not just any man with a dick. I know damn well I could get that any time I want. I don't want that.
JON: Well, I can't help you find someone who loves you. But you could sure find someone to spend time in your bed.
INDIA: SIGH.
INDIA: Gotta go. Later.
I don't hear back from her for the rest of the afternoon.
Instead, I sit at my desk at the office and fume. My good mood has vanished and I feel a vague sense of anger at the world, which I can't explain.
At six, I decide to leave the office and go home, take a quick shower, and change for Marina's party. I don't really feel like going, but India will be there and if I don't go, she'll never let me hear the end of it.
So, I do exactly that, my mind still on the contracts I've been looking over all day, wondering if they're solid or whether we need to work on them some more before signing.
After my shower, I change into something casual, and then take my car to Marina's house. It's a pretty sweet house on the beach not too far from India's and has all the amenities – an outdoor bar, beach umbrellas and chairs, plus a great patio where the party will take place.
When I arrive, there are already a dozen cars parked in the driveway and on the streets. Marina's parties are notoriously filled with people from the tech industry and from Stanford, including faculty and grad students. The people are smart and geeky and mostly rich or student-poor. The music is good – Marina always hires a DJ who plays a good mix of hits and oldies.
I'm a bit late, so I end up parking down the street and walking the rest of the way to the house. It sits on a rise on the edge of a hill, affording a great view of the bay and beach below. I walk around the side of the house to the back and see a couple dozen people standing around or sitting on beach chairs, drinks in hand. I don't see anyone I know – neither Marina or India – so I go inside. That's when I see them – India and some tall dark-haired guy.
With a man bun.
And a curly moustache.
He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt, shorts and sandals, and is leaning against the wall beside her, smiling as he listens to her talk. The two of them laugh over some private joke and an emotion runs through me that I don't recognize at first.
A man bun?
Marina appears out of nowhere at my elbow, her green eyes bright behind her dark-rimmed glasses, her hair in a ponytail. She looks like the total geek-girl that she is.
"Leave them alone," she whispers. "They're hitting it off so I don’t want anything to ruin it."
"Who the fuck is he?"
"That's Evan Moran."
"He has a man bun." I grab a beer out of a bucket of ice. "What the fuck, Marina? A man bun? What is he? A doofus?"
"He's a PhD student in political science at Stanford."
I shake my head and take a long pull on my beer. "His moustache curls up at the ends like he thinks he's a fucking Musketeer."
India seems to be enjoying their discussion. She doesn't look bored or irritated. Does she like men with man buns? I run a hand through my hair, and take another drink of beer.
"Do you have something harder?" I ask Marina, who's watching India and Evan with delight.
"You know where the bar is. They're hitting it off."
"You already said that."
