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I blink awake, already alert, taking in the entirety of my rented open-floor home in one eye-sweep. The house seems in order. No signs of a break-in, or a fire, or a gas leak. Nothing wrong there.
Next to me, a redhead stirs. Brittany, Tiffany, I can’t remember her name from last night. We met in a bar as opponents in a game of beer pong. And I don’t recall who won, only that we decided to move the celebrations to my place.
I peek under the sheets.
Yep! We’re both naked.
Definitely nothing wrong with that!
Why hasn’t the nagging stopped, then? The sensation I should be doing something else—besomewhere else—stays put.
I shake my head, dog-coming-out-of-water style, trying to clear my brain. I’m too old to play beer pong and still expect to wake up fresh as a rose the next morning.
Careful not to disturb Brittany/Tiffany, I slither out of bed and hop into the shower. No better way to regroup.
When I come out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, wearing sweatpants and a clean T-shirt, the lady is still sleeping in the same position I left her in. She hasn’t stirred.
Mmm. How to wake her without being unpleasant?
I settle on making coffee; the grinder is loud enough to raise an elephant. The beans’ capsule is running low, so I open a new pack, top up the container, and switch my beauty on. Fancy coffee is a luxury I treat myself to, at least when I’m in a civilized place and note trudging around a jungle somewhere. The drip coffee maker with a built-in grinder was expensive, but worth its while. Nothing better than a pot of freshly ground java to start the day, whatever the hour. I make sure the water tank is full, turn the machine on, and wait for the magic to happen.
As predicted, the noise is enough for Brittany/Tiffany to stir awake. She rolls over in bed, blinking, and asks, “Is that coffee I smell?”
“Yep,” I say. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”
She pulls herself up on her elbows, using the sheets to cover herself. “Mind if I use your bathroom in the meantime?”
“Absolutely,” I say, and to give her some privacy, I turn my back to the bed, pretending I’m busy checking the machine.
I follow her movements around the apartment with my ears. The rustling of fabric, the padding of feet on the hardwood floor, and at last, the click of the bathroom door closing.
When Brittany/Tiffany comes back out—already dressed, I note with pleasure—I’ve just taken the first delicious sip of my superior Crema Arabica blend.
“Want a cup?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, sitting on a stool at the kitchen bar.
As I turn to grab her a clean mug, my eyes land on the couch and the half-packed bag lying open in its middle.
Shit!
I check the date on my watch, which confirms that, yeah, I’m screwed.
Logan’s wedding is today. Well, not the actual ceremony, or I’d be a dead man. Thanks to my lucky star, the schedule only includesonemeeting today. Starting tomorrow, the week will get busier and busier until the main event on Saturday. Guests will arrive between today and the next few days. But as best man, I’m supposed to get in the trenches with the first wave. And I have to report to the wedding planning marshal at four for a comprehensive debrief on all my best-man duties for the week. A destiny I share with the other wedding party recruits.
I stare at my watch again. Half past two.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I make a quick mental calculation. From Berkeley to Napa, it’ll take forty-five minutes on the bike. An hour tops if traffic is bad. If I hurry and skip breakfast or lunch—whatever my next meal would’ve been—I could still make it on time. But I have to finish packing and get rid of Brittany/Tiffany first.
“Hey,” I say. “Actually, would you mind if I made that coffee to go? Sorry, but I just remembered I was supposed to be somewhere else like five minutes ago.”
Brittany/Tiffany shrugs. “No problem.”
“You need me to call you a cab or something?” I say, opening the cupboard above the sink to pick up a paper cup.
I fill the cup with steaming coffee from the pot, asking, “Sugar? Cream?”
