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“Black is fine,” she says.
Great, she’s making the goodbyes easy on me. I cover the cup with one of the plastic lids piled above the coffee machine and offer it to Brittany/Tiffany.
She takes it with a raised eyebrow, probably assessing the fact that I keep a stash of morning-after, to-go paper cups in my kitchen. Oh, crap. Is this going to turn into one ofthosemornings after? With shouting and accusations being thrown around?
But, stoic, Brittany/Tiffany raises her cup at me in a cheers gesture and takes a sip. Guess we were both clear last night wasn’t about forever and ever.
“Sorry,” I apologize again. “I really don’t mean to rush you, but I’m running super late. Do you need me to call you a cab?” I repeat my offer.
She takes her phone out of her jeans pocket and unlocks it. “No need, I already called an Uber.” She checks the screen. “It should get here any minute. I’ll be out of your hair right away.”
I round the kitchen bar and walk her to the door, where we both stop, undecided about how to say goodbye. Should we hug, kiss? We land on an awkward sideways hug, and Brittany/Tiffany is gone. Out of the house and out of my life.
I shut the door and rush back to the living room area, running around like a Tasmanian devil, mentally compiling a list of everything I have to bring with me:
Best man speech—hilarious, charming, and with a few tear-jerking passages for the ladies in the audience to swoon over—check.
Rented tux. Will pick it up at the location, will check off later.
Enough clothes for a week and a mix of casual and formal occasions? Nuh-uh.
Last night I only went as far as packing socks and underwear. A quick fix. I yank shirts at random from my closet, doing the best I can to fold them quickly but decently enough they won’t get too wrinkled. I don’t have time to make a conscious selection, so I overpack and have to struggle to pull up the zipper on my duffel bag.
But hey, packed bag—check.
I’m one step closer to making it to Napa in time.
I sling the bag over my shoulder, grab my bike keys from the nightstand, and stare at the apartment.
What else? What else? Am I forgetting something?
I don’t think so.
That’s when my gaze lands on the nightstand on the faraway side of the bed, and the red box lying on top of it half-open.
Condoms!
Damn, I can’t believe I almost left without bringing a pack. I dash to the bedside table and grab the box, shaking it. Two measly plastic squares fall out. Not going to cut it for a week. Good thing this is only the first box out of the family pack I picked up last night. But where did I stash the rest? Let’s see, I bought them at the CVS around the corner… I came home… dropped my keys in the hall…
I turn to check the small cabinet behind the door, and…Bingo.
Half a box went up in smoke last night, but I put all the remaining packs in my bag—one might say I’m being optimistic, but a good chunk of the guests will be single gals, so—and I’m ready to go. I do a last-minute check to make sure all electrical appliances are switched off, unhook my black leather jacket from the rack behind the door, and exit the house.
The bike is parked askew in front of the garage on my half of the driveway of the single-story duplex where I live. Guess last night I was in too much of a hurry to bother to park it inside, or straight. I don’t own a car, so the garage is exclusive to the bike, whenever I take the trouble to store it indoors.
Which is almost never in the warmer months. My neighborhood is located near the University of California, Berkeley campus, in Berkley, and if the area isn’t 100 per cent no-need-to-lock-your-doors safe, it gets pretty close.
I drop my leather duffel bag on the rear of the saddle and secure it in place with twin nylon straps. Then, I don my biker jacket and pick up my helmet, freeing it from where I’ve impaled it on one of the handles.
As I secure the clip beneath my chin, I can’t help thinking I’ve forgotten something else. Something important. What is with me today? Are a few beers really enough to make me woolly-headed for half a day?
I rack my brain another time, but nothing comes up. And anyway, if I’ve really forgotten something, I can always buy a replacement. Napa is not the desert; the worst I risk is being ripped off by the local tourist pricing.
Half an hour later, I’m about to cross the bay over Alfred Zampa Memorial Bridge when a giant billboard catches my attention. In the ad, a beautiful blonde is flipping her bare ring finger with an annoyed expression while the caption reads:She’s tired of waiting. In the lower right corner, a picture of a diamond engagement ring looms over the address and phone number of a local jewelry shop.
Something about the sign nags at me, but it’s gone past in a heartbeat.
I’m already halfway over the bridge when it hits me: the rings!
