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And there it is: the Lexi I know.
She isn’t interested in commitment. Not that I blame her. How can she believe anything lasts when we lost Mom so young? “Why would I get married?” she says.
Not really a question, but I answer her anyway. “That’s why people date.”
“Oh, really, is that why you’re engaged now?” She nods to my extremely bare left hand as if it’s proof I’m wrong.
She’s right, of course. Even though, in my mind, I want a stable relationship, I spend just as much time single, or in short-term relationships, as she does. My ratio of single to fling is a hundred to one and hers is the opposite, but neither one of us is rushing to walk down the aisle. The results speak for themselves.
“I date,” I remind her. “It just hasn’t led to marriage yet.”
“You ask guys to rate your match on a scale of one to ten.” She fixes her long blonde hair and smooths her pink sheath dress. Then she turns to me and starts her work, adjusting my magenta blazer, offering to fix my wine-colored lipstick. “Does that get them all hot and bothered?”
“So bothered that we have sex right there, at the table.”
She laughs and it sounds as if she’s really sayingthis is totally absurd. “So that’s why you stopped going to the place on Main Street.”
“And the bar next door,” I say drily.
The truth is: I don’t take guys anywhere in Huntington Hills. It’s the smallest city in Orange County. Basically, a blip between Irvine, Newport Beach, and Laguna Hills.
Okay, blip is underselling it. We’ve got a population in the tens of thousands and a lot of property with values in the tens of millions (being on a hill overlooking the ocean does that), plus three grocery stores, two dozen restaurants, and way too many shops,med spas, and salons to count.
What we don’t have is anywhere even a little bit cool. Even by Orange County standards, Huntington Hills is hopelessly un-hip.
There is one bar and it’s constantly filled with moms and dads who want to talk about PTA meetings and HOA dues. And there’s that one night a month where older women go to meet younger guys. I accidentally went once, and some guys, who were way too young to legally be in a bar, hit on me, even though I was “actually younger than they liked.”
So, when I date, I go as far away as possible. Well, as far as I can go in under two hours. Which means I schedule all my dates on Sundays in Los Angeles. Despite popular belief, Sundays are mostly traffic-free across all of Southern California.
But my love life, or lack thereof, doesn’t matter right now.
It’s Lexi who is the model of the MeetCute algo’s perfection.
“You should try actually dating one of those guys,” she says. “You might like them.”
“I might.”
“But…?” She pulls out the tube of wine-colored lipstick and presses it into my palms.
I focus on my reflection. There are so many buts.
I’m too busy hustling for money. I’m too tired of pretending to like investors. Do I really have to pretend I already like a guy I’m meeting for the first time, too? I’m tired of wearing high heels to meetingsanddates, even if I mostly wear high-heeled boots. Combat boots are so much more comfortable. And nice, thick eyeliner. Not this tiny line I wear to look professional.
The elevator door opens before I can answer her “but.”
Lexi waits for me to finish my lipstick, takes my hand, and leads me into the big, modern lobby.
This is one of the few venture capital firms in our area, and it feels distinctly Orange County. There’s a certain bland perfection to the space.
A busy office with a bevy of workers of all races and ages, all in casual yet expensive clothes, all smiling as they work hard. No cubicles. All open offices with windows letting in the California sunlight and bamboo sit-to-stand desks.
Lexi moves through the space with ease. She knows where everything is. She’s the one who fits into the big, beautiful world here. Because she’s Lexi and she fits in everywhere.
She stops in front of the conference room and whispers in my ear, “We’re going to ace this.”
“You really think so?”
She nods. “You look like ten million bucks.”
