6:30 p.m., 29 ½ Hours…
Gwen
My driving skills on the way to the TASC center were an embarrassment. I cut off two cars, nearly plowed over a man, and I drove so slowly at one point, honking blared for five seconds.
All I could picture was losing August, his rental car disappearing from sight, him disappearing from my life. I could win that show: America’s Worst Driver.
In one of America’s seediest districts.
The Tenderloin had a smell about it, eau de vomit mixed with rotting garbage and a skunkiness all its own. Weed mixed with gasoline. The homeless community owned the sidewalks, sleeping and loitering twenty-four/seven. Random shouts competed with grinding brakes, and this was an improvement from decades ago.
Again, I tried picturing my mother venturing here, blouse buttoned to her chin, gray-streaked hair close cropped. Pointed nose. Thin lips. Severe. That was the word that best described her, in looks and personality.
Yet her younger self had spent time in the Tenderloin.
I dodged crumpled garbage on the cigarette-littered street, stopping once to drop a bill into a woman’s panhandling cup. San Francisco’s homeless problem was always upsetting. The number of displaced people here threatened to flood my already overwrought heart.
They were also intimidating, especially the man swerving toward me, who smelled like he’d bathed in whiskey. “Gimme some sugar, hot cakes.”
August appeared at my side and wrapped a protective arm around my shoulder. “She’s only serving sugar to me,” he said, curt, leading me toward the rec center. His handsome profile was a granite mask.
When he escorted me safely up the stone steps and inside the front doors, I kissed his smooth cheek. I still couldn’t believe I could kiss his cheek, smooth or otherwise. “My Prince Charming.”
He kept me tucked into his side. “Please don’t come here alone.”
“Are you feeling protective?”
“I’m feeling like I want to cut out that man’s tongue and feed it to him after marinating it in E. coli.”
“I think Ainsley rubbed off on you.”
He shivered. “I’d prefer to remain on her good side. We should also find you a parka to wear, keep leering men away.”
I glanced at my white tank top, tight but not showing excessive cleavage. “This isn’t exactly skimpy, and I could have handled myself on the street.”
He backed me against the hallway wall and planted one hand on the plaster by my head. His pupils blew wide. “Do you know how gorgeous you are? I swear to God, Gwen—I can barely focus around you. It was always like this, like I couldn’t think about anything but you when we were together. All I could do was write songs. You just exude this strength and confidence, even back when you thought you weren’t worthy. More so now. And there’s nothing sexier than a woman who can handle her own, but I do not want you handling yourself with sloppy men who have no issues taking without asking.”
A piano’s harmonics drifted toward us, each struck key mimicking my sharp pulse. I flattened my palms on his firm chest and almost whimpered again. “I used to distract you?”
He chuckled, a low devious sound. “Oh, honey, you have no idea.”
“I want an idea.” I wanted all of his ideas, every thought he’d ever had. I wanted to collect them. My secret jar of hearts. And honey? Sign me up for that endearment.
“We’ll discuss my ideas during your pole vaulting lesson,” he said.
I inched my leg between his, until my hip made contact with his groin. “Will these lessons involve show and tell?”
He rotated his hips, enough for me to appreciate the solid bulge behind his zipper. “Since you sucked at school, I thought visuals would help.”
A PowerPoint presentation would be appreciated. “Says the guy who dropped out of college and made a sport out of shooting green Jell-O from his nose. And I worked hard for my degree, thank you very much. I also rock at my job.”
Although I was teasing him, his faced sobered. He created space between us. “What do you do for work?”
Right. He didn’t know. I may have followed (stalked) his career, but I didn’t have a Facebook page. I’d avoided social media since my catastrophic WTF. He wouldn’t know defining details of my life. No details at all, really.
His arms hung limp at his sides. Instinctively, I wrapped mine around my waist. “I work at an adoption agency, placing babies in homes.”
“Wow.” He jolted slightly, his voice low and heavy. “That’s amazing. Do you love it?”
Even talking about it had me grinning. “I never expected to find a career that fulfilled me like this, but it’s so rewarding. As painful as those student loans and school headaches were, it was worth it. I found my purpose.” To give kids loving families and the childhood I never had.
He was frowning again, like my success upset him. “I’m happy for you,” he said, no happiness in his flat tone.
A chill descended between us. It was easy to get carried away with this newness, kissing in the street, flirting, but this awkward interlude was a reminder how little we knew about each other. It was also easy for him to say he could forgive me and move on from our past. Actions spoke louder than words, and his body language screamed wary.
I should take his lead and focus on finding my father, not on pole vaulting and August Cruz. Although pole vaulting with August Cruz was a notion I could get behind. Or in front of. Or underneath.
Instead I pulled my Badass PI badge from my purse. “Tonight I’m not an adoption agent. Tonight we’re private investigators hot on a trail.”
He latched onto my attempt at levity and dug his badge from his jeans pocket. He held it up between two fingers. “I take my PI work seriously.”
“Want me to sew it on your shirt?”
“I doubt you have a needle and thread in that tiny purse, and I’ve seen you sew, Gwen. You’d likely pierce my nipple.”
He was referring to the stuffed monkey I’d made in eighth grade, otherwise known as Mutant Monkey.
I maneuvered my Coach shoulder bag, the compact stunner a donation from Ainsley’s collection. Fancy yet functional. I pulled out a mini sewing kit. “For emergencies.”
PI badge wedged between his fingers, he covered his nipples with both palms. “You’re not coming near me with that.”
“Jimmy has piercings. All the cool kids are doing it.”
He mock-snarled. “Unless you want to wake up with a tarantula in your bed, I suggest you back away.”
I gave him my best sleazy eyes. “Just one poke. It’ll feel so good.”
He hissed in a sharp breath, my unspoken that’s what she said joke hitting its mark. A mark I should avoid. This addictive flirting was getting away from me again. Being with him was too intoxicating, too novel. I couldn’t rein myself in.
August, however, said, “I’ll pass,” and averted his eyes. He shoved his badge back in his pocket and studied the hallway, newfound stiffness in his stance.
So much for my levity.
Ignoring my growing discomfort, I followed his lead and read the community posters on the scuffed-up walls. Each advertisement listed classes, from poetry tutorials to tai chi. Piano still echoed from somewhere, stopping and starting, along with a commanding female voice. Up a set of stairs was a glass case that held photos and pottery.
Pretending August’s distracted state wasn’t distracting me, I pushed past him, led by the sporadic music, but the glass case drew my focus. Most stored photos were yellowed, filled with legwarmer-clad girls and mullet-haired boys. Eighties and nineties styles. Some looked even older, bell bottoms and peace symbols dating them. I wondered for the millionth how teenage Mary Hamilton had hung out in a place like this.
I abruptly muted that thought. She wasn’t why I was here. She was a lead and nothing more, a path that could end at my father’s door.
I scanned the faces in each photo, searching for her. If she was in here, he might be as well. One showed actors in a low-budget play, another framed a handsome man playing guitar, which reminded me of the silent presence at my back. I stayed focused on the photos, assessing if any men had one eye slightly rounder than the other or a freckled lip. Not that my attributes were necessarily DNA linked, but I was working with limited resources.
Next was a picture of three girls doing a jazz lunge, arms wide, legwarmers on, hair flying as though they’d finished a wild spin. My eyes skimmed past the photo but snapped back.
Two girls looked familiar, the middle one in particular. The one with the wide smile and bright eyes. Holy shit. “That’s my mother…and I think my aunt.”
August moved to my side and bent forward to study the picture that had me gawking. “You sure?”
The smile—no, my mother’s joyous glow—wasn’t familiar, but her narrow features and long face were unmistakable. My aunt was less recognizable. I’d never met her, but I’d found a few photos when packing my mother’s belongings. They resembled each other, my Aunt Sarah only a year younger than my mother. A recluse who’d moved to the East Coast.
Aunt Sarah used to send me a yearly birthday card. The only family member who’d gone out of her way to show she cared. One card a year for eleven years. Until my mother had gotten into a fight with her.
I’d overheard a phone conversation shortly after receiving her last card. Just the end, but it had been enough: Mary hissing into the phone, telling her sister not to call again. That as far as she was concerned she was an only child. The birthday cards had ceased after that. I hadn’t realized how much they’d meant to me until they’d stopped.
It was likely another reason I hadn’t felt I’d deserved August’s friendship. No one had stuck around in my life, not my aunt or my grandparents. I’d believed I hadn’t been worth loving.
I couldn’t be sure it was Aunt Sarah in the photo, but the resemblance between the two girls was too distinct to ignore.
“I’m pretty sure it’s them.” I nearly plastered my face against the glass.
“Your mother looks so happy,” he said quietly, as though to himself. Then louder, “How did a woman who danced and listened to Depeche Mode become cold and rigid?”
He took the words right out of my mouth. His arm brushing mine stole the breath from my lungs. I wanted to slide my arm under his, link our elbows, but he still seemed distant. Dissecting his strange vibes was as appealing as analyzing Mary Hamilton’s descent into Frost Queen.
I scanned the case for other photos of her, unsuccessfully. “This confirms she danced here, at least. Probably often. They wouldn’t have immortalized her picture if it had been just a few times.” I straightened and glanced down the narrow hall. The piano had stopped. Young girls filed from a room, ballet slippers on their feet. Parents waited on a couple benches. “It’s time to do some recon.”
I marched toward the classroom, August following. Chatter from excited girls echoed off the ceiling. A boy left the room in tights, twirling toward his father, who clapped and beamed. The warmth filling the hall was a contrast to the Tenderloin’s filth and stench outside. Flowers blooming in a barren field. We waited for the kids to leave.
August stayed quiet, hands shoved in his pockets. He leaned on the wall, away from me.
I chewed my cheek.
An older woman sporting a prim bun exited last, her slender frame accentuated in her leotard, pink tights, and black skirt. She was pushing seventy with a body a thirty-year-old would covet. I glanced at August, unsure how to approach her.
As teens, he and I would perform different roles when investigating. He’d use his smarts to lead us to potential suspects, and I’d play the part of school reporter or Navy SEAL or international spy. Tonight he hung back, broody stance in place, letting me lead the way. Considering our strange reunion, it shouldn’t be surprising, but I wasn’t sure what role to play.
Unwilling to let the moment slip by, I stepped into the ballet instructor’s path. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find information on a girl who took dance classes in the late eighties. Have you worked here long?”
She studied August, a slow perusal that had me wanting to send out a cougar alert. To me, she said, “I’ve been here since the center opened, but I’m in a rush. Come back next week, same time, and I can answer your questions.”
Nope. No way. A week wouldn’t cut it. That suitcase didn’t land in my lap the day before my birthday only for my search to lose steam now. I motioned to August. “My friend here isn’t feeling well. I told him not to order the refried beans, but he’s stubborn as a mule and can’t resist them. If he doesn’t find a bathroom soon, well…it might get ugly. If you don’t mind showing us the way, I can ask you a few questions as we walk?”
Her next glance at August was less cougar and more repelled. I bit my tongue to keep from cackling. He cradled his stomach and winced, playing along, but there was no missing how his lips compressed and the veins in his neck strained against his skin. He didn’t like his given role. It made me enjoy it even more.
She huffed out a breath. “Follow me, then. Whoever built this space didn’t have a clue how often kids need bathroom breaks.”
She strutted ahead, feet slightly turned out, her perfect posture envy inducing. August shot me dirty looks, hand still pressed to his stomach. I winked and mouthed, Suck it up, then hurried to keep up with the ballerina.
“Do you have ledgers here?” I asked, trying to match her elegant stride. “Lists of who took classes back then?”
A prim huff escaped her. “That would imply a level of organization.”
Disappointment deflated my posture, but I didn’t let up. “There’s a photo in the glass case, near the entrance—one of three girls doing a jazz slide or something. Do you know which one I mean?”
She took a sharp right down another hall, arms swinging, shoulders back. “Those would be the Sunshine Girls.”
“Sunshine Girls?”
She stopped abruptly and pointed to two doors in an alcove. “Bathroom is there.”
August, never breaking character, offered a pained smile. I muffled my laugh with a cough.
The ballerina cocked her head at him, another long perusal taking him in from head to toe. “You’re August Cruz.”
He froze mid-step toward the bathroom. I tried to keep my eyeballs from popping out of my head.
Still hamming up his upset-stomach performance, he winced but nodded. “I am.”
She planted her hands on her slim hips and shook her head. “Well, I never… I’m a fan, of your early work in particular. ‘Girl with the Black Heart’ played on repeat in my home during an unpleasant divorce.”
Of course August met a music fan while pretending to have the shits. Of course she mentioned the song that immortalized my WTF.
But the fan part was the bigger deal, his successful life coming into focus. He’d always be the boy who’d pluck on his guitar strings, his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration, but this interaction was a reminder how far he’d come.
He was an immense talent, revered around the globe. Not a limelight-bathed superstar chased by paparazzi. More like an undercover celebrity only recognized by true fans. A musician who lived out of a suitcase while touring. I wasn’t sure where’d I’d fit into that life with him. If I’d fit in.
The ballerina glanced at the bathroom door, and her wrinkled cheeks colored. “Look at me, keeping you from relieving yourself. Go on, then.”
He shot me another glare. Hopefully she read the aggravated scowl as pained. “If you stay here a minute,” he said through gritted teeth, “I can autograph something for you when I’m out.”
Embarrassed or not, he was thinking ahead, giving me more time with our mark.
She tipped her head. “Consider it done.”
He escaped into the bathroom.
She turned to me. “The Sunshine Girls were three girls who danced here a few times a week, often on their own. Two sisters and one friend. They would light up a room, hence the name. Real free spirits. They always drew a crowd.”
Those visuals rocked me as much as August being recognized, but the confirmation of my aunt’s identity had me frowning. I’d assumed my mother and her sister’s relationship had always been tumultuous, one easy to toss away. If they’d been close enough to dance and rehearse together, how had they wound up so estranged my mother had cut her sister off? She’d even refused to contact Aunt Sarah when she’d gotten sick, and I couldn’t find a number to let my aunt know her sister had passed.
If I had to guess, it was likely my mother’s “sunny” personality that had led to their falling out, whatever the reason. Not that it mattered now. All that mattered was finding my father. “Mary Hamilton was the middle girl in the photo,” I told the ballerina. “She was also my mother.”
She clasped her hands in front of her waist. “Was?” I nodded, and she clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry, dear. I remember her being quite the clown, always laughing with her friends. She brought a lot of life to this place.”
Forget being rocked. That information was like being shoved, elbowed, and kicked in the gut. My mother’s dislike for me hadn’t been a secret. She’d barely glance at my school work, regardless of my prodding. She’d eat her dinner early some nights and leave me at the table alone. She’d never once called me after I’d moved out. The only reason we’d ever seen each other was because I’d initiated contact.
Her lack of affection and sharp words hadn’t needed deciphering. Her disdain for me and her life had been crystal clear. But if she’d been such a clown, a bright light in this place, it meant I really had been the thing that drained the music from her world. The big change in her life.
Questions flooded my mind. “What do you mean by clown, exactly? Like what did she—” Abruptly, I censored my tongue. Asking about the Mary before would only result in another harsh blow. Nothing learned now would undo her harsh parenting. Best to stick to my interrogation. “Sorry. What I’m actually after is information about a boy who watched her dance.”
“Many boys watched those girls. Drew them like bees to honey.”
Mary Hamilton, the Male Magnet. Another impossible fact. The ballerina checked her watch and tightened her lips. A bathroom toilet flushed. Time wasn’t on my side.
“This guy picked her up some days,” I added quickly. “Waited for her to finish.”
She studied the ceiling while pointing and flexing her foot. “Sorry, but that’s all I know. You could try speaking with Mr. Hawton. He’s the only other instructor left from back then. He’s away for a month, but should return toward the middle of May.”
August emerged, ending my interrogation. Not that it mattered. I may have learned my mother had been a silly clown who’d lightened rooms and had seduced men, but this lead had dried up.
Adorning his rock star persona, August escorted his fan to the exit. She fawned over his music and the song about him dousing me—my shadow—in gasoline. Always a good time. After having her purse signed and cheeks kissed by her crush, Loretta Walsh, as we’d come to know her, left the center a happy lady.
August, however, glared at me from inside the exit. “A bad stomach? I just love my refried beans?”
I swirled my hand in a dramatic flourish. “I was in character.”
“And now rumors will spread that I get the shits.”
I didn’t even try to curb my snickering. “Everyone uses the bathroom and puts their pants on one leg at a time. You’re no different, Mr. Rock God.”
A sweet blush highlighted his cheekbones. He dropped his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m no rock god. I just play music.”
His modesty had my heart tripping over itself. “Don’t downplay what you do.” When he didn’t reply, I said, “I lied, by the way—at my mother’s house. I listen to your music all the time. It’s brilliant.”
He glanced at me through his thick lashes. One beat dragged into two. “Thank you,” he said softly.
Forget tripping. My heart freefell, taking my belly with it. And my IQ. It was nice to be joking with him again, talking about real things, even as my wits scattered, but his earlier reserve lingered. He hadn’t moved to touch my back or hold my hand.
When with my friends, I never hesitated calling them on their bullshit. I believed in laying your cards on the table, being honest with those in your life. After my WTF, I’d realized too late how vital it was to be honest with yourself. Yet here I was, since August had parachuted into my life, hemming and hawing, thinking more than speaking. Keeping the depths of my thoughts on mute.
“We should take off,” I said. “Before someone breaks into our cars.” Not the thing I should have said. It was the easy thing. The don’t get hurt thing. “We’ll need to read more of my mother’s diary, search for more clues.”
He cast a dark glance at the street beyond the exit. “Best to meet somewhere else, a bar or something that doesn’t come with men who want your sugar.”
Heading to our separate vehicles meant another round of erratic driving. I was bound to lose my license before I officially lost my mind. “Maybe we should pare down to one car? We can meet at my apartment. Go through the diary there, then stick together after.”
His eyes dropped to my chest, then skimmed up to my neck and face, lower again to my breasts and hips. The zig-zagged pattern tied me into knots. “Sure,” he said.
I looked back in the direction of the glass case, where my mother’s photo was tucked inside. A strange pressure cramped my lungs, as though fresh oxygen lay that way. Answers. Stones I had yet to turn. But there were no more clues leading to my father. Nothing here would help me find him.
August placed his arm around me as we pushed outside, shielding me with his body. A silly effort. Although a few panhandlers called out for cash, no one paid us much attention. Not that I minded leaning into his side. We arrived at my car too soon.
I gave him my address, and he followed me home and up the stairs to my apartment. I put my key in the lock like I had a thousand times before. I opened my door by rote, but I didn’t enter the space.
Not with August behind me, ready to enter as well.
My place looked stark from this angle, my surfboard and mountain bike hidden from view. All that lay ahead were empty slate walls, an Outside magazine splayed on the kitchen counter, a shopping list stuck to the fridge. August was about to walk into my home, my life, and learn things about me. Discover the woman I’d become. What struck me harder, though, the blow that had me frozen in place, was that he hadn’t fully known me all those years ago, either. Not really.
He’d seen what I’d let him see. He’d heard what I’d chosen to say, never fully speaking my heart. Even when tipsy and texting on my nineteenth birthday, I’d diluted the truth, hinting at an older crush, not admitting I’d still loved him irrevocably.
I had no clue how long he was in town, if our lives could converge, or if this was a wild waystation we’d been stranded on. He’d made the first step, at the restaurant, blurting our history to our friends. It was my turn to offer some blunt honesty, share the extent of my feelings for him back then: hiding from them had never served me in the past.
All he had to do was open my closet door and see the August Cruz poster tacked inside. Proof my feelings hadn’t diluted much. (Note to self: remove at first opportunity.)
“Gwen?” His hesitant voice was close, just behind me.
Gathering the strength that served me when powering through an insane workout, when I was sure my lungs would give out and my legs would buckle, I turned to my former best friend, and said, “I loved you.”