Life in San Francisco is comprised of two tasks: finding a parking spot, and everything else.

Tonight, the pursuit of a space by a curb occupies fifteen awkward minutes. Or maybe they’re not so awkward, since it gives Violet and me something to focus on besides a hot-as-sin, weird-as-hell, I-liked-it-she-didn’t kiss.

“Try Jackson Street,” I tell her, pointing to the right-hand side of the street. She turns, but our hunt is fruitless since the block is stuffed full of vehicles. She tries Webster, but we’re SOL there, too.

“Crap,” I mutter.

“I hate parking in this city.”

“It’s the worst thing in the world. Literally. Studies have revealed that searching for a parking spot in San Francisco can result in depression, anxiety, and a really bad day.”

She laughs faintly as she turns onto Clay. “By that same token, finding a spot quickly has been known to cause euphoria.”

“Better than an orgasm?” I ask, because evidently the word euphoria makes me think of only one thing.

Even in the dark, a hint of red splashes across her cheek. “I suppose that depends on the giver.”

“And on the parking spot?”

She laughs. “Yes. But if you combine the two, it’s like multiples.”

I clear my throat, reminding myself to cease the flirting. “Listen, I can just go by myself. You have your meeting tomorrow morning.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sure Trent wants to give me a hard time, too. Better for me to get it out of the way now. That is, if he can focus his attention long enough.”

Trent is notoriously distracted by his own desire to tell amusing tales, often ones that poke fun at himself. As we turn onto another block, an idea pops into my head. “Do you want to park at my place? I’m not far from here, and I have a two-car garage.” I’m not sure why I tell her that, when she’s parked in it before. The garage was a must-have when I bought my condo a couple years ago. No way was I living in this city without a garage for my Tesla. Even so, I still avoid driving if I can, on account of the utter pain-in-the-ass that is searching for a patch of open asphalt.

“No,” Violet answers, swiftly. So swiftly she might have set a new record for the seconds required for the word no to fire from her mouth.

The message is loud and clear. She doesn’t want to be near my place. “It was just an idea,” I say, looking away.

“It’s just . . .” she begins, then she points to a red BMW whipping out of a spot a hundred feet away. She floors the gas, as if she’s a goddamn snow leopard snagging her prey and guarding it from other predators. She grabs the spot, executing a parallel-parking slam dunk that honestly kind of turns me on. There’s just something about women who are completely independent, confident, and capable that gets my blood going.

But I refuse to be any more turned on by her, no matter how well she can park or smooch.

We head into the bar. A huge TV screen blasts a Warriors game, while another carries ESPN’s SportsCenter. Waiters in jerseys boasting their favorite teams circulate with drinks and appetizers. A curly haired guy with a pointy chin stops in his tracks, the beers on his tray nearly sloshing. “Hey, man,” he says with a big smile.

I don’t know him. I give a quick wave. “Hey there.”

“Kick ass on Sunday.”

“That’s the plan.”

As we walk past the booths, a few heads turn, but I stay focused, and we find Trent and Holly at a quiet four-top in the corner. A few years ago, they started a sports bar in Petaluma where we grew up, and it was so successful they opened several more in the Bay Area, including this one off Fillmore Street. Trent raises a glass of beer and takes a long swallow as I walk over. His eyes never leave me. Why do I feel as if I’m in trouble? Oh wait. I kissed his sister in a ballroom on cable TV.

That’s why.

When I reach him, I say, “Am I being sent to bed without supper?”

He rolls his eyes as I pull out a barstool for Violet. I grab the one next to her. I try not to look at her, but I swear I can see the remnants of my kiss still on her lips. They look redder, fuller. Or maybe I’m spending more time studying them than I usually do. I really shouldn’t, but sometimes once you see something you can’t unsee it.

Like when you finish off a sleeve of Pringles, stare at the tube, and realize the cartoon dude looks just like Mr. Monopoly. Or, when Jimmy Fallon points out that the raccoon from Guardians of the Galaxy bears a striking resemblance to Paddington Bear. And now I’m thinking Rocket is a bear in a raincoat, a rich board game character once sold snack food, and my best friend’s sister kissed me so passionately I don’t know how I’ll erase the image from my mind when I go to bed tonight.

Or whether I’ll want to let that memory slip away at all.

I should unfeel it. Only, it felt too damn good to forget.

Trent drums his fingers on the table and stares at me, waiting. “Anything you want to tell me?”

I adopt a serious expression. “Did you know that Mr. Monopoly used to sell chips as the Pringles dude?”

Trent shakes his head. “What?”

He’s not the only one flummoxed. Violet furrows her brow, and Holly blinks in surprise. Before I can explain, a blond waitress sporting a San Francisco Giants jersey arrives to take our orders. I opt for a beer, and Violet asks for white wine. When she leaves, Trent asks, “What was that all about?”

“It’s called taking an order. It’s what employees who wait on tables do in restaurants,” I deadpan.

Holly laughs. Trent rolls his eyes. “The Pringles comment, dickhead.”

“The Pringles guy and Mr. Monopoly. Doppelgängers. Google them. Once you do, you can’t unsee it.”

“Dude, are we playing the unsee game? Because I’m happy to tell you about the time my mom finally figured out I didn’t have a cold when I was fifteen, and she couldn’t unsee that in her mind’s eye.”

Holly gives him a curious look as she grabs her phone and taps on the screen. “What are you talking about?”

“Mom couldn’t figure out why I went through so many boxes of tissues. She thought I had a cold that lasted several months.”

Violet arches an eyebrow. “Seriously? How do you know Mom figured out the tissues were for your morning habit?”

“Because I saw the look on her face when she replaced the box next time. It was sort of like this.” Trent crinkles his nose and curls up the corner of his lips. “She couldn’t unsee the reason why I needed a tissue box on the nightstand.”

“I feel so bad for your mom,” I say, sympathetically. “And for myself, because now I can’t unsee it, either.”

Violet shakes her head. “Like I said earlier, boys are yucky.”

The waitress returns with our drinks. “For you,” the waitress says to Violet, handing her the wine.

When she gives me the beer, she smiles brightly, pointing to her chest and the Giants shirt she’s wearing. “Don’t let the jersey worry you. My Armstrong one is in the wash.”

“Thank you very much, Liz,” I say, reading her name tag.

Liz giggles. “Cooper, you’re so very welcome.” The way her eyes sparkle, I’m pretty sure her you’re welcome translates into you can take me home tonight and do bad things to me.

Which I have no interest in doing.

Trent turns to the waitress. “Thanks for the drinks, Liz. We’re all good.”

And that means I’ve told you a million times not to hit on Cooper when he comes to my bar.

Liz leaves, and Violet takes a drink of her wine as I return to the subject of Trent’s handy days. “Thanks for ruining my image of Kleenex now, too. Also, why didn’t you just jack it in the shower?”

He points his thumb at his sister. “Don’t you remember? Violet put a clown head in the shower to get back at me for a prank, and I hate clowns.”

“Oh shit. That’s right,” I say, as the memory slides into place. “Was that after you put the zombie hand in the toilet bowl to freak her out?”

Violet takes over. “Yes, and it was the only time he ever put the lid down, so I should have suspected something. Clearly, a clown head in the shower was the only acceptable retribution for an undead hand in the toilet.”

Holly swats her husband’s elbow. “And this is why you can’t get it up in the shower.”

Trent rolls his eyes at his wife. “Oh, please. I believe this morning proves I’ve moved on from the clown-head-in-the-shower issue.”

Violet raises her hands in frustration, giving her brother a pointed look. “I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but shockingly, I don’t want to hear about your shower issues—”

“I got over the shower issue,” Trent points out.

“Nor do I want to hear stories about your teenage masturbatory habits. Bad enough I had to live in the same house as you when you were getting it on with your hand.”

Trent’s tone shifts from strolling down Amused Lane to Seriously Annoyed Town again. “And I don’t like finding out you’re dating him on stage at a beauty pageant.”

“Him?” I ask, affronted. “I’ve been reduced to a nameless him?”

“Oh c’mon, hon. That auction was better than a beauty pageant,” Holly says to Trent, then she lifts her phone, flipping between the Pringles dude and Mr. Monopoly. “Dead ringers for each other.”

“Exactly.”

My buddy points at me, undistracted by the chips-to-houses revelation. “Fess up. How long have you two been together?”

Violet scoffs. “Seriously? You bought into it?”

Trent looks perplexed. “Of course. It seemed totally legit.”

Violet laughs harder and meets Holly’s gaze. “You could tell, right?”

Holly shakes her head. But Violet doesn’t let go of her stare. Something shifts in Holly’s expression, as if she’s picked up on a key data point. Girl code, maybe? “Yes, of course I could tell,” Holly says robotically, straightening her shoulders as she nods at Violet.

“You mean that was all a charade?” Trent asks. “The whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing?”

I lower my voice. “Look, what I’m about to say is not for public consumption, okay?”

Trent nods his understanding. Everyone leans in.

“The owner’s sister has been putting the moves on me. My contract’s up for negotiation, and I don’t need to make waves by being a dick to her and turning her down. So, Violet saved me. That’s all. Case closed.”

Trent scrubs his hand over his jaw. “You guys really aren’t dating? You sure?”

Violet sighs heavily as she lifts her wineglass. “I think I’d know if we were dating.”

“I have to say you had me fooled,” Holly chimes in, and Violet shoots her another laser-eyed look. Holly quickly amends her comment. “But of course, it makes sense that it was a joke. You love to tell jokes.”

“Just a joke to help my friend,” Violet says, emphasizing friend, as if she’s trying to imprint the word on everyone’s mind.

Why do I feel as if they’re speaking in tongues? Like these women are trying to remind each other of what they’re supposed to say?

But I can’t quite slide one puzzle piece into the other, so I’m left with curved edges that don’t align with round holes. This is why men fuck up relationships. Because sometimes, women make no sense.

Violet puts her hand on my shoulder. “Our man needed help. I helped him. That’s what we do. We’re a pack. Like when he took me to prom after Jamie ditched me. It seemed only fair.”

Ding, ding, ding! The bell rings. The buzzer sounds.

The situation is crystal clear. Tonight’s save-and-smooch was simply the return of a favor from years ago. I laugh quietly, a relieved sound, because I get it. At last, I understand what went down tonight. The kiss was part of the show, and the show was part of the rescue, and the rescue was her long-overdue thank you.

Even though I wasn’t banking on one. I was simply happy to have helped her when she needed it.

Her senior prom fell over Memorial Day weekend seven years ago, and I happened to be home from my freshman year of college, visiting my mom. Violet’s date bailed at the last minute, breaking up with her the day before to hook up with another girl.

Total dick move.

“Let me take you,” I’d said as soon as I heard.

She’d shaken her head, wiped tears off her face, and slapped on a plastic smile. “I’ll be fine. I have a pint of ice cream and a movie to watch.”

I scowled. “That’s ridiculous. You have me to dance with, cheesy photos to take, and a smoking-hot dress to wear. You’re going, and I’m your new date.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Don’t you want to wear the dress?” I asked, because I suspected the fashionista in her would have had a hard time resisting getting dolled up as she’d intended. Focusing on the dress was the best way to get her to say yes, and I didn’t want her to remember prom as the day she was stood up.

Her smile turned real. “It’s a really pretty dress.”

“Then you need to wear it.”

Her dress was more than pretty. It was stunning. The lavender material hugged her trim waist and covered her breasts enough to be classy, but not so much to be prim. Her long brown hair was twisted up onto her head, held in place with a silver clip as soft strands framed her face.

We danced to fast songs and swayed to a few slow songs, then we hung out downtown, drinking diet sodas from the convenience store, and debating the best and worst prom songs, prom couples, and prom outfits. We grabbed a pint of ice cream and watched a movie in the cozy living room at my house. One of those fast and even more furious car movies that was mindless and a perfect popcorn flick for that night.

At the end of the movie, she put her head on my shoulder and murmured, “Thanks for taking me. Someday, if you ever need a date, I’ll be your fill-in girl.”

Now, back in the present, the fading memory only affirms what she said to me in her car on the way over. The kiss was weird, because we have history, because we’ve never been real, because we’re only friends. She was simply repaying a favor.

Trent leans back in the barstool, stretching his arms behind him. “I’m glad we cleared that up. I just couldn’t see you two together.”

I furrow my brow. “Because that’s the most ridiculous thing in the world?”

He laughs. “It kind of is, Coop.” He waves a hand at me. “You’re a playboy, and she’s, well, she’s my sister.”

But that’s not the real issue. The real issue is she’s just not into me.