Wherever the Dandelion Falls (2 page)

When I got back to my apartment that night, I was bursting to tell Justine. I dropped my bag by the door and rushed over the to the couch where she sat tossing popcorn in her mouth. She wore acid-wash jeans over her curvy hips and a t-shirt printed with the name of a band I had never heard of.

"Guess what," I said in an excited, low voice. "Our guest lecturer in Neurogenetics asked me out."

That got Justine's attention. She tore her eyes away from the History Channel. "For serious?" she asked, scrunching her nose in disbelief.

I told Justine about Dr. Turner and she was glad that I was trading in the yoga pants and fuzzy socks that were my usual Saturday night outfit for a pair of skinny jeans and a blouse she made me buy last year.

The following morning I went for my usual run around the neighborhood. Aside from other joggers, the rest of the neighborhood was still sleeping as I made my rounds. When I returned home, I got a text from Dr. Turner:

Sorry, I have to postpone tonight. Can we reschedule for next weekend?

I tried to seem upbeat as I assured him we could, and went about the rest of my weekend as though I wasn't disappointed he had canceled on me.

I started to worry when I hadn't heard from him by the following Friday. I didn't want him to get away with giving me the brushoff, so I sent him a message.

Hey, are we still on for tomorrow night?

A few minutes later, his reply came.
Sure. Text me your address and I'll pick you up at 8.

It wasn't encouraging, but I wasn't ready to give up on going out with him.

Dr. Turner was fifteen minutes late picking me up. I had changed out of the jeans and blouse I'd picked out into a pencil skirt and different blouse. I added a bracelet my high school boyfriend gave me and put on a little extra eye makeup. I smoothed over my skirt, wondering if it made my stomach look strange. But before I could decide, I heard a knock at the door. My stomach fluttered with nerves, and I went to answer it.

"Hi," I said with a bright smile.

Dr. Turner didn't look any different than he did during lecture. He kept his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "Ready to go?"

I kept my nervous smile plastered on and nodded, turning to pick up my purse. I thought about inviting him in for a drink, but my place was small and Justine hadn't done the dishes in a few days. Even though Dr. Turner was a professor, he could still be a psycho, so it was best to stay in public until I knew he wasn't crazy.

We went to a Mexican restaurant in the Castro. I asked about his PhD studies and what his dissertation had been about. He talked a lot, looking around him distractedly, barely engaging with anything I said. After half an hour of trying too hard, I just gave up. Dr. Turner wasn't interested in me, and that was just going to be that. I stopped talking, looking around the restaurant.

Feeling awkward by the lack of conversation, I started commenting on the things around the room, not caring if Dr. Turner had the decency to comment back. There were several pieces of art and a few young couples around us, but nothing remarkable. The most interesting thing in the room was the bar, where a man in a white shirt and black vest was mixing and pouring drinks. Any drink someone ordered, he knew how to make from memory.

I wondered how he kept track of all the different combinations; how did he know a Manhattan from a Cosmo? A Mai tai from a mojito? Were they filed in some kind of savant Rolodex in his mind, or had he been doing this for so long, they were second nature?

"Bartending must be interesting," I mused. "I'd like to do that."

For some reason, that got Dr. Turner's attention. "Bartending?"

"Yeah," I shrugged.

Dr. Turner looked at me as though that was the most amusing thing he'd heard all day. "Go for it," he said, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. “Tuition isn’t cheap."

I bit the corner of my lip, unsure. "I was hoping to get a job in the field," I admitted.

Dr. Turner shook his head. "Market's no good now. You'd be counting caterpillars."

I didn't know how to respond to that. I don't even remember if I did. But when I went home that night, I started looking up drink recipes. By the time I deleted Dr. Turner's number from my phone after a few weeks without hearing from him, I had a job a bona fide San Francisco gay bar.

A few months later I graduated with a Master's in Neuroscience, which I always imagined I would know what to do with. Now my diploma seemed to taunt me, leaning out a centimeter from the wall in its gilded frame, reminding me that I invested two years and thousands of dollars to be where I was. It might have felt like an achievement if I had known
where
exactly I was.

I put off telling my sister about my bartending job as long as I could. She never puts me down directly, but usually when she disapproves of one of my decisions, she makes it clear. But I knew I had to tell Kimi eventually. I waited until Justine got home, so she could get me out of a painful conversation by yelling that something was on fire in the kitchen if I gave her our "help me" signal of wiggling my nose like the lady in
Bewitched
.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, facing the wall. As the phone rang, I traced the pictures I had taped up, wishing the San Francisco humidity didn't curl the edges. I was hoping Kimi wouldn't pick up, but we had a date to talk, and she never misses scheduled things.

"Hey, Riley," she said. It sounded businesslike. I could almost imagine her in her black or grey suit, power walking down a street in New York.

"Hey, Kimi," I said, trying not to sound weary. "How are you?"

"Busy," she said. Something in her voice sounded distracted, and I pictured her holding her arm up to hail a cab.

"How's the market this week?" I asked. It was an obligatory question.

"It can't decide which way it wants to go. Kind of like you."

She was trying to be lighthearted, but I couldn't help but feel patronized. Just because I've dated guys and girls doesn't mean I haven't made up my mind.

"That's the only way I can be.” I forced cheer into my voice, hoping it would put her off bringing up my dating history. Just because she has a perfect Wall Street boyfriend in a Wall Street suit with a Wall Street paycheck doesn't mean she knows everything.

"How's the job search?" she asked.

I still cringed at the question. She'd started asking about my job search in September when I was still nine months from graduating. But I'd swatted the question away too many times for her not to be suspicious.

Still, I tried one more time. "You worry about me too much. How's your new place?"

"You're avoiding my question."

I sighed. I was going to have to tell her. "I have a job."

"That's great!" Kimi chirped in surprise. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you're going to give me crap about it."

Kimi seemed taken aback by that. "I wouldn't give you crap. You can tell me. Is it bean counting or something?"

"I'm bartending."

There was a moment of stunned silence before she said, "Oh." She must have realized she reacted exactly as I predicted she would act because she tried to cover quickly. "That's - that's not so bad, right? What kind of bar?"

"It's a gay bar," I said.

"Cool!" she said. But the word felt too tight, like she was forcing herself to be enthusiastic. “What made you take that job?"

"I figured I needed a break from academia. I've been going to school nonstop since I was four, so... How are things with John?"

The rest of the conversation meandered on, feeling more like an exchange of the insignificances in our lives. We were talking, which is something sisters should do. When it was over, I was relieved. I could tell dad we'd talked, and he'd be happy. I hung up and put on my work clothes and made my way to bar.

It was about ten o'clock when things started getting hectic. If the crowd around the bar didn't indicate it, the nerves of Dave, my favorite coworker, certainly did. He was usually a pillar of ease and good humor, but when he started bustling around, I knew we were busy.

Soon my face hurt from smiling at the customers as I poured beer and mixed drinks. I flipped flimsy napkins onto the damp bar and set the cups down before poking a straws into the ice and telling the customers how much of their hard-earned money they'd have to part with. When a slight lull in the crowd happened around midnight, Dave gave me a friendly nod.

“How are you doing?” he yelled over the noise of the music.

Despite Dave's burly stature, he was as sweet and nonthreatening as a teddy bear. I was always glad to work with him. I had seen him break up a few brawls and knew he would be able to keep things under control and protect me should the need arise. Like most of our customers, Dave was so gay that when I wore my "boob shirt" he commented on how well the color went with my skin tone.

"Not too bad," I said, pouring a vodka tonic without looking. I noticed he was more clean-shaven and primped than usual. "Someone special here tonight?" I teased.

Dave blushed as he picked up a tray of dirty glasses. He ran a hand over his gelled hair and tried to bite back a grin. "I'm meeting up with someone afterwards."

I made a mock wolf-whistle at him and he flushed deeper pink. I studied him as he loaded the tray into the wash, avoiding eye contact.

Chuckling, I turned back to a pack of hairless, preened young men who were crowding the bar, elbows resting on the wood-stained counter to claim their territory. I didn't know who had been there the longest, but I went with the one who looked least like an asshole. "What can I get you?" I shouted over the music.

"Appletini," he said.

I nodded and ducked to get two glasses from under the counter. I kept my gaze down as I selected the bottles and mixers I would need, thinking that maybe Dave and I could start a bet about how many appletinis we would sell that night. The charming, arrogant gay boys of San Francisco seemed to love them.

I love the patrons at Jules', but there's no denying that in their world, there is a pecking order. As a blonde, white girl with simple style, I wasn't even on their radar.

Over the hypnotic thumping of Rihanna's
Pour It Up
, I turned back to the counter, asking the next “homo-lemming," as Dave called the perfectly chiseled men that frequented the bar, what he wanted to drink. The customer ordered a Shirley Temple and I smiled at him. There were a fair number of men who came in and never drank alcohol. I admired that their abstinence from booze didn't curtail their partying.

I mixed a Shirley Temple and scanned the crowd to see if any of the regulars were around. Chad was my least favorite patron, a orangey-tan man who wore too much gold jewelry and had his teeth bleached until they glowed almost blue. He rarely tipped me, and I'd once overheard a particularly graphic account of his most recent anal bleaching experience. Not that that was an anomaly at Jules'; I'd heard just about everything under the sun, from fist-shaped dildos to cum fetishists to a young man who claimed to have banged Lance Bass once. But Chad annoyed the hell out of me, and he always seemed to have a harem of boys around him. It wasn't Chad's preoccupation with his appearance that made him undesirable. It was just that there were so many more deserving people. People like Dave.

Relieved to not see Chad and his harem, I glanced over at the dance floor. I saw a flash of pink feather boa, which wasn't unusual. But when a rhinestoned tiara caught the light, I realized it was a bachelorette party. That meant good news for the bar, but bad news for tips.

I finished printing someone's bill and lay it on the bar for the customer to sign. I put my hands on my hips, feeling the bar apron slung low and secure, and gave my practiced and impersonal smile to the next customer.

Holy god. She was beautiful. Her hair was silky and not a single black strand was out of place. Her skin was flawless and her cheeks were so round and smooth they looked airbrushed. Long, painted lashes hung over dark, shiny eyes and a straight little nose. And below that... lips. Perfect, pillowy lips that were stained to perfection with what had to be the luckiest lipstick on earth.

"Two Long Islands," the girl said, a folded twenty poking out from between two manicured nails.