anyone.”
Nora wrote the unacceptable words slowly. One by one.
Rare.
Familial.
Incurable.
Fatal.
“I’m so sorry,” pretty Susie said.
Chapter Nine
O n Valentine’s Day, Luke took Mariana to the House of Prime Rib. They sat in a cracked leather booth and they both ordered a martini: top-shelf gin, very dry. The banquet room seemed to demand this. Mariana didn’t usually eat meat, but she missed it. Sometimes she figured she could atone for slipping up in other ways. It was worth the hit on her karma. Probably.
With excitement in his voice, Luke pointed out the huge metal contraption that housed the eponymous meat. “Look at that right there. Prettier than a 2002 Harley V-Rod. And look at you. Even
more
gorgeous.”
That might be a first, being compared to a metallic zeppelin full of meat. Not that she was complaining. There were worse things to be compared to.
Luke thickly buttered and chewed his bread thoughtfully, his eyes closing in pleasure. Mariana had always liked watching him chew—it was part of how he lived in his body, with conscious awareness. His lower jaw moved with a similar deliberateslowness. He made love to her the same way, with careful attention and long, measured movements.
Her sweet, rich, generous, motorcycle-riding gearhead.
Mariana had met him two years before in a bar south of Market—all dim sconces and velvet wallpaper, perfect places for making out with your new favorite person, places to slide business cards across dark maple bars and order drinks with never fewer than six impossible-to-find ingredients. She’d been there with Molly, another yoga teacher at the studio where she’d been working. That night at the bar, she and Molly had been playing their usual game of dividing the men in the room into categories of men they’d sleep with and men they wouldn’t. As usual, Mariana felt a twang of conscience. “Isn’t this exactly what we don’t want them to do to us? Fuckable and unfuckable?”
“Come on, this was probably the first game in the world, and it’ll probably be the last,” Molly said. “We’re going strictly on looks, and we’re evolved enough to know that looks mean nothing and the ones we like the best are probably asshats. Doesn’t make it not fun. Besides, I don’t have the cash for another drink here if I don’t flirt my way into the next one. And you need to get your mind off tomorrow.”
Mariana felt sick again. The next morning, she was going to pitch her idea for BreathingRoom to two venture capitalists who looked, in their online profiles, like they weren’t more than eighteen. Who was she kidding?
She
wanted to build an app? Her laptop was six years old and had been used when she got it, and her cell phone still flipped open. Not only that, but everyone who heard the phrase “meditation app” had laughed at her—everyone but the two young guys she’d met at a different, equally trendy SoMa bar two weeks before. They were the kind of guys who knew people who built ideas into apps and apps into money. Mariana had the idea. That, a rent-controlled apartment in the Mission, and a startlingly impressive collection of way-too-expensive shoes were really all she had.
Molly nudged her. “That guy, go.”
The man at whom Molly pointed hadn’t fit in with the place at all. Six foot four, thick necked, a leather jacket ripped at the elbows hanging from his enormous shoulders, he’d looked shell-shocked. He’d caught Mariana’s eye once and smiled, a real smile. Not a SoMa one. There was no “what do you do?” about his gaze, just an interested “who are you?” vibe. She’d smiled faintly back, automatically nervous of a man who looked like he might club his women over the head before dragging them to his lair.
“No way,” said Mariana. “Never.”
“I dunno,” said Molly, leaning on her fist. “He probably can’t afford to buy any more drinks here than we can, but his eyes are kind of dreamy, and everyone likes a guy with
Nora wrote the unacceptable words slowly. One by one.
Rare.
Familial.
Incurable.
Fatal.
“I’m so sorry,” pretty Susie said.
Chapter Nine
O n Valentine’s Day, Luke took Mariana to the House of Prime Rib. They sat in a cracked leather booth and they both ordered a martini: top-shelf gin, very dry. The banquet room seemed to demand this. Mariana didn’t usually eat meat, but she missed it. Sometimes she figured she could atone for slipping up in other ways. It was worth the hit on her karma. Probably.
With excitement in his voice, Luke pointed out the huge metal contraption that housed the eponymous meat. “Look at that right there. Prettier than a 2002 Harley V-Rod. And look at you. Even
more
gorgeous.”
That might be a first, being compared to a metallic zeppelin full of meat. Not that she was complaining. There were worse things to be compared to.
Luke thickly buttered and chewed his bread thoughtfully, his eyes closing in pleasure. Mariana had always liked watching him chew—it was part of how he lived in his body, with conscious awareness. His lower jaw moved with a similar deliberateslowness. He made love to her the same way, with careful attention and long, measured movements.
Her sweet, rich, generous, motorcycle-riding gearhead.
Mariana had met him two years before in a bar south of Market—all dim sconces and velvet wallpaper, perfect places for making out with your new favorite person, places to slide business cards across dark maple bars and order drinks with never fewer than six impossible-to-find ingredients. She’d been there with Molly, another yoga teacher at the studio where she’d been working. That night at the bar, she and Molly had been playing their usual game of dividing the men in the room into categories of men they’d sleep with and men they wouldn’t. As usual, Mariana felt a twang of conscience. “Isn’t this exactly what we don’t want them to do to us? Fuckable and unfuckable?”
“Come on, this was probably the first game in the world, and it’ll probably be the last,” Molly said. “We’re going strictly on looks, and we’re evolved enough to know that looks mean nothing and the ones we like the best are probably asshats. Doesn’t make it not fun. Besides, I don’t have the cash for another drink here if I don’t flirt my way into the next one. And you need to get your mind off tomorrow.”
Mariana felt sick again. The next morning, she was going to pitch her idea for BreathingRoom to two venture capitalists who looked, in their online profiles, like they weren’t more than eighteen. Who was she kidding?
She
wanted to build an app? Her laptop was six years old and had been used when she got it, and her cell phone still flipped open. Not only that, but everyone who heard the phrase “meditation app” had laughed at her—everyone but the two young guys she’d met at a different, equally trendy SoMa bar two weeks before. They were the kind of guys who knew people who built ideas into apps and apps into money. Mariana had the idea. That, a rent-controlled apartment in the Mission, and a startlingly impressive collection of way-too-expensive shoes were really all she had.
Molly nudged her. “That guy, go.”
The man at whom Molly pointed hadn’t fit in with the place at all. Six foot four, thick necked, a leather jacket ripped at the elbows hanging from his enormous shoulders, he’d looked shell-shocked. He’d caught Mariana’s eye once and smiled, a real smile. Not a SoMa one. There was no “what do you do?” about his gaze, just an interested “who are you?” vibe. She’d smiled faintly back, automatically nervous of a man who looked like he might club his women over the head before dragging them to his lair.
“No way,” said Mariana. “Never.”
“I dunno,” said Molly, leaning on her fist. “He probably can’t afford to buy any more drinks here than we can, but his eyes are kind of dreamy, and everyone likes a guy with
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