Expiration Dates: A Novel (7 page)

On Sundays Hugo and I go to the farmers market at Melrose Place—a small outdoor market with six produce stands, the good bagels, and excellent sundried-tomato-infused feta cheese. It's also near Alfred, a coffee shop that makes the world's best iced latte.

In addition to the food, the market has the most gorgeous bouquets of roses—purples and pinks and deep burgundies. And giant, heady sunflowers to take home, too. There's also a clothing stand with patchwork coats in the winter and Coachella-inspired cover-ups in the summer. I love it here. I'd love it even more if Hugo didn't make us go before 10:00 a.m.

Hugo wakes up and runs six miles every morning, and his route spits him out right by my apartment. He ends up coming over around nine, when I'm just emerging, and we walk over together, Murphy trotting at my heels. It's become somewhat of our weekend ritual, if we're both in town, which I always am and he seldom is.

At 9:03 he texts me from the sidewalk:
Where r u?

I pull on a sweatshirt and stick my head out the door. He's in a moisture-wicking black T-shirt and shorts. He has an armband around his bicep where he keeps his iPhone, but right now he's texting on it.

“I need two minutes,” I mouth to him.

He pops out an earbud. “Yo,” he says. “Good morning.”

“Do you want to come in?”

Hugo shakes his head. “No, I want you to come out.”

I close the door without responding and slide my feet into my favorite pair of burnt-orange Birkenstocks. I grab my wallet and an
I
NY
tote bag from off the counter and leave with my keys.

I meet him back on the sidewalk. Murphy stays home. I showed him his leash and he didn't even pick his head up.

“You look like you had fun last night,” he says when I'm outside.

“I do?” I'm wearing bike shorts and an oversize sweatshirt.

Hugo eyes me. “Well, I mean, you look tired.”

“Wow, what a compliment.” I slide my tote bag over my shoulder, and then Hugo loops it off me and carries it down by his side.

After dinner at Pace Jake dropped me back off. He didn't kiss me. I thought he was going to, but he leaned in, kissed my cheek again, just like last time, and then asked if he could see me next Friday.

Hugo doesn't say anything, and we start walking.

“We didn't kiss last night,” I spit out. “It was our second date. What do you think that's about?”

Hugo slides his phone into his pocket. “Did you put it out there?”

I think about Jake and me standing in front of my door. I wanted to. It felt like he wanted to. “There was a vibe,” I say.

Hugo considers this. “Maybe he's just not that into you yet.” He snaps his fingers like he's just thought of something revelatory. “I bet that's something you never considered. You know it's him, but he doesn't know it's you!”

I crane my neck up to look at him. “OK, first of all, fuck you. Secondly, I feel like he is, though. I definitely feel like there's this thing between us.” I take a breath in. “He was married. He told me about it last night. Maybe it was that?”

Hugo nudges my elbow to step up onto the curb to avoid a passing car. “So he's newly divorced or something?”

I shake my head. “His wife passed away. It was six or seven years ago.”

Hugo rolls his neck out. “Man,” he says. “Sorry for him.”

I step back into the street and keep walking. “He's been through a lot. I think there's something special about him. Seriously, no bullshit. It feels, I don't know. Genuine.”

Hugo stretches an arm overhead. “That's good, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

I watch him lift the other arm and then twist his torso to the right and left, trying to crack his back.

“Is it weird when we talk about this?”

Hugo and I mostly talk about his dating life, not mine. And when we do talk about mine, it's all short-lived things. We rarely delve into feelings.

“Why?”

“Because you are bending and stretching right now like it's 1988.”

“Ouch,” he says, but he stops. “Yeah, I mean it's kind of weird. But I love you, so it's worth it.” Hugo slings an arm over my shoulders and squeezes before letting go again.

“How was your night?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Natalie and I went to San Vicente Bungalows for, like, one drink and then came home and ordered Night Market.”

“You ordered takeout on a Saturday?”

“Oh, yes, I know. I'm usually such a delinquent. Honestly, the thought of sitting at a restaurant was not that appealing. We watched
Shark Tank
, and I fell asleep at eleven.”

“You hate
Shark Tank
.”

Hugo shrugs. “It's not offensive.”

I peer at him. His sunglasses are looped through the neck of his shirt, and his eyes look back at me like,
What?

“You like her.”

“I like Mr. Wonderful.”

“No,” I say. “You like her. You're acting all relationship-y.”

We reach the entrance to the market. Hugo holds his hand out.
After you.

“May I remind you,” he says, “that you are the one I am currently at a farmers market with.”

“Yeah, but you never would have come with me when we were dating.”

Hugo wanders over to the bagel stand. “Do you want an everything?”

“Yes. Get some raisin, too.”

He says something else, but I'm already halfway down the lane, pulled by a stalk of sunflowers. One thing that's nice about getting here as early as we do: if you come after ten they're all sold out.

We bring the goods back to my apartment, and I make Hugo and myself a coffee with my French press, steaming up some milk in the Nespresso. I toast two everything bagels and go about cutting up heirloom tomatoes, sautéing onions, and scrambling eggs. Murph gets some egg on his kibble, which he accepts as his due.

Hugo perches on a stool by my counter and types into his phone. “Why do I always get kicked off your Wi-Fi?” he says. A familiar refrain. He complains about it every weekend.

When we were dating, I hated his phone. I felt like it took him away from me, and I wanted all of him—so much more than I got. I remember my frustration at these moments—the mornings we would have slivers of time, maybe only minutes, to be together, and he'd be furiously answering emails before he had to run to a meeting. At the time it felt like I was being robbed of something, that he was purposefully holding us back from the sort of relationship we could have had. But maybe my need to siphon every moment was the reality that I knew our time was limited. It was always going to end, and I wanted everything I could before it was over.

Regardless, it doesn't bother me now.

Over Hugo's shoulder, I survey my apartment. Admittedly in the past few years the place has drifted from monochrome into eclectic, generously. The less kind interpretation is that I have just accumulated too much stuff. There's extra furniture from my parents, an end table that I found on the street and had refinished, even though with a coffee table there was never any room for it. And crammed behind the sofa is a credenza I had to have, because it was on massive sale at Ligne Roset. Hugo sits on one of
two wooden stools I bought three years ago from a craftsman in Silver Lake, even though my dining chairs fit fine at the counter. I need to purge.

I say this to him now.

“No shit,” he says without looking up. “This place is starting to resemble a hoarder's den. I'm thinking of signing you up for TNT.”

“TLC.”

“Yeah.”

I turn my attention back to the eggs and press the toaster down one more time on the bagels.

“Are you having a half or a whole?” I ask him.

“I'm trying to lay off carbs, but realistically I'll eat both.”

I hear him put down his phone. I turn back around to the counter and my coffee cup.

“So, listen,” he says. He puts his elbows on the counter. “Make it happen with this guy, and then let's all go out together.”

I take a sip. It's rich and hot. I like my coffee so dense it's practically a solid. “You want to double-date?”

Hugo smiles. “Definitely not. I want to take you both out for drinks and assess the situation.”

I set my cup down. “You're bringing Natalie.”

“She's going to get the wrong idea.”

“That what? You're with her? You already are.”

Hugo shakes his head. “No, that we're further down the road than we are.”

“People just want connection,” I say.

Hugo looks at me. “Who says I'm not connecting? Plus, she knows you're important to me.”

“And that's bad?”

He shrugs. “Not at all. It's just more serious than I am with her. Meeting you is like meeting my family.”

His phone dings, and he picks it back up. “How are your parents by the way? I haven't seen them since—what was it? Rosh Hashanah?”

“Passover.”

“That's the one. You know your dad still wishes it had worked out with us.”

I spoon some scramble onto a plate, add some sliced tomatoes and onions, and pass it to Hugo. “I don't think that's true.”

“Daph, trust me. The only thing your mom wanted more than for us to get married was to marry me herself.”

My parents do love Hugo but in the way all parents love tall, rich prospects. I did not consider it to be particularly individually focused.

I grab my plate, set the bagel halves in a small wooden bowl, and litter the counter with spreads—basil hummus, vegan pesto, avocado and dill crema, and a chive cream cheese.

“You spoil me,” Hugo says.

“You're welcome.”

We eat. The eggs are a little overcooked, but everything else is pretty good.

“Does Jake know you make meals like this?”

“Not yet.”

“He'll learn.”

I lay some chive cream cheese onto a half of everything bagel. “We'll see,” I say.

“We're not seeing,” Hugo says. “We have evidential proof.”

“Do you really think it means forever?” I ask him.

The blank piece of paper has given me pause over the last day. Ever since Jake asked me what I'm looking for and we didn't kiss. I know he's a good person. It was obvious from my first time meeting him. But I'm not sure about myself. What if he wants something I can't offer?

“Don't you?”

I think about it. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, of course.”

“Well, then, there you go.”

Hugo offers to wash the dishes, and I let him while I put everything back in the fridge and wipe down the counter. I have to be at my parents' house in an hour, and it's going to take me forty-five minutes to get there.

“I need to meet this guy,” Hugo says as we're saying goodbye. “Let's lock it in.”

Murphy walks over to Hugo at the door. He looks up at him.

“Hello,” Hugo says. “I hope you're having a pleasant day, Murphy.”

Murphy and Hugo get along mostly because they treat each other like polite strangers. Hugo gives Murphy all the space he requires and, in turn, Murphy doesn't ask that Hugo treat him like a dog.

I open the latch and pull at the door. Hugo gives me a quick hug and then steps outside.

“You can't use it to mark your territory, though,” I say.

Murphy stands next to me in the doorway. I bend down and scoop him up. He's not particularly pleased, but he doesn't struggle.

Hugo shakes his head. “That's ridiculous,” he says. “You're not my territory.”

I watch him pop in his earbuds.

“You never were.”

He waves and heads down the block toward Fountain. I want to know what he means, but he's off and running before I can ask.

Noah, five weeks.

I heard his Southern drawl before I ever saw him.

“That's herrr.”

He made the
r
sound like it was a mile long. Waves rolling in.

“Hi,” I said. “Daphne. It's nice to meet you.”

I was seated at the bar of Smuggler's Cove—a tiki spot known for its rum drinks and sprawling floor plan.

“Noah,” he said. “Pleasure's all mine.”

He was tall—about six foot two inches with shaggy blond hair and bright blue eyes. He looked like Owen Wilson without even squinting.

Noah and I had matched on the dating app Bumble the day before. I was fresh into my San Francisco stint, staying at a hotel nearby until I found something permanent, and feeling electrified by all the specific heady freedom of being in the second half of your twenties. I had just gotten out of a long-term relationship
with my college boyfriend, I was away from home for the first time in my life, and I was ready to date a Noah. Actually, I figured: I was ready to date a few Noahs.

He took a seat next to me, straddled the stool like it was a saddle, and waved over the bartender. “You up for a little adventure, Daphne?”

I was.

“Make us something strong and special,” Noah said.

The bartender, a woman in her thirties with tattooed sleeves, went to work.

“You been here before?” Noah asked me.

I shook my head. “I just got here yesterday.” I'd picked this bar because it was the first thing that came up on Google that was close by.

“To the city?”

“Yes. Just moved up from LA. I don't even have an apartment yet. I'm at the Hilton for the next few days.” I gestured in the general direction.

“What brings you here?”

“A job,” I said. I felt proud. It was my first adult one. “I'm starting at a tech company.”

“Big industry out here.”

“You're in school, right?”

All I knew is that he was getting his doctorate.

“I study meteorology.”

“Wow,” I said. “I don't think I've ever met anyone doing that.”

“Loved it since I was a kid.”

The bartender set down our drinks in bowls. Noah picked his
up and knocked the side of mine. I took a sip. It tasted like rum Kool-Aid with ginger. Awful.

Noah licked his lips and closed his eyes. “No shot,” he said. He looked at me. Seemed to study me hard for the first time. “What do you say we go get a beer?”

“Please.”

Noah put down a twenty and a ten on the counter and then took my hand. “We're just going to make a quick pit stop first.”

I felt his hand. It was large and broad. My fingers felt uncharacteristically petite, hidden. I liked it.

The night was balmy and warm. It was the start of summer and endless possibility. We started walking. He did not immediately let go of my hand.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To see some painted ladies,” he said.

We hiked up a hill. I had to tap him to slow down. I was not in the kind of shape that allowed me to traverse San Francisco. But then the street crested, and I understood what he meant. The Painted Ladies refer to seven row houses across from Alamo Square Park in San Francisco. They're beautiful. Victorian detail and in bright colors—blues and yellows and even a little red, although they've faded with time.

Painted ladies all over the city were painted during the gold rush to show off the burgeoning wealth of the city's residents. Now, they're beautiful landmarks.

We stood across the street at the park, taking them in.

“Is one of these the
Full House
house?” I asked.

“The ladies are in the opening credits. But the actual house is somewhere else.”

I hear the theme song. I find it charming and out of character that he knows this. I expected a nonresponse.

“They call them Postcard Row or the Seven Sisters,” he said. “I'm not over here too much. But when I am I like to give 'em a look.”

“How come?” I asked. It seemed out of character for him. But then again, everything about Noah seemed out of character. A Texan in the city by the bay with a penchant for studying the sky.

Noah laughed. It was the first time I'd heard him laugh. It was wholly original. The kind you want to record for a ringtone. Later I would look back on that and think it was the moment. The moment I decided to go on whatever ride he was selling tickets for.

“I like to see what a place is known for. Helps me see what a place is about.”

Growing up in LA I always thought the tourists who groped for their cameras down Rodeo Drive or took eager bus tours to the best view of the Hollywood sign were, in a word, desperate. I was embarrassed by their visors and fanny packs and clear out-of-water attitude. Who would be that earnest on purpose? Who would let it show? It was grotesque. But now that I was new somewhere—in some ways for the very first time—I saw it. All the wonder that comes from seeing something that is so known, so recognized. For witnessing a place's celebrity.

The things that will outlive us.

“And if you look up, on a night like tonight you can even see the dipper.” Noah cupped the back of my head with his palm. I felt it. I leaned back and looked up. The sky was splayed out like a screen, like an open road.

“You study stars,” I said, my head still back.

He moved behind me. I felt his body, his other hand found my hip.

“I study the atmosphere,” he said. “I study why we can see the stars.”

I picked my head back up. He dropped his hand from my hip. All at once I realized how far I was from home. How unknown this life was. How I was just making introductions.

“Let's get a little liquid,” he said.

We went to a local pub for beers and bags of potato chips, and when Noah finally walked me back to the Hilton—tipsy and swollen from salt—I felt something rise up in me. A want. A hunger for something different. Whatever he was, whatever he had to offer, I wanted more of it that night.

“You have plans this weekend?” he asked, standing on the welcome mat. The automated doors opened and closed, waiting for me to make a decision. In or out.

“You're the only person I know in San Francisco,” I told him.

“Well, if that isn't a call to action, I don't know what is.”

When I got inside there was a receptionist waving me over. She handed me an envelope. “This came for you,” she said.

Five weeks.

I felt my skin prick up with goose bumps. I felt alive. It was the only thing I wanted to feel. Breathing. Vibrant. Present.

Five weeks. I'd take it.