Jennifer and Rocket (The Princesses of Silicon Valley Book 6) (2 page)

As we drive up to San Francisco, Jennifer asks me about myself. Even though I know you need to share with women, I’m not interested in sharing too much. It’s a relief when we move to art, that’s an easy subject, something I like. Even so, after a bit, I turn the conversation so I can find out more about her.

“How come you chose to be a teacher?”

“I spent all my summers in high school and college working with kids. I found my favorite age was tweens to early teens.”

“Really, tweeners? Aren’t kids that age difficult?”

“No, not at all. At that age, the kids are young enough to want to please their teacher, but old enough to be able to think deeply. It’s the first time they can look at situations in other perspectives.”

She’s perky.

Not usually my type, but her energy feels good. When was the last time I was with a woman who felt right? When was the last time I was with a woman where I wanted more? “Were you a cheerleader in high school?” I ask.

“How do you know?” she answers with real surprise.

“You’ve got that bubbly energy thing going.”

“In high school, you were…” she looks at me, her eyes squint. It’s easy to tell she’s trying to turn back the years.

“Skateboarder.” I feel a smile on my lips as I flash back to those days. I continue to explain, “My friends and I spent some time at the skateboard parks, but most of the time we were daring each other by turning our town into a skateboard park. It was a thrill to elude the police. Even so, I was into art back then, though, math was my favorite subject at school.”

“They have skateboard parks in Wyoming?”

“Wyoming?”

“You said you lived in Wyoming?”

“I’m sure they have skateboard parks in Wyoming, but I grew up in LA. I moved to Wyoming after college.”

“Why Wyoming?”

“I graduated during the great recession. The economy was crap. No one was getting jobs. The oil fields were looking for welders. As a sculptor, I knew how to weld. The money was good. It sure beat sleeping in my childhood bedroom.”

“You’re from the bay area?” I ask.

“Hawaii, actually, Oahu.”

“I can see you dancing hula,” I say, as I remember the graceful way her hot butt moved on the dance floor last night.

“Really?” she says with a bright smile. “I took lessons from when I was four till I graduated high school.”

“You need to take lessons to dance hula? Can’t you just put on a grass skirt and shake your butt?”

Out of the corner of my eye I catch the really nasty look she shoots me. There’s something about Jennifer I find compelling. I almost want to annoy her again to get that reaction.

Raising her index finger to me she says, “First of all the grass skirts and butt shaking is Tahitian, not Hawaiian. Hollywood always shows clips of Tahitian dancing when they show Hawaii.” Raising her next finger, “Second of all, we don’t get up and shake our butt, there’s a bunch of different dance moves and lots of different dances. You need to learn the songs and the movements that go with each song. I danced both Hula 'Auana and Hula Kahiko. That’s modern and ancient Hula.”

“Okay, Okay, Miss Hawaii, my knowledge of hula doesn’t get past the opening credits of
Hawaii 5-0
.” The actress on that show is hot, and Jennifer looks a lot like her.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” she indigently says. “They show a Tahitian dancer on the opening credits. It’s not even hula.”

Damn, she’s cute as can be getting worked up about hula dancing. This afternoon is starting out well.

After parking in the Golden Gate Park's Music Concourse Garage, we walk up to the de Young Museum. I’ve already purchased tickets online. I head over to the audio tour desk and purchase one for each of us.

Walking around the exhibit with Jennifer, I find the display enthralling. For me, being with real art is like listening to live music. There is an intimacy and thrill that I experience from the proximity to the creative process.

When we finish with the modern art exhibit, I lead Jennifer to the sculpture and decorative art collection.

“Sculpture speaks to me,” I tell her as we walk around a classical figure. “The 3-D aspect gives you negative space and shadow. Look at this piece,” I say. “The composition and flow is amazing.”

“What type of sculptures do you create?” she asks as we walk around another classical sculpture.

“I like to play with negative space and shadow. I use materials in a way that will surprise the viewer. Right now I’m in a liquid phase. I like the movement of water. Metal is my medium, but I like to work it so you think it’s moving, dripping. I use different metals and different textures to give the piece unexpected fluidity.”

Jennifer’s forehead is pinched as she looks at me. Finally she says, “You’re not what you appear.”

“Yeah, that’s what I want people to say about my work.”

Man, what is it about her? I’m not ready to take her home. Spontaneously, I ask, “Do you want to go to the Japanese tea garden?”

She nods. I keep my hands in my pockets. I have an overwhelming desire to touch her, pull her close. But I can tell from her body language, she’s not ready for that. She’s still deciding about me.

I like that.

Usually, women chase me, I’m not used to being with a woman I need to convince.

The challenge of catching Jennifer is…fun.

As we pass the Dore Vase in front of the de Young, I can’t help but admire it. As I trail my hands over the bronze metal, I explain to Jennifer, “I’ve always liked the flow and composition of this piece. It was designed about a hundred and fifty years ago.” As she stares at the large vessel with figures flowing up and around it, I explain. “It’s a wine allegory, the figures are from the ancient classical rite of Bacchus.”

Jennifer gives me a quizzical look. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve been to this gallery before, I like art.”

Walking down the length of the concourse, I appreciate getting to spend my day with a pretty, perky girl. After paying the fee, we enter the gates of the tea garden and walk through the sculpted gardens, stopping at the teahouse.

Sitting down on Japanese style stools, Jennifer tells me, “My mom’s been learning how to perform the Japanese tea ceremony.”

Our server delivers our pot of tea and Japanese cookies. “I take it you’re Japanese?”

“My mom’s family came from China. My dad’s came from Japan. My parents met in college, UH Mānoa.”

“You’re the rebel, coming to the mainland?”

“Actually, my parents came here for dental school, UCSF. That’s when they started dating. And your family?” she asks.

“Where are my folks from?” She casually nods as she leans in showing her interest.

“My dad’s from the south, Mobile, Alabama. When he gets mad, his southern accent comes out. My mom’s from DC. Both my parents are artists.”

“Art’s in your blood,” she comments, I nod.

She has a beautiful face and gorgeous smooth skin.

“Where in LA did you grow up?” she asks.

I take a deep breath. I really don’t like talking about myself. But I’ve learned that girls like this kind of information. If you want to date them, you better give some details or they never stop prying.

“I lived with my dad in high school, though I consider Venice my home. My mom still lives in the bungalow where I grew up. Going back to Venice now, it’s different than when I was a kid. Back then, it was edgy, filled with artists, an alternative place to live. Now it’s all high tech workers.”

“How old were you when your parents got divorced?”

Not wanting to touch my parents’ complicated relationship, I vaguely answer, “My parents have always been good friends. I never was in the middle of any disputes.” In an effort to divert the conversation to her, I ask, “Do you have siblings?”

“Two brothers, one’s two years older, the other is two years younger. My younger brother is at Johns Hopkins. He hates living back east, the weather’s too cold, the people are too stiff, and the lifestyle is too brisk. He misses the island life. He tells me he’s moving back to Hawaii when he’s done with school. My older brother got a master’s degree in logistics; he works for Amazon in Seattle. And you? Any siblings?” she asks.

“I’m an only child.”

I’m glad that her family doesn’t live close. My family is complicated enough; I’m not interested in getting involved in anyone else’s family dynamics.

She pulls out her phone to check the time.

“Do you have someplace to be?”

With an uncomfortable look, she bites her lower lip before grimacing. “This is my first year teaching. I’ve only had my own classroom for two months. As Sunday progresses, I get more and more anxious. I already worked on this week’s lesson plan. But I have all this built up anxiety for the coming week.” She rubs her fingers down the length of her esophagus. “There’s so much going on in my classroom. So much for me to remember, so much to do. By Sunday night, I’m a bundle of nerves. It’s not like I have anything I’m supposed to be doing tonight, but I feel like I should be doing something to prepare for tomorrow.”

Peering at me like she’s going to tell me the biggest secret, she says, “Sundays are my worst night for sleeping. I’ve been waking up at three in the morning. You know the dream you get in college. The one where you show up and there’s a test you never studied for?”

I nod.

“I have a variation of that dream. I show up to class without a lesson plan.” Now her eyes get big as she continues to tell me her story, “I’m standing in front of thirty thirteen-year-olds with no idea what to do.” She shakes her head and winces. “I need to be in my classroom by seven thirty-five. First period starts at seven fifty. On Monday morning, the fifteen minutes between when I arrive and class starts are totally nerve-racking. Once class starts, I’m fine. But Sunday nights, they’re the worst.”

“Do you want me to take you home, or would you like to stop and get a burger with me, then I’ll take you home?”

She bites her lip. Finally she says, “A hamburger would be great.”

After our initial stilted conversation, the rest of the afternoon has been great. Surprisingly, Rocket’s easy to be around. All my concerns about what to talk about leave me as we casually talk about family, work, and hobbies. Being with him is different than what I expected.

As we drive to dinner, I mull over our conversation. In high school, we had our jocks, surfers, and skateboarders. The surfers and skateboarders were the sketchiest—always cutting classes, smoking weed, and getting in trouble. Rocket fits the skateboarder stereotype; then again, he’s polite and surprisingly deep. My friends from high school would be shocked if they knew I went on a date with a skateboarder. And my mother, she would have a heart attack. Though this really isn’t a date, my family will never meet him, and I probably won't ever see him again.

Dinner is casual and comfortable. We naturally find a lot to talk about. Rocket reminds me of the “local style” guys from home, the guys who are always so laid back and relaxed. As the day progresses into evening, I wonder what he wants. He hasn’t tried to make a move on me; he hasn’t even touched me. His energy is straight. Is he looking for a friend? Is he testing me out? He said he graduated during the great recession, which would make him close to thirty. The guys my age are all looking for a hookup. Are older guys different? Rocket has a great body and a wonderful angular face, but that doesn’t make him my type. I like bankers and lawyers. They’re always so confident and well put together. Maybe if he lost the piercings, got a good haircut, shaved, and got a new wardrobe…then again, he’d still have that edge.

The lights from the office buildings that line 101 mesmerize me as we silently drive back down to Silicon Valley. A memory of college flashes through my mind. As a freshman alcohol gave me the excuse to flirt and make out at a level I would never have otherwise. Initially thinking I was in control, I soon learned that my libido was. Being hungover the next day was not worth the few hours of freedom alcohol gave me. Randomly hooking up gave me a couple hours of intimacy, and a few days of feeling terrible about myself. Being emotionally distant and physically close with a stranger actually made me feel lonely. After a while, I learned how to stop at one or two drinks, I no longer hooked up with random guys, no matter how cute or persuasive.

Rocket interrupts my reflections. “What do you do after work?”

Blinking a few times I pull myself back to the moment. “I have school every day. The kids leave at 2:50p.m., but I have at least three hours of work still to do. No one realizes how much time it takes to review homework, correct tests, enter grades, and prepare for the next day.”

We drive for a while in silence before I ask him, “What’s your day like? Do you get up early? Do you work nine to five?”

“I tend to get up early. I’m up in the mountains, so I get on my bike. At work, I sit in front of a computer. On the rare chance I get home at a reasonable hour, I work on my art. Mostly I spend my weekends working in my studio.”

“Where’s your studio?” I ask as I picture some light-filled warehouse.

“I have ten acres in Boulder Creek. The air there is cool; that’s important if you’re wearing a helmet and working with fire. My land doesn’t have much on it, mostly redwood trees, and my big garage that I converted into a studio.”

“You live in the mountains by yourself? Isn’t it inconvenient…and lonely?”

“Not really, friends are a half an hour away. I find solitude calming. That’s why I left LA, that’s why I have no interest in moving back.”

“There were a lot of people at the de Young, the tea gardens, and at dinner.”

“It’s not like I’m a hermit. My mind is busy with work and my art. I spend my day surrounded by people, I like going home to someplace quiet.”

“And you?” he asks. “Do you crave solitude or the crowd?”

“I’m your classic extrovert. I thrive off of other people’s energy. After a day of school, interacting with a hundred and eighty different kids, I, too, look forward to going home and having some solitude. After finishing my school work, I like crafting in front of the TV, or while listening to music.”

“Yeah, that’s not that different from me. I like listening to music after work and on weekends as I work on my art.”

A warm feeling fills me. It would be nice to be with someone who has the same lifestyle. Then I flinch. What could I be thinking?

As we pull up to my apartment building, I wonder if I was too revealing. Did I ask him too many questions? Does he find me interesting? Then I wonder why I care. He’s not my type; he’s not what I want. I’m not interested in dating a guy like him. Anyway, he probably dates women who are cool, edgy, and knowledgeable about art.

As he moves his truck into park, I blurt out, “Today was fun. You gave the exhibits another level of depth.” Where did that come from?

Shooting me a sexy half-smile, he slowly nods before replying, “Yeah, going with you was fun. Most people I know are either other artists, or people who don’t get art. It’s cool being with someone who’s new to it and gets it.” As he talks he watches my expression. He hesitates before asking, “Can I call you? Maybe you can come up to my place.”

His place?

Alone?

In the mountains?

Then again, a studio—now that would be cool.

“Or we can grab a bite to eat,” he says.

I feel unsure.

Conflicted. Unable to decipher how I feel, I give him a polite, “Sure.”

Being agreeable doesn’t mean I’ve agreed. I can always be too busy. Do I want him calling me again? He’s not someone I would ever date. What if someone saw me with him? He’s been nice; today was fun. But he’s just a diversion, a palate cleanser. Just a guy I spent the day with so I can get a better perspective on my dating life.

“Thanks again for a fun time,” I say as I unbuckle my seat belt.

Then I open the door. I look down at the road. It feels miles away. “Why is this truck so high?”

Damn, why can’t I leave it alone? Why do I ask questions that make me sound ridiculous?

“I live in the mountains on a rutted out road, I need the suspension,” he casually explains. Giving me a pensive look he finishes up with, “I guess you’re used to driving in cars meant for paved roads.”

Nodding, I bite my tongue and smile.

I awkwardly jump out of the cab. At the front door of my apartment building I turn, smile, and wave. Then I watch as he leaves my parking lot.

Back in my apartment, Kara immediately greets me with, “I never got a phone call. I figured you were either enjoying yourself, or he was a serial killer and we would be combing the countryside for your body.”

“No need to worry. He’s nice, not at all creepy, actually he’s an artist, which made the de Young…interesting.”

“You like this guy?” she says in surprise.

“No, of course not. Even though he’s handsome, if I saw his profile or picture on an online dating site I would swipe to the next page.”

“Was today good or bad?”

“Today was…fun, interesting. There is something about him, he’s compelling to be with.”

Kara looks at me in surprise. “Really? Would you go out with him again?”

My insides twist in conflict.

“I enjoyed my day with him, but date him? He's not who I want.”

I wouldn’t want anyone I know finding out we were together. I’d never want anyone to see me with him, what would they think? As I head to my room, my duplicitous thoughts make me feel uncomfortable. I don’t want to be that shallow. Why does this man make me feel so conflicted? As I hang up my jacket, it hits me. I haven’t thought about school since I told him how stressful I found Sundays to be.