“Thanks for nothing, Esther,” I say into the tile.
I start to hit End on the cell, but she says, “Sid! Wait!”
“What?”
“Sometimes fate is tossed directly into your lap purely by accident as if the heavens have experienced an unexpected bout of palsy,” Esther says. “Don’t take this for granted. Don’t let your mind play tricks on you. He likes you, Sid. You like him. You’ve waited your whole life for this. I beg you: Don’t fear the possibility of heartbreak. Instead, be terrified by the possibility of regret.”
I place my forehead against the cool, damp geometric tile and gently bump my noggin against it.
“Thank you, my friend.”
“I’ll save you a piece of coconut cake.”
I hear the doorbell ring as I hang up.
I step out of the shower and walk into the bathroom.
Ding-dong.
I lean out into the hallway.
“Leo?” I call.
I move into the living room.
“Leo?”
“I’m out here!”
I follow Leo’s voice to the sliding doors, which are wide open on this perfect morning. I see him standing beneath his citrus trees with a fruit picker to pluck the grapefruit.
“Can you get the door?” Leo calls. “Probably Amazon. Still decorating the place.”
“Okay!” I call.
As I walk toward the front door, I finally take stock of Leo’s stunning MCM house: It is like stepping directly into Slim Aarons’s famed photoPoolside Gossip.
The man certainly has great taste, if I do say so myself.
His wireless speakers are softly playing classical music, but—as I walk to the door—I realize I have not heard them make the distinct notification sound when an Amazon package is delivered.
I open one side of the massive double doors.
A well-dressed older couple are standing at the door. She is holding a bouquet of fresh flowers. He is holding a bottle of champagne.
The woman tries to be subtle, but I catch her eyes lingering on my near-naked body. I can feel my face flush.
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry. I thought it was Amazon.”
“Oh, my goodness,” she says. “No, I’m so terribly sorry. We must have the wrong address. Joseph?”
He lifts his cell.
“Where is 318 Ocotillo Trail?” the man asks.
“This is 318 Ocotillo Trail,” I say.
“Joseph,” the woman says again, this time his name taking on a more admonishing tone. “You must have entered the address incorrectly.” She looks at me. “I’m so sorry. We rarely come to Palm Springs.”
