9. Big Red Flag

Briar

I pull into my dad's garage in Petaluma about an hour later. The sign reads Henry's Garage, but everyone calls it Big Daddy's Garage. Everyone but me.

Dust kicks up from the ground and the smell of motor oil tickles my nostrils. My dad's working on a Dodge Charger, black with a bolt of lightning painted on the side. When he sees my car—one a customer gave him years ago that wasn't worth fixing, but Dad fixed it anyway—he sets down his tools and heads my way.

"Hi, Dad," I say, hopping out of the car, grabbing a little gift I picked up at a roadside candy and fruit shop, and bracing myself for the inevitable romance is the worst sigh that's coming my way in about thirty seconds.

I'm no good at keeping my life from him. Ever since I cried buckets when my prom date who I'd thought would love me forever dumped me, I've been a see-through daughter with him. But then again, it's not like I hid my emotions from him when Mom left either when I was ten, returning to her hometown of Sydney with barely a word and the even rarer visit. I was devastated then. He was too. But he shoved aside his own hurt to handle my brother and me. This is why I share my life with him. Because he shared his life with us.

Dad scrubs a hand across his bushy beard, his brow crinkled, a dirty rag in his hand but a smile teasing at his lips. Donut hops up and down in her car seat, attempting what she believes is a fail-safe method for opening any door—jumping. The window is cracked open, a boisterous arf coming through the sliver as she pogos.

"Hey, kiddo. What are you doing in these parts?" Dad asks, his standard greeting, even though he's been expecting Frances and me.

But I also don't want to spend too much time on why my life is a mess. Don't want to worry him.

I waggle the bag, hoping the distraction ploy helps. "First of all, I stopped and got your favorite gummi bears."

He studies the bag skeptically but takes it. "I like these."

"I know. Second, my tire pressure is low, so I figured I'd check it on my way to Lucky Falls." I head for the tire pressure machine, figuring this is the moment to drop the news. I say breezily, "Also, you were right. Steven was an oily businessman who I can't trust. 'Kay? Can you drop a coin in there for me?"

A pause. A grumble. "So that's why I'm watching the cat for the next couple weeks."

"Well, that and you love her."

He turns to the car, a small smile for Frances tipping his lips. "She's good people," he says, then looks back at me, muttering, "But your ex? He's a jerk. Love is the worst. And so are men today."

"You do have a son."

"And Griffin knows better than to treat anyone like that," he says, moving me aside and swiping a card on a key ring into the tire pressure machine. "I'll do it."

"I can do it."

"But I want to."

As he fills the tires with air, he reminds me that his tow truck business never once abandoned him like Mom did us, returning only twice—once for a summer vacation when I was twelve and probably needed her most, but she was mostly busy taking painting classes in the city that week anyway, then again a few years later when she was just stopping by in the area while on her travels—whatever that meant. He reminds me that the garage is faithful. That his business is reliable.

"You hear me, kiddo?"

"Loud and clear," I say.

"Good. Now gimme my grandcat. I bought her some tuna and a new feather toy," he says.

I grab the carrier, scratch her chin through the grates, then thank him and head on my way.

Damn, I could kiss Kailani. As I wend my little car down the long gravel driveway toward the cottage in nearby Lucky Falls, I open the window, inhaling the heady smell of vanilla.

"This is the real karma, Donut," I tell my girl.

She peers out the backseat window at the yard. It's late January in Napa Valley, so it's peak mustard flower season, and the yard is a carpet of bright yellow blooms that smell a little like heaven.

In addition to the main cottage, there's a tiny house on the property, and a cute little garage with a basketball net hanging over it. I press the button to open the door, drive the car inside and cut the engine, then I free my pup before she jumps too many times. Her long snout must go haywire because, in seconds, she's tugging on the leash to check out the flowers. "Let's go inside first," I tell her.

She whimpers her displeasure and since I'm a sucker for her, I let her explore the yard and turn flowers into fire hydrants.

I take a few more unhurried minutes to wander with her, before we head into the white cottage. As I step inside, the warm embrace of the cozy space envelops me. A line of tall, arched windows extends across the back wall, showing off the soft rolling hills of the Wine Country town.

The sun streams in through the panes, painting the room in golden late-afternoon hues, and I let out a contented sigh. The scent of lilac from the dish towels—must be the laundry detergent—mingles with the heady smell from the mustard flowers floating inside.

The open floor plan of the cottage is perfect for my temporary two-week home, with the living room, kitchen, and dining area all sprawled across the main level. A plush blue velvet sofa faces a fireplace I won't need.

Down the hall, I find two bedrooms and above me is a small open loft with a futon. "Hey, you get your own room," I say to Donut, showing her the bedrooms. "Just kidding. You can sleep with me."

She trots gamely by my feet as we return to the kitchen where I slide open glass doors to a wraparound deck. Well, that's nice. Kailani didn't tell me there was a hot tub here, but I'm not complaining.

Another reason I'm not complaining?

I can wake up early, shoot some Flow and Flex videos on the deck at sunrise, and create my new series of Seven Days at Sunrise to Lower Your Stress for the app. I've got some other video classes planned too. Balance for a Bad Day, Stretching for When Work Sucks, Pilates for When Everyone Pisses You Off.

Heck, maybe I'll even do yoga for better sex, for intimacy, for romance.

That's something Steven thought was a terrible idea. People would rather have sex than do yoga for sex. Now c'mon, babe, lemme show you how my cock can do the tree pose.

But what did he know? He'd sooner find Cleopatra's tomb than the female orgasm. I almost feel sorry for Madison.

Almost.

About a week later, I'm somehow both exhausted and rejuvenated. I've been driving up and down to the city daily, with Donut coming to most classes with me at the Sea Dogs. The strength and conditioning coach is a dog lover, so I'm lucky that Nova lets Donut join me at the arena.

Donut has proven herself though. When I adopted her at Little Friends a couple years ago, I did the rescue's therapy dog training program so I could bring her to visit the assisted living home where I do gentle stretching on a volunteer basis for the residents. With the hockey players, though, she mostly just shows off how much better she is at downward dog than anyone else there.

In between classes, I hunt for apartments. My friend Ivy has a lead on a place in her old building but nothing's solid yet. The rest of the time I'm shooting videos and working with my tech wizard younger brother to fine-tune my app.

But the festival starts tomorrow, so I'm going to focus on that. As Griffin and I finish our latest Zoom on the back deck, discussing what he thinks it'll take to get the app up and running—translation: marketing money—he takes off his glasses, then adds, "And listen, don't look but your POS ex is running a piece on his site on Five Ways to Know You're In a Relationship Going Nowhere."

I seethe. "Are you kidding me?"

"I wish," he says. "That guy is such a tool. Like he's a fucking relationship expert."

"That's how he positions himself."

"He really does."

My jaw ticks with anger. But my gut churns with worry. Did he say something nasty about me in it? "Do I want to look at it, Griff? Is he talking about me somehow?"

"No. It's just generic toxic-ex stuff."

"I'm the toxic ex?"

"This is why I visit his site," he says gently. "So you don't have to."

But the thing is, as I cook dinner, as I walk Donut, as I prep for the festival, my laptop is a siren calling to me. I can't help it. I've got to know what he's said.

I sink onto the couch, flip open my computer, and pop over to his dating advice site. I grip the edge of the machine as I read.

Is he for real?

I want to fling this computer at the wall. Maybe I need Yoga for a Toxic Ex.

Because I can't believe he wrote this: I never felt an ounce of chemistry when I kissed my most recent ex-girlfriend and that should have been a big red flag, boys.

I uncork a bottle of wine, pour a glass of Chablis all the way to the top, put on a bikini, and turn on the hot tub.

Time to detox.