Page 32 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
While I was abroad, I applied for jobs here in town and snagged an online interview with a progressive and innovative publicity firm that works with local businesses on their nonprofit initiatives, especially sports-centric ones. In short—my dream job.
As I near the building, I pass a quirky stationery shop, then a wine and painting place. I bet it’s bustling in the evenings with San Franciscans on dates. Maybe someday I’ll go there with some new guy.
The guy who feels right. The one I’ll want to be serious with.
But not today.
Not tonight.
And not tomorrow.
I haven’t moved here to look for a man. I’m here for the next phase of my career.
I’m ready to roll up my sleeves and work with some awesome women who exemplify what it means to be a lady boss.
I reach the office building right at the edge of Hayes Valley, next to a vegan ice cream shop and a pop-up shop advertising twenty-seven varieties of french fries.
Oh, Dorothy, it is good to be home indeed.
I push open the doors, a tiny bit nervous but still ready to tackle whatever comes my way. Inside, the office manager shows me around then introduces me to the woman who owns Moore Media.
“So good to meet you in person,” Jillian says. She’s the former VP of publicity for the San Francisco Renegades, one of the city’s two football teams. A gorgeous Chinese-American woman, she’s also the wife of the Renegades’ star receiver, Jones Beckett. She left the franchise and started this firm on her own. In a few years, it’s become one of the most successful PR shops in the city.
“And I’m thrilled to have you on board. Have you adjusted to being back in the Bay Area?” Jillian asks.
“I carry a light jacket with me wherever I go, and I’m ready to eat trendy food at a moment’s notice,” I say with a smile.
Laughing, she tucks a strand of sleek black hair behind her ear. “I’d say that’s all you need.”
We sit down on her cushy couch, along with the VP of marketing I’ll be reporting to. That’s Adriana. She talks a mile a minute, but I’m digging the way her rat-a-tat-tat style keeps me on my toes. Her pretty voice has a faint trace of a Colombian accent in it. She was raised there, then moved to California when she was ten, I’d learned during our FaceTime interview.
Now together in person, the three of us chat about the clients and projects they want me to work on. I take notes and offer suggestions, enlivened already by the work I’ll be doing. Building podcasts, crafting videos, expanding the social media presence for outreach initiatives from various nonprofits.
Athletes with disabilities. Shelter dogs. The Rainbow Alliance.
It’s everything my heart loves.
“And tomorrow night, one of our clients—a former Olympic skier—is hosting a cocktail soiree at the Legion of Honor, a casual sort of silent fundraiser for various organizations that they work with,” Adriana says, giving more details, then adding, “I would love for you to go. I’ll be there too, and can introduce you to athletes, supporters, press, and so on.”
I say yes, thrilled for the chance.
When the day ends, I call my mom and update her on everything, then make plans to see her this weekend. That evening, Tia and I hit the Marina with Layla to play a pickup game of volleyball.
On the way home, we say goodbye to Layla, then Tia and I pop into CVS to grab some face masks. Back at my place, we slather on pink charcoal goop to clear out our pores.
“Question. How the hell did charcoal become the it thing?” I ask as I flop down on the couch.
“Charcoal lobbied before the Cool Council. Got its blessing.”
“Ah, makes perfect sense. Same council that gave the blessing to avocado toast and porkpie hats a few years back?”
“Obvs.”
Then she turns on the newest episode of Badass Babe, and we listen together as the charcoal does its thing.
Old times are new again, and I’m a happy camper.
A little later, Tia’s boyfriend returns from work and whisks her and her glowing face upstairs. I’m guessing he’ll be making her glow in other ways.
Good for her.
As for me, I’m all good too. I definitely don’t need a man. Not at all.
The next night, I’m getting ready for the cocktail party, touching up my mascara, when my phone rings.
A bolt of tension slides down my back as I see the name on the screen.
Do I answer it now? Hit ignore? But I can’t ignore him forever, so I might as well take the call.
“Hi, Dad,” I say tightly.
“Hey, sweetie bear,” he says, making me cringe with the nickname he gave me when I was ten.
Let it go. It’s no big deal. Who cares that it’s been years since you spoke? He’s still your dad.
