When You're Expecting Something Else Read Free Page B

the apartment he shows me, but it’s way too expensive. I go on to apartment number two, which costs less, but is too frumpy for me. I get lucky at apartment complex number three. For one thousand, eight hundred dollars a month, I rent a one-bedroom corner unit with windows overlooking a small courtyard. It has a balcony that makes it seem larger than it is, and it has a gym and laundry room onsite.
     
    I find California living to be much more expensive than I expected, but already, I love the weather here, absent of dreadful humidity and biting mosquitoes. The manager tells me where to go for some rental furniture, on Stevens Creek Boulevard, which seems to be the happening place to find almost anything. When I get there, not only do I find a place that has everything I need, but they’ll also deliver tomorrow, on Sunday, as well.
     
    And so it works out. By Sunday at noon, the furniture has come. I’ve rented a small table with chairs, a bed, dresser, and couch to start me out for now. Since I really don’t own much anymore, it doesn’t take long to unload my boxes and suitcases from the car. I tuck sheets onto the bed and then I stare at the bare white walls until I can’t stand it any longer. I decide to drive around seeing what I can find to do. First, though, I brush on facial powder, lipstick, and add a dash of color to my cheeks, the first time I care about how I look since leaving New Haven. I shake out a skimpy, multi-colored, wrinkle resistant sundress, and match it with colorful red and yellow sandals.
     
    I point my car in a direction, and before long I stumble into an Art and Wine Festival in Sunnyvale, a city just north of San Jose, where a myriad of vendors have set up booths to display and sell their arts and crafts. I mix into the crowd of colorful people and hear accents from many different countries. I hear Farsi, Mandarin, Spanish, and Indian dialects that I recognize along with others I wonder about. A beautiful chatter of diversity and peace mingles with wind chimes from a nearby booth. I buy a tote bag from one vendor, a flowery sunhat from another, and some shiny silver earrings from yet another. I indulge in a glass of white wine and pull up a chair in front the free band in the center of town and listen to The Lover’s Gone Band sing songs about love and loss.
     
    Between the wine and the lyrics I find my cheeks wet with tears. Against my will, Dr. Alex Masterson lives as an ache in my heart and my lost babies nag from memories about a pretty little house on a tree lined street that will never be my home. I feel alone and unwanted, a stranger in a foreign land. Then he comes and sits beside me with a cold beer in his hand, a stranger who talks to me. “They’re that good, aren’t they?” He motions to the band. “Brings tears to my eyes, too. I’m Jared,” he says, nodding and whisking his hand in my direction, lightly brushing my arm, but nothing that could be called a touch.
     
    “Connie,” I say by way of introduction. “Sorry, they touched a soft spot.” He hands me his napkin and I wipe away my tears. We sit in silence through several more songs.
     
    “Are you hungry? Would you like to get a bite? There’s Italian here.” He points to a nearby restaurant with outdoor seating and tables with red and white-checkered tablecloths. “Or, I know a place in San Jose that’ll have dancing all night, if you’re interested. Sunday night happy hour starts early. Oh, and the food’s good, too.”
     
    What have I got to lose? I am hungry, it’s almost dinnertime, and I have no food at the apartment yet. He looks to be about my age, maybe a little older. He’s tall and broad shouldered, with green eyes and brown hair. He wears faded jeans and a just do it tee shirt. Looks like he works out, with arms that long to hold me , I think. I nod and agree to follow him in my car to downtown San Jose for some nightlife and clubbing. “By San Jose State University,” he says, and I