Free Cold Feet by Amy FitzHenry

street name and number.
    â€œThat’s my building,” Carrick said.
    â€œAnd mine, for the time being,” Dusty added. “I’m staying in Carrick’s spare room until I find my own place.”
    â€œThat’s funny,” Liv exclaimed. “It’s an Airbnb place we rented out from a guy named Phillip. Is he your neighbor?”
    Carrick laughed. “Nice to meet you,” Carrick said to Liv, holding out his hand. “Phillip Carrick Richardson, but I go by my middle name. I guess that makes me your landlord.”
    My head swam. We were staying with these frat boys? Abruptly, I desperately wanted to be on my couch with Sam, with my legs in his lap, sharing a pint of chocolate chocolate chip Häagen-Dazsand debating which episode of
Friday Night Lights
we were on. As if on cue, my phone rattled on the table.
Sam Powell: iMessage.
    That’s good news, I told myself, slightly cheered. We were still connected enough that he could sense something was off between us and intuitively knew to check in. I gave myself a mini talking-to. Everything is fine between you and Sam. You are with your best friend. You have a drink. You are having fun.
    I held up my Buttery Nipple. “Are we going to take these or not?” The boys cheered in the affirmative, and the atmosphere at the table instantly changed from introductory to celebratory as we clinked our glasses and took our shots, each of us getting fractionally drunker and less self-conscious.
    It turned out Carrick was a buddy of Dusty’s from college. Dusty had recently moved out west from Manhattan and was, along with two other friends, creating a start-up much like Yelp, but targeted toward finding the holes-in-the-wall and neighborhood hangouts frequented by the city’s residents. They were going to call it MyLocal.com.
    â€œI love that!” I exclaimed genuinely. “Whenever I move to a new town I immediately search for my local—such a good name—coffee shop, bar, and bookstore. And trust me, I moved a lot growing up, so I know what I’m talking about.”
    â€œThat’s great,” Dusty said. He was visibly pleased that I liked the idea. The more he talked about MyLocal, the genesis, the site design, and the investors, the more apparent it was that the company was his baby. My whole life I had always been interested in people with passions, no matter what those passions were. Icehockey, street art, stand-up comedy, you name it. A person who cared desperately about what he did was cool.
    â€œWe still have a lot of work to do. Our office doesn’t even have a coffeemaker yet. But when we do figure out how to turn on our computers and, you know, launch a company, you can be our first user.” He smiled, flashing killer straight white teeth.
    I wasn’t attracted to Dusty and his perfect smile, I told myself. I wasn’t flirting with him or enamored with his creative business savvy. I was one hundred percent still longing to be snuggled up with Sam and Coach Taylor. Despite this, I was having fun. With my new
friend
, I inwardly italicized.
    â€œOne more question for you, Emma,” Dusty asked as my burger arrived and I heavily salted the fries that accompanied it. “Actually, two questions. Aren’t you concerned about your sodium intake, and two, what are you guys doing in San Francisco a few days before your wedding?”
    I’d given him the sketchy background of my relationship, but no specifics. Maybe it was the freedom I felt at that moment, temporarily untethered from the reality of my life, but, surprising myself as much as him, I told him the truth.
    â€œI’m looking for my birth father,” I said simply, reaching for the ketchup. “And I don’t believe in the whole ‘salt is bad for you’ thing.”
    â€œI’m not sure it’s really up for debate,” he said, laughing, before he paused. “Please tell me if I’m