Hi friend. This is another Liv-ing story, the world where my alter ego, Liv, gets to play out the “what ifs” of my own lived experiences. Her stories are inspired by truth, but they exist in their own universe — a place where memory and imagination blur together.
It’s edgy. It’s cringey. It’s a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents have been altered or are composites. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Thematically, it’s an exploration of honesty — and whether it’s always the best policy. When does telling the truth build connection, and when does it just make a bigger, stickier mess?
I’m curious to know what you think.
Love,
~ Linzi
By the time I burst through my front door, I was already half an hour late for a first date with a man I’d only seen in photos.
I peeled off my clothes from the night before, brushed my teeth, and yanked on the first clean thing I could find while a black SUV idled out front.
I was in my mid-thirties, living in San Francisco, and had cannonballed into the online dating pool. My platform of choice was Hinge because, at the time, it showed you “friends of friends.”
Rick Royce was the first match through the app. He was older, witty, living in Carmel. We shared someone in common which was disarming. His profile had a confident charm that translated well through text.
After a few flirtatious exchanges and one canceled plan, he’d gone all in on the reschedule — a Sunday at the Ritz-Carlton Half Moon Bay, complete with car service, a massage, and dinner overlooking the Pacific. It sounded romantic though a bit overproduced.
I was game.
But my timing was problematic.
I had created a snag for myself by spending the night at someone else’s place the night before. I woke up late, a little hungover, and — perhaps against my better judgment — had a parting shag before racing home.
As I shoved a day-appropriate outfit into my bag and texted Rick that I was “just running a few minutes behind,” I battled both the clock and a faint sense of moral indigestion.
I didn’t have time for a shower, but I reminded myself: there was a spa involved. I could set myself straight there.
The driver held the door open as I slid into the back seat, trying to present as a woman who had her life together. I texted Rick a chipper On my way! then sank into the leather seat and immediately pondered every decision over the past 24 hours that had led to this moment, which was quickly bending toward regret.
I considered canceling but given the magnitude of his plan, I couldn’t bring myself to bail on him at the last minute.
The highway curved along the coast, shimmering blue water and rays of sunlight danced outside my window, while inside the car my stomach was protesting. I sipped some lukewarm water from a bottle I threw in my bag and searched for a way to make myself more comfortable.
About twenty minutes into the hour drive, I arrived at a solution. I told myself that honesty would make me feel better. Not that I was doing anything wrong, exactly — I just didn’t want any misunderstandings. He was treating me to a luxurious day. Perhaps he was expecting something in return. Something I wasn’t interested in or prepared to give.
By the time we reached Pacifica, I’d convinced myself that transparency was the right call.
So I drafted a message to Rick.
“Hey, I want to be honest. I was physically intimate with someone this morning, so that’s off the table today. Not sure if you had any expectations but I wanted to be direct.”
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering. Yes, I reassured myself. Honesty is the best policy. I hit send.
A few seconds later, my phone pinged:
“Wow!!! You’re a piece of work. Can’t wait to meet you!!”
I watched the waves roll toward the shore and felt my stomach start doing the same.
By the time the SUV pulled into the circular drive, I was fifteen minutes late for the massage. I half-jogged through the marble lobby, heels clicking like a ticking time bomb.
The spa was hushed and smelled of citrus and florals. A woman with perfect posture and a name tag that said “Shannon” checked me in and handed me a key with two hands. I nodded solemnly, as if I, too, believed in wellness and was ready to receive it.
Inside the changing room I slipped into the white heavy robe. I grabbed a banana and some dried pineapple from a tray, hoping a little fruit would perk me up. My head was throbbing behind my eyes. I tasted the sweetness and rubbed my temples.
When the massage therapist gently called my name, I stood up, catching my reflection in a mirror: rumpled curls, tired eyes. I sighed at the truthful image and followed her down the hallway.
The room was warm, the lights low, a trickle of the rainforest emanated from speakers. I laid face-down, grateful for the opportunity to relax.
The massage therapist worked methodically down my spine while my brain launched into cross-examination.
Why do I feel guilty right now? I haven’t done anything wrong. No vows broken, no promises made. I’m an adult for crying out loud. Sure, a bit hungover. I didn’t exactly manage my time well. That’s hardly a crime.
So what’s with the freaking guilt?
I searched.
Because I’m not being a “good girl?”
The idea generated heat in my body.
What if I were a man, would this even register? Wouldn’t I be bragging to my golf buddies right now instead of being transparent about my morning and trying to align on expectations?
Yet here I am, policing my own pleasure — trying to determine what’s appropriate, what’s enough, what’s too much.
Indignation washed over me.
I am a grown-ass, single, woman. Free to make my own decisions. There’s nothing to confess here. Nothing to atone for.
I exhaled into the face cradle, deciding — at least for the next forty-five minutes — to let my body be soft, even if my conscience refused to be.
After my massage, I drifted through steam and hot water until I felt more like myself again.
When I made it back to the front desk, I felt clean, hydrated, lightly moisturized. The spa lobby glowed with that impossible lighting that makes everyone look like they’ve reached nirvana.
Behind the counter stood Shannon: neat bun, glossy skin, the calm authority of a woman who had probably never done anything regrettable. Yet. She smiled with hospitality.
“How was your massage?”
“Amazing,” I said. “Thank you.”
She nodded politely. “It looks like your treatment was already taken care of. Is there anything else you need?”
“Actually, can I tell you something?” I asked.
Her eyes flicked up, still smiling and ready to be of service.
“I’m here on a first date,” I confessed. “We’ve never met. And I’m a little nervous.”
Shannon didn’t flinch. She simply absorbed the information, the way only people trained in customer service or emotional triage can.
“Well,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. Now we were getting somewhere. “I’ll be here all afternoon. If you need me for any reason, just come find me.”
I considered her kindness, then said, “Maybe we should have a code word.”
“Sure. What would you like that to be?”
I thought for a moment and noticed the taste in my mouth.
“Pineapple Banana.”
We grinned. “Pineapple Banana it is.”
This was a good plan, I thought.
But there was one flaw.
We did not, unfortunately, clarify what would happen if Pineapple Banana was uttered, which in retrospect was an oversight.
Shannon reached into a refrigerator, pulled out a bottle and poured some champagne into a glass and handed it to me.
“Good luck,” she said, with a smile.
“Thanks,” I said, raising the glass in her direction.
This was going to be fine. Probably even fun. I had nothing to worry about.
.
To be continued…
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Wait...how long do I have to wait for Part Deux??
I am beyond happy you immortalized this story on Substack!!!