L.A. Affairs: I offered her a seat at Starbucks. Then my life changed forever
We met at a Starbucks in Irvine. I was seated alone at a table for two. When a beautiful woman walked in, with shoulder-length black hair and wearing a colorful skirt, I couldn’t help but look.
The place was crowded with South County types: tightly groomed and dressed in business casual on a Thursday afternoon. I was one of them, but Jane seemed different.
I pointed to the empty chair across from me. “Would you like to share a table?”
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She gave me a skeptical look. “Maybe,” she said. Then she waited in line to order, avoiding my gaze.
A few minutes later, smiling slightly and holding a latte, she walked over. I stood and pulled out the chair — a gesture she seemed to appreciate. She sat down with a dignified manner, back straight, and regarded me with her head slightly tilted.
I tried to act nonchalant as we moved through the basics.
Jane: A professor. From Beijing originally. Passionate about dance.
Me: Lawyer at a tech company. Born in Berkeley. Addicted to writing.
Both: Recently divorced. Kids off to college soon. Open to meeting someone.
Jane told me her ex-husband had taken the dogs when he moved out, and she liked not having a dog in the house. “What about you? Do you have pets?”
“Two dogs, very small,” I said, hoping this wasn’t a deal-killer. “Well managed.” (Months later, Jane would recall this snippet of conversation as she pointed accusingly toward a wet spot on the carpet. But I digress.)
An hour passed in effortless conversation. Occasionally Jane would ask a screening question, some of them quite blunt. “Is your divorce final? Do you own a home? Are you seeing anyone? Are you gay?”
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She ended the impromptu date by giving me her phone number. “I enjoyed meeting you,” she said. “Let’s be friends and see where this goes.”
I spoke without thinking. “Jane, I’m not your friend. I’m your future.”
Back at my office, I recounted this moment with Jane to Kathryn, a colleague who was advising me on reentering the dating world. When she heard what I’d said, she shook her head in dismay. “You can write this one off.”
But the next day, Jane took my call. The following week we met for lunch. A few days later, she allowed me to drive her to a bistro in Laguna Beach.
Over a glass of wine, Jane broke the news that soon she and her teenage daughter would be leaving for a monthlong trip to China to visit Jane’s mom. I complained that by the time she got back, we wouldn’t even remember each other.
Jane, trying to be polite, suggested I fly to China and meet up with them for a few days. Back home, I bought the plane ticket before she could change her mind.
That’s how I ended up at the Tom Bradley International Terminal, boarding a flight from L.A. to Beijing to spend nine days traveling with Jane, her teenage daughter Huiyi, and her 78-year-old mom.
On the 12-hour flight, I fretted: What if Jane has second thoughts? What if her mom disapproves? What if Huiyi hates me?
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After an awkward meetup in Beijing, the four of us flew to Guilin for a sightseeing trip on the Li River. Then we were off to Shanghai, where we had dinner at a restaurant overlooking the Bund.
Along the way, I got to know Jane in the context of three generations of women. Instead of feeling chaperoned, I felt privileged.
Jane’s mom, barely 5 feet tall, strode through hotel lobbies with her shoulders back and head high. At restaurants, she attacked her food rather than savored it.
A retired surgeon and OB-GYN, she told me (translated by Jane) that she’d delivered at least a thousand babies and performed every manner of thoracic surgery.
“It was the time of Mao,” she said. “We did what needed to be done.”
Huiyi, who’d been born in China but seemed like a SoCal native, planned to follow in the footsteps of her lao lao (maternal grandmother).
Huiyi already had the levelheaded aura of a doctor, but she looked askance whenever her mom and I held hands and flirted. “Do you have to be like that?”
I’m pretty sure Huiyi was texting eyeroll emojis to her friends.
When the three generations of women chatted in Mandarin, I imagined cartoon-bubble dialogue above their heads. “Where did you get this idiot?” “At least he paid for lunch.”
Near the end of the trip, Jane got a call from her real estate agent in Orange County. The house in Laguna Niguel that she owned with her ex-husband had received a full-price offer. Jane and Huiyi would need to find a new place to live.
Again I spoke without thinking. “How about if we all move in together?”
When my eldest son, Jonathan, heard about this, he was appalled. “There you go, dad.” But a few weeks later, my cellphone rang.
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“I need to tell you something,” said Jonathan. “Everyone in the family likes Jane. We’re not sure what she sees in you … but don’t mess it up. You got lucky.”
“Thanks, son — I think.”
Six months to the day after meeting at a Starbucks, Jane and I posed for nuptial photos by the fountain outside the county clerk’s office in Laguna Hills.
Huiyi attends UC Irvine now but often comes home to visit. She seems to tolerate me and Jane, but I think she still texts eyeroll emojis to her friends.
The author is an in-house attorney at a tech company in Irvine and writes about true crime. He’s on Instagram: @dougkariauthor
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $300 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.
