Brooklynaire

by Sarina Bowen

  “Then you should come,” I hear myself say. “Lauren told me to bring a date to this benefit.”

  “A date? Really?” Becca steers around a woman pushing a stroller, and then turns to look at me over her shoulder. “What for? I don’t know if I’d be any good at asking people for donations.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not the reason at all. I need the cocktail hour to be a social event. Your only job would be to shut down any business chatter on an M&A deal I’m considering.” With an old friend I want to avoid.

  “Oh, okay.” She sucks in a breath. “I really want to go. But I already owe you in so many ways.”

  “Bullshit,” I say quickly. “You don’t owe me a thing, okay? Don’t say that.” Just get better, I want to add. But I don’t, because it will sound either weird or like nagging. “Come to Florida. Sit on the beach for a day with Georgia. Visit the land of the living. Then get yourself back here in time for your therapy appointments.”

  “Yay!” She claps her hands together. “I need to do a deep dive into my closet. This will be fun. How dressy is this party? I’m trying to picture tuxes on a beach. Sounds a little like a wedding.”

  “Dumbest thing I ever heard.”

  Becca snickers. “I’ll ask Georgia what to wear. I can’t wait to see her.”

  She looks so happy that I know I’ve done well.

  10

  Rebecca

  April 26

  “I got you!” says a disembodied voice nearby. Then the trainer clamps a strong hand around mine. His hand is warm and dry, whereas mine is a bit clammy. “Come on, Miss Rowley. Keep those eyes closed and start jumping.”

  I’ve almost survived my first therapy session. I’m minutes away from victory. But jumping scares me, so I open my eyes instead.

  Dr. Armitage’s therapy center looks like a cross between a serious gym and a day-care center. I’m standing on a mini trampoline. There are mats, balance boards, a Ping-Pong table, and brightly colored balance balls in every size. I’ll be coming here three times a week for an hour and a half, doing whatever the trainer tells me.

  I give Ramón a sideways glance. He has curly black hair and laughing dark eyes, and beautiful, tawny brown skin. He’s the picture of health, essentially. And we’re still holding hands, because I’m afraid to do this exercise myself.

  “Come on now,” Ramón says patiently. He squeezes my hand. “Close those eyes, Miss Rowley.”

  “Call me Becca,” I insist, stalling.

  “Jump, Becca. Bounce your butt in the air before I make you stay after school for disobeying the teacher.”

  Even though I know he’s joking, it’s a sobering thought because there’s somewhere I really need to go after this session. So I close my eyes, clutch his hand, and bounce tentatively on the trampoline. My sneakers don’t even leave the surface, the motion is so gentle. But it doesn’t matter. I’m swamped by nausea immediately. Alarmed, my eyes fly open and I grab Ramón with my free hand like a frightened cat.

  “So this is going well,” he says. Then he laughs.

  “Can’t we go back to the walking? Or the balance beam?” I beg. Before this, I did ten minutes on a treadmill, some of the time with my eyes closed. So what if I had a white-knuckle grip on the sidebars the whole time. And the baby balance beam in the corner? Sure, it’s only two inches off the ground, but I walked it.

  “Nope! Let’s finish up here,” he says with far too much cheer. “But, hey, let’s have you bounce for a moment with your eyes open. Just try that much.” He drops my hands and stands back.

  Gingerly, I bend my knees, feeling my way toward a bounce.

  The point of vestibular therapy is to rewire the connection between my ears, eyes, and brain. We’re doing that by repeatedly disorienting me, thereby forcing my brain to recover again and again. Unless Dr. Armitage and Ramón are total crackpots, I’m supposed to get better. Slowly.

  “That’s it,” Ramón says. “Pick a gaze point. You feel solid?”

  “Solid enough.” Except for my boobs. I wore the wrong bra for this outing. Live and learn.

  When all of my various parts are bouncing along, Ramón takes my hand in his. “Okay, Becca. Close your eyes and bounce five times.”

  I close them. One. Two… The world seems to lurch in space. Ramón’s grip tightens on my hand. “You’ve got this. Just a couple more.”

  But I don’t got this. On the fourth bounce, I’m so disoriented that my knees buckle.

  Ramón catches me. He lifts me right off the trampoline by the hips and sets me on the ground. My eyes fly open and I grab his beefy shoulders for support. “The trampoline is trying to kill me.”

  “No, it isn’t. Trampolines are fun. We’ll have you bouncing like a pro in no time.”

  When I come back here in two days, I’m going to remember to bring a puke bag as well as a sports bra.

  “Is my time up?” I ask hopefully.

  “We have five more minutes. Come over here. This part is easy—all you have to do is sit in a chair.”

  “That’s something I’ve always been good at. Especially if there’s wine and a Channing Tatum movie on TV.”

  Ramón laughs. “Wine is a bad idea, Miss Rebecca. Give your body a couple more weeks to find its balance before you indulge.” He leads me over to a desk chair and I sit in it.

  “You’d better not tell me that Channing Tatum is bad for my recovery. Or I’m out of here.”

  “That male stripper movie, right? My girlfriend loves it. If Channing Tatum wanted to bounce on the trampoline with you, would you say yes?”

  “You know I would.”

  “Then I’ll give that man a call to see if he’s available for your next session.”

  If only he weren’t joking. Although I think Channing Tatum is actually married in real life, which does nothing for me. This thought is interrupted when Ramón puts his hands on the back of the chair and gives it a brisk spin.

  “Oh my God. I hate you,” I sputter as the chair spins in circles. My legs fly out at awkward angles, and I’ve got the armrests in a death grip.

  “No, you don’t.” He gives the chair another push, and my stomach is caught off guard. I close my eyes, but that makes it worse so I open them right back up again. Thankfully, he lets the chair spin slowly to a stop. “How do you feel?”

  “Dizzy! Duh.”

  He grins, looking at his watch. “Tell me when you’re no longer dizzy.”

  I try to focus my eyes on a basketball hoop on the far wall. It scatters to the right several times before finally settling into place on the wall. I breathe in and out slowly a few more times before the edges of my vision stop dancing. “Now. The room has stopped moving.”

  “Fifty-five seconds,” Ramón says, looking up from his watch. “A normal vestibular system will have you recovered after ten seconds. So that’s our goal. Ten seconds. We’ll get there.”

  Although this man has repeatedly made me feel like puking, I’m pretty sure I believe him. “Is that it for now, tough guy? Because I have a party to attend, where I get to wear a dress for the first time in a month.”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “Go get ‘em, Rebecca. Have a great time. But don’t drink, unless you want to feel worse than the spinning chair just made you feel.”

  “Got it!” I stand up, a little tired, a little dizzy, but a lot more optimistic than I’ve been in a long time. “See you on the flipside.”

  Ramón high-fives me, and I’m out of there. My garment bag and my mani/pedi kit are waiting in the little locker room off the training area. I grab them and run outside to get into the car that’s waiting for me.

  * * *

  Five hours later I walk into the sleek lobby of a hotel in Bal Harbour, Florida. No, I practically dance into that lobby. For weeks I’ve felt ill and scared. I still feel ill (especially when Ramón spins me around in a chair), but I’m not quite as scared. And getting out of New York—even if it’s for less than twenty-four hours—is pretty freaking exciting.

&n
bsp; Georgia is waiting for me in the lobby when I arrive. I give a little shriek of excitement and hug her when I see. “Where can I drop my stuff so we can play on the beach?”

  “I have your room key. You can go right up.”

  “I’m not bunking with you?”

  “Not this time. It’s not a game night, so I get to bunk with Leo.” Her fiancé, Leo Trevi, is a rookie forward for the Bruisers. Normally, they aren’t coupled up on the road. But this party of Nate’s is a special occasion, I guess. “Nate added you to the hotel list. You get room 404.”

  “Huh. I didn’t ask Nate to get me a room.”

  “He got you one anyway.”

  This rankles just a bit. “I didn’t let him buy my plane ticket, though. Since I’m not really here in an official capacity, that would just be weird.” Plus, I’m starting to get sensitive about all the money Nate has spent on me since I bonked my head on the ice. He keeps saying, friends do favors for each other. But I don’t want to take advantage.

  “Stop worrying. You brought a bathing suit, right?”

  “Yes ma’am. And some heavy-duty sunblock. Let’s go sit on a towel and gossip. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  * * *

  The afternoon is terrific. Not only is it fun to hang out with Georgia, I feel a million miles from my troubles. We dare each other to duck all the way under the waves, but the water is so cold that we both bail out when we’re only up to our shoulders.

  Back on the sand, we lie on our towels and let the sun warm us up again. “What’s it like staying at Nate’s house?” Georgia asks.

  “Strange. Like playing house in a mansion. He and I went out for sushi the other night. Mrs. Gray doesn’t work on Sunday and Nate never goes into his kitchen alone.”

  “Does he even know where it is?”

  “Of course, because that’s where the Diet Coke is kept.”

  Georgia giggles. “That house must just echo. Is it weird spending time like that with him?”

  I consider the question. “Yes and no. Nate and I used to spend a whole lot of time together. On planes. In hotels and conference rooms on the road. All those early trips to Silicon Valley and even Asia, before he had a big entourage. We always stuck together because we’d be in a strange place.”

  My friend is quiet for a second. “I always forget that you used to spend your whole week with him. That sounds like a real bonding experience.”

  “It was. Honestly, the only thing weird about hanging around with him at home is that it’s not that weird. It’s like… It’s made me miss him. Which makes no sense. But those were good days. We made a good team.”

  “Mmm.” Georgia sounds sleepy behind her sunglasses. “I get it. That was special. Not everybody can say she was Nate Kattenberger’s sidekick for five straight years.”

  “He wasn’t the famous CEO of KTech back then. He was just a guy who couldn’t unjam the printer without my help. But he told really good jokes. He was fun.”

  I do miss his irreverence. And his super calm demeanor. Other people have described him as too quiet, but I never saw him that way.

  “You know what’s crazy?” I ask a drowsy Georgia. “When things go wrong, Nate never yells. He’s hard to impress, but you can’t freak him out, either. I don’t think I really appreciated that until I went to work for the hockey team.”

  “Hugh is a little more volatile,” Georgia agrees, referring to the team’s General Manager.

  “He’s fine. But he panics sometimes, like a normal person. He yells now and then. But Nate is like a stone in the river. Everything rushes past, but he isn’t swayed. I think that’s why I’ve felt calmer since I went to stay with him. He keeps telling me everything is going to be okay, and I believe him because…” I don’t even know why.

  “Because he’s smarter than anyone else we’ll ever meet?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” But I’m sure I never appreciated his temperament half as much as I do right now. And here I am feeling wistful on a beach. What’s the point of that?

  “It’s almost time to get dolled up for this party,” Georgia points out. “Is it okay with you if we get ready in Lauren’s suite? She asked us to come up. There’s snacks, I think.”

  “Sure? Snacks are nice.” But it’s a strange request. We call her Queen Lauren for a reason—she’s the most aloof person we know. “Since when does Lauren want to pal around with us?”

  Georgia shrugs. “I’m not sure Lauren is the superbitch we think she is. Did you know that she and Mike Beacon used to be a couple?”

  “No!”

  “True story.”

  “Mike Beacon? I can’t picture that.” Really, it’s mindbending. “Lauren always says how much she hates hockey.”

  “Yeah.” Georgia sits up. “I’m pretty sure she only started hating hockey after Mike Beacon dumped her over the phone to move back in with his ex-wife.”

  “Whoa!”

  We both stare out at the lapping waves for a minute, while I try to picture Queen Lauren with the goalie. “Wait—when did they break up?”

  “Two years ago, right around the time Nate bought the Bruisers.”

  “Right at the moment when Lauren got my job.” This isn’t one of my favorite topics. Georgia knows I sometimes drive myself crazy trying to guess why Nate swapped Lauren and me—giving me the job of running the hockey team office—which Lauren used to do before Nate was the owner—and giving Lauren my job working for him in Manhattan.

  “I was thinking about this, too,” Georgia confesses. “Is it possible that Nate factored her breakup in to swapping your jobs? Maybe he knew Lauren was a good employee, but that she’d quit if he didn’t get her out of that office.”

  “That’s…interesting,” I muse. “But kind of farfetched.”

  “Maybe,” Georgia admits, her voice dipping. “I know it’s always bothered you that Nate sent you to Brooklyn.”

  “Yeah. I probably won’t ever understand.” At the time, Nate had insisted that it was a “lateral move,” and that he needed someone he trusted in the new Brooklyn office. Although it rattled me to be moved out of his innermost circle in Manhattan. I assumed I’d let him down in some crucial way. I thought I was one step away from getting fired.

  But now I’ve had two years to get used to the idea, and Nate is still as friendly to me as ever. Maybe even more so. Everything seems fine and ordinary. Or at least it did until I hit my head.

  * * *

  Georgia and I find our friend Ari at the north elevator bank on our way to Lauren’s room, which is on the top floor of the hotel. And from the direction we walk when we exit the elevator, I’m thinking Lauren’s ocean view is going to be killer.

  When she opens the door, I’m at the back of the pack. And when Lauren spots me, her eyes light up with surprise. “Hi there.”

  “I see that look of excitement on your face. But, sadly, I’m not back in action yet. My fancy new doctor has outlined several weeks of therapy.” I walk toward a sweeping view of the ocean and pluck a pickle off a full-sized dining table. “I whined so loudly that Nate agreed to a temporary furlough. I’ve been let out for good behavior for this party so long as I’m back at the therapist’s office in forty-eight hours.”

  “Oh.” Lauren’s face falls. “Ah, well. I guess I have to go to this fucking party after all. Somebody open the wine.”

  We get busy with our hair and makeup in Lauren’s enormous mirrored dressing room.

  “How are you feeling?” Georgia asks, flopping down on a sofa beside me.

  “Right now? I feel great. I’m sitting here eating overpriced hotel food, and I just painted your toes a kickass shade of pink. But sometimes I get all squinty and the room tends to spin.”

  “Bummer,” my best friend says with a sad smile.

  “It really is. But I like my new doctor, and I feel really hopeful that they know what to do. I’m so tired of being a drag.”

  “You’re never a drag,” Georgia says quickly.

  “If only that were true.�
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  “Is it weird being away from work?” she asks.

  “So weird. I feel like maybe they’ll just forget about me and hire someone else. Didn’t we used to have someone at that desk? Better put someone in that spot.”

  “What’s it like staying with Nate?” Ari asks me. “He’s probably never home, I guess. Except to sleep.”

  “Maybe? But I’m in his private lair. He can’t walk around naked or whatever.”

  Georgia giggles. “If you see him naked, I want details. That body.”

  Heat climbs up my neck. “Stop it. I try not to sit around thinking about Nate’s naked body.” Though it’s probably a masterwork. When Nate travels with the hockey team, he does their yoga workout every morning. He’s really, really good at it, too. And very bendy. Not that I’ve noticed.

  “Why not? Everyone has a naked body,” Georgia points out. “Even the guy wearing the eight hundred dollar sneakers.” We all know the price of Nate’s shoes because GQ did a story about his fashion choices once.

  “But we don’t have to picture it. That’s dangerous. If I indulge in that kind of curiosity, some day we’ll be sitting in a meeting with the marketing department, and I’ll be picturing Naked Nate. And someone will turn to me and ask a question about ticket sales, and I’ll probably answer, ‘biceps.’”

  “He has really nice biceps,” Georgia sighs.

  “Stop,” I nudge her. Although he really does. And I don’t want to perve on my boss who’s been so good to me lately. The whole topic is making me uncomfortable.

  “Becca—it’s your turn to show us your dress,” Lauren prompts, setting down her curling iron.

  I unzip my garment bag and pull out my dress, which couldn’t be more different from Georgia’s svelte pink gown. “It’s a vintage 1950s strapless.” I hold it up to show off the rose-colored lace covering white satin, with a matching red sash circling the waist.