by Lori L. Otto
I hear her sigh on the other end of the phone. “Where exactly are you in the Bronx?”
“Thank you,” I gush, giving her the streets of the next intersection. I sit against a building as I wait for her to get there. After what seems like forever, a brief honk gets my attention.
“I guess you don’t want to drive,” she says after rolling the window down. When she sees me fall over, she opens the door and starts to step out. My car begins to roll.
“Park it, Emi!” I yell at her.
“Fuck!” she squeals, sitting back down and bringing the car to a stop. “I can’t drive! I hate your car, I hate it!” she yells as she comes over to where I’m seated.
“Yes, it’s the car,” I look up at her, silhouetted against the bright sky, again the damn sun making my head feel like a jackhammer is chipping away pieces of my skull.
“Shit, Nate, what’s wrong?” She holds out both of her hands to help me stand. “Do you think you’re contagious?”
“No.” She pulls me to the car, pushes me into the passenger seat.
“Put your seatbelt on,” she instructs me. I wouldn’t dream of not doing that. She’s a horrible driver. “How did you get up here?” she asks, pulling away from the curb.
“I’m not real sure,” I answer honestly.
“Waaaaait a minute,” she says, catching on. “You’re hung over?”
“It would seem so.”
“That would explain the strange text message I got at four in the morning. You know, Nate, I don’t get Shakespeare when I’m wide-awake and completely sober.”
“Shakespeare?” I look down at my phone and try to look at my texts, but immediately feel dizzy and sick.
“What did you do after Colin and I left?” she asks.
Fucking Colin. Emi fucking Colin. That’s it. “Pull over,” I tell her urgently.
“What, here?” she asks, agitated, looking for a place to stop. I hang my head out of the open window and throw up once more.
“Never mind,” I tell her, leaning the seat back, closing my eyes.
“How much did you drink?”
“Emi, really, I don’t even want to think about it. The thought of it is making me sick.”
“Okay,” she says, concerned. “We don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry you don’t feel well. Do you have any alcohol at home?”
“Of course not, why?”
“The old ‘hair of the dog’ wives-tale. Maybe I can bring you something on my way to Colin’s.”
I close my eyes tighter, trying to focus on anything but alcohol and the jackass she went home with... the one she’s apparently going to see again today. “No, that’s okay.”
“Nate, I have to tell you,” she begins, filling the silence I was enjoying. “You would not believe me if I told you what happened last night.” She taps her fingers in quick succession on the steering wheel.
“Really...” I barely open one of my eyes and peek at her, notice her devious smile, her pronounced dimples. A wild one... I may never look at her the same. “Then you probably shouldn’t tell me.”
“Yeah, probably not,” she laughs. “You’d be jealous. But, oh my god, he was–”
“Definitely not,” I confirm, interrupting her. “Nope. Don’t want to hear it. Can’t stomach it.”
“You’re no fun when you’re hung over,” she mopes. I won’t want to hear about this when I’m sober, either. I debate saying it aloud. I don’t even know why she feels compelled to tell me this... I never discuss these things with her.
“Well, it was... wild...” She seems confident and... proud.
“Emi, really.” My voice is stern and serious.
“Sorry... I like him...” she says, hurt, as she pulls up to the valet of my apartment building. She again gets out of the car before putting the car in park. As if anticipating it, my reflexes kick in and catch the gearshift. “You made me do this,” she spits at me, realizing her error, before slamming the door. She comes around to the passenger side and opens my door.
“I didn’t say a word,” I say to her. “And thank you for doing this.”
“You’re welcome,” she groans, helping me out of the car. “I guess you need help getting upstairs?”
“I would really appreciate it.”
She doesn’t speak to me on the way up to the twelfth floor. When I open the door, she goes immediately to my bed and pulls back the comforter and sheets. I lean on the island, watching her from the kitchen, adoring her nurturing ways. I will never be good enough for her.
She even fluffs the pillows for me.
“Come on,” she says. “Get in whatever state of undress you prefer to sleep in,” she jokes with me, her soft side coming out again. “I’m going to get a trash can so you have a proper place to throw up.” I take off my jeans and t-shirt and crawl under the blankets in my boxers, covering up. She sets down the waste basket next to the bed. I close my eyes to shield them from the sun, cursing my decision to not buy curtains or blinds for the large windows. The bed feels good.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she says. “I’m borrowing your keys.”
“’kay,” I mumble. I start to doze off, then suddenly worry that Emi has taken my car. No, surely she didn’t take the car. No. Surely. Ah, fuck it, who cares?
I wake up to a rattling sound next to my head. Startled, I jump up to a seated position in bed, immediately regretting it as my head pounds in protest.
“Sorry,” Emi whispers, setting down a container of aspirin and a bottle of water on the night stand. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.” She sits on the edge of the bed, pushing my shoulders back into the pillows.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell her.
“I know. But I’ve been there. I know exactly how you feel.” She smoothes my hair down, her eyes sweet and caring, her smile warm. “I got a six-pack of beer, too. It’s in the fridge.”
“Ugh,” I moan.
“It may help. It always helps me.” She leans down and kisses my forehead before placing a cold, wet washcloth on it. “You’ll be okay?”
“I think so,” I tell her, just wanting to go back to sleep.
“Call me if you need anything,” she says softly, standing up. “But only if it’s urgent, okay? Your phone’s right here.” I grab her hand before she leaves.
“Like ya, Em,” I tell her, squeezing her hand.
“You’re a stupid, stupid man,” she blinks innocently, “and you smell horrible... but I like you, too, anyway.”
“Gee, thanks.” I roll back over in the bed as she closes the door behind her.
The sun is still out when I wake up hours later. I reach over to the night stand and take the aspirin, drink the entire bottle of water. As if I needed another reason not to drink. Shit. Kill me now.
I stand under the hot water in the shower, dazed, angry. How could she go home with him? Did she say she likes him? What about him could she possibly like? From my interaction with him, I didn’t see a single redeeming quality.
Of course, who am I to talk? I just fucked a woman whose name I didn’t even remember. And did I hit on Emi’s roommate? Fuck, I did. Fuck. Bits and pieces of the night continue to come back to me. I really felt like she had been talking about us when she was asking those questions at the game. What an idiot.
I could never be so lucky. And now, what, she’s dating that asshole? She’s going to see him today, she said. I should have told her what he said to me in the men’s room. I still can. It’s obvious you’ve never had her. She’d be pissed, I was sure. She’d break it off, wouldn’t she? I should definitely tell her. Definitely.
I remember her smile, though, in the car, and her dimples. Her laughter from last night. She was happy. For whatever reason, she liked him. I really shouldn’t interfere. Would I be doing it for her, for her well-being? Or is this just about... me?
Yes, I’m jealous. That’s obvious. But he’s an ass. She can do so much better. Even if she doesn’t want to be with me, she could do so much better tha
n him.
To tell or not to tell. Definitely the question. Wait, didn’t she mention Shakespeare? The text... I hurry to finish my shower and find my phone. Emi hates it when I quote Shakespeare... and I shudder to think what I may have sent her last night.
“But that your trespass now becomes a fee / Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.”
Nice. A revenge fuck? Good thing Emi considers my fascination with the Bard to be elitist. She’ll never look that up.
I get dressed after the shower in an effort to get motivated to do something other than going back to bed. My head still hurts, my stomach still unsettled. I decide to turn the television on, but all I can focus on is what happened last night and this morning.
My attraction to Emi. Her pigtails. The asshole who ‘had’ her, and his arm around her. The tequila shots. Come home with me. She turned me down. More alcohol. The beautiful Eva. Us in the mirror. Her boyfriend coming off the elevator. Throwing up, repeatedly.
Disgusted, I remember the beer that Emi had bought. Just one. I take it out, open it, drink it quickly as I stare into the refrigerator. I somehow feel a little better. Fuck. One more. I take this one to the couch, stare at the widescreen. Physically better, mentally worse. Why does she do this to me? Why do I do this to myself?
Look at me. What would she ever see in me? I stare at the half-empty bottle of beer, take one more drink and sigh deeply, the feeling it delivers, numbing. Abruptly, I take it to the kitchen and pour it quickly down the sink, realizing I’m finding too much comfort in the alcohol. Fuck. I open the other four bottles and empty them into the basin as well.
I go to sit back down just as my phone notifies me of a text message. It could be Emi.
“Would you like to meet me for coffee? I’m just getting off work.” Of course it’s not Emi; she’s with him. It’s Samantha. I hadn’t heard from her in a few days... wasn’t sure if this was going anywhere or not. Coffee... could I do coffee? I could try coffee. I could use the diversion, if nothing else.
CHAPTER 6
To say that Samantha is a good distraction is an understatement. Her upbeat outlook on life has made me a happier person all around, and it’s interesting seeing the world through her eyes.
After a few coffee dates with her, just casual meetings that have given us the opportunity to find out things we do and don’t have in common, I’ve finally decided to take her out on a proper date. I’m intrigued by her. She seems to have lived a fairly sheltered life, but is curious about everything.
Being new to the city, she’s never visited any of the art galleries, so I decide on an evening at the MOMA. There’s a special exhibit that I had been wanting to see of a collection of illustrated concert posters that features one of my favorite bands. Honestly, the band was one of Emi’s favorites, too, and I had hoped to take her, but she had been so busy with Colin that we could never coordinate a time.
As a creative way to ask Sam to accompany me, I had designed and drawn a postcard in the style of the concert posters we would be seeing and had hand-delivered the signed invitation to her at the coffee shop where she works part-time. She gushed over the “art” I gave her, so I was confident she would enjoy the night I had planned.
“How do I look?” she asks at her cramped apartment where we had decided to meet. She lived in Chelsea with three other girls and two cats.
“Beautiful,” I tell her, and she does, in a pair of dark, tailored, pin-striped pants and pressed baby blue shirt, the same color of her eyes. The outfit is more conservative than I had expected her to wear. It makes her look much more mature. She certainly doesn’t look like the young twenty-one-year-old I’ve been sharing afternoons with. “That color is amazing on you.”
“Is it okay to wear tonight?” Her voice is unsure and nervous, such a change from the confident girl I met at the restaurant and have seen a few times since.
“Whatever you’re comfortable in,” I encourage her. “This night is about us.”
“But what is everyone else going to be wearing? I’ve never been to a special exhibit like this.”
“Everyone else?” I ask and laugh to myself. “This is what I’m wearing,” I explain, gesturing to my jeans and button-down shirt under my blazer. “Everyone else will likely be wearing service attire. I don’t think you understand. When I say this night is about us, I mean it. The museum is closed to other guests.”
“Oh,” she says in wonder. “How did you do that?”
“My mother is on the Board of Trustees. We’ve been contributors to the museum since I was a kid. It’s always been one of my favorite places to visit.”
“That sounds so cool,” another voice chimes in. Two of her roommates have been watching us from the couch since I had walked in. “I love art.”
“Nate,” I introduce myself, moving toward her and extending my hand.
“Casey,” the young woman says. “And this is Beth.”
“Casey. Beth,” I repeat. They both smile and blush in unison as Sam’s hand clutches mine.
“Shall we go?” she asks, tugging on my arm lightly.
“Sure.” She grabs her bag and leads me to the door.
As we leave the apartment, I hear one of her roommates make a snide comment. “That type always goes for girls with no substance.” I quickly turn to Sam, who either tuned them out or didn’t hear.
I catch the door and peek back in. “Don’t wait up, girls,” I whisper out of earshot of Sam as I flash them an arrogant smile and shut the door– hard– behind us.
“Fighting with your roomies?”
“No, why?” she asks.
“No reason.” I try to shrug off the comment, unsure if I should be more offended for her or for myself. Girls with no substance...
“Should we take a cab?” Sam asks.
“No, I’m right here.” I open the door to my newly detailed car and help her into the low seat.
“How can you afford to have a car in the city? I wanted to bring mine from Georgia, but the cost to just park it was more than my car payment itself!”
“I’m no starving artist, Sam,” I answer simply, giving her a sideways glance as we make our way to the museum. I hand her my iPod and let her pick the music.
“What do you want to listen to?” she asks.
“Anything you like,” I encourage her, curious to know what she would pick.
“But there’s so much... and who are all these bands?” Obviously not into the indie music scene. “Oh, wait, here’s one I know. I love this song...” Seconds later, the recognizable beat of an over-played pop song begins to blare through my sound system. If I’m not mistaken, it was a different girlfriend that put the sexually suggestive song on there in the first place. She did a strip tease to it in my apartment. I shake away the thought and sigh internally, but smile at Sam anyway. I need to introduce this girl to some real music.
“I don’t believe there will be any posters on display for his concerts,” I inform her.
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you... what’s so special about these posters that they’re in the art museum? Couldn’t we just go to that novelty poster shop a few blocks over?”
“Uh, no,” I laugh. “There’s a great art movement across the country. Lots of independent artists design these limited edition gig posters for bands. Mostly independent bands.”
“Have you ever done one?”
“One, yes,” I tell her.
“Will it be in the show tonight?”
“No. Mom can’t buy my way in there,” I joke with her. “That would be a dream come true.”
“I thought your postcard was amazing. I framed it.”
“Thank you. It’s a one-of-a-kind.”
“I know,” she says breathily. “It means a lot to me.”
“Well,” I hesitate. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Is your concert poster at your apartment?” she asks. “Maybe I could see it later.” There’s the forward and confident woman I was expecting.
“Sadly, I don’t even have a print. I gave my last one to my best friend as a birthday present.”
“He must be a good friend.”
“She,” I correct her without even thinking. “Uh, yeah, she is.”
After sitting in silence as I park the car, Sam continues the conversation. “What’s her name?”
“Emi,” I tell her.
“What does she do?” she asks as I help her out of the car.
“She’s a graphic designer.” I begin to lead Sam toward the entrance of the museum.
“Like what you do?”
“Not quite. She has clients who direct her. I do what I want.”
“What you do sounds much cooler.”
“Well, it’s harder to make a living as a fine artist,” I explain.
“But you do well?” she asks as she stops walking.
“I get by,” I dismiss her question with a kiss to her forehead, hoping to change the subject. I was never comfortable talking about money, or more specifically, how I could afford my lifestyle. “Let’s go.”
The museum is silent. I can’t remember the last time I heard silence. I always have something playing. Always. Classical music when I paint, heavy metal when I shower, indie rock when I’m just messing around the apartment, and nature sounds in a constant loop as I sleep.
The silence is nice. The clicking of our shoes echos lightly off the walls as we are individually drawn to different pieces of art in the large room.
“Nate, what does this mean?” Sam’s voice startles me. Even though she’s barely speaking above a whisper, she seems so loud. I walk over and look at the piece she’s staring at.
“This one is about the struggle of everyday life under communist rule in nineteen-sixties China.”
“How do you know?” she asks in awe, cocking her head to one side as if trying to get another view.
“See the red– no, not really, Sam, I just made that up,” I smile sheepishly, which earns me a slap on the arm. “Hey!”
“That was mean,” she pouts. “I was serious.”
“Well, then seriously, I don’t know what the artist was trying to convey when he painted that. I believe every individual can find his own meaning in art. I don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer. That’s the beauty of it.”
