I fell.
And I felt.
This time it’s my turn to be sick.
I run into the bathroom and throw up. I opened up to him. Told him my secrets, my fears. For months I’ve been too numb to talk about anything. Not Parker, not the accident, not my hand, and certainly not Luke. In three days I talked about all of it.
Did I open up to my very expensive psychiatrist? NO.
Did I open up to my caring family who have done nothing but dote on me while I was sick in the head? NO.
Did I open up to a psychopath con artist who creates false lives to lure women into his web of lies?
Hurl.
“Don’t do this. I didn’t mean to make you upset.” Leah’s hand rubs my back this time. “I shouldn’t have said anything. We’re leaving here soon. It won’t make a difference who your Italian hookup was. Emma, please, don’t make yourself sick over this.”
Leah’s voice is a plea. A sad one. One I’ve heard before.
I lift my head and wipe my mouth, taking the same routine Leah did before. After my teeth are brushed I walk over to the bed and cross my legs. The iPad is still on the bed but I push it to the side, thankful the screen is black.
I promised myself I wouldn’t be this girl. The girl who makes everyone worry. I’m not her anymore. I can go fast now. I can say Luke’s name. And I can feel the music again.
The night Parker dumped me, Luke said something I’ll never forget. “Never let a man believe he broke you, because a diamond can not be destroyed.” I agreed with him. It’s probably why I was able to get over Parker so easily. It is also why I’ll be able to forget Asher.
Leah is sitting next to me, waiting for me to say something, make a move. Today is Luke’s birthday. We planned on celebrating it together and that is exactly what we’ll do. I’ll worry about this Alexander Asher nonsense tomorrow. Today is about me and Leah.
“Get dressed. We’re going out.”
I toss and turn all night.
Leah and I went out to dinner but took it easy on the alcohol. Her stomach was still too sensitive and my heart was too fragile. We didn’t talk about Asher. Instead we spoke about Luke. Leah was so happy to be able to mention him around me and tell stories without my falling apart. Hearing her talk about him reminded me how close the two of them were too. I was a fool to think his death only affected me.
When we get back to the room, Leah collapses on the bed, exhausted from a day of being sick. My mind is revving a million thoughts a second. I can’t sleep and I don’t even try. Instead, I hop on Leah’s iPad and google Alexander Asher.
Just as she said, there he is. Looking gorgeous. But instead of the guy I’ve grown to know, on the screen is a man of intimidating power. Every article is of businesses he’s developed, bought, or flipped. He went to Columbia University, confirmation he’s as brilliant as I knew he was. He owns three restaurants, a tech start-up, a media house . . .
And that doesn’t count the business he inherited when his grandfather passed away. That’s at least one portion of the story he is telling the truth about. His grandfather was Edward Asher, a Scottish billionaire and real estate developer who was a big deal in New York City.
I try looking up Asher’s parents, but nothing comes up. There are a few mentions of his mother. She was a very talented young woman, performing at Julliard and winning awards for her piano playing. But after the age of twenty, she vanishes. It’s as if she doesn’t exist.
One article mentions Asher’s career highlights and a charitable concert event he was funding. Of the four pages long article, it merely mentions his family, stating his mother died in a car accident and his grandfather took him in. The article makes his grandfather seem like a really good guy. Not the monster Asher alluded to.
I look over to the ground beneath the bed and see the magazine sitting on the floor. New York Magazine. On the cover is Alexander Asher standing on top of a tall building in Manhattan above the city he controls. The headline reads: Asher. The new face of an empire. I don’t even have the heart to open it up.
Something doesn’t feel right. Why would he lie to me? He is guarded and complex. He wanted to know if he could trust me. I thought I gave him every reason to believe I was trustworthy. I thought I had his trust.
I guess I didn’t have enough of it to have him tell me the truth.
I pop up from my spot of the sofa and walk to the window. The sun is coming up. My body is too antsy to sit back and wait for word from him. I need to see him now. If this is all a misunderstanding, then I need to hear it from him. And if he is a player, then I need him to tell me to my face.
Opening the sliding glass door, I peer out into the marina. Even if I have to hire a boat to take me to him, I will. Walking back to the room, I go into Leah’s suitcase and take out the binoculars. Walking them back outside, I raise them to my eyes and look for his boat.
It’s not there.
It has to be.
I follow the water to the furthest point west, looking for the massive yacht. I don’t see it there nor do I see it anywhere to the east.
My heart drops to my stomach.
He left?
Clad in only pajamas bottoms and a tank top, I sprint across the grass and through the lobby of the building. When I reach the street, I take the stone steps, three, four at a time, nearly breaking an ankle flying down the narrow walkway.
When I reach the bottom, I jog the street, barefoot, until I’m at the marina. The binoculars find their way to may face again as I look out for his boat.
It’s still not there.
He left?
He left?
He left.
He’s gone.
Alexander Asher, international playboy, used me, abused me, and deserted me.
I am such a fool.
The slamming of brakes and a prolonged, ultra loud horn honk causes me to jerk and spill my evening latte on the pavement. It happens to me every time. A cab and a sedan have nearly collided and two men are screaming at each other from their respective windows. No one gets out of their vehicles though. They just flip each other off and go their merry way.
It’s an occurrence I have almost gotten jaded to. That and the slouched being hanging outside my building’s door.
“Hey, Mattie. Locked out again?” I ask, whipping my keys out of my coat pocket and leaning over my neighbor.
Mattie opens his eyes and is taken aback to see me hovering over him. “Oh, hey, Emma. Yeah, keys are probably sitting on my counter.”
My forgetful neighbor rises to his feet and takes a step behind me as I push open the door. This is the third time in the two months I’ve lived here he has locked himself out. That I know of, at least.
We met just like this. The first time, I was petrified to let him in. I didn’t know if he was homeless or some psycho trying to break into my building. Granted, we don’t live in a lavish high-rise uptown. That would be the type of building someone would want to rob. Instead, ours is a modest prewar on Mott Street. The rent is cheap and the building is clean, even if the floors are slightly slanted.
It didn’t take too much convincing to realize he was harmless. Mattie is an undergrad from Boston, enrolled at NYU. For a genius, he sure is forgetful.
“Thanks for letting me in. Have a good night,” he says, passing me in the hall and heading up the stairs.
“Any requests?” I ask, unlocking my apartment door.
Mattie stops on the step and thinks for a moment. “Something soothing. I had a wicked day.”
I give him an affirmative smile and head into my apartment.
Closing the door behind me, I flick on the light and immediately walk over to the window facing the street. Living on the first floor means I have to utilize heavy-duty blackout curtains to keep the passersby from gazing in through the curved security bars.
When I first saw the apartment, I was hesitant about living on the first floor. But after considering the twenty other apartments I’d seen that weren’t
nearly as nice, I decided the luxury on the inside was better than its level off the ground.
Perhaps luxury is the wrong word. Stepping into my home, you are in the living room where I have a sofa, TV and bookcase. To the back left is a small galley kitchen, so tiny it can’t house standard-size appliances. So I have a two-burner stove, a modest-sized refrigerator, and a half sink. No dishwasher, of course.
The kitchen is separated from the living room by a half wall that creates an island. In the living room, my coffee table doubles as a dining table and my bookcase as extra storage. I have a secretary desk that was once my grandmother’s in the space where one would put a dining table. Beside it is a wing backed chair and a floor lamp that composes my reading nook.
Behind the kitchen wall is a bathroom with a shower, stall, and pedestal sink. The plumbing is ancient and echoes throughout the building whenever someone flushes.
The real luxury to the space is the bedroom. It’s not big or even nice, really. The luxury is the fact that it exists. In my price range it was hard to find an actual one-bedroom. Every apartment I saw was a studio and I really wanted a sleeping space separate from my living space.
Studio apartments are fine but when I’m paying nearly double the rent to live in New York as I was in Pittsburgh, it makes it hard to downsize completely.
Despite the spatial limitations, I have made a great space for myself here. I wasn’t supposed to paint but I did it anyway. I didn’t want to start the next phase of my life staring at white walls. Instead, I painted the living room a fun purple, and I bought a turquoise sofa that cost more than my rent. The living room was inspired by the nineties television show Friends. They are the epitome of what a girl from Ohio thinks living in Manhattan is about. Some would say Sex and the City or even Girls, but not me. I am a Friends gal all the way.
I even put a picture frame around the peephole on my front door.
Walking over to my speakers, I synch my iPhone and select an allegro by Joshua Bell. Mattie mentioned a few weeks ago he could hear my music through the floorboards. When I profusely apologized, he commented on how it actually helps him study. So now I take requests and let some of my favorite melodies drift upstairs.
Moving into the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and take out the makings for a dinner salad. When that is made, I take my bowl, a glass of wine, and a stack of papers to review and cuddle up on the couch. I’m content, having gotten myself into a nice routine. I like my home.
A lot has happened in my life over the last nine months. I’m still living in the year from hell. It’s been nine months since I lost my brother. Nine months since I crushed my hand. And nine months since that douche with a flute left.
But it’s better.
Don’t assume I’m leaping off balconies and singing in the street. I still haven’t picked up or played an instrument since those two times in Italy.
A time I try not to think of.
What is better is that I am taking control of the situation. No more lying in bed wallowing. It’s time I try to make something out of this mess that is my life. The first step was getting a new apartment in a new city. Next, was finding a new job. After that—I have no idea.
Looking over at the coffee table I see a white envelope peering up at me. I put my salad bowl down and reach over for it. Inside is an invitation to the wedding of Leah Marie Paige and Adam Geoffrey Reingold.
A smile crosses my face. Those two crazy kids are finally getting married. Since they called off their summer wedding, everyone wondered when they would set a date again. Looks like a Christmas wedding is in order.
I can’t help but think back on that July trip with mixed emotions. When I arrived, I was half broken, on the mend from having my dreams torn apart and the devastation of losing Luke. I was going through the motions of life but I wasn’t living.
Then I met a man. An intense, complex, emotion extracting, sinful man who made me feel more in four days than I had in six months.
And then he played me like a fiddle.
Stupid fiddle.
I explained all of this to my shrink when I returned to Cedar Ridge. I booked a three-hour appointment and unloaded. Every feeling, every emotion and every ache that has burnt me since that fateful night in January, was put out there.
She didn’t seem impressed I had finally decided to open up. Instead, Dr. Schueler said my rendezvous in Italy set back all the progress we made with my PTSD. She wrote out a stack full of prescriptions and sent me on my merry way.
I, in turn, went home, tore them up and packed my bags.
It doesn’t take a world-renowned psychiatrist to see I needed out of Cedar Ridge. There were too many memories. I need to be far away from there and Pittsburgh and the reminders of all that was lost over the course of a weekend.
Maybe it wasn’t Asher that made me heal the way I did.
Maybe it was Capri.
Whatever it was, I needed to get away. At least for the time being.
My parents begged me to stay, but they know their headstrong little girl better than to expect her to listen. I was determined.
Shortly before I left for Italy, I sent my résumé out to various schools in the area looking for a teaching job. Since my hand is shot, I’d only be able to teach courses like Music Theory and Introduction to Music. It wasn’t what I wanted to do but it was better than living in my pajamas.
When I returned, I received an offer not to teach, but help run a music program in New York.
Having been enrolled in prestigious music schools my entire life, it seemed logical to put my knowledge to good use. Sure, it’s a lot of administration work but it’s perfect for my type-A personality. The program I am working on is brand new and just what I need to distract me for a year or two until I decide what my next plan of action is.
My cell phone rings from the side table next to the sofa. I lean over and grab it, seeing a pretty blonde with a bob and pale blue eyes looking back at me. I hit the green icon and say hello.
“How’s my little Carrie Bradshaw doing?” Leah pipes on the other end of the phone.
“I prefer Rachel Green. And for your information, I am curled up on the chesterfield, drinking a nice Pinot and listening to the soulful sounds of Joshua Bell.” I take a sip of my wine and twist my face a bit. I said it was a nice Pinot, not a great one.
“First, you are so a Monica. Second, the couch is awesome but you need to stop referring to it as ‘the chesterfield.’ It makes you sound like Grandma. Next, I’m jealous, and last . . . what was the last thing you said?”
I laugh into my sleeve. “Joshua Bell,” I remind her.
“Oh, yeah. Boring! Throw on some pop music and dance around in your underwear. That’s what I do.”
If Leah could see me she’d be privy to an eye roll. I know she dances around in her underwear. I grew up with her and witnessed it many times.
“I got the wedding invitation. Do I have to RSVP? You know I’m going.”
“Of course you’re going. My maid of honor has to be there. That’s actually why I’m calling. I decided I want my bachelorette party to be in, drum roll please,” Leah’s hands can be heard slapping a table on her end of the phone in a drum roll pattern. When they come to a halt, she shouts in her best game show voice, “New York City!”
My legs swing around from under me and hit the floor. “You’re coming here?” My voice squeaks in excitement. “When?”
“In a few weeks. Halloween gets crazy around here and of course there’s Thanks Conaughey weekend so that leaves the middle of the month as the best time.” Leah’s mouth crunches around a potato chip, the sound easily recognizable through the phone.
My toes dance at the thought of seeing Leah. I haven’t seen anyone in my family since I moved to New York. Even when I lived in Pittsburgh we saw each other at least once a month. “I will have to start researching the best places to go. I haven’t gone out since I’ve been here—”
“Ems,” her curt voice cuts me off, “you�
��ve lived out there for two months. What do you mean you haven’t gone out?”
This—coming from my social butterfly of a sister—is expected. She thrives on going out and meeting new people. It’s in her nature. Not mine.
When I first got to New York, I had two weeks to find an apartment before my new job began. I stayed in a hotel, spending way too much of my savings to do so, before I found a place to live. And for the last six weeks I’ve been working my ass off getting the Juliette Academy ready for opening day.
The Juliette Academy is a free after-school music school for children in New York City. It is offered to everyone, regardless of economic status. You are accepted through a lottery. All you need to enroll is a New York City address and the willingness to learn.
I love the school’s name. Juliette sounds like a mini-Julliard. It’s a cute play on the name of the famous school uptown where some of the greatest musicians have trained.
A lot of inner-city kids submitted an application for entry. I wish I could give the spots to only those kids but the lottery is open to everyone. Our first run is two hundred and fifty kids, each receiving a lesson once a week. If they progress, they can apply for grants or pay out of pocket for more lessons.
Running a program isn’t what I had planned for my life. In fact, if I weren’t at the place in my life I was this summer, I never would have taken it. But I needed out and New York was a perfect escape.
I’ve kept myself busy hiring the final round of teachers and working on a curriculum for them to follow. My job description also requires me to make sure every applicant is in the proper class for their age and skill level as well as make sure they have the proper equipment. Ordering two hundred and fifty instruments with the budget I had was difficult but it got done.
And then, of course, it was getting said two hundred and fifty kids in the right classrooms with the right teachers with the right equipment—
Yeah, I’ve been so engrossed in getting the program up and running I haven’t had time to go out.
Reckless Abandon Page 14
