Birthday Suit

by Lauren Blakely

  “We’re not stopping for H&H bagels. It’s hell there on a Saturday morning.”

  Cameron rubs his belly. “H&H bagels are the bomb, Mariana. Right along with Puccini.”

  As she slows at a light, he grabs his phone, suddenly transfixed by a message, I presume.

  Mariana glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Looks like someone has a little online lover.”

  He doesn’t respond, simply taps away with a goofy grin on his face.

  “And who is making you smile like that? Is this grandma or your real mystery woman?” I ask.

  He looks up, a glint in his eyes. “Perhaps it’s the real one.”

  “Are you ever going to tell us about her?”

  “Maybe I’m saving the story for the beach.”

  “My ears are waiting,” I say, then tell Mariana where to make the pit stop.

  Last night I wrote a letter to Leo. It’s safely tucked in my purse. A few minutes later, Mariana pulls up to Leo’s building, and I ask the doorman to let me leave the letter under Leo’s door. He obliges.

  Afterward, I scurry back to the car, and we cruise along the highway out to the Hamptons, singing to Mariana’s road-trip mix—Def Leppard’s “Photograph,” The Eagles’ “Life in the Fast Lane,” Rihanna’s “Shut Up and Drive”—singing until we're hoarse, until our voices are shot, and then singing some more.

  Then we make up words when Mariana finds some Puccini to blast.

  The music isn’t enough to make me stop missing Leo. It's not enough to make me stop loving him. But singing songs at the top of my lungs with my two closest friends is enough to remind me what I have here in New York.

  I have my family, I have my home, I have my shop, and I have my friends.

  I’d really like to add Leo to the mix, but right now, with the sun shining brightly, the road unfurling, and the beach mere miles away, I’d say four out of five isn’t too bad.

  I close my eyes and imagine Leo opening the letter. Well, it’s actually a postcard. A picture of Roy Lichtenstein’s The Kiss.

  * * *

  Dear Leo,

  * * *

  You asked if you were freaking me out. Let me assure you—I’m not freaked out in the least. Nor am I analyzing every little thing that has happened over the years. I think love is a gift, whether it comes quickly or has been burning across time.

  I didn’t expect to fall for you. I didn’t think I’d feel this way, and I certainly never set out for us to happen. But we happened. And I do love you. I feel the love completely, in a wildly hopeful, incandescently happy way.

  I suppose some things don’t change. I believe in the poetry of love, and I believe in hope.

  I hope madly that you’ll see me the way I see myself—I’m not anyone’s girl. I’m my girl.

  And I want to be yours, fully and without reservation.

  That’s the only way.

  * * *

  Love,

  Lulu

  37

  Leo

  I’m not worthy.

  As I turn the card over, staring at the bright blue, red, and yellow of the comic book couple, I know with a cold, stark certainty that I’m definitely not worthy of her.

  But so what?

  The woman wants me.

  The woman loves me.

  And I’d be a fool to throw this away.

  I’d be an absolute idiot to take any longer to process anything at all in the world.

  What kind of man walks away from this kind of love?

  A stupid one.

  I might be stubborn, I might be tortured now and then, and I am definitely, absolutely pigheaded.

  But stupid? I am not.

  I fold the card, tuck it into my wallet, and vow to keep it with me always. I don’t know what to say to her, and I still don’t know that I completely feel like this is okay. But at least I don’t feel that guilt. At least now I’m free of that.

  I grab my phone and call Lulu.

  It goes straight to voice mail.

  I do it again.

  Same response.

  I flop down on the couch, read the note again, letting her words fill me with champagne happiness. Because that’s what this is.

  The trouble is, I don’t want to sit here. I need to keep busy while I wait for her to call back. But I don’t want to run, or hit baseballs, or work on furniture.

  I have business to tend to. Personal business. There’s someone I need to apologize to.

  I find Vivian’s number and call her. She answers immediately, and I ask if I can come see her. She tells me I’m always welcome at her home.

  Maybe I always will be, and perhaps that’s simply a good thing, not a thing to feel guilty about. In fact, it’s a great thing that I forged a friendship worthy of admiration and respect from a mother.

  I pat my pockets to make sure I have my phone, keys, and wallet, when my gaze catches on that photograph of Tripp and me. I stare at it, seeing it in a new light, remembering that night.

  Mesmerized, I step closer, like I’ve turned a flashlight on the faded edges of my memory.

  That wasn’t just some night at his restaurant.

  That was the night he opened it.

  And I’d completely forgotten how special that night was to someone—someone who’s still here.

  I grab the picture frame and catch a Lyft across town.

  Vivian clutches the photo to her chest. “This I will cherish. This is something I wanted so badly. Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “No. It’s the most. I think of that night fondly. He was the happiest he’d ever been. That’s my memory. That’s what I choose to hold on to. Not the other stuff. Not the terrible things. But this night.” She taps the glass for emphasis.

  “How did you get there?”

  “Get where?”

  “To this place. To your clarity. To embracing only the good.”

  She laughs, the wise kind of laugh only a woman who’s been through hell can have. “Sit. I’ll make some tea.” She stage-whispers, “Tea’s the only acceptable drink for a serious conversation.”

  She makes some, then we sit and drink and talk about funny moments, the little jokes, the times we all laughed over the years. We debate hellions and hell-raisers, and we decide Tripp was simply both.

  It’s cathartic—a catharsis I needed.

  “Vivian, I wanted to apologize.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “For yesterday. For the way the news all came out.”

  She waves a hand, seeming to make it all go away. “Please.”

  “No, I mean it. I didn’t want any of it to come out that way, and I’m sorry you had to walk into that mess.”

  “Don’t think twice about it.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “You know you can.”

  “What did you think when you heard I was with Lulu?”

  She smiles faintly. “I was shocked at first, but then I wasn’t. I always liked her. I always liked you. The two of you liked Tripp. You all had so much in common, and I suppose it’s not a surprise that you’d wind up together. Maybe it was inevitable. Some people are simply drawn to each other. They’re magnets, and they can’t stay away.” She takes a drink of her tea. “You and Lulu are magnets. How is it going?”

  I wince. “That’s the thing. It’s not going right now. She told me to figure out my stuff.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I deserved it. I’ve been tangled up in guilt.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. Do you really think Tripp wouldn’t want you to be happy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She stares sharply at me, her ice-blue eyes challenging. “Think, Leo, think.”

  “I’ve been thinking. It’s all I’ve been doing. And every time I think about it, I keep looking for permission.”

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  I laugh wryly. “Not so well.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

 
; “What do I do now? I’m waiting for Lulu to call me back, but I don’t even know what to say. What do I say to prove I’m not reluctant?”

  “Do you want to be with her, no questions asked?”

  “I love her so much it hurts. I love her so much it feels incredible. I love her so much, I don’t want to give her up. I love her so much, I would give her up if I had to. But I don’t want to. All I want is to move forward the way she wants. I want to be okay moving forward.”

  Her brow furrows, as if she’s considering all I’ve said. “Did you come to me for permission? Like I’m a proxy for him?”

  “No.” But maybe in some way I did. “Maybe?”

  “Look at me.”

  I meet her eyes.

  “I’m not going to give it to you. Because you’re not going to find that, and somehow you’re going to have to be okay with it. Because you know what? I’m not the one to give you permission, and he’s not either.” She taps my heart. “This is where it comes from.”

  The earth stops on its axis. The oceans cease churning. In that moment, I realize how completely wrong I’ve been. I’ve been looking for permission in the wrong place.

  It exists in only one place, and that’s inside of me.

  I have to give it to myself.

  I say goodbye to Vivian, thanking her profusely. I walk across Central Park, remembering the laughter, the friendship, the needling, the teasing, the calls to go out and celebrate, the calls to go to sporting events, the calls to go help each other move a piece of furniture, test out a recipe, anything, everything.

  And then the last call. The night we went to The Red Door, the hottest eatery in town.

  He can’t call me anymore and tell me that everything is cool and to just go for it with the woman of my dreams.

  And finally, I don’t want that anymore. I don’t need it any longer. Because I’m giving it to myself.

  I’m the only one who can decide to love Lulu the way she deserves. With my whole heart. I’m the only one who can go forward gladly, exuberantly, without a shred of reluctance.

  Life is full of choices, and I’m making this choice.

  It’s exhilarating.

  Tonight, I say goodbye to guilt.

  I shout see you later to any last doubts.

  I call out I’m done to the past.

  The choice is now, and it’s high time to embrace the present and make room for the future—an absolutely fantastic future with the woman I adore.

  The woman who’s somehow wonderfully, fantastically mine.

  Well, as long as I don’t fuck things up anymore.

  Shoot.

  I need to fix things, stat.

  That’s when I start running.

  There’s not a moment to waste.

  I run out of the park, down Fifth Avenue toward my home, dialing and dialing, reaching voice mail every time.

  But voice mail won’t win.

  I’m a resourceful man. I strike business deals for a living. I know how to work my way around a problem.

  I call her best friend, and he answers.

  38

  Tripp

  Nearly two years ago, The Red Door restaurant

  * * *

  I raced up the stairwell to Leo’s apartment, taking the steps two by two, not bothering with the elevator.

  I had to get his ass in gear.

  I reached the fifth floor, sprinted down the hall, and banged on the door.

  A few seconds later, he yanked it open. “I told you I’d be downstairs in five,” Leo said. “Is your watch broken?”

  “I don’t wear a watch.”

  “No kidding.”

  “We gotta go. I’m telling you. Now. Time’s a-wasting.”

  He laughed. “Like the restaurant won’t hold the reservation for you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s not the point. The point is I got us into The Red Door, and now I don’t want to wait. C’mon.”

  I’d snagged a table at the hippest new spot in all of Manhattan. This place was so cool, and I was sure it would inspire a whole new spate of dishes at my restaurant. Lord knew, I needed the help.

  Not to mention, I needed some dough to pay the overdue bills.

  But I wasn’t going to worry about that tonight.

  There would be time to worry.

  For now, it was Leo and Tripp hanging out, eating the best food, and living the single life in New York City.

  A few minutes later, Leo shut the door behind him, and we took off for the restaurant.

  Soon we were dining on bacon-wrapped shrimp, succulent butternut squash ravioli, and mushroom truffles, and I was in heaven. “This is so good. Why don’t I have this on the menu at my place?”

  He laughed as he took another bite of the mushrooms. “Because you’d be stealing another chef’s dishes?”

  I waved a hand dismissively. “Who cares? I need truffles on the menu. And I need them now.” I banged a fist on the oak table.

  “Do it, then, man. Just do it.” He lifted a glass of iced tea and offered it to clink with mine.

  My iced tea.

  I tapped my glass. “See? I’m a good boy.”

  “Keep it up, man. Keep it up.”

  “I will. I absolutely one-hundred-percent promise that I will.”

  I could turn over a new leaf. Tonight, I was going to start over. I hadn’t had a drop in a few weeks. I was trying. I would keep trying. This was the beginning of a new life.

  And hell, in this new life, Leo could be with Lulu. I could see them together. I knew he was in love with her, even though he denied it that one time I brought it up. I needed to tell him that promise was dumb. She wasn’t mine. She hadn’t been in a long, long time.

  He didn’t need my permission. Didn’t need my blessing. I wanted him to be happy. Hell, he was the best friend I’d ever had, and he should have the world.

  “So, that woman I met recently? Amy?”

  I nodded. He’d mentioned her a few times. “The one you wanted to ask out?”

  “I started seeing her. She’s pretty cool.”

  I sat back and listened as he told me about a new woman.

  Some other night I’d bring up Lulu, just in case things didn’t work out with Amy. My buddy would end up with Lulu. I was sure of it.

  After all, there’d be time.

  There was always time.

  39

  Lulu

  A sound whispers across the tiled floor, a kind of whoosh.

  I blink open my eyes, figuring it’s the wind from the ocean. We left the windows open, and my room is closest to the beach.

  I sit up. “Cameron? Mariana?”

  No one answers, and my skin prickles. This is that moment when girls do something stupid in a horror movie.

  “Cameron?”

  I call his name louder then flick on the lamp by my bed.

  Is that a postcard on the floor?

  A dash of hope flutters in my chest. I fling the covers away, and I am that girl in a horror movie.

  Only I’m not.

  Because this is a different story. It’s a story where the girl chases a Chagall.

  I get out of bed, kneel, and pick up the postcard.

  It’s an image of the artist’s L’anniversaire, a gorgeous, dreamy painting of two lovers floating above the floor, kissing, enrapt.

  The painting Leo said he’d get me next time.

  My heart thunders in my chest, wild mustangs stampeding across the earth. Please let next time be now.

  I turn it over.

  “Next time, I’ll give you a Chagall.” That’s what I told you, and I meant it. And I hope you’ll forgive me.

  For what?

  I open the door and find a trail of Chagalls across the living room floor, postcard after postcard. I pick up the next one.

  I love you.

  The next one.

  It’s always been you.

  And another, as my heart starts to glow.

  I tried to stop loving you. I think I suc
ceeded for a while. But you’re you, and you’re wonderful, and I fell in love with you all over again.

  One more.

  And this time? It’s better. Because I didn’t fall alone. I fell with you.

  Tears slip down my face as I grab the next card, following the trail.

  I fell madly, joyfully, enthusiastically in love with you, as you fell for me.

  I grab the next one as the glow spreads from my chest all the way through me.

  I still can’t believe I’m writing this. I can’t quite fathom that I’m not experiencing this solo. Have I mentioned it’s so much better to love you when you love me back?

  “I bet it is,” I whisper, grabbing one more.

  I don’t think I can compare the two. Loving you from afar was painful and exquisitely torturous. Loving you near is wonderful and exquisitely blissful.

  A smile commandeers my face. My whole being. I’m almost at the deck, where a night breeze blows and stars light the sky.

  I pick up the last one.

  This is new love. I love who you are now. I love your spirit, and your humor, and your wild ideas, and I love your endless, beautiful heart and your profound capacity to love.

  I love that you want this.

  I love that you want us.

  I want it all too.

  My face is awash with tears as I stand, peering out onto the deck. A sliver of moonlight shines on the wood. Leo steps out of the shadows from the beach, his brown eyes brimming with hope.

  “I’ll give you all the kisses in the world, all the paintings in the world. I’ll give you all my love. Always. Will you have me?”

  No question has ever been easier to answer. I’m exploding with light and joy and all the love I’ve ever wanted. I launch myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck, kissing him madly as I say over and over yes, yes, yes.

  I don’t need to quiz him.

  I don’t need to know how he’s arrived at this conclusion.

  I don’t need the details of how he processed things.

  Because he did.