Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  “I’ll be quick,” he said, catching me before my downward spiral brought me to suicidal. “Here. This is the surprise I forgot to bring last time.”

  He reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a folder like you’d get at K-Mart for a sixth grader. There was a picture of Chewbacca on the front. He handed it to me. “Sorry about the folder, I know it’s stupid. It was the Wookiee or a daisy. Anyway…”

  I opened the Star Wars folder—did he notice my hand shaking? Inside were some brochures, class listings, schedules. From the New School. From Columbia. Music schools. I started to lay out the brochures on the kitchen counter. Manhattan School of Music, NYU. Graduate programs. What the—I looked to him for an explanation.

  “You had talked about it—grad school, I mean—and I was in the neighborhood, so I went in and found their admissions office and asked, and you know, they gave me stuff.”

  “Fletch, these schools are all over the city.”

  “Okay, I was in a lot of different neighborhoods.”

  “Liar.”

  “Yep, pretty much.”

  I started straightening up the brochures and laid them carefully in a pile on top of Chewy.

  “Fastidious,” he said, smiling sadly.

  “Yeah. Fastidious.” I had to swallow really hard. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t. It’s cute.” There was a long pause that stretched into unbearable. For him too, I guess, because the next thing he said was, “I should go.”

  “No!” The word shot out of me. I didn’t want him to leave, not just yet. Okay, I knew that Fletch had to go. I had thrown him out last week, and I meant it. I was resigned to the fact that I was going to live the rest of my life Fletchless. Fine.

  But there was no need to rush into it. I could start living without him…later. In a minute. In an hour maybe was plenty soon enough. He was obviously just as miserable as I was, so why couldn’t we just sit here and be miserable together? I could always throw him out, you know, in a little bit. Or tomorrow, or…

  “Don’t go. Not just yet.”

  “No?”

  “And thanks for the—stuff. I kinda need to rethink my life. The law thing doesn’t seem to be quite panning out.” I was feeling pretty light-headed, the longer I talked to him. Lack of sleep, low blood sugar, high anxiety—

  “Did they…”

  “They did! They did indeed. Katrina was super nice about it too, of course. And you know? She said the same thing. ‘Go back to school, kid,’” I said, and I wagged a finger—nothing at all like Katrina. “So. First I throw Jeff out, and then I throw you out, and I go to work, and they throw me out. Here we are, all thrown out on our respective ears. Or asses. Depending. Pretty funny, don’t you think? Oh, the ironing.”

  “Dweeb, are you really okay?”

  Maybe I was sick. I seemed to be winding up toward delirium.

  “When I suggested to Katrina that I could always busk in the subways, you know, me and the Mittenwald? She scoffed. Doesn’t seem to think I have the stuff, but I’ll show her. I got the goods. I can grovel; I can beg. I can play that awful song from Cats as well as the next guy. But hey, the good news is—she’s going to let me play first violin in the quartet sometimes. Pretty cool, huh?”

  Fletch had no idea what to do with me. I was more than a little lost myself.

  “You need to sit down, Dweeb, and maybe take a breath.”

  “I think you’re right. No reason we can’t sit and talk to each other, is there? We’re grown-ups, blah-blah-blah. We can handle this, right?”

  “Absolutely, but first, shhhhhh.” He shepherded me onto the couch. “Okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Want a glass of water, or something? Wine maybe?”

  “That’s probably not smart. I haven’t eaten…since…no idea.”

  “Yeah. Me either,” he said, bringing me the glass of water. “Or slept.”

  I sipped.

  “Or slept. Want some?” I offered him the glass, and he sipped from it, too, and gave it back. He sat carefully at the other end of the couch.

  “So—did you tell your dad yet?”

  “Are you crazy? IIIIIIIII’m not telling him.”

  “Coward.”

  “Yep, prit-tee much,” I said, doing my best Fletch imitation.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Fletch said, and I had to laugh. Which at least broke the tension. “I’m sorry, Dweeb. Like you don’t have enough going on.”

  We sat on the couch, opposite ends, each with a knee up so we could face each other. Just like the last time. I think we were each waiting for something, but it was something that was never going to happen. Because what we wanted to happen was impossible.

  “So,” I volunteered, “I need to rethink my life, sort of, and I don’t really know where to begin. But there’s something I learned from Haggis.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sometimes when you don’t know where to begin, it doesn’t matter, as long as you do. Begin, I mean.”

  “Smart dog, Haggis.”

  “And good-looking, too.” I looked down at the dog leaning against Fletch’s ankle. “But so damned arrogant. Anyway, that’s the lesson. I’m just not always sure how to apply it.”

  We sat for a few seconds without saying anything.

  “Hey,” he said suddenly, “I have something else for you. A Christmas present.”

  “It’s only November.”

  “Yeah, but you know, considering—anyway.” He retrieved his shoulder bag and handed me a small envelope. I looked inside: tickets. Carnegie Hall, four nights in February.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a competition for young chamber musicians. I remembered what you said about young players with passion, so…anyway. Merry Christmas.”

  “That’s really—you know, for a shallow, egotistical asshole who’s only interested in sex—first Trevor, now this. When did you get so…”

  “It’s a recent development. I hope you like the present.”

  “I do, very much.”

  “Better than an argyle sweater?”

  “Hey, it was an expensive argyle sweater.”

  “That you’ll never wear.”

  “That I’ll never wear. Poor Jeff. Does Tommy tell you everything?”

  “Only if I ask him. Hey, there’s even a quartet on the program that’s playing ‘Death and the Maiden.’”

  “Is that like ‘our song’?”

  “Maybe, kinda.” He sang the first line with the dumb words he’d made up for it. “Dweeeeeeb!”

  “Where are my shoes?” we sang together.

  “That’s so romantic,” I said.

  “I know, right?”

  “No wonder we were doomed, if that was our song.”

  He waited a second before he answered.

  “That’s not why we were doomed.”

  “No. That’s not why.”

  “I’m so sorry, Dweeb. You can’t know. I’m really sorry to have lost you—but I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you. Please believe that.”

  “It’s just a metaphor,” I said finally.

  “Sorry?”

  “You know, death, the maiden….”

  “Somebody really smart explained that to me once.”

  “You might have kept the tickets. You could just go yourself.”

  “Without you it would be—I—anyway, I won’t be here.”

  I looked up sharply.

  “What?!”

  “Marco and I, we’re going to try Los Angeles for a while.”

  “Los Angeles? California?”

  “I suppose there’s probably another, but I only know of the one.”

  I was totally stunned by this. What was that—panic?

  “But—why?”

 
“Change of scenery. Neither of us has ever been anywhere but here. And Marco wants to be a movie star. Or a gigolo—whichever pays better.”

  “And you?”

  “I always wanted to be an astronaut, but heck, I can do that anywhere.”

  “Fletch.”

  “There’s nothing for me here. I think maybe it’s for the best.”

  Wow. Why did this shatter me so, to hear that he was leaving town? I mean I was the one who’d told him to get the hell out of my life. Why was I miserable at the thought that he was doing just that?

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  I hated this. I hated, hated, hated this.

  “There’s something I have to ask you,” I said. “I know it’s weird, but this wasn’t my idea. Don’t be mad at me—blame Tommy.”

  “Tommy?”

  “Tommy said I should ask. In fact, it seems to be the consensus of the whole gang down at Starbucks that I should ask—and this is from some girls who look like they really know about these things.”

  “Dweeb, what are you talking about?”

  “You see, the burning question on seemingly everyone’s lips these days is—are you, Fletcher Andrews, still a tramp?”

  “What?”

  “Are you still being your usual slutty self? Or have you modified your past harlotty behavior?”

  “Harlotty? Is that even a word?”

  “You’re avoiding the question. Are you still boinking all and sundry? That was the question Tommy told me to ask you.”

  “Thank Tommy for his interest and tell him no, I’m not.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Well, I’m not completely sure about all, but I definitely haven’t boinked sundry—I’d remember that. Come to think of it, there hasn’t been any boinking of any kind in a while.”

  “Since…when? Lunch? Since…Wednesday? Since…”

  “Since—Otello.”

  Wow.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Good answer.”

  “Thanks.”

  “For you, that’s quite a dry spell. Must be some kind of record or something.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. Hmm, there wasn’t a whole lot of action going on the first twelve years or so, but since then, yeah, I guess, pretty much a record.”

  Since he was twelve. This was the guy I had to go and fall in love with?

  “So, you’re telling me that you’re really not tramping it up anymore?”

  “Say amen, brother!” He held his quivering hands up over his head.

  “Why not?”

  “I went to the opera, and it changed my life.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m serious, Fletch.”

  He looked me in the eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Well, if you’re serious, I saw someone in the lobby of the Metropolitan Opera House who literally took my breath away, he was so amazingly handsome—it ruined me for anyone else.”

  “You are so full of—”

  “Honest, I swear, Roger. I couldn’t say it before because I was afraid I’d scare you away and you’d throw me out, but now—I saw you that night—you seemed so beautiful and so fragile and sad and hurt, and I knew it was because of me, and since that night all I have wanted was to make it up to you and hold you and protect you and to get it right this time—and since then—since then—since then I’ve just been hanging around you because I can’t think of anything else to do with my life.”

  “It did feel like you were stalking me there, for a while.”

  “That’s probably because I was. I skulked around outside your office, just to watch you go in and out. I followed you home a couple times. Stood across the street and stared up at your windows for like—days. And it gets so much worse. I bribed your dog walker to disappear.”

  “No way!”

  “Way! And the bitch was bleeding me dry, too.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I would never joke about something as serious as bribing a dog walker.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know, Dweeb. I don’t know anything anymore. Except that I love you so much.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in love.”

  “I didn’t! And if I ever had believed in love, I certainly didn’t think that I was capable of it. Like not crying when I was a kid. I always figured there was a part of me that was missing, or maybe I was just such a dick that I didn’t fall in love, or maybe I was just too—you know—banged up by everything that I couldn’t. But I was wrong. You showed me that. Because I am so in love with you, Roger, that absolutely nothing else matters.”

  “You’ve changed so much?”

  “I was motivated.” I had to smile. “If you gave me another chance,” said Fletch, “I swear I’ll prove it. Hey, you remember Dr. Scruff?”

  “Of course.”

  “Totally hot, no?”

  “Ye-ah.” Kind of the last thing I wanted to talk about.

  “I could have had him eating out of my hand, if I’d wanted.”

  “Out of your lap, more likely.”

  “Exactly. But instead—I told him all about you, my fabulous, gorgeous, talented boyfriend.”

  “I wasn’t your boyfriend.”

  “That’s not the point. I immediately shut him down. That ought to count for something.”

  “One time.”

  “First of many, but I gotta start somewhere, Dweeb. Look—you know, I don’t believe in promises either, but I promise you, if you give me a chance—I will be the best boyfriend ever.”

  “You were the best boyfriend ever, except for one tiny detail.”

  “It’s a detail I can live without.” He paused for a second. “If you give me a chance, I swear to you, I swear on the entire town of Mittenwald—that I will never ever hurt you like that again. There will never be anyone but you. Ever.”

  That was what I wanted to hear, wasn’t it? I mean, it was all perfect before, but for that one awful thing. So why wasn’t I jumping at it?

  Because I was scared.

  Let’s face it, Prescott—you’re always scared.

  “But you’re going to California?”

  “Unless you can think of a good reason why I shouldn’t?”

  I could get really, really hurt. That was me, continuing the argument with myself.

  “Well, there’s the concert tickets.”

  “There’s that.”

  You’re already hurt, genius. Take a look around. It doesn’t get any worse than this!

  I looked up at him for a second. Oh-jeez, those eyes.

  “For God’s sake, Dweeb—say something.”

  I tried to, but there was that damn hunk of rosin in my throat again.

  “Don’t.” I managed to get out. “Just—stay. With me, I mean. Please-please-please? It could be like a slumber party.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And I always loved our slumber parties.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I don’t know why it is—and I mean—why you, Fletch? Of all people, why you? But it is you, and I’ve tried to live without you. Twice. I’m just not very good at it.”

  He looked at me a while from his end of the couch.

  “Damn, Dweeb. Took you long enough to figure that out.”

  We held each other very tightly after that, and for a long, long time, and we talked very quietly, and we each said about a thousand I-love-yous, and we each said we were sorry about a thousand times, and we made each other about a thousand promises.

  And he gently kissed the tears from my cheeks.

  They weren’t all mine.

  Chapter 42

  Over the River and Through the Woods

  Fletch

  Roger and Haggis stepped
down off the commuter train out onto the platform ahead of me. I was slowed down, carrying the dog crate Haggis had had to use to get on the train. He’d come out as soon as we were moving and stood with his two front feet on my lap looking out the window the rest of the trip.

  I’m generally not a nervous person, but when I am, you can always tell because my right leg bounces like crazy, which it had done pretty much since we left Grand Central. Because man-oh-man, I was scared to death. The dog didn’t seem to mind the bouncing leg, and I was seriously glad he was there for moral support. Did I need it!

  Out on the platform, Roger scanned the parking lot of the small suburban train station.

  “There she is,” he said and started walking. I stepped down and followed.

  “Hey, Bro,” said a thin, incredibly beautiful girl, blowing out smoke as she dropped her cigarette and stepped on it.

  “Hey Andrea.” They kissed each other on the cheek and turned toward her car. “This is Fletch.”

  “Hi,” I said cheerfully. I didn’t expect her to kiss me on the cheek, but I thought she might have looked in my direction. Nope.

  What a mistake. This was all such a horrible mistake. I should never have let Roger talk me into this.

  You’ve caught on by now that I wasn’t exactly born speaking French and knowing which fork to use. I knew these people were going to spot me as a fraud before I even walked in the front door. I should get on the next train headed back to the city.

  Roger followed Andrea to the car. I took a breath and followed Roger. Andrea opened the trunk with one of those remote control things on the keyring. I loaded the crate in and laid the hanging bag across it.

  “Haggles and I can ride in back,” Roger volunteered and clambered into the back seat of the two-door.

  Wow. Real nice, boyfriend. Thanks so much. Make me ride up front with the scary sister.

  I got in, and while I was fumbling with the seat belt, Andrea got in the driver’s seat. She turned and stared at me. I looked back. Was she going to say something? Was she just trying to make me uncomfortable? It took every bit of self-control to keep my leg from bouncing again.

  “Is there—something?” I said finally.

  “Look straight out.”

  I turned front, but I kept a wary eye on her as best I could. She reached over—my first instinct was to pull a Haggis and duck away from her hand, but I gutted it out—and she pushed my chin a little higher.