That morning he rolled over on his small bed, almost fell out the lumpy thing. He reached into the small, green wicker basket, and pulled out a random note written on a piece of colorful paper. This one in particular was lavender, and trimmed in her hand-drawn doodles. When he unfolded it, her perfume wafted from the paper, making him swallow hard, and his dick constricted against his boxer shorts underneath his wrinkled, striped pajama pants. He read the damn thing, and a burn soon erupted in his chest like indigestion, the kind brought on by love on rewind…
The shit kept rolling into him…
Nick…today is a good day for me to tell you how wonderful you are. I think you’ll choose this note at the moment that you need it most. Right now as you read it, those lovely eyes of yours are moving across the paper, and you probably look mad. You always look mad when you read for some reason, regardless of your actual mood.
He smirked and continued to read…
Nick, you are not a failure. You are a winner. The problem isn’t that we fell. The problem is how we reacted once we realized we were down. Now that you’ve figured that out, how you rise is what determines who you really are and what you are made of.
Love,
Taryn
He read the last few sentences again and again, until they were etched in a secret, important space inside his mind, to have and to hold till life brought them close. Catching his nose with his index finger, he smiled sadly and nodded his head, understanding the realness, accuracy, and perfect timing of the woman’s declarations. He neatly placed the reviewed letter into a folder, not wishing to mix the one he’d already enjoyed with the others waiting to be read. Then, he got to his bare feet and opened his small, oak dresser drawer and removed a speckled black and white notebook from the top row. Making his way back over to his bed, he took hold of an ink pen, turned to the next available fresh page and began to jot down his thoughts…
Taro proudly showed me his thick scar where he’d been stabbed in the gut but survived. He was twelve, I was nine, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the diamond stud earring gleaming in his right ear. We’d sometimes tell people we were cousins, since he was half Italian and Puerto Rican, too. Only difference was, his Italian mother was a drunk, and his Puerto Rican father a drug dealer, but I still envied Taro, because at least he knew who they were; in particular, his pops. The first time I saw a guy do cocaine was when I visited his building one night. Taro took a butter knife and made lines in what I thought was sugar or baby powder. I was still kind of naïve, and couldn’t fathom my friend taking any hard stuff.
It never entered my mind what that stuff really was until he pressed his index finger against his nostril and snorted the white, powdery line up the other. Taro moved away a few months after he’d been stabbed, showed me that scar, and snorted that cocaine. His mother decided she wanted to move back to Pennsylvania, be closer to her family, and get him away from what she called, ‘trouble.’ I never saw him again. I hated her for taking him away from me.
Boy did I miss Taro. I always wanted to ask him how cocaine tasted and felt. I thought that was just something rich people did. No one in my hood could afford such luxuries; crack cocaine was the drug of choice, or so I thought. Taro wasn’t rich; I had no idea how he got his hands on it, but he sure looked happy after taking it. I wanted to be happy, too…
These smell good…
She placed another nectarine up to her nostrils, inhaled deeply, then put it inside her little burlap sack. It was a treat to get such treasures, and since she’d been staying with her friend Ambrose the last few days, she had a hankering for a fresh fruit salad. Stretching her neck just so, she took a closer look at a bucket filled with Granny Smith apples. One was bruised, making her sigh a bit, as if the damn thing was suffering so. She chuckled internally at her reaction, picked it up, and turned it slowly from to side.
I’m going to buy you anyway. You’ll end up getting thrown away just because you have this tiny bruise, a defect. Yet you are still juicy and worthy. Oh yes, you are. I can use you to make a pie or preserves… See? Everything has a purpose.
She turned it around again and again, tossed it inside of her sack, and happily continued on her way. She needed these distractions, the gaps in between fragmented time filled with mundane yet magical moments. She missed the hell out of her man, so she did what she could do best at the moment—raced around and kept herself busy. After paying for her produce, she made her way up the street, the wind bustling and slapping her around with brute, frigid force. She gleamed, smiled wide, feeling good and grateful. She was out. She was free, sinking into the world with all of her might, falling in fast and deep and hugging her New York roots. How amazing to feel the cold air blowing her short hair about. She purposefully didn’t wear a hat, knowing she risked contracting a damn cold, but it was so worth it…
She’d taken it all for granted; and now, she was cashing in on the small things that made her feel alive. Her shiny burgundy boots pounded the concrete as she neared her friend’s brownstone. Thoughts of a warm cup of cocoa with a trace of mint entered her mind as her face began to flirt with the notion of becoming numb. Just then, two men huddled up in thick dark bomber jackets passed her in the opposite direction.
One stopped, called out, “Hey, Ma. Goddamn, baby! You wanna warm me up tonight, wit’ yo’ sexy ass?!”
She burst out in a grin, but kept going, kept walking, kept moving. Slicking out her borrowed key from her oversized army green jacket that cinched at the waist just right, she entered the dwelling. The man had made some of his all time fabulous and famous fried zucchini and potato soup. It hit her like a train as soon as she stepped foot in his meticulous place, his hard wood floors polished like a bowling alley ten minutes before opening.
“Ammmmbrose!” she called out as she entered the small, vibrant, bright orange kitchen. “You didn’t.” The tall blond kept his back to her as he kept a steady arm turned up at the elbow, stirring and stirring away.
“I did.”
She could hear the mischievous smile in his response as she set her bag down, and removed the pieces of fruit and vegetables she’d collected, bit by bit. “I picked up a bottle of wine for you, too.” She set it down on the counter.
“Awww, you didn’t have to do that.” He turned and looked at her, his perfect pink lips formed into a soft smile.
“I know, but it was the least I could do after you allowed me to stay with you for a week or two. I really appreciate it.”
The man waved her off, grabbed a bottle of cayenne pepper and got to seasoning.
“Ahhhh,” she sighed as she slumped in a chair, removed her coat and boots.
“You are crazy to have gone out there.” He chuckled. “It is so damn cold. I thought we were past these temperatures… apparently not. Winter can burn in Hell.”
Taryn burst out laughing, then lay back lazily in her seat.
“Oh boy…” She enjoyed the warmth of the place.
“So, did you hear back from Otis?” he questioned as he moved away from the stove and grabbed two glasses out of a cabinet.
“No, not yet.” She swallowed, looked towards the window, then back at the man. “I guess it is taking a bit longer than I anticipated.” The fact of the matter was, she’d been on the horn, and beating the pavement trying to get someone to listen to her ideas. She was ready to try something else, something different just as Nick had encouraged, yet she was met with continuous resistance. It hurt, for these same people were ones she was convinced would take her seriously… Instead, they’d practically laughed in her face.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll get back to you soon and if all else fails, he’ll probably call you to do a show.”
She grimaced, but didn’t dare let him see it.
“Speaking of which, how’d your show go?” She sat up and propped her chin on folded hands, prepared to live vicariously through her friend who could model his tight, narrow ass off.
“It went fairly well but Ms. Cynthia
was the head bitch in charge.”
“Uh oh…” Taryn scooted in a bit closer, not wishing to miss a second of the juicy gossip.
“That woman needs to be blown to Timbuktu and then pounded into the floor of a hut, never to be seen again.”
Taryn cackled, hitting the table as she fell apart.
“She is the worst designer to work for, I swear. Don’t get me wrong, her clothing is amazing; I loved wearing it and it landed me some pretty good shots and probably future gigs quite honestly.” His arched brow rose. “But she makes you earn every damn cent. All of the yelling, shit!” He shook his head.
“She is just an extreme diva.”
“She pays slow,” Ambrose complained, his face twisted up like a knot as he turned towards her, steely contempt in his almond shaped, bright blue eyes. “That bitch owes me three thousand dollars…said I’d get it next week. She knows I’ll lawyer up in a goddamn second.”
Taryn nodded in agreement. Ambrose was the wrong mothafucka to try and pull one over. His kindness had been mistaken for weakness, and two court dockets later, the ones who’d done the underestimating quickly learned what side of the bread was buttered, and it wasn’t theirs. He didn’t play about his money, his friends, and his time. Period, point blank…
Taryn had met the tall, statuesque Bulgarian model while on the set of a Macy’s commercial, one of many. The man was so damn stunning, he even had straight men staring at him, doing a sneaky peek, a double take. Best of all, he was hard edged but genuine. They’d been friends ever since.
“Yeah, she has a habit of lagging behind but I’ve never heard of her stiffing anyone.”
“Well.” He tossed her a nonchalant glance from over his shoulder as he opened the refrigerator door and retrieved a carton of half and half. “She better hurry up. I have bills to pay.”
“Speaking of which, Ambrose, I want to give you six hundred dollars. I know it’s not much, but I—”
“… If you don’t hush.”
She laughed lightly as he dismissed her and turned back towards his stove.
“You are too good to me.”
“Look, Taryn, you’ve been through a lot, okay?” He turned the eyes of the oven off and faced her. “You’re my friend. I’ve known your butt for far too long. You’ve helped me in the past, and now I’m helping you. That’s what friends do. Besides, I love you…you’re a good person. That’s hard to come by.” The beautiful man swallowed, the shadow of pain creeping over his face, and she knew from where it came. His boyfriend of five years had broken his heart, and the once lavish apartment filled with weekend parties attended by all their friends and family, had become a somber place, with nothing more than Ambrose moving about, when he was in town and not travelling on various photo shoots. He loved hard, and hurt harder. She’d spoken to him several times while in Firststone. The breakup happened while she was away, behind rehabilitation doors, unable to comfort the man in his time of need. She harbored pangs of guilt…for she couldn’t recall one time he’d not been there for her, a shoulder to cry on.
“Ambrose, as wonderful as you are, I promise you that you’ll find the right one,” she offered.
He paused, tossed her a jaded glance as if offended. “Uh, excuse me, miss, when did this become about my love life?”
“Don’t try that with me…I know you too well. You like having people around. That’s why you tolerate me,” she joked, causing him to grin. “And you loved him. You two had a life together. You haven’t discussed it much with me, but I’d like to…I’m here.” She folded her arms on the top of the chair and nestled her chin in the groove. After a few seconds of silence passed, he scooped up the fragrant potato soup into two bowls, and set one in front of her. She waited as he opened the wine and poured himself a glass.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Water is fine.”
He nodded, opened the refrigerator door and plucked a Fuji water bottle from the shelf, setting it before her as if he were a waiter in a five star restaurant. Soon, he was seated across from her at the small, white, distressed kitchen table with a white floral display between them. Taking a sip of his wine, he placed the glass down, crossed his legs, and glowered at her.
“What?” She scooped the soup into her mouth, savoring the complicated yet perfectly blended flavors. “Shit! You must’ve been a professional chef in a former life, Ambrose. This is unbelievable.”
“Yeah, and so is the fact that you’re in love with someone and didn’t tell me.” He smirked, taking another sip of his wine as he rocked his leg back and forth.
“Huh? What?” She laughed nervously.
“Just stop the madness, seriously, okay? I’ve died a slow gangster’s death watching you these past few days, waiting for you to cut open the truth and serve it to me right.”
She threw up her arms in faux astonishment.
“I told you that you suck as an actress. It is not your forte.” He grinned.
“Well, thanks a lot for the vote of confidence!” She giggled and took another gulp. “Hey, where are those zucchini fritter things?”
“You’ll get them when you fess up. Now.” He leaned in close, his keen nose glistening under the recessed lights. “Tell me…who…he is!”
She broke out in a huge smile, feeling rather silly and childlike as she stared down at her watery reflection in her bowl.
“His name is Nick…”
“Nick, huh?”
“Yeah, Nick. He is…great.” She took a deep breath. “He’s a police officer. He works over in Brownsville.”
“Oh my.” He grinned, showing all of his perfect teeth. “Dangerous! Carrying a loaded gun, hopefully between his legs,” the man teased, causing her to laugh once more. “So, where did you meet him at?”
Suddenly, the wonderful, warm and soothing taste in her mouth diminished. This was the part she hated, for she feared she’d be judged and tossed about with a verbal sword. Ambrose was raw, real, and no recluse to honesty. He wasn’t rude, but he called it how he saw it. Tongue lashings were simply what he did, all in the name of love.
“…In rehab.”
Suddenly, the man popped up from his seat, waving his hands about as if a holy revival was going down in his home. He raced out of the kitchen and out of view, then returned with his iPad. Placing it on the table between them, he pushed a play button and suddenly, Amy Winehouse’s, ‘Rehab’ song began to blare.
“You ass!” She cracked up as she slapped the table, causing her soup to jump to the rhythm. Ambrose moved about the room, swaying and moving expertly to the music, paying her no mind as he went through with his comedy routine, making her angry and happy all at once.
After a while, he settled down, cut the damn tune off, and reclaimed his seat. Taking a generous sip of his gifted wine until the damn thing was empty, his eyes narrowed on her.
“Now, you know better…”
“Oh, Ambrose! Don’t start!”
“No wonder you didn’t tell me! He’s a New York City cop, NYC’s finest with power, control, and a drug problem! I bet he was thrilled to fucking pieces to get a hold of your gorgeous ass! You cut this guy loose, you hear me?” He pointed at her, looking serious, yet a slight smirk creased his face.
“…I can’t, and I don’t want to.”
A moment or two passed, and he rested in his seat.
“I knew it as soon as you waltzed your ass in here… I knew you were wrapped up in some ferocious inferno, a resident at the Heartbreak Hotel. You had that look. I could smell it all over you…disgusting,” he teased, drawing another laugh from her.
“Okay, you’re in too deep. I can accept that,” he said calmly, bowing down with gracious flair. “Tell me about him.”
“He’s…” She looked up at the man, disappearing inside of herself as her world became velvety green with life and possibility. “He’s wonderful, Ambrose. Like I said, he’s a police officer and he was great to talk to in rehab. He is smart… super smart and resourceful. He�
�s got a big heart. And…he’s real good looking, too.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Ambrose smirked then placed his palm out, as if waiting for a fifty-dollar bill owed to him. “Gimme your phone. I know you’ve got a pic of him.”
“I do. Actually, it is a group photo that we all took together and we each got a copy. I had mine emailed to me.” She reached into her purse that hung off the edge of her chair, moved her wallet and make-up bag off to the side, then located her phone, still unable to wipe the silly grin off of her face. Going into her photo album, she quickly scanned the pictures until she arrived at the one she wanted. “Here you go. He is the one in the black sweater standing in the back…” She handed over her phone, observed Ambrose take a long, lengthy look. The man clutched it to his chest and gleamed at her.
“He is fucking stunning.” He closed his eyes and gave dramatic pause, causing Taryn to fall head first into another pile of gut bursting laughter. “No, truly he is,” he declared seriously, his brow slightly raised as he took another gander at her phone. “A cop? Interesting…” he mumbled. “How old is he?”
“Same age as me, well, a little older. He’s thirty-three, almost. His birthday is next month.”
“Hmmm, that’s a good age. Not too young to not know any better…not too old to refuse to learn a few new things… What was he in Firststone for?”
She hesitated for a moment or two, still resisting the possible sting of her friend’s potential razor-sharp judgment.
“Alcoholism and cocaine addiction.”
Ambrose nodded and placed the phone down onto the table. He caught his nose between his forefinger and thumb and glared as if in deep considerations.
“So I take it he’ll be looking for new work…” He leisurely scooped his spoon into the savory broth and brought it to his perfect lips.
“No, actually. His story is quite interesting.”
“Tell me,” he cut her off before she had an opportunity to elaborate. “I want to hear all about this.”
“Well, he was not caught. Strange, right? He actually came to treatment on his own. The man had never been written up or warned in his life, let alone suspected of alcohol and drug abuse.”
In the Nick of Time Page 36
