The Ballad (The Bridge Series)

by Ashley Pullo

  1:35 p.m.

  “It’s not purgatory.” Adam yawns and nods his head in certainty.

  “I didn’t say it was purgatory . . . the island is an alternate reality. Like Alice in Wonderland . . . these people randomly meet at an airport and then they manifest into things they want to be. ” I have a tendency to get very defensive about my LOST obsession.

  “Interesting theory, but wasn’t that Fantasy Island? Why are they on the island in the first place?”

  “Duh, because they crashed.”

  “But don’t you think they are all connected somehow? What would be the point of the flashbacks?” Adam is smiling, clearly egging me on.

  “They’re not flashbacks, it’s their other reality!”

  “I think someone is controlling the island and purposefully crashed the plane. It’s important to pay attention to the details, Chloe. We’ll see who’s right in a few weeks.”

  “I pay attention to details but I don’t have a photographic memory like y— . . . ” Oh shit.

  “I don’t have a photographic memory. Did my mom tell you that?” His face darkens and he’s obviously upset. Honesty. I have to be honest.

  “She mentioned that you did very well in school because you could memorize pictures and stuff.” Okay, half honesty. I try to study his face but he’s so focused on the highway I can’t read his reaction.

  “And what if I told you it was more than that, would you be uncomfortable?”

  “What do you mean by uncomfortable?”

  “Would you change? If I tell you something about me, something that could make you self-conscious about your impulsive behavior, would you change?” He looks at me frantically and I’m not sure how to answer him.

  “Is this something you need to tell me? If not, then I don’t want to know. I’m smart . . . I cracked the mystery of the island, I can surely figure you out . . .” I lean over to kiss his neck and I can feel his body relax with my touch.

  “Okay, we’ll see . . . alternate reality, huh?” Adam smiles confidently and grabs a handful of taffy.

  “Maybe, or a dinosaur crashed the plane.”

  2:00 p.m.

  “Oh my God! I thought Scranton was bad! Please, never ever make me move to New Jersey!” The scenery, the boredom and the sugar high are starting to overwhelm me.

  “Jersey’s not that bad, Chloe. I dated a really nice girl from New Jersey.” Adam is scanning through the radio stations trying to find something local.

  “Fiona?” I ask in disgust.

  “I didn’t date Fiona. I dated Tina Mancini in high school. Her family moved to the house across the street from us and The Mancinis, all ten of them, were really cool.”

  “Tina, eh? How high could she get her bangs?” I laugh at my own joke.

  “She was my first real girlfriend, I guess. We were even voted Prom King and Queen our senior year.” He smiles proudly and I’m not surprised.

  “My first real boyfriend was in seventh grade, this loser named Dickey Anderson. He loved hockey and French kissing . . . we had hockey in common.” I turn my body so I’m facing Adam. “Can you believe we grew up an hour away from each other all those years and we met in Manhattan? What were you doing in seventh grade?”

  “Seventh grade sucked.” Adam’s face is humorless so I know it’s more than just the normal teenage angst. He notices my confusion and continues.

  “That was the year my dad died. I was a mess and my teachers didn’t know how to handle me, so they sent me to the dopey school psychologist. I was under observation for weeks.”

  “Oh god, were you . . . suicidal?” I can’t bear to think about my Adam in such a dark place while I was making out with Dickey Anderson in his parent’s basement.

  “What? No, never! They thought I had Asperger’s.” He laughs, amused by my dramatics.

  “Wait, isn’t that like autism? You’re like the most socially confident person I know . . . why did they think you had Asperger’s?”

  “Because it was a public school with a shitty psychologist that wanted to give me a label.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Mom sat me down one night and told me to keep my emotions to myself but don’t keep to myself. I did what she said and by eighth grade, I was the most popular kid in school . . . people are so easy . . . and apparently you must have been easy in seventh grade, too!” He smiles at me, clearly okay with the way things turned out.

  3:35 p.m.

  “Adam, I love you.” I say quietly.

  Adam pulls into a Sunoco somewhere around Hoboken and turns off the ignition to face me. I’m feeling a little flushed so I crack the window to let in the cold air while he studies my face. We sit in silence for a few minutes and I’m nervous that my powerful proclamation came a little too early . . . maybe we’re not there yet.

  “Chloe, I love soccer. I love tacos. I love my job. I love running. I love summer . . . and you, always.”

  He takes my hand and kisses it softly. His sincere eyes are comforting but I’m not sure if he’s equating our love to tasty tacos or if he’s separating the two . . . I need to be sure.

  “I love you,” I say amorously.

  “Always.” Adam’s face is serious and unwavering as he reaches over to take my face in his hands. He raises his eyebrows, silently asking me if I understand the importance of this moment. I get it, I fully understand . . . my emotions are impulsive and passionate but his sentiments are a guarantee.

  3:55 p.m.

  We arrive at my apartment in TriBeCa and Adam circles around the building five times before finding a parking spot. We’ve had such a great weekend together but it will be nice to spend the evening alone, taking a long shower, washing my clothes and reading the LOST discussion boards. Adam turns off the ignition and shifts his body to face me.

  “Chloe, move in with me.” Adam’s voice is calm yet persuasive.

  “In Brooklyn?” I squeal.

  “Yes, I live in Brooklyn . . . I want us to live in Brooklyn.” His voice is always so sexy, never unsure.

  “What about Natalie and my apartment?” I can’t believe I’m thinking about Natalie during such a pivotal moment of my life, but I also don’t want to seem like one of those girls that dream of having a man jump in and rescue her.

  “I gave Natalie three months’ rent . . . granted she probably already spent it on clothes, but she’s totally supportive of living rent-free for a few months.” Yep, Natalie is definitely one of those girls to jump at the chance to have a man rescue her.

  I look back at my apartment building then at the radio clock . . . eight hours; it only took us eight hours to launch our relationship into honest perfection.

  “Okay, take me home!”

  Presidents’ Day

  February 2004

  Finally, I’m with someone that hates Valentine’s Day as much as I do . . . oh, how I hate V-day, let me count the ways. It starts with the roses, I hate roses and I detest red roses, but seeing any type of flower being peddled on the street like drugs is nauseating. Then there’s the chocolate. I love chocolate, but some fucker had to V-day it up by adding all that cherry goo to make fancy cordials. And all those crappy chain restaurants having romantic dinners . . . two for twenty, really? Needless to say, Adam’s working and I’m preparing myself a big bowl of popcorn for an evening with Friends.

  “I can’t believe you finally have a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day and you’re in pajamas!” Natalie twirls around the living room reeking of perfume and false idealism.

  “Who’s the lucky guy, Nat?” I ask while pouring myself a beer.

  “Dalton Roberts! He’s a Wall Street guy with a huge cock and an even bigger wallet, but he kinda looks like the mean guy in all the ’80s movies . . . ” Natalie tilts her head deep in thought.

  “James Spader?” I offer.

  “No, the one in Karate Kid.” She replies.

  “Oh, Sweep the Leg Bad Guy. Gross, Nat, you can do better!” I’m shocked.

  “Nah, ma
ybe tomorrow. Don’t wait up!” She yells and then bounces out the door.

  I have four recorded episodes to watch and then I plan on taking a shower and going to bed. My new job at Bleecker Street Guitars requires me to catalogue all new acquisitions on the East Coast and keep track of production rentals on the West Coast. The time difference is killing me, and coupled with Adam’s thirteen-hour work days we rarely see each other, let alone have time for sex. Last week he stopped by after work and we literally fell asleep on the couch. I hate Valentine’s Day, but a teeny tiny part of me would be thrilled if he showed up at my door right now with a big teddy bear and a heart-shaped balloon.

  If it snows another inch I’m ditching work . . . fuck, I hate the snow. I can’t imagine the store being mobbed by people wanting to buy five-thousand-dollar guitars in the middle of February with six inches of slush accumulating on the street . . . but it’s not snowing in LA, and while everyone thinks California is laid back and totally chill, production assistants are uptight assholes.

  I’m watching a guy clean his car window with a large piece of cardboard that he dug out of the trash can, proving once again that New Yorkers are extremely resourceful, when the phone rings. I wait for the caller ID to display the number . . . yes! It’s the store.

  “Hello?” I say giddily.

  “Chloe?” asks Simon.

  “Hey Simon! What’s up?”

  “Yes, well the weather is quite serious. I will take care of Los Angeles but I need you to find a guitar. Write this down, please.” Simon has a fancy British accent and looks like John Denver making for the perfect combination for owning a successful guitar store.

  “Shoot.”

  “1930s Gibson, Lark or even Bourgeois. No, actually, Lark is the preference. High number is five thousand.”

  “Okay, any color?” I ask.

  “Sunburst.”

  I’m a firm believer that if you let your employer know how adept you are at your job, you might be forced to work a little harder. Therefore, I will not tell Simon I’ve been perusing the internet while he was talking and already found three options.

  “Got it. Is there a deadline?” I ask, praying it’s next week.

  “Next week should be fine. The movie starts production in New York the first week of March.”

  “Okay Simon, be safe.”

  “Cheers!”

  I click on the first option, an overpriced Gibson with a huge dent. The second guitar is a Lark but it’s more blonde than sunburst and the seller lives in Hungary. The last choice is a $3700 Lark and definitely sunburst. I click on the seller’s external website, because we don’t eBay at Bleecker, and wow, this guy seems pretty cool. He has dozens of guitars and a couple of banjos, each with a rich history and verified authenticity. Yes! Best part is he’s in the city . . . I can beat my deadline by a week and then pretend to do some cataloguing until the spring weather arrives.

  I dial the number listed on the contact information, scanning through some of the website photos and holy shit, this guy is hot! He has brown shaggy hair, a sleeve of tattoos and the most gorgeous hazel eyes. He can’t be much older than me . . .

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, hi! My name is Chloe LeGrange and I’m calling on behalf of Bleecker Guitars. Is this Dean Murphy?” I ask with a hint of flirtation.

  “Speaking . . .”

  “We’re interested in your Lark. Is it available for purchase?” Again with the flirtation . . . what’s wrong with me?

  “The vintage sunburst? Yep, thirty-seven hundred. I assume your store is on Bleecker . . . I could stop by in a couple of weeks.” His voice is deep and scratchy like he’s had one too many shots of bourbon.

  “Oh, actually we will need to see it before next week. Would you be willing to trek in the snow to meet me tomorrow?” It’s like I’m making a Sadie Hawkins request and nervously awaiting his answer. There’s way too long of a silence and I start to feel a little crushed . . .

  “Sure, Chloe LeGrange. Let’s meet, name the place.” Dean says mischievously.

  “Magnolia Bakery!” Again there’s silence and I’m beginning to doubt my own sanity but then his scratchy voice reappears.

  “Okay, Chloe LeGrange, three o’clock. I will be the one carrying a guitar in a cupcake shop.” His voice is condescending but oh, so very sexy.

  “Okay, Dean Murphy, three o’clock. I will be the girl eating a cupcake and staring at the guy carrying a guitar.” Two can play this game.

  Shit. What was that all about? Okay, I will meet this Dean fellow to check out the guitar and then have Simon purchase it next week. It’s not like I’m cheating on Adam and we haven’t even had the “exclusive” talk . . . nothing to worry about, except Dean’s sleeve of tattoos and piercing hazel eyes.

  I’m sipping tea in my puffy down coat and contemplating the red velvet cupcake when Dean saunters in with a guitar case and an arrogant smile. He’s not much taller than me and definitely doesn’t have the same confident presence as Adam but he’s admittedly, super sexy. He removes his bulky coat and hangs it on the coat rack by the door, teasing me with his tight t-shirt and muscular arms. His hair is that “rolled out of bed” sexy style but realistically, he probably spent hours on it. He’s mysterious and a little apathetic, just like my high school television crush, Jordan Catalano. Dean places the guitar across from me in the little chair and pushes up his sleeves . . . oh shit, those forearms!

  “Hey, I’m Dean.” He offers his tattooed arm and I shake it and stare . . . and gawk and I’m pretty sure my mouth drops wide open when I notice the maple leaf tattoo, that red leaf has never looked so sexy.

  “Hey Dean. Would you like tea or coffee?” I ask as I motion for him to sit . . . oh crap, next to me.

  “Absolutely not.” Dean smirks at the idea of sipping from a teacup in a bakery. He’s all testosterone and he knows it.

  “Okay, so the way this works is I take a few notes and verify the authenticity and then my boss will arran—. . .”

  “Actually, the way this works is you come out with me tonight and we’ll let your boss handle the other shit.” He has absolutely no issue interrupting me and I’m not sure I like the disruption.

  “Go where?” I ask.

  “Does it matter?” Jesus, he’s smug.

  “Dean, I have a boyfriend.” He stares at me with no change in expression and I can’t help but feel a little aroused by this thrilling proposition.

  “So . . .” I say, not really sure what to say but also not wanting this sexual tension to end.

  “So, we can take the guitar to the store now and be done with it.” Dean glances at his watch and I panic.

  “No! I mean . . . can you come by my place tonight and I’ll have a check ready?” I anxiously bite the inside of my lip while he pulls out a Blackberry and thumbs over the screen.

  “Thirty-seven hundred dollars and I need your address.” He demands.

  I give him my address and tell him to come by around eight o’clock, praying that Nat will be out of the apartment. This has the potential of being very shameful and I don’t want anyone to know about my dirty behavior. Dean stands up, pushes his sleeves back down and leaves the guitar.

  “Take the Lark. Simon bought a guitar from me last year; he’ll know where to send the check. See ya later, Chloe LeGrange.” And with that, he puts on his coat and rambles out into the snow.

  “Wait, I’m confused . . . you met a tattooed sex god for cupcakes and came home with some crappy old guitar, and now he wants to come over here and screw you, even though you told him you have a boyfriend?” Out loud it sounds like a sit-com caper.

  “That’s the gist, Nat, but you’re supposed to help me! It’s not like I can stop what I started and I’m not sure I even want it to stop. Oh god . . .” I dramatically throw myself on the couch and glance at the pile of magazines fanned out on the coffee table. Right in the middle, staring me in my shameful face is Adam’s Law Journal.

  “If you’re worried about Adam, then that�
��s your answer. Politely send the tattoos away and never look back. If you’re worried that you’re missing out on something or just want to experience a twenty-something thrill, then I’d say go for it.” Natalie comes to sit next to me and puts her arm around my shoulders. “You know the old lady in Titanic? The really old lady that somehow managed to bag Leo . . . ?”

  “Yes?” Natalie was making sense.

  “Well she says something like, ‘a woman’s heart is an ocean of secrets’ and then she tosses the necklace in the water. It’s okay for you to have these thoughts, Chloe . . . they’re your secrets and no one is going to dive in the ocean and find them. However, Adam is an incredible guy and I would hate to see you fuck it up.” She has never made more sense and I have never loved her more.

  “Thanks, Nat.”

  Around eight-thirty, Dean Murphy knocks on my apartment door. I sent Natalie out so I could deal with this on my own but now I wish she were here so we could switch places like we did when we were kids. I’m wearing jeans, a tank and a black cardigan and I’m trying to act as casual as possible. I open the door after taking a deep breath and Dean is standing idly with his smug face and gorgeous, languid body. His eyes are browner than I remember and his hair just looks messy and greasy, not sexy. I lead him in the apartment and I can feel his brown eyes staring at my ass, but not the way Adam does, Dean makes me feel fat.

  “Chloe, these are for you. Every pretty girl needs flowers.” Dean thrusts a dozen red roses still wrapped in Valentine’s cellophane right at my chest and I’m trying to decide if I’m more insulted by the fact he called me pretty or that he assumed I need the ugliest flower in the world.

  “Thanks Dean, but I hate roses.” I toss them in the trashcan and he laughs strangely. Yes, his laugh is odd, like it’s not a comfortable reaction for him.

  “I don’t care.” Dean puts his arm around my waist and kisses me. His tongue swirls all around my mouth, making sucking and gurgling noises. His hand moves to my ass, grabbing me a little too hard and for some reason, the chorus of an Ugly Kid Joe song is blaring in my head. Everything is so, so very wrong . . . what I perceived as this dark and elusive man is actually just a dull, unkempt boy. I’m trying to quickly formulate a plan when he breaks our slobbery kiss to remove his shirt like a male stripper, flexing his chest and displaying his muscle. I laugh . . . nervous, uncomfortable and utterly amused by the Batman logo tattooed across his chest. His cartoonish tattoos don’t even come close to the sexy scar on Adam’s hip. Adam.