As I descend the filthy steps to the F train, I pass a rat eating a piece of pizza. The train is pulling in and as I race toward the platform, I feel my phone vibrate, then the signal is lost. This is going to be one long ride.
When I get out of the subway and into the fresh air, I feel so pumped. It’s just gotta be Naomi, I think. Sure enough, there it is: her name on my screen like a blessing. I take off my glove, my hand is instantly frozen, and I don’t care. I tap the screen and her message appears.
“You don’t have to explain now, not that you tried. I talked to a friend of Molly’s and he told me everything. What you two were doing together, how you met, all the intrigue.”
Oh, yeah, this is great. All cleared up. I type back.
“So you know?”
She answers right away.
“Yes, I know every last detail. Why you were seeing Molly. What you two were doing. All of the fascinating conversations and meetups.”
I wonder how she found out? What friend of Molly’s? Did she mean that Chase guy again?
“I’m glad baby.”
I wait. There’s a lag, so I start walking toward Manny’s. My hand is starting toward frostbite. Then I hear the ping of her answer.
“You are?”
Aw, poor thing. She was really worried about me being mad. Her self-esteem must be hurting. Maybe if she knows how hard I was working to get her to marry me? I type back as fast as my stiff fingers will let me.
“Sure, I mean, I don’t want to brag but it took me awhile online to find Molly. I felt pretty lucky. I mean she’s got this great young vibe going on and her ideas are primo.”
I’m finally at Manny’s. It’s three o’clock and the street’s deserted. As I’m letting myself into the lobby, I hear her ping.
“Yes, I heard about her ‘young vibe.’ For the last month you two have been very busy executing those primo ideas. You’re really something Bradley. I never guessed you would act that way.”
Hah! That’s right you never would have, I say to the phone. I type.
“Yeah, I could NEVER have come up with some of that stuff. Fantastic.”
She answers immediately, just as I’m punching the elevator button.
“Hell Bradley, I can’t believe you’re being so blunt about it.”
What does she expect? Crazy girl. Now that everything’s out, it’s actually kind of funny. We’ll be telling our grandkids this story one day. I tap out my reply, chuckling as I enter the elevator.
“Well, it’s too late now, you know my whole ‘dirty secret’ lol. The way I got away with it was I met up with Molly when you were at the gym, or when I was supposed to be, lol.”
I wait the interminable forty seconds it takes to get to Manny’s floor and as I’m exiting, I see this:
“I don’t understand what’s so funny?”
Hmmm. Usually, she likes my ‘lols.’ We tend to think everything is funny. I try a different tack.
“I’m just so relieved you know everything now. Molly had some very strange things we could try and I went along with her, and I liked them. We could still use her ideas, if you want. I’m down if you are ;)”
Oh, yes, winky face it is. Bradley, you sly devil. Now I’ll just wait for the good news. Ping. Here it is.
“You kidding me? Bradley, what’s gotten into you? I guess that’s straight enough. And what about the redhead I saw you with at lunch the next day? Is she going to join in?”
What the? That WAS Naomi I saw outside the bar. I wonder why she didn’t come in. She loves Mexican. Oh shit. She must have thought I was on a date or something. Hold up. This is fixable.
“What?! No, lMAO. I stayed at Manny’s place after I got rid of Molly. He had models over, so they tagged along for lunch.”
There. She can’t argue with that. It’s the truth. Now we can get back to business. I wait; watch her little ellipses undulate as she replies. I can’t wait to see her undulate in person. Maybe I could still go over there tonight, or this morning actually, it’s almost four.
“Shit! Sounds like you’re having a super frickin’ good time, a teenager, and Manny’s models. You sound happy, excited, am I supposed to be thrilled for you Bradley? I guess that explains everything. And by the way that mark on my neck, it was nothing, totally innocent, for now.”
Uh oh. This can’t be good. Why would she be bringing THAT up? It’s like she’s trying to pick a fight. But why? This has been going so well. It doesn’t make sense. Let’s see, it’s around the beginning of the month. Hmmm.
“What does that even mean? Do you have your period? Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t get to give you your big surprise at the theatre. Molly and I were going to come clean, spring it on you in front of everyone.”
That was a gamble. She hates when I blame her period for her mood swings, but dammit, that’s what happens. Every. Month. Anyway, the part about the theatre should bring her back. What an awesome idea that was. I wait. And wait. I pour myself a scotch because, what the hell. Ping.
“Wow! What could be more fun than that? You sure turned damn cold. You were planning on telling me in front of a crowd? What the hell? I guess there’s nothing left to say to each other after this conversation. You forgot your stuff. I’ll put it downstairs in our storage area, Gus can let you inside. You can pick it up there without ever seeing me again. Bye Bradley.”
What the--? Where is that coming from? It’s like we’ve been having two different conversations. I type furiously.
“Wait! What? We’re still breaking up?”
I wait and drink scotch and pour more and drink that too. I try another couple of question marks, hoping she’ll type back a ‘lol’ or ‘jk’ but none come. That can only mean one thing: there’s something or someone else, and I’m going to find out what or who is trying to come between us. I down my scotch and pass out on the sofa.
Chapter Thirteen
Free and howling
NAOMI
Sunday, February 7th
My philosophy has always been, if they want to run, open the gate if they don’t want to be with you, so be it. If I was going to stick with this life decree, this boisterous blabber, then I had to let Bradley go and move on alone. He’s happy and free now, without me, experimenting with new women, trying out extreme bedroom positions, perhaps dabbling in the dominate/submissive world, I just don’t know Bradley anymore. After our strange and hurtful conversation, I only understand that he’s hyping up his life a giant notch with deviant excitement, and there’s no room left for me.
I’m the boring vanilla to Molly’s spice. The gloomy pale light to his new redhead’s radiant heat. As my mother always told me, my legs are too long, my hair is too thick and unruly, and my sense of humor much too snarky. I’m destined to be one of those women, clever, with a pile of cynical stacked on her shoulders, someone who can be enjoyed as a friend, interesting at first, until I grow stale like week old bread. Then my thick crust will crunch too loudly, my white flour offering only the bland, and men will leave me and seek someone, different, hotter. Italian rye, Bavarian swirl, French with cinnamon, someone exotic and interesting, fun and upbeat, women so different from me.
For the first time in my life, I’m willing to consider a complete overhaul. God knows my mother pleaded with me for years to let her stylist friends remake me. I fought against it on principle. Perhaps I should have accepted the offer, and ignored the insult.
I’m a big enough person to admit I need a drastic change. Everything must be resurrected.
Myself.
My career.
My ability to finance this loft.
My doom and gloom attitude, my distrust.
The entire essence of everything me.
I would like to sell my parents’ loft, with all the terrible memories buried in every white wall. My parents Dan and Beverly screaming at each other while I held my ears shut in the bathroom. A childhood filled with emotional drama from hell. I could hear my mom’s shrill voice shouting, “Go back to your
whore then. You can’t stay away. You want her? Well, leave, but if you do, remember this, I control the money! I built this real estate empire; I am the CEO. You’re nothing but an errand boy, a lackey. If you don’t stay with me, I’ll see you penniless. And don’t forget about Jean, he’ll know everything.”
Mother wouldn’t let go. Boisterous Beverly would clutch on to my dad’s ankles and cry. She’d wail accusations, and search his pockets for clues. She’d even sink so low, she’d force me to watch him outside sometimes to see if he was meeting this other woman. “Thin and blonde, that frickin’ whore, watch and see if your father meets her, and if he does, follow them. You come right back afterwards and tell me every detail, you understand?”
Father stayed.
Mother paid for it.
Father lived with us in this bleached, empty loft, but he hated her for it. He made every day a misery and ruined my young life with it. That’s when I knew I’d never do that to a man. Make him stay, or feel guilty for not loving me anymore. I’d open the door and wave goodbye with a smile.
That’s what I need to do now.
Let Bradley be happy…and free.
And I’ll do more than that. I will change my clothing, and my hair, I’ll up my game and become exciting too. I’ll model myself after Father’s girlfriends and Bradley’s new love interests.
Old Naomi, out the door.
A Rebirth of a New Naomi. And I’ll run wild, hot, and free, until I can forget that I ever loved a beautiful Russian model who didn’t love me.
First problem to address, Finances. I inherited the loft, a few thousand in cash, and a heavy IRA account I can’t touch without a giant tax penalty. The maintenance on this place, the monthly fees, with no financial help from Bradley, has bled me dry. When Carl Swartz hears about my drunken bout of careless guzzling, I’ll be out of work without a reference.
What to do? A roommate? I have over 3,000 square feet after all; maybe I should run an ad for two. A pair of men. Not models, I was finished with pretty boys. Maybe up and coming attorneys, or stockbrokers, actors or reporters. Young men starting out in their careers who have money for rent. Not another woman, I can’t handle the drama.
I recall Darren’s vague remark, a hint of my working for him, but I took it as drunken kindness. Hadn’t he helped me finish all those bottles of wine? Like when someone says, “We should get together sometime,” and you know it’s an insincere load of crap. I probably won’t be seeing him again.
I’m also finished talking to Chase. If I have to hear one more word about Molly’s sexual experiments and imagine Bradley recreating those scenes with an eighteen-year-old, I’ll puke.
Job or no job, I need at least one roomie and fast.
Second problem, my washed out appearance. I decide to dye my hair black as an Eskimo. Darken the brows; go more exotic. I’ll go to Orchard Street and buy vintage clothes. Stop in SoHo and pick up a few accessories, and balance it with the sale rack at Urban Outfitters. I’ll invent my own bohemian. I will become Naomi the free spirited hip girl that men want. Carefree, unattainable, reckless, and full of life.
If my mother was right, and I am too unattractive to hold a man, I can change that. I’ll be a new person, not only in appearance, but also in my frame of mind.
Naomi the doormat, the people pleaser, the yes sir and yes ma’am of Wall Street is gone.
Snappy and lighthearted Naomi is whelped and she is going to raise her head high and howl.
Chapter Fourteen
Time to get back to work
BRADLEY
Monday, February 8th
I wake up long after Manny has gone to…wherever Manny goes during the day. Alone in his apartment, I think about my situation. Maybe I should just let her go. She seems determined to always see the negative, always believe the worst. My God, what her parents did to her was criminal. But who am I to talk? My parents were never around, just those poor, beaten down nannies. I couldn’t blame them, they came here on promises of a better life, but all they got was the life of an indentured servant. I don’t know where they went after trudging out of our house, one by one, penniless and still not very good at English. I would guess they became housecleaners or worse. None of them were lookers. Except Sabina of course. That morning she gave me herself as my fifteenth birthday present was the best and worst of my life. I showered and dressed after she left, buoyed up after our encounter. As I neared the kitchen, I heard my mother speaking to her.
“Good work, Sabina. Now Bradley can relax and concentrate on his studies instead of always chasing the girls. How is he supposed to become doctor when all he does is think about making the sex?” I blushed hot, wondering if the stiff tube socks in the laundry tipped her off.
“He is good boy, handsome boy. He will do well whatever he chooses. You should not worry so much.” I heard Sabina’s voice and despite my embarrassment, I felt myself getting hard again. But I had to see. Had to see them together, these two women who were supposed to care about me instead plotting this sick plan. I peeked around the corner, just in time to see Mother handing Sabina a thick stack of bills.
I turned and ran for the bathroom, not making it to the toilet, soiling myself and the floor with vomit. I kept replaying the scenes in my head. Sabina taking me shopping, going into the dressing room with me to adjust a shirt or tug at my waistband. Sabina teaching me how to smoke cigarettes and skip meals to get me slimmed down. How much did Mother know? She sure knew about Sabina in my bed. I dry heaved a couple of times. No one came. I cleaned it all up myself and threw the towels and my clothes in the garbage. After another shower, I stood looking at myself in the mirror. “Of course no one’s going to have sex with you unless she gets paid. You’re nothing. Even your own parents are disappointed in you, don’t believe in you.”
By the time I emerged from my second shower, the house was quiet. I took a cigarette outside and lit it, blowing the smoke up into the gray sky. Happy birthday to me. I thought. I spent the rest of the day alone and I never saw Sabina again.
I think about all these things while I make some coffee, check my phone in the futile hope Naomi has called. The only call is from my old agency. Actually there are exactly ten calls. I listen to the messages.
“Bradley, bubbela, it’s Ronnie. Listen, call me. The Times is doing a shoot and one of the photogs is a huge fan of your work. Saw you in Milan or something. Anyway, it starts Wednesday and they’re going to be at the Wollman Rink—you can ice skate, right? Call me bubbela, call your Auntie Ronnie.”
I can’t ice skate, but I can sure as hell learn. It’s time to get back to work.
Chapter Fifteen
Recreation
NAOMI
Monday, February 8th
Bradley-less and single, only twenty-seven, I decide to move on, follow my own advice. Let him run. He likes variety, wants to have lots of babes, tie them up to bedposts, and whip them a little? Then, go for it Bradley, play your new game of fifty shades of stupid. I accept defeat. Bradley could not have been plainer. He admitted to cheating on me for over a month, and not only did he show no remorse, but he thought it was funny. He’d even planned to flaunt his new girlfriend to me at the theater, to shame me in front of a Broadway crowd. He was not only breaking up with me, but also scheming my public humiliation. Who does that?
Damn asshat!
Anger simmers.
I fume.
My crying jags are over and I realize it’s time to act.
Yesterday was a busy and productive day.
I called Gus from downstairs, and had him take all of Bradley’s things down to our storage space in the basement of the building. If my old boyfriend knew what was good for him, he’d move in with the new redhead and collect his things before the bugs and rats got into his designer clothes. I don’t feel guilty in the least for moving them there. No way am I looking at his collections, personal items, or clothes every time I turn around.
I force myself to move forward.
I colo
r my hair, using the blackest shade in the store. I come out looking like a Native American. I love it. I trim it off straight and add short pieces around my face. I also dye my brows darker, and the deep chestnut shade brings out my blue-gray eyes and white teeth.
Yes, better.
And different.
I look in the mirror and grin with joy.
Naomi Swanson is gone. Her dull paleness and blonde bland are no longer present. The old Naomi was unwanted, uncherished. She was easy to forget and replace. I will finally become the stronger part of myself. I throw the old insecurities away with the scraps of my clipped hair.
I am a warrior. A survivor. An empty shell, someone never loved is gone now, and I build new strength out of my anger, disappointment, and hurt.
The anvil has fallen, but I’m still alive.
Bradley left me for another woman, like I knew he would. Next time I’ll be smarter, choose more wisely, not let my heart rule my head.
A realization hits me. I still dress like my mother coached me as an adolescent. Matching, coordinating, professional, proper, and dull. I’m a young woman, but I look like a schoolteacher in a rural town.
I sort through my closet and toss away most of my things. No more knee-length work skirts, no button-down blouses, no blazers, or plain basic heels for me anymore. Gone are the black, the dark browns, and the cream. Carl Swartz’s dress code and my mother’s strict combinations of womanhood ensembles now lay in the dumpster down in the alleyway.
I go online and scan all the coolest clothing stores. Places I’ve always avoided in the past. I watch my spending, but I find several bargains, discounts, and sales. I place several orders.
Naomi & Bradley, It All Comes Down… (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 1) Page 6
