Whoa.
“And that makes you uncomfortable?” I press.
“What? I’m never uncomfortable – I’m, I’m pissed.”
“At Chloe? I just don’t get it.” Adam gulps his tea and fidgets slightly in his chair. This is important to him. “Do I make you nervous, Adam?” Two can play this game.
He lowers the cup from his mouth and stares at me. Adam wants to say something but he can’t decide if he trusts me or if he wants to freaking throw me across the room.
“Just say it, man,” I nag.
Agitated by my questioning, he clenches his jaw. “Chloe’s captivating,” he whispers. “And for a guy like me, that’s gold. The way she looks at me, the way she quietly fights her impulses before letting them erupt—”
“She’s great, what’s the problem?”
Adam sighs heavily and slams his hand on the table. “She’s a performer. A flirt. And nothing we experienced was authentic. She gives everyone the same attention when she’s on stage and your friend Jam—”
“Our friend Jamie is a friend from home. Chloe loves him like a brother,” I interrupt.
Adam shakes his head and tightens his lips. “No, that’s not how I saw it. There’s something there and I’m never wrong.”
I laugh at the thought of what he is implying. Is he jealous of Jamie? “Adam! Jamie is gay. Like forever. Like shagged the male bartender the other night. Like thinks vaginas are icky. He’s gay – Chloe’s not his type and quite frankly, neither are you.”
I watch as Adam swallows back his surprised reaction. He’s dumbfounded, his confidence shattered and his face pale. “Look, you have it all wrong, Adam. You’re wrong about Chloe.” He flinches at my statement, but I continue. “When she performs – she’s radiant and breathtaking and everyone sees it, but it’s all for show. Whereas I’m an actress by nature, but you put me on the spot and I’m a fucking giant-sized clam.” I laugh.
He frowns. “Natalie, do you have a point?” Adam rolls down his sleeves and reaches for his suit jacket.
“Yes! Do you realize how special you are? She took something very public and made it private, with you.”
He lets his jacket fall to the floor and stares at me blankly. “I see,” he mumbles.
“Hey, I know I’m right, so please don’t fuck this up. Do the right thing, Adam.” I glance at my watch and gulp the last drop of my latte. I feel pretty good. That Adam Ford is a tricky bastard, but he’ll come around.
“So yeah, thanks for the coffee, again.” I rise from my chair but he just sits there, staring ahead. “Um okay, I have to get home. Hello?” Whatever. That man is in a perpetual train of thought and if I interrupt it, the world may lose its gravitational force.
“Yeah, bye.”
I leave our tiny table and squeeze through the group of teens congregating at the door. From now on, or at least until Zach gets home, I’m going to be celibate, silent, sober, and drama-free.
October 11, 2003
TWO WEEKS HAVE passed since the awkward meeting with Adam, and I'm certain I scared the dude off. My plans always seem to backfire, but this one burns. Now I’m forced to store all new knowledge of Private Adam Ford in my box of secrets – my Titanic at the bottom of the ocean, never to be uncovered.
I almost spilled my guts when Jamie called looking for his electric razor. For the first time in our fifteen years of friendship, I wanted Jamie to fuck off and leave us alone. He kept asking about Chloe and Adam and if I had a secret lover – holy shit, I could’ve killed him. I couldn’t say anything or I would risk a telephone game between Jamie, Chloe, Me, Pete – Jamie, Chloe, Me, Adam, Chloe . . . and an unwanted epiphany that we’re all a bunch of dramatic fools with too much time on our hands.
So I haven’t said a word. I didn’t say anything when she was playing that Muppets song over and over on her guitar like a dying Miss Piggy. I didn’t say anything when she cried for ten minutes over a drugstore commercial with an actor that looked somewhat like Adam. And I didn’t say anything when she fell asleep in her bed with a bottle of Peach Schnapps. I didn’t say anything, because sometimes, family should just keep their mouths shut.
“Hey, how do I look?” Chloe asks cheerfully.
She does an elaborate twirl and butt shake in the middle of the foyer. Chloe’s wearing dark purple velvet pants, her favorite Weezer t-shirt and a black leather blazer. Chloe looks amazing for a Saturday morning while I on the other hand, sit like a fat cow on the sofa in a tank top and flannel pants with my hands jammed in a box of Fruit Loops. “Fantastic! Where are you going?”
“I have an interview with that huge guitar store on Bleecker.” She tosses a magazine and a banana in her bag and walks back to the couch. “It’s mostly sales with a lousy commission – I’ll probably have to keep my job at the bar, but holy shit, Nat! I need this.”
I pull my legs to my chest and smile encouragingly. “You’re going to nail it! Gah, a guitar store – just think of all the hot musicians that will be dropping by.”
Chloe leans against the sofa and plays with her long, sleek ponytail. “You know who frequents the store?”
“Who?”
“Slash.”
“No fucking way!”
“Way! Wish me luck – drop by the bar tonight, ’kay? The NYU kids annoy the shit out of me and I could really use the company.” Chloe grabs a scarf from the rack and ties it in a loose knot.
“I’ll stop by – I need to confirm things with Dennis for Zach’s party.”
She blows me a kiss and heads out the door. I shove a handful of sugary cereal in my mouth and return my attention to one of my favorite episodes of The Brady Bunch – the one when Peter’s voice changes before the studio recording. I always had a thing for Pete.
I mean Peter.
Zach.
I toss the cereal box on the floor and run to my bedroom. I grab several sheets of stationary, Zach’s Princeton sweatshirt and curl up on my bed to start the letter I need to write.
Zacharie,
No time for pleasantries or the boring details of my life peppered with hilarious dramatics. Nope, no time.
I love you! I love you in the morning with your Pop Tarts and giant woody.
I love you! I love you in the evening with your glass of wine and giant woody.
I love you! I love you in Connecticut, New York, and a million miles apart.
I love you! I love you in the shower, the bank, a taxi, and that one time in the bathroom at Hooters, oh wait, and that really kinky time at the zoo.
I love you.
I will never be good enough for you but I will never stop trying. And if you will have me Zacharie Parker, I will love you forever.
Your girl,
Natalie
PS ~ I bet you have a woody right now!
PPS ~ Come home to me.
I kiss the paper and stuff it into the envelope. There’s no time. I pull Zach’s sweatshirt over my head and grab my sneakers. No socks – there’s no time. Forget the coat, forget the keys . . . just go. I pass the elevator and take the stairs – five flights in one minute. Out the door and into the crisp fall morning to mail the letter that will forever change my life. I love Zacherie Parker!
The Bridge on a Saturday night is how I imagine the waiting room of a casting call for Felicity – so many fucking NYU kids. I squeeze in at the bar among a group of artsy college girls and wave Chloe over.
“Guitar store?” I ask.
“Yes!” she squeals. “Here, take a shot with me!” Chloe bends behind the bar and pours two glasses of tequila.
“This is a celebratory shot and nothing more. No more!” I shout. We clank our tiny glasses together and I make a toast. “To my darling cousin! May Slash experience the wonder that is Chloe LeGrange.” It’s not my best, but Chloe laughs – and it’s so nice to see that life in her eyes again.
But then her face suddenly drops into an uncomfortable scowl.
“Shit.” Chloe turns her back to me and cleans a tray of glass
es. What the hell? I look at the pixie sitting next to me with the tortoise-shell eyeglasses – she seems harmless and has a really great manicure. The chick on my other side is intently flirting with a college boy in a black turtleneck – seriously dude, that’s too much.
“Chloe,” I utter. She doesn’t turn around.
Oh fuck.
I feel it – the tension is singeing the back of my head. I slowly swivel around to find the enigma that is Adam Ford, brooding yet remarkably handsome. And then there’s cherub Pete, with those magical hands and flawless body. Oh wow, and some other guy that’s the polar opposite of Pete. Large, possibly Italian and sexy as fuck. Ugh, I really need help.
Pete smiles at me, Adam glares at me and the spicy Italian sits at a table. They’re wearing matching t-shirts and look as if they just ran five miles, not sweaty – more of a masculine afterglow. I leave my drink on the bar and walk over to their table. Lowering my head and narrowing my eyes, I assert, “Really, Adam?”
“Hi Natalie. Nice to see you again,” Pete says. I glance at his powder blue eyes and the sweaty, blond curl plastered to his forehead. Nope. Kinda. Yep, he makes me hot.
“Hey Pete,” I say flatly. “Where can I get a matching shirt?” Sarcasm has always been my best defense and right now, I’m fighting for my life.
“Wow. A girl with a mouth and she knows how to use it. I’m Anthony – come to our game next week and I’ll give you my shirt.” Anthony smiles from ear to ear, awarding himself the invisible trophy of flirtatious banter.
“What sport – American football? That’s the only other real sport besides hockey.” I smile devilishly as Anthony clutches his heart. Pete snaps his head back in laughter, but Adam, he’s in his perpetual bubble of deep concentration.
“You know what sport we play, babe. Do fat football fuckers have abs like this?” Anthony lifts his t-shirt to expose his lean, tan, muscular, rigid . . .
“Put your shirt down, dipshit. She’s not interested.” Adam’s voice rumbles with authority, but Pete and Anthony simply shrug their shoulders. Clearly they have a history together, and clearly I’m not in on the joke. Adam gives me a quick look of understanding, and then returns his gaze to Chloe.
“So Pete, can you and Abs of Steel over here get us some drinks? Tell Brett I sent you, he’ll hook us up.” Pete’s smile fades as he pushes Anthony out of his chair and toward the bar. Once they leave, I angle myself in front of Adam to block his view of Chloe. He frowns and sighs quietly, but I simply smile.
“What?” he asks.
“How do you know I’m not interested in your friends?”
“Your necklace.” He points to my neck while peeking over my head.
“Oh, right. Well, coming to a girl’s place of employment is a little creepy don’t ya think? I mean, I totally didn’t see you as the type to wander around like a stalker.”
He leans back in his chair and smiles – and this time, it’s honest. “Shit. I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”
“Adam, you were wrong. But there’s still time to make it right!” I snap my fingers in front of him to emphasize the vital importance of my next sentence. “A guy only gets one chance to hold the boom box over his head and pull a Lloyd Dobler – so I suggest you use it wisely.”
I glance back at the bar to find Chloe watching us nervously. I turn back to Adam, and before I can tell him he should probably leave, he’s standing from the chair and walking toward the exit. Goddamn that man!
“Do you want to grab brunch? And then shopping! I need to get something cool for my first day tomorrow.” Chloe braids her hair and fastens it loosely.
I yawn and roll out of bed, hitting the floor. “Why are you up so early?” I ask.
“Nat, it’s noon. Get dressed – I want to talk to you.”
“Oh c’mon, like anyone in the history of the world jumped into a shower so they could get ready for a talk.” I snort nervously.
“It’s not bad. Please?” She begs.
“Okay, but only if you buy me lunch! Give me twenty minutes.”
I grab a towel and head to the bathroom depleted, dehydrated, and ashamed. I ended up drinking more than I should’ve last night and hopefully, the shower will spray some sense on me. Once again, the mysterious Adam Ford just upped and left, leaving behind his buddies and a confused Chloe. I tried to spin it by telling them I made Adam leave, which only opened another round of questions followed by another round of drinks. Pete was an absolute gentleman and surprisingly, contrary to his initial bravado, Anthony was pretty cool, too.
But my goal for this glorious fall Sunday is to have a boring day. Not boring as in stifle a yawn over lunch with my best friend, but normal. No drama. No lies. No boys. No smoking. And for God’s sake, no drinking.
November 13, 2003
NATALIE’S ABSTINENCE CHECKLIST:
One beer (because it was the only thing to drink after that tub of really spicy hummus.)
Zero sex (but if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve thought about different scenarios with almost every guy I’ve met, even the poor husband planning a birthday party for his bitchy wife.)
Two cigarettes (because smoking is healthier than jumping off a ledge.)
Three tiny white lies (but I don’t really count the time I told Mom I was excited about her plans about American Thanksgiving, so only two lies.)
Zero drama (which is frightening – the calm before the storm and what not.)
Chloe and I never talk about Adam. We don’t really talk about Zach. And we refuse to talk about how shitty we both feel. She smiles, I smile. I laugh, she laughs – and every Thursday night we order pizza and watch Friends. Boring perfection.
I close the checklist on my computer screen as Molly approaches my desk. “Natalie, I’m going to Jersey to look at a warehouse for that Goldberg wedding. Do you want to tag along?” She’s been so sympathetic lately, allowing me to focus on Zach’s party instead of actually doing my job.
“Oh Molly, you make it sound so tempting. But I’m actually meeting Chloe for drinks,” I lie. Add it to the checklist.
“Fun! Oh, to be young and single in New York. Enjoy it!”
Yep, pure joy.
“Totally. It’s the life we’ve dreamed of since we were teenagers.” Except our teenaged delusions painted a much different picture . . . Chloe was going to be a rock star and I was supposed to be the actress hiring event planners.
Molly fastens her burgundy swing coat and pulls on gray leather gloves. Just one day in her closet, that’s all I want. “I’m off to the Garden State . . . wish me luck.”
“Have fun.”
I finish up an invoice for a client and then read over my emails. Mostly junk mail, and by that I mean correspondence from Mom. She’s determined to give me every single detail for the upcoming LeGrange Family Thanksgiving.
Ding. An email from Peter Fuchs appears in my inbox. Is this Pete? Shit, did I not even know his last name when I pulled his boxers down with my teeth . . .
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:
Hey Natalie,
I have two tickets to a taping of The View if you’re interested. I can mail them to you today.
Your friend,
Pete
Fantastic! I quickly respond.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Tickets
We’ll take them. Thanks and Happy Thanksgiving.
Natalie
I shut off my computer and pack up for the night. It’s only 4:45 p.m., but it’s completely dark outside my window and my brain seems to think it’s time for bed. How do people live in Alaska during a month of darkness? I want to swing by the guitar store and see Chloe in action before we grab our Thursday Pie Special of pepperoni, mushrooms and a sprinkle of self-pity.
I take the elevator alone.
I wave goodbye to the little old man in suspenders that works the eve
ning shift.
I chat with the family of tourists and give them directions to the real Broadway.
I do a little window shopping at Anthropolgie.
I purchase a lace t-shirt from said window of Anthropolgie.
I wander down Bleecker with a million thoughts swirling in my head.
I walk into the guitar store and strum a fancy banjo.
I knock over a display of books and laugh hysterically.
I’m asked to wait outside.
“Hey, my boss was pretty pissed that you destroyed his neatly arranged pyramid of books. But – thanks for the laugh!” Chloe wraps her paisley scarf around her neck and nudges my side.
“I’m sorry, but if you have a fucking banjo just sitting there, I’m gonna play it. Are you in trouble?” I ask.
The wind is starting to pick up as we walk back to our apartment. Native New Yorkers know to keep their heads down when fighting a blistering wind and angry pedestrians, but Chloe and I have a different approach. We stroll through the city we love.
“Simon is like the nicest man I know, he just gets his knickers in a wad over certain things . . . maybe don’t touch the five-thousand dollar instruments next time?” She chuckles.
“Holy shit. Who pays that kind of money for a banjo?”
“Lots of people, collectors mostly. That’s actually one of the perks of this job – vintage guitars are like diamonds to me.”
“Really? You would rather have a guitar than a diamond ring?” I ask.
“Possibly. Hey, can we get Chinese? I had pizza for lunch.”
We approach the corner of our building and run across the street. Our neighborhood is lucky enough to have a decent Chinese restaurant that hasn’t closed or changed names in twenty years, and we like to think our weekly business is what’s keeping them afloat.
“As long as we get the vegetable dumplings. And I really don’t like the brown rice,” I add.
The Album: Book One Page 22
