“Chloe? Did you take your meds?” she yells from the couch.
For the love of all that is sacred and pure – I really don’t think that’s funny. I dig through my jewelry box and retrieve the necklace. It’s so shiny and delicate and it belongs around her neck, not buried in my jewelry box. I squeeze it into the pocket of my jeans and walk back to the living room.
Natalie’s staring cautiously when I return to the couch, but I grin and take her hand. “You’ve been a nasty bitch lately and rightly so, but you need to stop. I love you, Nat . . . you’re my soul mate.” Natalie raises her eyebrows and snickers. “What I mean is, there’s a stigma that equates love with romance – roses and chocolates, passion and desire, but love can also be simplistic. Friendship, companionship, loyalty . . . we both need to accept that and move on.” I remove the necklace from my pocket and place it in her hand. “This star belongs near your heart.”
Natalie closes her eyes as she clasps the star necklace around her neck. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a lesbian? I mean, that’s cool and all, but lesbian cousins is ridiculous.” Natalie chuckles, but underneath the laughter, I know she gets it.
“I’m not a lesbian, and if I remember correctly, you had a lady love back in the day.”
Snickering she says, “Oh shit, you’re right!” She clutches her necklace as we press our foreheads together. “Chloe, I understand. Zach would want me to love . . . and if that means my sentimental sap of a cousin for the rest of my life, I’m perfectly fine with that. But I’ll need to get some penis on the side.”
We laugh. So much so, it hurts. But it also feels really good to release the tension – LeGrange style, of course. For the first time in months, things seem normal.
“Is that the buzzer?” Nat asks between snorts.
“Maybe your side of penis is being delivered.”
Natalie jumps up from the sofa to answer the intercom. “Hey Wayne, what’s up?” she asks, holding the button down.
“Ms. LeGrange, there’s something here for you.”
Nat releases the button as we scream in unison, “PENIS!”
She tries to compose herself before holding down the button to answer back. “Okay, I’ll come get it.”
“Nah, it’s really heavy. I’ll have Richie help me carry it up.” It’s probably more shit from Mom. She keeps sending us all these self-help books and yoga videos.
“Thanks, Wayne.” Natalie releases the button and checks her appearance in the mirror by the door.
My fat ass waddles to the kitchen for a spoon. Someone is eating that twenty dollar cheesecake and it might as well be me. Distracted by her amazing body I say, “Nat, your ass looks great. What are you doing to work out?”
She arches her neck to analyze her backside. “Kickboxing. You should try it . . . soon.”
Wayne knocks on the door as soon as I find a mixing spoon. There’s some chatter, and then a loud thud against the wood floor. I leave my spoon on the counter and dash to the entryway to help her with the box of shit Mom sent—
“Chloe?” Natalie whispers. Her body is trembling as she slowly brings her hand to cover her mouth. Natalie’s pale and frightened, but her eyes have the slightest glimmer of hope.
Staring at the large metal box sitting at her feet, I ask, “What is that?”
“Zach.”
January 11, 2004
THE FOOTLOCKER OF Lt. Zacharie Parker has finally made its way home.
Natalie falls to her knees and runs her hand over the smooth metal. She traces the gold stenciling of Semper Fidelis and then carefully removes the opened lock. Natalie hesitates – fear, confusion, excitement, sadness – all emotions that deserve pause.
Chloe joins Natalie and kneels beside her. The cousins that have shared life’s most challenging moments are once again joined in an experience. It’s a story, really – a narrative constructed by unplanned events.
Natalie lifts the lid to the footlocker and closes her eyes. Perhaps she’s making a wish, possibly a prayer – no, she’s talking to her prince.
“Omigod, Nat. Look,” Chloe says.
You can do it Nat, welcome your prince home. Natalie opens her eyes and gasps. “Everything – it’s all here. Chloe, he came home to me.”
Love is acceptance.
Natalie removes the bundle of letters and brings them to her mouth. She inhales their scent and then caresses them against her lips. Natalie carefully places the letters in her lap, each one a symbol of their journey – not memories, these letters will only be read in the present.
Happiness . . . as she unfolds the poster of Mario Lopez – shirtless and dimpled. The cousins giggle, remembering the countless Saturday mornings in front of the television with the gang from Bayside High. Pictures, old and new, newspaper clippings, a digital camera, and Claire’s old Physician Desk Reference are stacked neatly inside, unharmed – unforgettable. It’s a treasure chest of sentiments, but Natalie is too distracted by the worn, Edith Piaf record protected by Zach’s t-shirts.
“The record.” Natalie chokes, tears running down her cheek.
The record that has travelled the world has found its way home – from the turntable of a Parisian teenager, to the kitchen of a Connecticut mom, to the hands of a lover fighting in the desert of tears, and finally, to the arms of a dreamer.
Natalie brings the record close to her chest and squeezes it tightly. It’s more than an object, it’s essence. This record exists as a love so powerful and timeless, the tincture, the shape, and the worldly function are all irrelevant. Essence . . . a happily ever after disguised as an object. What a beautiful gift to understand the cycle of a physical life, and then to be rewarded with spiritual consciousness. Natalie feels it, too. Keep smiling, Nat – you’re making the stars dance.
Chloe doesn’t touch a single thing, this is not her story, this is not her happiness – she simply chooses to watch her cousin experience a much needed revival . . . the Renaissance of Natalie and Zach.
Natalie removes the Post-it from the record and quietly laughs at her silly quote and illegible handwriting . . .
From the sardonic wisdom of Edith Piaf:
“After it’s all over we’ll go out and have a drink together.”
XO Nat
She flips over the Post-it to find another handwritten note – this will be Zach’s last letter.
Ma femme,
Je ne regrette rien, because I found everything.
I love you.
Rien – that four-letter word in French that means everything about nothing. One word that can describe the poetic beauty of nothingness. Camus, Beckett, and of course, Monsieur Sartre, wrote countless works about the magnitude of nothingness – but Zacherie Parker . . . the hero, chose everything!
There’s a knock at the door.
Chloe stands to answer, confused yet happy about the day’s turn of events. She opens the door to reveal a visitor – the one visitor that can effortlessly expand the narrative.
“Hey, what – why – hi.” Chloe marvels.
The visitor takes a few steps back into the hall, smiling radiantly at what he’s masterfully executed. His tall frame bends to the floor to open a green briefcase – this will be his moment, the exact moment that transforms their hypothetical romance into a story.
The expression on Chloe’s face is glorious. Surprise, shock, passion – all sentiments that deserve pause. She shakes her head as the music starts to play through the small speakers.
He lifts the vintage record player to his waist, as far as the cord will allow. Not quite the over-the-head proclamation, but it’s still rather impressive. Peter Gabriel’s infamous ballad echoes through the hall, marking the territory of this love story.
His playful smile dissipates – he’s serious now.
Chloe returns his sincere gaze . . . unspoken apologies through the force of their connection.
Love is acceptance.
Natalie, curious to the ruckus in the hall, joins Chloe at the door. There�
��s a purpose to this man, a truth that Natalie fully understands. “Lloyd Dobler,” she decrees.
No, Lloyd Dobler belongs in clichéd parodies. This man, the one with the ugly green record player and the 7-inch vinyl single, the man with so much complexity he scares himself, the man that is falling hopelessly in love with Chloe, is none other than . . .
Adam Ford.
The diner around the corner is my least favorite place in our entire neighborhood. Wait, no – there’s a cleaners on Broadway that royally fucked up my blue velvet blazer. I think I hate that place the most. But this diner is my least favorite eating establishment. It’s sterile-looking, and the fluorescent lights make the pies glisten like plastic.
It’s late on a Sunday, and I know we’ll eventually end up in his bed, but this little detour is absolutely necessary for our relationship. I look Adam over, trying to decide on the perfect thing to say after all these months. “So.” It’s weird. Adam’s tongue has licked ninety percent of my body, and yet I can’t seem to say anything.
“Your hair is darker.” His tone is light and playful.
I pat my locks and smile. “Yeah, I needed a change.”
A waitress drops two menus on our table and scurries off to the counter customers. That’s the other reason why I hate this place, the menus are sticky.
“I like it. The color accentuates your chest.” Adam raises his eyebrows before holding the menu up to his face.
Smiling I say, “I ran into your friend Pete today. He showed me his food truck.”
Adam lowers the menu and winks. “Oh yeah – the fuck truck?” He snorts.
“You know about the decal? Why didn’t you tell him about the font?”
“I’m one of his investors. He’s my best friend. But come on, that mistake is fucking hysterical.” His lips drive me crazy when he speaks. The way his bottom one twitches when he laughs, trying to control any sort of outburst. I want to bite it. Now. But I’ll wait – I concentrate on the crappy menu, praying we can grab some coffee and go.
“My lips have missed you, too.” Of course he would notice. “So what’s good here?” Adam asks while studying my face.
“Um, this place sucks. Have you seen their display of congealed pies? You’ll order tea anyway,” I tease.
“Possibly. I might surprise you.” Adam reaches into his pocket to check his buzzing Blackberry. He frowns while tapping at the keys.
“That was pretty amazing what you did,” I say.
He glances up at me while shoving his phone back in his pocket. “Can I tell you an embarrassing secret?” Adam pushes up the sleeves to his sweater and leans forward.
I lean forward, placing my hand next to his. “Yes!”
“I’m great at giving gifts.”
I shake my head slowly while taking his hand in mine. “I love the record player, but you know what I’m referring to.” Our pinkies intertwine and he smiles slightly. “How did you get the footlocker – and why?”
“It was the right thing to do.”
“But how?” I probe.
“It required some charm and persistence, but it was the right—”
“But why?” I press.
Adam pauses.
It’s the thing I miss the most, well that and his lips. But I really miss his controlled dialogue – powerful and thoughtful. I tend to carelessly react, he pauses – the ultimate give and go.
“Chloe, I messed up – I arrogantly misinterpreted something.” He pauses again, staring intently into my eyes. “I had to make things right. For Natalie . . . and for you.”
“You don’t like to be wrong, do you?”
He raises his brows and smiles. “No.”
“I don’t like olives anymore,” I blurt.
“I know.”
The waitress returns with a pad and a pen and glares down at us. “What can I get yous?”
Hoping Adam will get the message that I want to bust this joint and go have sex, I say, “I’ll have coffee in a to-go cup.”
“What ’bout you, hun?” she asks, staring at Adam impatiently.
Adam pretends to glance over the menu, but I know he’s actually looking at me, grinning mischievously. “I would like a slice of every pie on the menu. Except coconut.” He winks at me while handing the menu to the waitress.
The waitress taps her pad with a pencil and asks, “We got twenty pies, hun. What ’bout lemon meringue, you want that? ’Cause I think it’s got coconut flakes on top.”
Adam smiles, just for me. “Sure, bring the lemon meringue.” The waitress isn’t aware of Adam’s constant need to fuck with my patience, but oh, how I need him.
“And bring two forks,” I add.
CHRISTOPHER BROOKS
January 17, 2004
IT’S FUCKING COLD. If I were a native New Yorker, I would curse and whine and say something crass like: Jesus, it’s so goddamn cold, Jack Frost’s nippin’ at my balls. But I’m not – I’m a guy from Austin, and we say things like: Woo wee, it’s colder’n a witch’s tit ’n a brass bra . . . let’s wrangle us up a bowl of Mama’s chili and a case of Shiner.
I do have an image to present.
My brother Grant and I have been standing at the entrance of my new apartment for all of ten minutes – head to toe, in ski gear. During this short time, we’ve watched a guy shovel his car from the snow with a mop bucket, a dog walker chase after five Boston Terriers, a UPS delivery guy in shorts, and a mom push a stroller while drinking iced coffee . . . all of them impervious to the freezing weather.
Grant squeezes his hands in his pocket and asks, “What time is the truck gettin’ here?”
“They said noon. Chill, bro,” I answer.
“It’s like thirty degrees.”
Grant is two years younger than I am and the athlete of the family. Elizabeth’s the oldest and smartest, then fuckup Matthew, debutante Charlotte, me, then Grant. My entire family lives in Austin with the same, shared conclusion – I’m a moron for moving to Manhattan, and the Giants can suck the Cowboys’ balls. Texas is the good life . . . why would I ever want to trade that for New York City?
Grant puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. “Well, look who’s coming . . . Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Christopher!” Sarah glides down the sidewalk with a red coat swinging against her petite frame. Her toned legs are defined by black tights, and very sexy, yet very classy, purple pumps. She has no problem maneuvering through the piles of sludge and tackling those creepy steam grates, the same ones I avoid like the cheesy tots from Sonic.
Sarah stops in front of me and smirks. “Boots? Chris, we talked about this.”
Laughing, I lean down to kiss her cheek. “Hey, Sarah.” Cheek smooching is something I learned last month while visiting – everyone kisses on the cheek. Maybe it’s a European thing that’s been passed down, but wherever it came from, it can be politely casual, or extremely awkward. And it’s not something shared with only the opposite sex – Sarah’s male family members greeted me like a mobster in The Godfather.
“Hey, Sarah.” Grant chuckles. “I’m not wearing boots.”
“I can see that Grant, but you’re wearing a ski jacket with a dozen lift passes pinned on the wrist. Who, over the age of fifteen, does that?”
Grant puffs his chest and pops his collar. “Well, seeing as it’s my only coat that can handle the frigid stuff, you will have to embrace my cool neon stripes for at least another day.”
Sarah frowns and pulls me toward the lobby entrance. “Chris, I need to take you shopping. When is Grant leaving?”
“Tomorrow. Let’s see the apartment,” I suggest.
Sarah and I met last summer in Austin during a contractual bid with her father’s residential development company. I was a senior associate at a large firm handling real estate and capital development and I was assigned to draft and negotiate the contracts for a new development in Canyon Lake. Luckily, Sarah was sent to handle the project, and lucky me, she’s gorgeous. Sarah is classy and intelligen
t, strong and independent, and extremely kinky in the bedroom – the perfect non-girlfriend.
After six months of habitual fucking and casual dating, she suggested I bring my talents to New York with her. I mean, most women do . . . they all want my talents to follow them. I decided to take the plunge and set up a few interviews with some major law firms, but ultimately accepted an offer with a large firm in Midtown. The salary is three times what I would make in Austin and they even offered to pay for my moving expenses. Sarah found me a deluxe apartment in the sky – on the East Side – and now it’s time to give this city a shot.
I’m not chasing a girl.
I’m not escaping a small town.
I’m not looking for a fresh start.
I’m here to make some fucking bank.
“Mailbox. Mailbox key.” Sarah passes me a small envelope and nods to a doorman in a three-piece suit. Shit, that’s fancy.
“Elevator,” I tease, pressing the button.
Grant hunkers over and holds his stomach. “Can we get lunch? I’m starving.”
Sarah rolls her eyes and says, “Why don’t you get lunch while we handle the necessary paperwork? There’s sushi on the corner and a Jewish deli across the street.”
Grant makes a repulsed face and walks backward toward the door. “Bro, I’m grabbing some pizza. Call me when the paperwork is over.”
I flash him a smile as Sarah and I step inside the elevator. “Come here, gorgeous.” I pull Sarah close to me and rub her back.
“I made reservations for dinner tomorrow night – please tell me you have other clothes.”
“Cute.” I smile.
“What?” she asks.
“You’re flushed.” In my best Pauly Shore impression, I say, “You wa-nt me.”
Laughing, Sarah runs her hand up my chest and fiddles with the zipper to my ski jacket. “It’s the inconsistent heating system of old buildings – get used to it.”
My finger traces the outline of her rosy cheeks as she closes her eyes. “I’m sure I can get used to it,” I say, before licking her lips.
The Album: Book One Page 27
