“I like Manhattan,” I say. “That’s where I work.”
“Yeah, but we still got your room all set up for you,” she reminds me. “Plus you need someone to cook for you. You’re much too thin.”
I gained back almost all the weight I lost right after getting hurt. But I work hard and sometimes meals get skipped. I can’t help it. Better that I’m too thin than like Pop, whose midsection is a casualty of Ma’s cooking.
When I get inside the house, I find that I’m not the first to arrive. Tony is already here, sitting at the dining table with Pop and also with Jack Kahn, stacks of papers in front of them. Based on the half-drained glasses in front of them, it looks like they’ve been sitting there for a while.
I’m burning up inside. They’re having a business meeting without me—they didn’t even tell me it was happening. I shouldn’t be surprised, but it still makes me furious.
A few years ago, Pop started transferring some of his properties to me and Tony. It was for tax and liability purposes. I was supposed to just sit back and sign the papers, but I refused. If a property was in my name, I was going to take ownership of it. And I did, putting my business degree to good use. There were two buildings in Brooklyn that were struggling to find tenants, but I turned them into some of the most coveted locations in the borough. But the big project right now is the hotel—Pop had been in the middle of putting up a hotel in Manhattan, which would elevate our business to a whole other level. But the project had stalled for various reasons, so I’ve made it my number one priority to make this hotel happen.
Tony jumped in as wholeheartedly as I did, but with different results. Granted, he didn’t have the benefit of Harvard B-school or even a college education, but neither did Pop. Still, everything Tony touched turned to shit. The latest disaster was an apartment complex that somehow turned into a whorehouse. It’s one thing if you’re setting out to build a whorehouse—not that I think it’s a good thing to aspire to, but I’m not going to judge. But Tony wasn’t setting out to build a whorehouse—it just naturally became one. Then the police busted half the tenants in one big raid, and now the building is lying practically empty because no respectable person wants to rent an apartment in a whorehouse.
Yet Pop trusts Tony. And he don’t trust me.
“What’s going on here?” I say. I’m trying to keep the anger out of my voice, but it’s hard.
“Just some business,” Pop says with a shrug. “Nothing to worry yourself about, Nico.”
“If we’re talking business,” I say, “I got some issues with the hotel…”
“I told you not to worry about the hotel.” I can hear the irritation in Pop’s voice. “Nico, I’ll take care of it.”
“Like you been taking care of it the last three years?”
Pop scowls at me. He don’t like people pointing out his mistakes. Even when I’m trying to fix them.
“Nico’s been making great progress with the hotel,” Jack says carefully. Of the three of them, he’s been my biggest ally because he can see objectively that my brother don’t know what he’s doing. “Angelo, you should see—”
“You don’t need to be doing this, Nico,” Pop says. “It’s all squared away. Taken care of.”
It isn’t. At all. It was a goddamn mess when I stepped in. The only thing I regret is not taking charge sooner, because I’m not happy with any of the contractors Pop set up.
“Anyway, Tony’s gotta learn everything.” Pop swings his arm around my brother’s shoulders. “He’s gonna be the one taking over someday, right?”
My cheeks burn. Tony taking over. What a joke. Pop will say it’s because Tony is older, but we all know that’s not why. Before I ended up in this wheelchair, it was me. I was the one he trusted the most.
I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to gain that trust back.
Jessie
I still get a thrill whenever they call my name.
Seth nudges me, his face glowing from the two beers he’s got in him. He landed a big case last week in his struggling private law practice, so he’s in a good mood. Before that, he’d been gloomily pacing our tin can of a one-bedroom apartment, saying we couldn’t afford the rent anymore and we’d have to pack up and move to Jersey. But now he’s in good spirits.
“Go on, Jess,” he says.
I stand up and push past the crowded tables at Charlie’s to get to the stage. I nod at the DJ, Mike, who knows me really well by now. I come to Charlie’s for karaoke night every single week. Mike winks at me, “Knock ‘em dead, Jess.”
I step onto the stage and stand in front of the microphone. When I first discovered this place, I was shaking like a leaf the first time I sang. I hadn’t sung publicly for years. I’d been on auditions that rarely resulted in a callback and never a job. I realized that the casting directors and club owners were looking for something special and I didn’t have it. I did the only sane thing—I gave up. I work as a data analyst for a pharmaceutical company now.
The familiar music from “Total Eclipse of the Heart” fills the room.
I haven’t sung this song in years, but for some reason, today I picked it out from the playlist. Ever since I saw that bum in the street the other day that I thought was Nick, this song has been in my head. And even though I may not be able to sing it with Bonnie Tyler’s rasp, I sing it better than any other song. I’ve certainly practiced it enough.
I see Seth in the audience, grinning up at me. He’s gone from being a pretty good date and a pretty good kiss to being a pretty good boyfriend, and now a pretty good roommate. I love him. I’m imagining spending my life with him. And I know he feels the same way.
Except whenever I belt out the lyrics to “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” I’m thinking of someone else. Someone from a very long time ago. The man who exited my life abruptly and cast a shadow on me all of the time.
Ever since the incident on the street, I can’t stop thinking about Nick. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been tempted to look him up on the Internet, even though I’m convinced that whatever I find will only upset me.
I don’t keep in touch with Chrissy Cagliari anymore. If I did, I’m sure I’d know what was going on with him without wanting to know. Chrissy’s parents were tight with Nick’s, and she always knew all the gossip. But Chrissy and I haven’t spoken since the end of my first year of college. Somehow we grew apart.
All I know for sure is Nick never decided to contact me. If he didn’t care enough to find me, I shouldn’t be bothering with him.
Once upon a time I was falling in love…
Now I’m only falling apart
I get a huge round of applause from this slightly-to-moderately drunk crowd, and I push thoughts out of my head of the boy who gave me my total eclipse of the heart. Nick’s gone, like it never happened. I’m completely over him.
I hop off the stage and take my seat back next to Seth, who gives me a huge, sloppy kiss. “You were so sexy up there,” he breathes in my ear.
I feel sexy tonight. My blond hair is loose around my face and I’ve finally lost enough weight to feel confident strutting around in my size eight skinny jeans. I love singing on karaoke night. I wish I could do more than that, but it will have to be enough.
“Hey there!” A guy in his thirties comes up to us at our table. He looks like he’s had a few drinks, but not enough to slur. “I just want to say that I’ve been to karaoke night all over town, and you’re really good. Like, really good. Do you sing professionally?”
I shake my head. “No, but thanks for saying so.”
“Well, you should,” the guy tells me. “I mean, you’re really talented.”
My face colors the way it always does when a stranger compliments me on my singing. I wish the people who ran auditions could think the way he does. But it’s one thing to get a civilian to tell you that you’re great—entirely different if it’s someone in the industry.
I love singing karaoke, but I’ll never do anything more.
/> Chapter 40
Nick
“Mr. Moretti.” The voice of my receptionist Wendy pipes out of my desk phone. “I have a woman here who says she’s an ‘old friend’ and would like to talk to you right away.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, does she?”
“She says her name is Christina Cagliari,” Wendy says. And in the background, I hear a voice yelling out, “Tell him it’s Chrissy!”
I laugh to myself. I’m busy as all hell, but I’m gonna make time for this one. “Let her in, Wendy.”
A few seconds later, she’s stumbling through the door to my office. Chrissy Cagliari. My prom date. Jessie’s best friend. I wonder if she knows what Jessie is doing…
No. Don’t think about that.
Chrissy looks great, if not about ten pounds too skinny. Her dark hair is thick and glossy, and she’s wearing a dress so tight and clingy that it’s practically a second skin. In that dress, it isn’t hard to envision what Chrissy would look like completely naked. It’s hard not to, actually.
She seems astonished by my office. Her brown eyes get wide as she looks around the vast expanse of space, the expensive furniture, and the oriental rug that’s pushed to the side because it’s a bitch to wheel on carpeting. Then her eyes settle on me and she smiles, “You got some office here, Nick Moretti.”
“Gee, thanks, Chrissy,” I say.
She settles into the black leather chair in front of my desk, crossing her legs deliberately slowly so that I can see she isn’t wearing underwear. Jesus Christ.
“Look at you, Nick.” She shakes her head at me. “I’d barely recognize you. You look like…”
I raise an eyebrow. “I look like what?”
“You look good is all I’m saying.” Chrissy flashes me that smile again. “That suit must’ve cost you a fortune. You look like one of those kids who’s been in prep school his whole life, not some slob from Bensonhurst.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” I muse.
“Where’d your Brooklyn accent go?” she asks. “You sound like you’re from freaking… I don’t know… Connecticut.”
“I got rid of it.”
She squints at me. “How do you get rid of an accent?”
“You practice saying things the right way until it gets to be natural,” I explain. “I do a lot of business with rich and important guys, and I don’t want to sound like some thug from the ‘hood.”
“There’s nothing wrong with sounding like where you came from,” Chrissy says.
I shrug.
She grins. “I bet you get lots of girls.”
I shrug again. I do and I don’t. I’ve got a lot of money and I’m starting to make a name for myself, so it’s not hard to get a date. But what’s hard sometimes is to get a handle on their motivation for wanting to be with me. I’m regularly seeing a girl these days named Valerie—she’s twenty-three and gorgeous and treats me like an ATM. I can’t figure out if she gets any enjoyment at all out of kissing me or the stuff we do in the bedroom, or if the relationship with the rich guy in the wheelchair is something she’s just tolerating. I’ve got a bad feeling it’s the latter.
I should end it. But they’re all the same, so what’s the point?
I can see Chrissy eying me and what’s behind the desk. I saw her once or twice in our old neighborhood when I was in my wheelchair. I bet she’s wondering if that’s still the situation. Let her wonder a little while longer.
“Is there something you want, Chrissy?” I say. “Or is this just a social call?”
“Now that you mention it…” She uncrosses and recrosses her legs. “I don’t know if you remember, Nick, but a number of years ago, I did you a favor.”
“I remember.” Chrissy is partially responsible for the prom night that I still count as the best night of my life.
“So now,” she says, “I need a favor from you.”
“Contrary to popular rumor, I’m not going to whack someone for you,” I tell her. I’ve been asked before by friends—no kidding. I don’t do that. I’m just doing business here. Nothing more.
“Ha ha.” She rolls her eyes. “Actually, what I need is a job. Like an assistant job or something like that. Something that pays a decent salary.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. That’s not what I expected her to say at all. “You want to be my assistant?”
“Sure, why not?” She bats her eyelashes at me. “I’m smart, a quick learner, and I can be very persuasive.”
She’s right. She’s all those things. I can imagine Chrissy could be very useful to me. But something isn’t entirely right here—I can sense it. “You need money, Chrissy?”
I watch her face. I can tell she’s considering lying to me, but finally decides to come clean. “I got some gambling debts. Five thou. Waitressing isn’t going to cut it. Those guys need to be paid—like, yesterday.”
I lean back in my chair. “Five thousand dollars? That’s all?”
She hesitates. “Okay, more like… eleven thousand.”
I let out a low whistle. “Aw, Chrissy. You shitting me?”
“Yeah, there’s that kid from Brooklyn.” She rolls her eyes at me. “So I got myself in a jam. I’m fucked. You gonna give me a job or let them break my kneecaps?”
They won’t break her kneecaps. With a pretty girl like Chrissy, there’s way more they could do with her.
“I’ll pay the debt,” I tell her. “Give me the name of the bookie and I’ll pay it for you. All of it.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I grin at her. “And then you come work for me. But no more gambling, okay?”
She nods vigorously. “Absolutely not. I learned my goddamn lesson, believe me. Thanks so much, Nick. You’re the best.”
“It’s the least I can do,” I say, which is obviously not even remotely true. The truth is that I like Chrissy a lot and I don’t want those assholes to ruin her life. Plus she reminds me of Jessie.
I wonder if she still keeps in touch with Jessie.
Christ, what the hell is wrong with me?
“I feel like now I owe you one,” Chrissy says. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward. “I’d like to pay you back if I could. Right now, if you want.”
“Unnecessary,” I say.
She stands up from the leather chair. Chrissy isn’t tall, but she got great legs. Long and lean and shapely. She crosses the side of the desk, suggestion written all over her pretty face. I back away from my desk and now she can see my ride—the sleek wheelchair that bears no resemblance to that piece of crap I had when I first got out of the hospital. Chrissy takes it in, careful to keep any signs of surprise or judgment out of her face.
“You’re still hot, Nick,” she says.
I don’t stop Chrissy when she settles down in my lap, wrapping her slender arms around my neck. Her dress is as thin as plastic wrap and I can feel every curve of her body pressing against me. She leans forward and presses her dark red lips against mine. I let her kiss me. And the truth is that I enjoy it. Chrissy is one helluva kisser. Rumor had it in high school that she had a lot of other talents with her mouth.
“I’ve got another appointment in five minutes,” I tell her. “It’s important shit.”
It’s true. But I don’t know whether I’m relieved or regretful. I’ve got a beautiful girl on my lap who’s very willing. Maybe she’s not any more attracted to me than Valerie is, but it’s still hard to say no to that.
“Maybe another time then,” Chrissy says as she gives me one more lingering kiss.
“Yeah, maybe,” I breathe.
I watch Chrissy leave my office, again suppressing the urge to ask her about Jessie. The two of them were best friends in high school—I’m sure they must’ve kept in touch. Maybe she knows where Jessie lives. Maybe she’s got a phone number for her that I’ll never call.
Since graduating from high school, I’ve seen Jessie exactly once. I was in rehab at Rusk, which is a stone’s throw away from NYU. I’d been d
oing rehab a couple of months and was getting more comfortable in a wheelchair. I was starting to wrap my head around the fact that I was going to need the chair for the rest of my life, and it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. After all, I was in rehab with a bunch of other guys who were in the same boat, or maybe even a worse boat. If that bullet hit me higher up, I might have lost use of my arms—that would have made life a lot harder.
I started to think about calling Jessie. I even called NYU and got her number from the operator. It was that easy. I kept it by my bed and nearly dialed it a hundred times, but never did it. It was a year since I’d last seen Jessie and I wasn’t sure how she was going to feel about the way I’d left things with her—I’m talking about when she came into my house, screaming my name, and I refused to see her.
Still. I thought maybe there was a chance I could win her back.
One day, me and three other guys were taking an outing with the therapists. All four of us were new wheelchair users, and the therapists reasoned we needed to learn how to deal with the world outside of rehab. When you’re in rehab, you get used to everything being accessible, but it’s not like that in the real world.
Our mission was to go to the pizza place down the block, buy a slice of pizza, and eat it. Something I’d done a million times before, but never done in a wheelchair. I was scared. Of going to buy a freaking slice of pizza.
It was different wheeling outdoors than it was indoors. The sidewalk wasn’t even, and at one point I hit a rut in the pavement that nearly threw me from my chair. Also, we were four guys in wheelchairs, and everyone was staring at us like we were on fire. By the time I was halfway down the block, I wasn’t feeling good about myself or what life was going to be like after leaving rehab.
The pizza place had a single step to get inside, which the therapists had planned on purpose. We had learned how to do a wheelie to get up a single step, and they wanted us to practice that in the real world. The other three guys did it first, and then it was my turn. I’d gotten good at doing wheelies in rehab, but it was harder out here, where the sidewalk tilted backwards. But after two tries, my front wheels jumped the step, and I was able to propel myself into the restaurant. I did it—I’d made it to the pizza place and gotten myself inside.
The Girl I Didn't Marry Page 17
