Yasmine sighed, wishing she were more excited about filming her sister’s last gig as a single woman. She needed it to round out the Ruby Retrospective she was making for her sister’s wedding present, but the reality of shooting the shit with her future brother-in-law, whom her sister would be marrying in just five days, was kind of unbearable. Yasmine kept forcing herself to say wedding-related words over and over again in her head to make it more real.
She got closer to his table and tried to smile. Droplets of water beaded on the cold pitcher of Coke. Yasmine licked her lips. She was pretty thirsty—maybe she could put up with Piotr for a few minutes while she loaded her camera and set up. If he was going to be family soon, she’d have to learn to converse with him, right?
“What’s up?” she asked, plunking her camera down on the table and almost knocking over the Coke.
“Allo, Yasmine. You made it,” Piotr said with an awkward, crooked-toothed smile. “You want?” He gestured to the glass on the table.
She took a seat, resisting her desire to push him onto the sticky floor and run. The guy could barely speak proper English and now he was about to be her brother-in-law? “That’d be great,” she replied tensely.
Piotr walked to the bar to get her a glass, and Yasmine noticed that even though he was still wearing those gross leather pants, he really wasn’t half-bad looking, with his shaggy blond hair and tight black T-shirt. Okay, so his crooked teeth and smoker’s cough weren’t exactly swoon-worthy, but at least they made him sort of...quirky.
Yasmine looked around the room, accidentally catching the eye of a frighteningly large man in a red T-shirt with cut-off sleeves that read GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE—I KILL PEOPLE. His biceps were enormous and covered in tattoos. He saw her staring and gave a toothy smile, then started heading through the pack of people toward her table. Yasmine looked wildly around, hoping he was headed toward someone else. Just then Piotr swooped in and fell back into his seat, and the big guy scowled and backed off. Phew. Yasmine never thought she’d be so happy to see her sister’s fiancé.
“So...” Piotr filled her glass, apparently unaware of the fate he’d just saved her from. “You film show tonight, yes?”
“Yes.” Yasmine nodded like a maniac. “I film show.” Fuck. It was hard not to talk like him once you got into a conversation. She took a sip of Coke, sputtering when she realized it wasn’t Coke at all but beer.
“I am also making Ruby gift.” Piotr moved his stool slightly closer to hers. “In my country,”—he tapped his chest with one finger—“it is customary for groom to give bride special gift.” Piotr paused and took a sip of beer, licking his lips before continuing. “I shop all day for something I think she like.”
“What did you get her?” Yasmine asked, curious now.
Piotr smiled again, his whole face lighting up. “When we met, she tell me when she was—how you say? Small?” He gestured with his hands to indicate someone short.
Yasmine nodded, taking a sip of the dark beer. “You mean when she was a little girl?”
“Yes!” Piotr said with relief. “Little girl. Anyway, she tell me how she and you”—he pointed at Yasmine with his full glass—”make tea party with apple juice?”
She burst out laughing, trying not to spit a mouthful of beer all over the table. That was not what she’d been expecting Piotr to say. She remembered how she and Ruby used to play dress-up in their mother’s closet for hours, putting together outrageous ensembles of feathers, beads, and long tie-dyed hippie dresses before sitting down at the kitchen table to drink apple juice from their mother’s special china cups. They’d sit there for hours, talking in fake British accents and giggling as they said things like “Pass the bloody crumpets!” and “Hand me me bloomin’ bloomers!”, even though that one didn’t even make sense.
“So, I look all day,” Piotr continued, refilling his and Yasmine’s now-empty glasses, “for antique tea set for her, and I finally find one this afternoon.” He looked up worriedly, his forehead a mass of wrinkles. “You think she will like?”
Yasmine looked at the concern in Piotr’s blue eyes, the love that was so obviously there for her sister, and something inside her melted. He obviously loved Ruby—only a guy in love would run around New York all day to find a freaking tea set.
“Yes.” Yasmine nodded, raising her camera to her face and pointing it toward the stage to check the exposure, but mostly to hide the fact that she was touched. “I think she will like very much.”
Seeing Piotr so obviously in love made Yasmine feel kind of...romantic. She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured Mekhi at home, sprawled out on the lumpy brown leather sofa, writing poetry in his beat-up notebook. She knew he’d been having a hard time with the poem for Ruby and Piotr’s wedding, and the idea of him trying so hard to find the right words for her sister warmed her chest.
You sure that isn’t the booze?
Maybe when she got home later they could really talk. She’d tried to be supportive of Mekhi when he’d come out, but seeing how uncomfortable he was at his surprise party, she still had her doubts...not to mention her hopes about his supposed gayness. Maybe she’d be able to tell him how she felt...and try to help him figure out what he was really feeling.
Yes, and just exactly how would she do this? Naked?
Yasmine smiled as SugarDaddy took the stage in a clamor of guitars. Ruby wore her signature purple leather pants, her black chin-length hair sticking out in every direction, like she’d blow-dried it upside down—or electrocuted herself with her blow-dryer. She spotted Yasmine and Piotr sitting together and waved. Then she stuck her tongue out between her pinky and pointer fingers. “What’s happening, fuckers!?” she yelled into the microphone, and the crowd cheered, wildly.
Yasmine smiled. Everything was going to be okay. Her sister was still her sister, her brother-in-law-to-be was weird and European but also sort of sweet, and she’d talk to Mekhi tonight. He’d tell her he was just confused, that he wasn’t gay, and that he’d been in love with her all along. And maybe someday, years from now, he’d be the one giving her an antique tea set.
She pointed her camera up at Ruby’s smiling face as she leaned into the microphone and began to howl.
“You stole my soooooooul, you fucking ass-hole!”
Oh, how romantic.
Air Mail - Par Avion - August 17
I’ve been waiting to write, because I didn’t want to ruin the surprise, but Mom must have gotten there by now and I couldn’t wait any longer. I hope you don’t mind that I told her about your recent gaylicious discovery. It was just so nice to get to know her again this summer—did you know that she and Dad met at a Russian bathhouse in Moscow!?—and I thought maybe she should know about you too...
Anyway, Prague is amazing. Staying solo at Mom’s flat (how very European of me, right?) is super-fun but a little lonely. I’ll be back soon to pack for Bridgeport (yay!), but until then, Na shledanou! (That’s “goodbye.”)
I miss you guys and I miss New York. Have a cupcake from our favorite place on Amsterdam for me. Make it a pink one!
Love,
Bree
14
Mekhi lay on the bed in Yasmine’s room, his notebook open across his lap. The empty white page was practically blinding him. It was the same story every night—he would sit there staring at a blank page for hours, trying to write a poem about love for Ruby’s wedding, until, completely dejected, he’d finally just pass out. He started to scribble.
Love. Above. Shove.
I love to shove you from above?
Kiss. Bliss. Piss.
Crap. This wasn’t working. Every time he tried to write, visions of himself as a kid, dressing up in totally gay outfits, sprang into his head. What could he possibly know about love when the only time he’d ever been in love was with Yasmine, who apparently didn’t qualify, since she wasn’t even the right gender?
He looked over at the clock. One a.m. It had been a long day of shelving dusty books at the Strand a
nd trying to hide from Gabriel. Luckily, their shifts only overlapped for an hour, so Mekhi had managed to completely avoid crossing paths. He dreaded the “special talk” Gabriel said he wanted to have, though he wasn’t sure how long he could put it off.
He sat up and a flash of gold text caught his eye. The anthology his mom had given him three nights ago was perched on top of the dresser. With its black cover, the book was almost camouflaged by the monochromatic gray space—Yasmine had gotten permission from Bree to redecorate, which for Yasmine meant making everything as dark as possible—but the gold title twinkled at him from afar, taunting him.
Oh, come on now, you know you’re curious.
He reached over and grabbed the large volume, plopping back down on the bed with it. Maybe reading some gay love poems would help inspire him to write a straight one? He cracked open its stiff binding. The first page was the introduction.
Homosexual love has been a part of every society throughout the history of mankind, from the Ancient Greeks to modern day.
What was this, a history lesson? Already bored, Mekhi scanned down toward the end.
Read the poems aloud to your lover, as the spoken word is even more powerful than those printed on the page. You will feel yourself transported by the undercurrent of beautiful, corporeal, HomoSensual love.
Huh. That was interesting. He’d always found it helpful to read his own poems aloud to get a sense of the rhythm, but he’d never tried doing it with other people’s work. Maybe reading aloud would get the creative juices flowing, get him feeling the rhythm? Besides, he did have a great reading voice, as Gabriel had once pointed out.
He flipped the book open to a random place and chuckled when he realized he’d landed on page 69. He cleared his throat and began to read Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May...” Mekhi paused to read silently to himself for a few lines, and then again read aloud. “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.”
As he uttered the last lines of his poem, the door swung open and Yasmine burst into the room, her camera bag slung over her shoulder.
Whoopsie.
Her eyes widened with surprise. Clearly she’d heard everything—or at least, enough. Mekhi could only imagine what it looked like. He was in bed all alone, reciting one of Shakespeare’s most romantic—and unquestionably gay—sonnets to himself.
Hello, awkward?
“Uh, sorry.” Yasmine quickly turned around and stared at the floor as Mekhi frantically grabbed for the book and closed it with a loud smack. He stood and attempted to put it on the cluttered desk.
“It’s not what it looks—ow!” The book fell off the side of the desk, all ten pounds of it landing directly on his little toe.
“No, no. I should have knocked.” Yasmine bent over her bag, not looking at him.
“So.” Mekhi examined his cuticles as she continued to put away her camera equipment. “Where were you, anyway?” He tried to project an aura of calmness, grabbing a copy of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment from the nightstand and flipping aimlessly through its thick pages.
Like that’s the only thing he’s been reading.
Yasmine finally turned to face him. “I was filming Ruby’s last gig as a single woman,” she explained, stripping off a pair of expensive-looking wide-legged black pants—likely something Porsha had left behind during her brief tenure as Yasmine’s roommate. She was wearing an old pair of Mekhi’s green-and-white-striped boxers underneath. Then she pulled off her plain black T-shirt so that she was clad in only the boxers and a white Hanes tank top. Mekhi had always loved Yasmine’s fashion sense—or lack of it—and he couldn’t help noticing how sexy she looked. It was nice to see her wearing something of his.
“Everyone was wasted. At the end of the set, Ruby’s drummer puked onstage.”
“Gross.” Mekhi pulled off his T-shirt and scooted under the covers.
“Definitely,” she agreed, climbing under the sheets beside him and switching off the bedside light. Hopefully the darkness would hide her embarrassment and confusion.
They lay in uncomfortable silence, and Yasmine couldn’t help but give in to her feeling of total dejection. After her conversation with Piotr, she’d felt so...hopeful. She’d thought she might be able to work things out with Mekhi, but if he was spending his free time home alone reciting romantic gay poetry to himself, there really wasn’t any question about his sexual status now. She sighed heavily, looking up at the dark ceiling.
Mekhi tried hard to think of something to say. He’d never had trouble talking to Yasmine before—she was his best friend. In fact, she was one of the only people he really could talk to. In less than a week he’d be driving out to Evergreen College in Washington State to start a new life—in a 1977 Buick Skylark, no less—and he had to figure all this out before he got into that car and drove away. Why couldn’t he talk to her now, when he needed her the most?
“So...” he whispered into the dark. “Are you doing okay? I mean, with Ruby’s wedding and everything?”
Yasmine snorted. Mekhi could picture the face she was almost certainly making—her eyes rolled to the ceiling, a wry twist turning up the corners of her lips.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “I just have to film the clusterfuck.”
He heard her exhale heavily into the warm, humid air before she spoke again.
“You’re the one I feel sorry for. I mean, you have to come up with some meaningful, epic fucking love poem about those two morons.”
“Thanks,” Mekhi mumbled sarcastically. “You’ve filled me with confidence.” He turned over to face her, wanting to look at her even though she was turned away. He could hear the small quiet sound of her breathing in the dark room and could feel the warmth of her almost-naked body. She was always so warm at night. The ridiculously soft skin of her bare arm grazed his. One of the things he’d always loved about Yasmine’s body were its contrasts—her stubbly scalp next to the softness of her skin. The pillowy feel of her lips and cheeks. Mekhi smiled and moved ever so slightly closer to her warm, sleepy flesh.
Yasmine felt Mekhi’s hot breath tickle her neck as he lay inches from her on the bed. Being in such close quarters with him when all her hopes had been so recently dashed was killing her.
“So, how’s Gabriel?” she asked softly, hoping the note of rejection in her voice wasn’t as clear to him as it sounded to her. She moved toward the edge of the bed, shifting so that her left foot hung off the side. Anything to escape the torture of feeling Mekhi’s skin on hers.
“Umm... he’s fine,” Mekhi mumbled. Gabriel. Right. His boyfriend.
As Yasmine inched further and further away from him on the bed, it became obvious that she wanted nothing to do with him. And why should she? He was a confused pink-disco-suit-wearing, cream-puff-eating, gay-poem-reading idiot who still seemed to be in love with his ex-girlfriend despite the fact that every person in his life had apparently been waiting for him to come out since he learned to use the potty. Mekhi sighed and flipped over onto his back dejectedly, more puzzled than ever as he slipped into a sweaty troubled sleep.
To be or not to be gay—that is the question.
15
“Chanel! Chanel, over here!”
Flashbulbs exploded in front of Chanel’s face like bursts of fierce white lightning. She smiled and plucked a perfectly ripe raspberry from the flute of Cristal she held in one hand, popping it into her mouth. She’d never expected the press conference for Breakfast at Fred’s to involve so much pampering, or to be so breathtakingly fancy—not to mention so well attended. Throngs of reporters and photographers surrounded her and her totally yummy costar, Thaddeus Smith, as they sat out on the sun-drenched terrace of one of the SoHo House’s top-floor penthouses. Maybe the life of a movie star was all it was cracked up to be.
People always thought Chanel was just another ditzy, genetically
blessed socialite, but apparently, the girl could really act! She was poised to become a major Hollywood star—not that anyone ever doubted it for a second. She was being touted as at younger, modern-day Halle Berry. And that meant that everyone would soon be smiling contentedly as they gazed up at her celestial face on the big screen.
Either that, or they'll be clawing their plush velvet seats in envy.
Thad turned to smile at her from his matching white deck chair, the stubble on his razor-sharp jawline gleaming in the light. He wore a pair of severely distressed Marc Jacobs jeans, his biceps startlingly dark against his crisp white polo shirt. Dior aviators hid his infamous eyes from view, and his feet were encased in a pair of Michael Kors flip-flops. Chanel’s crush on Thad had passed with the realization that Thad had a serious boyfriend, but it didn’t stop her from admiring him.
There’s just so much to admire.
As the sun began to set over the Manhattan skyline, bathing the terrace in an orange sherbet hue, a male reporter pushed through the crowd, thrusting a mini tape recorder toward Thad. “Thad!” he yelled, even though he was only a foot away. A camera swung from around his neck. “What was it like working with Chanel Crenshaw? This is her debut. Can she really act?”
“It was a rare privilege,” Thad replied, grabbing Chanel’s hand and squeezing it tightly in his own. “Chanel—as the whole world will soon see—is a pro. Plus, she’s absolutely gorgeous.”
Chanel blushed, surveying the suite from her perch on the terrace. The penthouse suite gleamed with chrome, glass, and light, and the room was decorated in blue and cream. An enormous flat-screen TV hung from the sky blue wall. A giant oil painting of the night sky illuminated another. This would the perfect place to bring a guy—and by “guy” she meant Kaliq. They could take a bubble bath in the six-person tub and order chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne from room service. They could watch one of the many not-yet-released DVDs that Ken had stocked the room with when they got bored—which would be never.
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