Like You (Perfectly Flawed #1)

by Dunning, Rachel

  I hightail it outta there.

  Somehow I don't think I'll be seeing Gen again.

  CHAPTER 10

  -1-

  G.

  Nov. 11, 2013 — Monday, Late Afternoon

  Axle races out.

  I'm out of my seat before Frankie sits down. He doesn't seem surprised. "Feeling fobbed off?" he asks. "It's not you. Trust me."

  "Oh, no, I'm done with my coffee anyway. It's no problem." I drain the rest of my filter coffee, burning my throat in the process. "Really, I am."

  "OK, well, let's go."

  Outside, Frankie feels it necessary to comment further on Axle's behavior. "He's been through a lot, that's all."

  "Huh?"

  "Axle."

  I play it dumb. "I thought he had to work."

  It's not my business. And he's not my boyfriend, I think.

  "Right." Pause. "Right, work. So, you guys had a good time last night?"

  I think back to my head this morning. "Yeah, great time."

  He smiles.

  When we get to my place he shows me the number for the cops. He asks me if I can speak German and I tell him I can because my dad was also German and he made me speak it when I was younger. I omit that he and my mom died when I was fifteen so the last time I spoke it, it was seven years ago. "I'll get along."

  He gives me his number in case I need anything.

  Then he gives me Axle's number. "If you like him, call him."

  Like him? "Oh, no, look, he just—" I point to the window, remembering how we met.

  Frankie nods knowingly. "Just keep it." He closes my fingers around the paper. "Don't call him today. Don't call him tomorrow. But if you like him, call him. If he hasn't screwed you, then you must call him. Because it means he likes you."

  My hand trembles around the number.

  I don't want a guy, not now, not...ever. "Look—"

  "Shhh. No obligation. But keep it, please."

  "OK."

  "You gonna be OK?"

  I look around. The most threatening thing in here is a sculpture of a cube that looks like it was made by a three-year-old. Scary. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

  Frankie walks out. "Come by for a beer again sometime." He disappears.

  The sound of the locking door as I close it seems like the closing of a coffin.

  Here I am again. Alone.

  With my thoughts.

  -2-

  Nov. 12, 2013 — Tuesday, Sometime in the morning

  The next day I take a walk through the town, retracing the steps Axle walked me along. I do this only because I'm afraid to get lost otherwise, and I remember pretty much where we went. I'd been bullshitting when I told him I might get lost yesterday. I was actually really glad he got Frankie to walk me home.

  The smog going up my nose and the occasional psychotic driver racing past gives me jolts which I struggle to snap back from.

  But I manage.

  The more I walk, the more at ease I feel.

  I finally make it down to the river. The cold has made it through my faux-fur coat and I feel it in my arms. I chose to wear a dress with leggings like yesterday and maybe that wasn't such a good idea because the wind is also gusting up my thighs.

  I sit on the grass by the river next to a bunch of hipsters that look like college kids. Four guys and two girls are lying not too far away from me, passing around a half-empty beer bottle. Never too early in the morning, I suppose. One of them wears a beanie and has a week-old beard on him. He laughs raucously and then gets up and stumbles around and cackles some more.

  It makes me nervous.

  I move.

  I walk to a bridge but see thick graffiti under it and a dude on a skateboard. He has a bar through his nose that puts me even more on edge.

  Maybe the river wasn't such a good idea.

  I climb the steps back onto the main road. I pass the Jewish Museum and see the bridge Axle and I walked across yesterday.

  I'd like to contact him as a friend. I enjoyed his company. But I'm sure he's busy. He shouldn't be afraid of me getting too close or thinking I want anything other than friendship with him. I'm not interested in that shit. Not at all.

  As I cross the bridge I wonder if I'll bump into him randomly. But the thought disappears quickly. In a city this big, that would only happen if this were a movie.

  I lean back against the railing, tighten my coat around myself. I almost get run over by two cyclists riding on the sidewalk, both in work clothes.

  I walk forty minutes to the shopping street, buy myself a wurst in a roll and eat. Closest thing to a hotdog that I can find. I check out some clothing stores and, just for kicks, go past the Apple store. I play with the iPods and iPhones and pretend I can afford them.

  A guy stands next to me, looks me over. He seems about my age, early twenties. I shuffle away, play with another iPod.

  He smiles at me.

  I leave.

  I walk past a big orange sign that says Fido Detective Agency and next to it is a massive store with a weird name but with BOOKSTORE written above the name. That I can understand.

  There's a shrine to E.L. James at the entrance. The German version has a pink-to-red cover, not gray and blue. Behind the tower of books is a bunch of Fifty Shades of Grey party games—minimum four players.

  I shudder.

  I ask for the English section and find all the usuals that don't interest me at all. A not-researched-at-all New York Times Bestselling mystery novel, from a once-upon lawyer, that was written with so many tenses, and switches from first-person to third-person so rapidly that I start feeling schizo. I see J.K. Rowling's recent foray into the world of crime and degraded living. If I were in a better state of mind I'd read Joyland by Stephen King. But, after all that's happened, I need a romantic comedy, something light.

  Even if I don't believe in it.

  I find nothing of the sort in English. I head back out.

  My feet start aching. I sit at a low concrete wall in the square in front of a Postbank.

  The city is huge. In a way it reminds me of NYC.

  Only it isn't NYC.

  I feel a tension and weight lift off me for the first time in three months. The walk did me good. Looking at the hipsters and the bookstore and feeling the crisp breeze bite through my coat did me good. It grounded me.

  I actually smile.

  I made it.

  I got away.

  A brief sadness touches me as I think of Emily. That's what I called her even though she was never born. Never took a breath of the air I'm breathing now.

  But the thought of her doesn't make me feel overwhelmingly sad. It only makes me feel a little sad.

  I like that kind of sadness. I dread the day when I don't even have that anymore. Because it's all I have left of her.

  -3-

  I go into a DM drugstore and try and figure out where the disposable phones are. I ask a Middle Eastern guy for help and when he answers me I don't understand a freaking thing he's saying.

  I suddenly wish I'd spoken a lot more German with Nana when she was still alive. After mom and dad died she was my only link to the German tongue. But I always insisted, stubbornly, on speaking English to her.

  She died when I was eighteen; stayed alive just long enough to keep me out of foster care, I guess.

  I think she had really died three years earlier, when her son died.

  Only now can I appreciate that.

  The guy I'm speaking to looks about seventeen. He's wearing a bright orange company tie but has made sure to keep the top button open and the knot just loose enough to keep that "I'm wearing a tie but I'm still young and bad" look going for him. The spiky hair, which looks like it took him two hours this morning to get the angle of each spike just right, also gives out the same vibe.

  He seems to understand me better than I understand him. Speaking, I can pretty much manage. It's listening that's the problem.

  Eventually he gets it that I'm not gonna make either heads or tails
of what the hell he's talking about. But he also somehow gets that I'm looking for a phone and a SIM card and he takes me to the phones section.

  I smile and thank him in English by mistake. But he gets it.

  There's an Xtra Card and an Xtra Triple card. It sounds like I'm buying condoms. If I had been buying condoms, I'd assume that more expensive is better, but I'm not, so I go for the Xtra Card which is five Euros cheaper.

  I pull out some money from my purse and pay for the phone and card. I go outside. I type in Brooke's number into the phone and text her.

  She calls immediately. I'm afraid of what the call might cost me so I don't answer.

  She texts me.

  Brooke: Gen, you don't pay for incoming calls in Europe! Answer the phone!

  She calls again. I answer.

  "I'VE BEEN WORRIED SICK ABOUT YOU WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING WHEN DID YOU—?"

  "Brooke, I'm sorry! I—I wasn't thinking..."

  "DAMN STRAIGHT YOU WEREN'T— Sorry, where are you now?"

  "In Frankfurt. In some big square in front of the Postbank and with a huge statue in the middle of the square—"

  "Oh, the Hauptwache."

  When she says it, it sounds like she's clearing her throat of phlegm.

  "I see. Well, that's where I am. It's not Paris. That is where you are, right?"

  "Actually, no. Now we're in Rome for two days. Checking out the Sistine Chapel today. Then off to Amsterdam. My boss, she knows everything about art, but knows shit about how to plan a trip. You settled in OK? I know the place is tiny—"

  "Brooke, you're saving my life here. Thank you."

  "I can't wait to see you, hon. I wish I was there."

  "I know, I know—"

  "It's just, if I didn't do this I'd lose my job and—"

  "Brooke! Stop it. I so appreciate it. You have no idea."

  "How you holding up?"

  The question is too raw. I swallow hard. "I'm good." My eyes water up immediately. The glands in the back of my throat feel like they've been sprayed with lemon juice.

  "Good. Good. So, just a little under two weeks and I'll be back there. Now look, hon. That's Frankfurt. Not New York. Hardly anything happens there. The cops are like the freaking army and everybody's scared of them. Very safe in general."

  I laugh. "Thanks."

  "Listen, I talked to my boss." Her voice is cautious. My stomach sinks.

  "About?"

  "You've seen the photos we have at the gallery?"

  "Sure."

  "What do you think?"

  I choose politeness over honesty. "They're...good."

  "Gen, please, because we haven't hung out in over a year doesn't mean you've gotten any better at lying. They suck."

  "They don't suck. They're just lacking...heart."

  "That's right. So, basically, sales-wise, they suck. So, I told her—my boss—you've done some good work and she wants to see it."

  My "work"? What work? I haven't taken a shot since leaving college. More accurately, since I got married.

  "Well, as soon as I save up for a camera I can take some photos and show them to her. I didn't bring my gear with me."

  "No, Gen, you don't understand. This woman owns like seven or eight galleries across Germany. She's opening up three in France. Don't be fooled by the hole in the wall you're staying in. That gallery appeals to a certain market. Mostly foreigners. They come in, want to buy something 'expensive' from Germany by a local German artist. They walk over to some of the highbrow galleries and see they're out of their price range. They come over to the Galerie Nouveau and see they could put a painting or two on their MasterCard.

  "Then, when they see it's the Frau Jaeger—when she gives them a business card and they see how important she is in the art world—they think they've gone home with a masterpiece!"

  "Wait. Your boss's name is Jaeger?"

  "Yes."

  "As in Jaeger, meaning hunter."

  "Yes."

  "That is too funny."

  "Well, it fits. But I'm the only one who calls her The Hunter, and only in my head, so don't go around blabbering it to the world, OK?

  "So, anyway, the woman's a business genius. The tourist can then brag to all his friends about how he got a piece from the great and wonderful Frau Jaeger's gallery and his friends would be none the wiser. Because if they google her, they see she really is a big name. So the tourist wins, and she wins. She pulls in about twenty grand a month profit on that shitty gallery alone. In the low season."

  "I see. But what does that have to do—?"

  "Don't interrupt.

  "She's been looking for a photographer since I arrived here. She put up a few of those crappy photos in the gallery but she doesn't like them. It's a Band-Aid solution.

  "She wants to reach another market. Photographs. Either outright purchase or contract photographers. But no big names for now. She's a business woman. She wants cheap labor. Look, Gen, just having her name on your résumé will get you in anywhere as a photographer... It's a win-win situation."

  It's suddenly abundantly clear to me why Brooke would, well, "brook" working for such low pay and living in such a shitty apartment. It's not because she can't do better. It's because she will hit the big-time working for this woman.

  "How quickly could you put together a portfolio if I get you the equipment?"

  My blood pools at my feet, not from fear but from gratitude for what she's doing for me.

  "Um, well, what subject matter?"

  "Any freaking subject matter, babe! Like I said, she's looking for stuff that will appeal to a broader market and yet that she can still sell for a few hundred or even a few thousand a piece. She wants...modern. Don't be afraid to go risqué. It's Europe, babe. If there isn't a cock of a vag in the shot it probably won't be considered artistic. She has an eye for talent. And I know you're talented. Hell, those pics you took of me painting up at the Village are still my all-time fav photos of myself. I know it's short notice. But you just need to show her what you can do. Don't think of it as an immediate sale. Think of it as your introduction. I'll try squeeze her on this side to put you on contract if she likes your work. It would work out better for you if she did that, long-term."

  "Wow, Brooke, I don't know what to say."

  "If I got you the gear you need, how long?"

  "Um, well, considering my busy schedule of doing nothing followed by doing nothing else: Is a week OK?"

  "Hell, sister, that's why I freaking love you. Well, you have until we get back. So that's just under two weeks. Although, knowing her, that might change. She's so bad at planning travel. Too much money, too little to do with it. But aim for two weeks.

  "I'll text you the number of a dude who's got access to everything photographic, lighting included. Then you gotta get busy, babe. He even has a room that doubles up as a studio. Friend of mine."

  "Wow. Thank—"

  "Nuh-uh! You thank people too much. I can't wait to see you. Love you, hon."

  "Love you—"

  "Oh, Gen, before I go... So, what's the deal with your email?"

  "Huh?"

  "I've been a good girl and not mailed you at all like you told me to. Even when I was FREAKING OUT about you! So how can I get a hold of you by mail?"

  "Oh, right." I give her my new mail address. "Sorry about that."

  "Yeah, what's the deal with that?" she repeats.

  "Noth—nothing."

  She waits. "I'm not going until you tell me. Are you sure you're OK?"

  I don't really lie, but I play it vague. "It's just...maybe it was hacked."

  "Well, just change the password."

  Oh, if she only knew... "Yeah, yeah. But, anyway, I also got a lot of spam on there so—"

  "Oh, sorry babe. The Hunter's calling me. Fine, whatever. I'll mail the new one. Love ya!"

  She clicks off the phone.

  I stare at the old Nokia's green screen for a while and realize I'm light-headed. I look u
p at the Postbank sign and consider the bright yellow background as the perfect contrast to the blue-gray sky behind it.

  I look to a huge tree that's been cut down and which is currently resting next to a statue in the center of the plaza and I hope to God they're not going to cut it up into pieces today because it would make a great shot!

  A guy moves over to the dead tree, rests his foot on it and lights up a smoke like some nineteen-thirties gangster.

  Shit, I need that camera!

  Brooke texts me the guy's number. The one with all the gear. His name is Thomas. She also tells me he never answers his phone so I should text him.

  I text. He gives me the address. I run!

  CHAPTER 11

  -1-

  A.

  Nov. 12, 2013 — Tuesday Afternoon

  I meet up with Frankie at another Irish Pub, not the one he owns, the one by the main Frankfurt train station. This one is a little uglier, and doesn't have all the leprechauns and kegs hanging from the ceiling and walls like his does. This one is nothing but a typical pub with barstools and tables and far too many Germans to be considered a real Irish Pub. But who can blame the owner for leaving out the leprechauns? The caliber of character that hangs out outside the main Frankfurt train station makes you wanna hide all your silver as well as the good china.

  And all the leprechauns.

  Frankie brings me here when he wants to talk serious business. Pisses me the fuck off, actually. But I can never say no to him. So, here I am. Early. Snuggling up to my second draught of Bitburger at the bar.

  Frankie pulls up a stool.

  He looks pissed.

  I put up a hand to stop any lectures. "Don't," I say.

  He sits. "I wasn't going to."

  Great, he threw me. "I know what you're going to say—"

  "Crikey. Can a man order a fucking beer?"

  Threw me again. What's he playing?

  He flicks his slick, black hair away from his eyes and orders a pint. "She seems nice," he says.

  "Oh, you can tell from all the booze she drank?"

  "Zoey drank a lot of booze."

  Low blow.

  He continues. "But you know as well as I do that's not her. She doesn't look the type."