Love and Chaos: A Brooklyn Girls Novel

by Burgess, Gemma

  “God, I love Jimmy Stewart,” I say, snuggling down on my pillow.

  “Yeah? I thought he’d be a little straight for you.”

  “Nah. He’s perfect.… I’m getting under the covers. You can join me if you want, but no funny business.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  And so, side by side, snuggled up together in a purely platonic way, Sam and I watch the movie. And pretty soon I’m so warm and cozy and comfortable that I fall asleep.

  CHAPTER 22

  I’m in bed with Sam.

  No, not like that, we really did just fall asleep while watching Rear Window.

  But I’m all curled up into a little ball on my side, with my head over Sam’s arm, and he’s nestled into me.

  We’re fucking spooning.

  For a few minutes I just lie here, listening to Sam breathing.… He still smells like soap, even after a night of junk food and no teeth brushing. What is that about?

  And why is it so different, sharing a bed with a dude, even if he’s just your friend? I’m fully dressed, and Sam’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, it’s not like we’re indecent. Pia and I have shared a bed a gazillion times, after nights out or on vacation, and during a weird period when this fuckpuppet Eddie broke her heart and I had to carry her home every night, shitfaced and weeping. She always puts her freezing feet on me and snores, I tell her it’s goddamn annoying, she says it’s freakish that I sleep either starfished out and facedown, or curled up into a tiny ball like a little porcupine. That kind of sleepover is funny and silly.

  But with Sam, it’s different. I’m so aware of his body next to mine, it’s all I can think about. I’m conscious of his feet sticking over the end of my bed, of his deep, even breathing, of the size and strength of him.

  There’s such a vulnerability and sweetness to sharing a bed with a man, too. Awake, Sam always looks like he’s got something very serious on his mind. Asleep, he seems, I don’t know, peaceful.

  And between you and me, well, sharing a bed with Sam is kind of sexy. Sam is so big, like a giant bear, heat is radiating out from his body, enveloping mine. I’m conscious of the warm, smooth strength of his arm I’m using as a pillow, I can feel the rest of his body pressed against mine all the way down to his feet, and I can see one of his hands: tan, very clean nails, big calloused fingers and palm. He’s missing his little fingernail entirely; it was ripped off during a regatta last year. Right now, even that looks kind of sexy. Goddamnit. Why am I having these thoughts about Sam?

  And then Sam puts his other arm around me and pulls me in closer against him. He’s still asleep, his breathing hasn’t changed, he’s just hugging me tightly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  “Angie,” he mumbles.

  I grin to myself. Sam’s talking in his sleep.

  “Yes, Sam?”

  No response.

  Hmm.

  I’ll try a trick my mother once told me about. Ask people questions when they’re sleeptalking, and sometimes their subconscious will understand and respond. Apparently they’ll tell you all kinds of stuff. So I wriggle around, still wrapped in his arms, until I’m facing him.

  “Hey, Sam,” I whisper, pulling my head back so I can see his face. “Sam, what do you think of Angie?”

  He smiles in his sleep. “Angel…”

  I find myself relaxing into him. God, this is lovely. I can’t remember the last time I snuggled like this. And yeah, I just used the word snuggle. There’s no other way to say it. Sam is wrapping me into him tightly, I can smell his neck, I feel warm and comfortable and safe and just a teensy bit tingly.… It’s bliss.

  Suddenly, Sam takes a deep breath and holds it, for what feels like forever but is probably only about ten seconds. Then he exhales, holding me even more tightly. I fit perfectly into him. I can hear his heart beating. For a second I lie there, listening to it.

  Then I try again, craning my head back so I can see his face. “Angie. Tell me about Angie. Do you think she’s funnier than you are? I bet you do.”

  Sam gives that little half-sleep smile again and, in one swift move, shifts his arms tighter around me and rolls onto his back, pulling me with him, so that I’m lying almost on top of him and my face is right over his. Holy shit, if Sam was awake right now, we’d be an inch from kissing, literally a moment from it.…

  If I just turned my head a fraction of an inch, I could—

  No.

  For the second time in twelve hours I pull away from Sam almost violently, half jumping, half falling out of bed in my hurry to escape. This is wrong, this is all wrong.

  I’ll shower and dress, and then this whole weird intimate sleepover thing will be finished and we can go back to just being normal plain old friends. Right? Right.

  I take a long time in the bathroom, washing and scrubbing and conditioning and shaving and moisturizing. I actually love shaving my legs, it’s an art form to get each swoop perfect. And the money I used to spend on waxing! What’s the point? I’m blond, I’m not exactly hairy, and that whole growing-back-thicker thing is a myth made up by the wax union. (Yes. They have a union.)

  Then I shuffle back to my bedroom and check quickly to see that Sam is still asleep. I throw on some very comfortable old jeans, and, after reflection, my dad’s Princeton sweater. So what if he hasn’t called me in forever? It’s still a good goddamn sweater, though it has a couple of small bloodstains from that night I fell off the kitchen counter. That feels like a very long time ago.

  Then I turn around, see Sam smiling at me, and let out a little shriek.

  “What the hell!? Were you watching me change the whole time?”

  “No.” Sam looks guilty. “Okay, yes. But I didn’t see anything, like, R-rated. Just the beautiful PG parts of you.”

  “Really.” I avoid his eyes. Let’s get this conversation back to friend territory. And get the hell out of my bedroom. “How about some breakfast?”

  “Buttermilk Channel? Or Café Luluc?”

  “I don’t have any money, Sam. And no, you’re not paying for me. You must be broke by now.”

  “Right, sorry. Well, I can make you breakfast, how about that? I owe little Coco about sixty meals, too, she keeps feeding me. She’s like a very young and innocent grandma.… I’ll do it for the whole house. I’ll fry up some bacon, eggs, pancakes.…”

  “That would be great!” I say. “But can you grill the bacon, not fry it? I don’t like it too oily.”

  “Oh, really?” Sam says. “I thought you’d like oil.”

  “What? Why would you think that?”

  “Well, you like oil tycoons!” Sam grins widely, and brings out from underneath his pillow … Her Secret Desire! My latest romance novel!

  “Give that back!”

  Grinning, Sam leans away from me and starts reading the blurb on the back. “Shy Millicent had always been unlucky in love. But when oil tycoon Rod Rockson moved to town, she thought her luck was changing. Till she discovered his secret past.… I wonder what his secret past could be?”

  “Shut it!” I jump on the bed and reach for the book, just miss it, and find myself straddling Sam, furiously trying to grab the book back. “Give that to me! That’s fucking private! I’m not kidding! Sam! I mean it!”

  “Now, Angela! Play nice!”

  “My name isn’t fucking Angela!”

  I finally snatch it out of his hands, jump off the bed, and throw it under Drakey the Dress Form.

  I’m so upset, I can’t even look at Sam, so I pretend to be looking for something in my closet. I’m mortified to be caught reading something so uncool. I feel even more embarrassed than I did last night after my Kramer vs. Kramer meltdown! God! And why can’t I read whatever I want? Who cares if it’s cool? Why do I have to pretend to be tough all the time? Why is it so important to be cynical and unromantic, to not like happy endings and kisses and people saying I love you? Why?

  Sam stands up, looking very apologetic, his hair sticking up at crazy angles.

 
“I’m so sorry, it was under my pillow, Angie. I just thought it was funny—”

  “Well, it wasn’t.” I open my sock drawer and rifle through it pointlessly. He must think I’m such an idiot. “You know what, I’ve got shit to do,” I say over my shoulder. “You should go home.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  There’s a long pause while I stare at my socks. Where the fuck do socks come from, I ask you? I don’t remember ever buying any in my entire goddamn life.

  Sam clears his throat.

  “Angie, I’m really sorry, okay? I was just fooling around.”

  “Yeah?” I finally turn to face him. “Well, I’m sick of fooling around. I don’t want to waste my life hanging out like this anymore. It’s fucking depressing. I need to get a job. That’s what I’m doing today. I’m gonna get a job.”

  Sam nods. “Right.”

  I stand up and head for the door, my face still burning from the shame of being busted as a romance reader, and pause quickly to snap at him over my shoulder.

  “See yourself out.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Less than a week before I turn twenty-three.

  And I could not be further away from having the adult life I always imagined I’d have by now.

  I’m working at the Gap.

  Stop laughing.

  I need money. I need to pay rent. I need a job, something to focus on, a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Especially since I haven’t seen Sam since the whole romance novel sleepover fiasco last week.

  He texted the next day: I’m sorry … Forgive me?

  I replied: Totally. Not a problem.

  And he hasn’t tried to get in touch since. I haven’t called him, either. I’m too embarrassed; I still feel a hot flush of mortification when I think about him holding up the book with glee. He probably thinks I’m such a romantic. A total cockeyed optimist loser. I hate that. It makes me feel weak. I don’t know why, but it does. And I was already feeling so exposed after telling him all that stuff about my parents.…

  You know what? We became such close friends so fast, it was too intense. I needed space. That’s all.

  And a full-time job at the Gap has certainly provided it.

  In some ways, the Gap isn’t all that bad: it turns out my folding skills are kind of gnarly. Who knew? (I never folded anything of my own before; I just pretended the wrinkles were part of my unique style.)

  But the hours are long, the salary is terrible, I’m getting blisters from being on my feet all day, and wow, it’s boring. I’m so bored I almost can’t keep my eyes from closing. Sometimes I fantasize about making a bed out of T-shirts in the changing rooms and curling up for a nap, like a little puppy.

  Also, people never look you in the eye when you work in retail. Don’t they realize it’s my job to ask them if they need help finding anything? It’s what I am paid to do. And one of the managers, Shania, has told me off twice for not having a “pleasant expression.” I can’t help it if I look bitchy when I’m preoccupied. She looks bitchy because she’s a bitch.

  But the best part? The clothes. Gap isn’t exactly my style, but I genuinely like helping customers choose the right clothes. Sometimes someone asks me what style of jeans would suit them, or if this shirt will go with that skirt, and I get to style them. The smile when that person comes out of the changing room and sees they’re looking better than they expected … I love that. I never upsell, either. I make sure that they stay in their budget. And I’ve pointed a few people in the direction of Urban Outfitters or Zara, to pick up something that will just make their outfit. (Usually a bright belt, clutch, or pair of shoes. Pretty textbook stuff.)

  But no matter what, my mind still paces back and forth, trying to think of ways to get out of here, get a real job in fashion.… I know I can’t be a designer, that dream is just that—a dream. It’s out of reach. Impossible. But I could be an assistant, right? Or a receptionist, I could work for a fashion label or a PR company or a stylist.

  I am sure I could do something better than this, if only someone would give me a chance.

  But no one will.

  Goddamn, I’m lost.

  Right now, it’s nearly the end of the day in this soulless part of Midtown Manhattan, and there’s a particularly bleak cross section of society in the store. Sticky little whiners in strollers who just want to be home playing with toys, backpacked tourists shell-shocked from a day sightseeing, overweight solo shoppers eyeing merchandise like a potential foe.…

  Humanity. Urgh. Pia always says how much she loves working with people; she gets energized by it. I’d rather just be in a quiet corner thinking about clothes. But not my parents. Or my future.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I immediately duck to the floor, pretending to rearrange some sweaters so I can check it. A text from Julia.

  Just letting you know that my boss just invited everyone except me to a strip club tonight to celebrate a deal. My job is worse than yours.

  I grin to myself and reply.

  This morning, I found a shit in the mens’ changing rooms. Not a dog shit, not a kiddie shit. A man. Took a shit. In the middle of the changing room. My job is worse than yours.

  I get a reply a moment later.

  You win.

  Ha. Jules and I are still texting a lot. Mostly competing to see who has the worse job. It’s so cute that she’s even pretending working at an investment bank is anywhere near as terrible as working at the Gap. Pia was right all this time: Julia is kind of awesome. I’m so glad we’ve become real friends. I don’t think Pia is jealous anymore.… Though, to be honest, Pia hasn’t been around to be jealous. She’s spending every minute she can with Aidan before he leaves for San Francisco. They’ve decided to give the long-distance thing a try.

  I’m surreptitiously stretching out my hamstrings—why they’re so tight from just standing around all day doing nothing, I don’t know—when an older lady comes over and starts scanning the wall of jeans.

  “Hello! May I help you find anything in particular?”

  She nods. “I want a pair of jeans that don’t make me look like a hoochie mama.”

  I grin. “Right … hooch-free denim. Well, this pair is really well cut around the thighs, so they’re supportive but not too snug. They’ve got a ten-inch rise, which is so much more comfortable around your tummy area, and the dark shade is classic, no hoochie whiskering or wash.… It’s almost like a pair of pants, but with the comfort and ease of denim.”

  “Wow. You’re good.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking down the jeans. “I love clothes. Here, just for comparison, you should try on this pair and this pair, too.”

  “Thank you.… I used to love clothes. Now I just wear them.” She takes the jeans I offer her and frowns. “This is my size. How did you know?”

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Can I put them in a changing room for you?”

  “I’ll take them myself.” She takes the jeans off to the changing area.

  Suddenly, I’m in a much better mood. I do like this job! And I’m good at it! I helped that lady find jeans and she’ll look great in them, I know she will, and it’ll make her happy all day. All because of me. An old Rihanna song comes on over the music system, and without even thinking about it, I start bobbing my head and singing along, then do a teeny tiny twirl on the spot.

  At that moment Derek, one of the guys who usually works the register, walks past. He frowns at me and shakes his head.

  “This isn’t a nightclub, Angela.”

  He’s gone before I can reply “It’s Angie, dickface,” so I just flip him the bird behind his back. Real mature, but that’s what retail does to you.

  At that moment, I hear a familiar drawl behind me.

  “What the fuck are we doing here, Blythe? You know my rules: no moms, no hugs, no chain stores.”

  I freeze, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest. I’d know that voice anywhere.

  It’s
Stef.

  The Blythe person giggles.

  “Stef, baby, I told you, I need some tanks and Gap ones fit me best.”

  “Can’t we go to James Perse or Splendid or, fuck, somewhere decent? I’ll pay.”

  “Maybe later. I have to hit Intermix.”

  Their voices are getting louder and louder. Keeping my head down, I drop to the floor, pretending to adjust the chinos on the bottom level. No chinos have ever been this perfectly symmetrical in the history of casual pants. I look for an error, anything that will give me something to do.… Aha! A size six in the size eights! My face still turned away from their voices, I pull out the entire stack and start realigning them, very slowly, praying that Stef just walks away, that—

  “Well, look at this,” says a soft voice. Suddenly, inches from me on the floor, I spot Stef’s shoes. John Lobb. Of course. “If it isn’t the infamous Angie.”

  I slowly stand up, feeling a strange combination of fear and fury. “Stef.”

  Our eyes meet. He’s looking his standard privileged, oily self.

  At that moment the Blythe girl comes over. She’s one of those tall, expensive brunettes that the Upper East Side breeds in litters. She’s wearing DVF shoes, dress, bag, and coat. Style by numbers.

  “What’s this?” She cocks her head to one side, looking at me like I was a funny little painting.

  “This is Angie,” says Stef. “An old friend.”

  Blythe gives me a little fake smile. “How sweet.” She saunters away.

  “I’m not your friend,” I hiss at Stef. “And I’ll never forgive you for what you did to me.”

  “What I did? Chill out, Angie. You love rich guys. I just introduced you to some of them. Your behavior on the boat was really uncool. You totally overreacted.”

  My fists clench. I want to slap him. I want to scream and make a scene and quit this stupid job and run away and drink vodka and laugh all night and pretend everything is perfect. I crave it so badly, I can almost taste the joy of that escape.