“Chocolate and then we can go do some shopping,” Russell said now, as though he’d just made up his mind. “If you don’t give a shit, I’ll just take over making the decisions from now on.”
“Fine by me.” Tracy lowered her head again, shutting out her sense of everything except the pressure on her back, working out the tension of the last several weeks.
Thanks to Russell, by early evening she’d gotten her hair, nails, waxing and plucking done, was stuffed to the gills with chocolate had several new outfits and was pleasantly exhausted. It didn’t feel like the end of the world suddenly. She could almost see herself going out to dinner or something. As she and Russell pulled up in front of her townhouse, she turned to him and suggested it, and watched as his eyes lit up.
“I brought you back to life!” he said, pretending to dab tears of joy from his eyes.
Tracy laughed. “You just might have.”
“Who said a day at the beauty salon don’t solve nothin’,” Russell scoffed.
Because he didn’t want to risk her changing her mind, Russell insisted on getting ready at her place for their night out. Luckily, he’d bought himself a couple shirts during the shopping trip that afternoon and had something to wear. So they got ready, polished off the remaining half-bottle of merlot Tracy had been working on earlier in the day, and grabbed a car service back into Manhattan.
“Is it too late to drop in on Riley?” Russell asked. “I know she’d love to see you.”
“Not ready to see her yet,” Tracy admitted.
“She’s ready to see you, though,” Russell said quietly. “She may be a little annoyed with you, Tracy, but . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about her! I just want to have fun!”
“Okay, okay. Fun it is.”
So they ate a sushi dinner and walked the trendy downtown streets, stopping in at clubs and bars and lounges whenever one struck their fancy. Tracy could feel herself reviving; the lights, the music and voices of people enjoying themselves in the cool, fall evening, and the raw energy of the New York City streets all reminding her that no matter what, she would not break. She could bend, and boy had she, but she would not break.
Missing Brendan was still a sharp pain for the moment but it would dull over time, and maybe even disappear. Turning her head to look up at Russell’s handsome face, as animated and alive as her own, she felt the first pinpricks of happiness beginning to peek through the clouds.
Chapter Fourteen
“No matter how many times I hear it. . . .” Brendan said.
“Yup. A heroin addict,” Shawn said, slower this time. “Sam Gaston. The artist we put all this stock into. All this time . . .”
Brendan covered his face with his hands for a moment and heaved a sigh. “Don’t rub it in, Shawn. But here’s the thing, how bad of a heroin addict?”
Shawn gave a short laugh. “Are there degrees of heroin addiction, B? Because from where I sit . . .”
“I know,” Brendan said. “I’m just thinking about what the hell we do now . . .”
“Send him to rehab and hope for the best,” Shawn said shrugging.
“Why are all the talented ones so fucked up?”
“I was never that fucked up,” Shawn said.
“And you were never that talented either. Not like Sam Gaston,” Brendan said.
“Fuck you, man,” Shawn laughed. And then he paused for a moment. “But you’re right. It would be a shame to lose this kid. And to see him lose this opportunity.”
“So we’ll take care of it,” Brendan shrugged.
But shit. Not that he was too surprised. When he’d taken Sam out to California, there had been moments where he could have sworn the kid was a little out of it. But the worst Brendan had imagined was that he was slipping out back with some of the band to burn one. Not this hardcore shit involving needles . . .
Well, there went his distraction. The last few weeks, Sam Gaston, had been his salvation; the only diversion from almost overwhelming thoughts about Tracy and what she’d told him back in Atlanta. Grooming this kid to be the next big thing (which was the title they’d actually decided on for his debut CD) had taken damn near every waking hour of every day, and even some of his thoughts during sleep, and for that he had been grateful. But now this shit.
Selfish as it was, with Sam Gaston in rehab, he would have too much time on his hands, too much space in his head. And that he definitely did not need.
Not that he hadn’t been thinking about her at all. He had. Every day, every spare moment of every day. The trick was not to have too many spare moments. And thanks to Sam Gaston, he hadn’t. The kid was twenty-three years old, good-looking enough to sell CDs on that basis alone and a grungy, soulful vocal genius. And now, according to the voice coach Brendan and Shawn hired, also a raging heroin addict.
“You never noticed him nodding out on you or nothin’?” Shawn asked now.
“Shawn, I was nodding out. We were traveling ten hours a day and working the other fourteen. How the hell would I know he was snorting shit in the bathroom?”
“Sad thing is, if it gets out, it’ll probably help you sell more CDs,” Riley said as she walked through the living room, Cullen balanced on her hip.
Shawn and Brendan looked at each other and she stopped.
“Oh my god, I sure hope you two aren’t that mercenary,” she said, grimacing.
“No baby,” Shawn said shaking his head emphatically. “We would never . . .”
But when she was safely in the kitchen he and Brendan exchanged a look and then laughed.
“Well,” Brendan said, keeping his voice low. “It would help move some product.”
“You two, no!” Riley called from the next room.
Shawn and Brendan laughed again.
“Well man, look at the bright side. You get to spend some time at home again,” Shawn said.
Brendan snorted. “How is that the bright side?”
Shawn said nothing.
Being home was the last thing he needed. Now that she was no longer there, Brendan realized one more reason it had been a bad idea letting Tracy stay at his place. It just wasn’t the same without her. But he supposed he could put in some more hours at Lounge Two-Twelve. The club had begun to gain itself a good reputation among their target demographic and most evenings was packed to capacity with high-rollers and big-spenders from the recording industry, all hoping to rub shoulders with the likes of K Smooth and Chris Scaife.
But the truth was, while Chris was more than happy to lend his profile to the club, Shawn was very rarely there. He was all about his family these days, and Brendan couldn’t say he blamed him. Babies had never been particularly interesting to him, but watching Shawn with his now five-month old son, Brendan could see some of the appeal. Not only did this little person look just like Shawn, he seemed to think his father was the best thing ever. Every single time Riley walked into a room and held him out for Shawn to take him, Cullen squirmed and squealed, pumping his chubby little legs and arms as though he couldn’t get to him fast enough, his squeals turning to wails if his mother didn’t manage the hand-off quite as rapidly as he would prefer. And once in Shawn’s arms, the crying would magically cease, like someone flipped a switch.
Brendan watched with awe and tiny slivers of something that felt like envy when Cullen settled on Shawn’s lap and explored that small area within his reach—no more than a foot or two—with the contentment of someone who had everything they needed in the entire universe. And Shawn was good with him too, handling the baby as though he were an extension of himself, managing to do anything from conference calls, to emailing, to frying an egg while holding Cullen, safe and sound with one arm.
And of course there was Riley. Brendan had always wondered at the ability of a man—or a woman for that matter—to mate for life. It seemed so implausible, and certainly for Shawn at one time it had seemed impossible. But now, there was such synchronicity between them that Brendan couldn’t imagine them being anythi
ng other than a unit. And the look in Riley’s eyes when they rested on her husband was almost difficult to take in. Was it even possible that she loved him more than those crazy days when even Brendan—his best friend—had wondered if Shawn deserved that much love. So yeah, it made sense that Lounge Two-Twelve was a sorry substitute for what he had going on right here. For Brendan though, the club was the best thing he had going.
He stopped in at least one hour each night, just to make himself known and seen by the staff. The manager, a young woman they’d hired only recently, named Gabrielle, had been a find. She was organized, communicated well with line staff and was a pretty, bubbly personality that the patrons loved to spend time with. For a hot second, Brendan had considered sleeping with her. She was slender as a reed with a long elegant dancer’s body, and a laugh that sounded like tiny bells ringing. She would make him smile for a little while, that was for sure. But it would only be for a little while, he knew, because his thoughts and hell, his heart, was someplace else entirely. So why bother?
“I’m about to bounce,” Brendan said now. “Get some sleep. Think about what to do about this Sam Gaston problem. We’ll talk in the morning, man.”
Riley emerged from the kitchen.
“You don’t want to eat, Brendan?”
“Nah. I’ll grab something on the way home,” he said leaning in to kiss Cullen on top of his curly-haired head.
He stopped at Dean & DeLuca before heading home and grabbed some brioche, cheese and some of that expensive, imported ham that Tracy favored. And as an afterthought, got a six-pack of imported beer as well.
The apartment seemed cavernous lately, and quiet. Sometimes he left the television on when he was leaving, so he could hear it when he got back. Today he’d forgotten, so it was dark and quiet when he opened the door. Brendan headed straight up to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, but he’d forgotten that spicy chipotle mayo that he liked, so it was dry and unsatisfying. He only ate a half of it before dumping the rest in the trash and deciding instead to focus on polishing off the beer. He opened one and stashed the rest in the fridge, then thinking better of it, opened a second one and took both with him to the bedroom.
He was done with the first before he even had a chance to kick off his shoes in his dressing room, and had almost done with the second when he undressed for a shower. Number three was done less than a half hour later, and by then he was a little fuzzy-headed, from drinking them fast, and having eaten very little all day except for the dry half-sandwich. By the time he’d consumed numbers four and five, he’d made up his mind.
It was stupid. He missed her so much he fucking ached. Why shouldn’t he call her? He might say exactly the right thing, or he might mess up, but at least he would hear her voice. She hadn’t said as much, but he was certain she felt something for him, something deep enough to make her come to his hotel room and confess all those dark, ugly things about her past that he hadn’t even had the emotional stamina to begin to think about yet.
But why did he have to think about them? He could stuff them down, put them way back in a drawer in the back of his mind and just move forward. He still wanted her, no matter what had happened back then. He even missed those crazy jealous rages of hers . . .
Brendan picked up the phone and dialed the number, waiting through the first few rings, wondering why she wasn’t picking up right away. It was only just ten p.m. Where the fuck could she . . .
“Brendan?”
The sound of her voice made him wish he could crawl through the phone line and just grab her. When had it happened that he’d begun thinking of her as small and fragile instead of hard and unyielding? Ages ago, he now realized. Tracy had never been hard and unyielding with him; not really.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me.”
“Hi.”
Her voice sounded small, but full of wonder, happy for sure, and for that he was relieved.
“Hi,” he said back to her.
And for awhile there was silence between them. What now? He didn’t really have anything to say. Didn’t even know how to begin to talk about the huge elephant in the room.
“You there?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m here. So I was thinking . . .” he began, not knowing what he was going to say next. “That you and I got off on the wrong foot . . .”
Tracy laughed softly.
“No seriously,” he said, gaining confidence from her laughter. “Things got a little intense real quickly. So I wondered whether we could maybe just go out to dinner sometime. Y’know, like I could . . .”
“Like a date?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’d come pick you up, we’d get something to eat.”
“Another trip on the subway to Gray’s Papaya?” Tracy asked, but there was amusement in her voice, affection even.
“No,” Brendan said. “Someplace nice.”
“Brendan, I loved our date to Gray’s Papaya,” she said. “I was only teasing. And I would love to go to dinner with you.”
“You would?”
“I would.” And then after a pause. “Have you been drinking?”
“Maybe a few beers.”
“Do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Call me tomorrow and ask me again?”
Brendan squinted, trying to understand her point.
“Brendan, I miss you,” she said simply. “But I want to make sure when you call me, you’re ready to call me. Not because it’s late, or you’re lonely, or you’re drunk . . .”
“I’m not dr . . .”
“But are you ready?” she asked, her voice a little sad now. “I mean, do you remember what I said in your hotel room that night? I want you to think about the things I told . . .”
“And I can’t do that with you? We have to not see each other for that to work?” Brendan asked, his voice insistent. “What does that accomplish except make us—or maybe I should speak for myself–make me miserable?”
“You’re miserable?” Tracy asked, clearly not even trying to conceal how pleased that made her.
“Will you let me take you out or not?”
“Call me tomorrow, Brendan,” she said, her voice firm this time. “Okay? Good night.”
When she hung up, Brendan cursed under his breath and turned over in bed, tossing the phone aside and almost immediately falling asleep.
Standing outside Tracy’s townhouse, finger poised over the bell, Brendan took a deep breath and pressed the button. He’d waited and called to ask her out again just as she told him to. It’s tomorrow, he’d said, barely awake himself. So can I take you out to dinner or what? And she said yes right away even though it was six a.m. and she was half-asleep.
It was a Thursday night so they would get something to eat and he’d bring her right back home, that was his plan. After having been apart for so long, that was probably all they could manage right now, so he was going to take it really, really slow.
Tracy opened the door and it was impossible not to smile when he saw her. She was wearing a brown mini-dress and underneath it black tights with ankle boots. She’d lost weight since he’d seen her last, which he now realized was about two months ago. The plan was to play it cool but when she smiled back at him, giving him the sweet-Tracy smile, he leaned in slightly and she pulled him down the rest of the way for a kiss. When Brendan raised his head, Tracy’s lips followed his until she had to stand on her toes.
“We have reservations,” he laughed, pulling back until she could no longer reach him. “Where’s your jacket?”
Tracy took a light jacket down from her coat-tree and turned to lock her doors.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Spice Coast,” Brendan said.
“Nice.”
They didn’t talk much during the drive, just made polite conversation that felt forced at times. It was difficult keeping both hands on the steering wheel with her sitting next to him. Brendan recalled when he used to drive with one hand resting on her i
nner thigh, and if he didn’t put it there almost immediately, she would reach over and do it for him.
“You look good,” he told her. “How’ve you been?”
“About as you would expect,” she said.
“Which is how?”
“Not so great and then better,” she said.
Brendan glanced over at her, surprised by her candor. She seemed different. Calmer.
“You could have called me,” he said.
“No, Brendan. I couldn’t have,” she said, shaking her head, and he knew what she meant.
It had been his move to make. After everything she’d told him, it was his move and now that she was sitting here in the car next to him, he couldn’t even think of why it had taken him so long to make it.
At Spice Coast, they ordered the best house specials and Brendan chose one of their most expensive Chilean wines to pair with their dinner. While they ate, they talked about Lounge Two-Twelve and Tracy’s work. Brendan told her about the new hours at the club and Tracy told him about a conference in Paris later in the winter that her boss was sending her to.
It was pleasant.
And he hated it, because it was nothing like the way they used to be with each other.
After the meal was done and he paid the tab, they walked out into the cool evening and Brendan felt the urge to hold her hand, but Tracy had stuffed them into the pockets of her jacket and was walking next to him, but not very close. Despite their warm greeting at her front door, a new distance had sprung up between them and as he drove her back home, Brendan felt his optimism about the future begin to fade.
Maybe he’d stayed away too long, and she just wasn’t feeling it anymore. Maybe it was for the best. Outside her townhouse, he found parking not too far away and was able to walk her up the steps to her door, waiting while she pulled out her keys. Finding them, Tracy unlocked the doors and turned to face him.
“Well,” she said, “that was . . . just awful.”
And they both started laughing at the same time.
Unsuitable Men Page 22