by Lexi Whitlow
“It’s okay,” he assures me. “Lemme see what I have here.”
He turns, bending down, retrieving a bin from beneath his table. Lifting the lid, he pokes around, then comes up with an envelope stuffed with merchandise.
“Was this it?” he asks, handing me a plastic zip-lock containing a bracelet very similar to the one I held earlier. It’s not identical, but it still has the necessary characteristics; weight and beauty entwined into its intricate design.
“I’ll take it,” I say, satisfied. “Can you box it?”
I hate Christmas, and I put Hayes off because honestly, I hadn’t even thought about gifts. I haven’t exchanged Christmas gifts with anyone in years. It’s not a holiday I ever look forward to, and I was happy to let this one pass by myself. Hayes was disappointed. He wanted me to come to his parents for Christmas dinner, but I just couldn’t insert myself into a happy family’s holiday ritual. The idea of that makes my own bleak view of the day that much darker, but seeing this cuff bracelet inspired me to gift-giving.
And maybe it’ll give him something to remember me by after he’s gone.
Chapter 24
Hayes
Chloe and I spent the entire weekend gallery-hopping in Chelsea and Soho at night, then slugging around the city by day, eating and occasionally drinking our way from Broadway to North Central Park. The clock is literally ticking down on our time together. It’s New Year’s Eve, and the party is starting early at my parents’ home. It’s a big deal; an event they host every year for the Who’s Who of the New York City fashion world. The good news is that it’s an early ender. Around nine in the evening things wind down while everyone moves on to bigger festivities at clubs and hotels around the city.
Our apartment is transformed for the party. Much of the furniture is moved out to make space for the standing room only crowd. The three outside terraces are wrapped in clear plastic tents equipped with propane heaters. Inside, gas log fireplaces in all the main rooms are fired up, and tables are arranged for hors d'oeuvres and open bars throughout.
My mother and father are dressed to the nines for the evening. They’ll ring in the New Year at the Metropolitan with a solid two thousand other over-dressed members of Manhattan’s monied elite. Chloe and I are staying in. We’ll have the apartment to ourselves after the party breaks up and the caterers clear out. It’s kind of a tradition for me to spend New Year’s Eve on the roof watching the city below. Tonight, for the first time ever, I won’t be alone.
“Hayes honey, don’t you look handsome,” my mother says as I wind my way down the stairs. She and my father are sitting in the main room, drinking, watching the final touches being put on decorations and table dressings by the staff.
I hope I look handsome. Mom picked out the outfit, which she insists on doing anytime I’m representing on her turf, among her people. I can’t vouch for my appearance. I’ll let Chloe decide.
I pour myself a Scotch from the bottle beside my father, then join them, taking a seat.
“What time is Chloe arriving?” my father asks.
I check my watch. “Twenty minutes or so,” I reply.
He smiles. “Good, we’ll get to spend some time with her before this place becomes a mad house.”
“What are you two doing tonight?” Mom asks. “Going out somewhere?”
“Nope,” I shake my head. “Staying in.”
She gives me a look.
“That’s not a problem, is it? If she stays here tonight?”
The truth is, I’ve never introduced them to a girl before. I’ve sure as shit never brought a girl home to spend the night under their roof.
“No, it’s not,” my father replies. “We know you’re serious about this girl. She seems like a good kid. Just… take your time. Don’t rush into things.”
I nod again, smiling. They forget, I know their story. They met and were engaged within a month, married six months later. I was born just a year after that. They rushed things.
I lift my drink and sip it, letting the peaty burn of the quality Scotch linger high in my nostrils before it sinks down. I take a breath, hesitating, then I summon the courage to ask the question I’ve wanted to ask them for many months.
I address my father first. “How did you know… How did you know that mom was ‘the one’? What made you certain?”
My father sits back, crossing his legs, reaching his hand out to take my mother’s. He shakes his head, smiling warmly. “I just knew,” he says. “After I first laid eyes on Kendall, I just couldn’t see anyone else.”
I pose the same question to my mother. Her response is a little different.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “It was a gradual thing. I fell in love with the way he held my hand, and I just kept falling in love, in little ways, over and over again, day after day, year after year. I still do.” She squeezes my father’s hand tightly. “He’s the best friend I ever had, and aside from you, the only other person in the world I trust implicitly.”
My dad grins. “I still got it,” he says, raising his drink. He winks at me. “You’ll know, Hayes. It’ll be devastatingly obvious to you. If it isn’t, she’s the one.”
Oh, it’s devastatingly obvious. Especially when Chloe arrives. She’s wearing sparkly black leggings and a tuxedo shirt with short frills on the front, open deep, revealing more of her cleavage than I’m entirely comfortable with other men seeing. Her jacket is a white tuxedo cut with black satin trim, tailored to accentuate her narrow waist. The outfit is anchored by a pair of delicate but towering patent leather pumps.
She takes my breath away.
“Jesus, look at you,” I whisper into her ear, hugging her. “I need to take a picture.”
She looks up at me, smiling sheepishly. “A couple of the girls at work took pity on me and helped out,” she admits. “Everything’s borrowed. Even the earrings.”
I take a step back, taking her in. “Find out where they shop. We’ll be visiting.”
My mother and father beckon us inside. Mom takes one look at Chloe. “Oh, Chloe darling, you look stunning. You could work the runway. Who dressed you dear? You’re amazing.”
High praise, indeed, from the Queen of NYC couture.
An hour later I’m hanging back, watching Chloe get a taste of what’s in store for her. She’s surrounded by a throng of young men. They’re all captivated by the beautiful new girl in the room who’ve they’ve never seen before. She’s charming, and intelligent, and even more attractive than that, she’s got genuine humility.
“She’s quite something,” my dad says, stepping up beside me, watching Chloe with me. “Not only lovely, but smart. And guessing by the gossip I hear, also talented. You didn’t tell us Mary Boon signed her. I just heard that from Mary herself.”
I nod, not taking my eyes off Chloe. I didn’t know Mary was coming tonight, but I’m not surprised.
“She’s trying to keep it under wraps,” I say. “Ease into the process gradually.”
“Wise,” my father replies.
“Regarding the question you asked your mother and me earlier…”
I turn. “Yeah?”
He smiles at me, then once more lets his eyes settle on Chloe. “Don’t be shy about it. This city is competitive. Don’t leave her unattended too long.”
Just then I see the thing happen that I’ve been anticipating. One of the guys chatting up Chloe reaches toward her, touching her. She draws back, subtly, probably unconsciously, her posture stiffening, and her eyes start scanning the room—for me.
“Excuse me,” I say to my father, stepping into the crowd and then up behind Chloe. I circle my arm around her possessively, gently pulling her into my chest. I feel her relax against me. She glances up and smiles, a little alcohol pinking her cheeks.
Every one of the guys near her take two steps back.
“Mary’s here,” I say, ignoring them. “Should we find her and say hello?”
She nods, begging regrets for abandoning her throng of admirers.
“Thank you,” she whispers once we’re out of earshot. “That was starting to get a little intense.”
A few hours later, when the party’s over, Chloe and I head outside onto the terrace with a bottle of good Scotch and a plate of hors d’oeuvres. Except for the twinkling Christmas lights hung on the walls and strung from the gargoyles, it’s dark, and quiet, and damned romantic.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, pouring a short glass of Scotch for each of us. “And every guy in that room tonight wanted you.”
She blushes, shaking her head. “You have a vivid imagination.”
“I really don’t,” I say. “What I have is a keen eye for observation.” I sip my drink, devouring two pieces of sushi before going on. “So, what I need to do is back you into a corner, of sorts. And I know you don’t like being backed into corners.”
Chloe levels her gaze on me, folding her hands in front of her. “Hayes, what are you talking about?”
I take a breath, trying to muster courage. I should have bought a damn ring when I had the chance.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I say. “And you’re going to be at a lot of parties between now and when we see each other again…”
“Hayes…” she tries to interrupt.
“Let me finish,” I insist. “Promise me… Just promise me you’ll give us until I come home at the end of Spring term. Promise you won’t give up on us. That you won’t forget about me when one of these guys tries to turn your head.”
Her expression thins. “If a promise is what you need,” she says. “I can make that promise. Can you do the same?”
“Chloe, what do you mean?” I ask, feeling the sting of accusation in her tone.
She smiles. “You’re going back to Richmond. Back to a college that’s mostly young women who would drop their panties in a New York minute just to get a little attention from you. You’re young and gorgeous and you’re the professor. You’re a sex magnet on campus. Shit, even Liza Johnson wants you.”
She doesn’t think I have enough self-control to be faithful to her.
“It’s okay,” Chloe says. “I understand how you feel. But I also understand that I can’t do a damn thing about the situation. You’re leaving. I’m staying. And there’s going to be a whole lot of empty space between us for a long time.”
“Chloe, I promise you I can—”
She holds up her hand to stop me. “Don’t,” she begs, her expression pained. “Don’t ruin it. Don’t make promises. Don’t ask for promises. Promises get broken, then covered up with lies, and lies are found out and then the accusations pile on with resentment. Just… don’t. Let’s just be, and see what happens.”
Silence falls like a pall between us. I don’t know how to interpret what she’s said, how—or if—to respond. All I know is my heart hurts, just imagining what she feels about all this, about us. It hurts me to love her, and know she doubts me.
How do I re-wire twenty-one years of experience that tells her everything fails, and everyone fails her? I can’t.
Chloe hauls in a deep breath, giving me a dry smile. “You’re impatient and you’re used to getting your way. Not everything is a project that can be taken apart, down to its small pieces. Sometimes things are just a giant complicated mess with no order or reason. You can’t understand everything, and you can’t always fix things.”
“But I want to,” I say, feeling an unwelcome catch in my throat.
She shakes her head at me. “Stop trying so hard,” she advises. “You can’t. Take it from me. Sometimes stuff just happens inexplicably. You need to accept what you’ve got and do the best with it you can. That’s the only thing that gets me through the day; acceptance.”
She reaches into her jacket pocket, producing a small box with a silver bow on top.
“For instance, I don’t like Christmas,” she says. “But you do, and you were disappointed that I didn’t want to do Christmas. So… I accepted the fact that the whole tradition meant something to you, even though it goes against every bone in my body. And here’s the thing, once I accepted it, it got easier, and things fell into place.”
She pushes the box forward.
“Merry-belated-Christmas-Happy-New-Year’s. I did exactly what everyone does with Christmas gifts. I spent too much on something you’d never buy for yourself, because I liked it, and want to see you wear it for reasons that only gratify me.”
Good lord. She makes me laugh, even as she’s ripping my guts out. I can’t help but smile at her self-aware cynicism.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Open it,” she instructs.
“No,” I reply coolly. “Not ‘til I have yours and we can do it together.”
“Where’s mine?”
“Upstairs,” I say. “Finish eating. We’ll go up. Eat up, because I plan on plying you with quantities of alcohol before the ball drops. I’m halfway pissed at you, but I still want to kiss you at midnight.”
“You have no reason to be pissed at me,” she says, gobbling a slightly soggy Asian dumpling. “I’ve only been honest with you. You can’t be upset with honesty.”
Yes, I can.
My bedroom suite is on the top floor of our apartment. By itself, it’s larger than Chloe’s entire flat, which isn’t small by New York City standards. I’m apprehensive, showing her in, as it still looks a bit like a boy’s room. I haven’t lived her since I was sixteen. That said, I guess I should be grateful I was a precocious sixteen-year-old. The framed prints on the wall are Albert Durer and William Blake. The library alcove with my old desk tucked in, features solidly great reading material, from Adams to Zelazny.
“Wow,” Chloe observes, taking in the space. “This is nice.”
She spins around the room, admiring the vaulted ceilings, the overhead loft where I used to spend hours reading, and the glass curtain wall and sliding doors opening onto my own private roof-top terrace and a breathtaking view of midtown Manhattan.
I’ve never brought a girl here. The idea of her here, in my bed, is piquant. Even with the words between us downstairs, I can’t help but adore the air she breaths. That exchange may have made me love her and want her even more, if that’s even possible.
I peel my jacket off, slinging it over a chair, then untuck my shirt.
“Come sit,” I say, retrieving her gifts from my closet, bringing them forward to the bed.
Chloe joins me on the big, king-sized spread. We sit facing one another, buddha-style.
“What’s this?” she asks, peering down at the two boxes I’ve placed between us.
“I got you two,” I say. “One for Christmas, and one just ‘cause.”
She furrows her brow. “You’re always one-upping people.”
“And you need to learn how to be a little more gracious.” I shove the large box forward. “Open this one first.”
She carefully removes the wrapping paper, as if she plans to keep it and use it again later. Then she examines the box with suspicion. Lifting the lid, she peeks inside. Her expression rises.
“Hayes, these must have cost a fortune.”
She lifts a brand new, brown calfskin and pony hair cowboy boot from its resting place. The boots are handmade in Italy, lined with kidskin, and should last a lifetime, along with being guaranteed weatherproof. That and they look fantastic.
“You like ‘em?” I ask.
She nods, her eyes gleaming as her fingers brush the short, brown and white spotted hair on the boot shaft. She turns the thing upside down, examining the thick leather sole.
“I really like them,” she says. “I can’t wait to wear them!”
I urge her to try them on, which she does with a pair of my socks. She says they fit perfectly, which is good, because I had to wing it, checking the sizes in every pair of shoes she owns.
They look great on her. Sexier than her old pair.
“Don’t toss your old ones out,” I say. “They’ve got history.”
The smile the gift produces almost makes up
for the fact that she doesn’t trust me, or believes won’t come back as smitten with her as I am now.
Once she’s peeled the boots off and returned them to their box, she presses her gift for me forward.
“I didn’t get you anything so grand,” she says. “And now I feel out done.”
I pop the bow and rip the paper back—I am not recycling the giftwrap). I lift the lid on the small box. Seeing its contents, my heart skips a beat.
It’s the cuff bracelet from Artists and Fleas at Chelsea Market. The same one she turned over, examining so carefully. How can this be?
I start laughing. I lift the thing, feeling its weight. It’s a substantial piece of hardware, and given that Chloe picked it out for me to gratify herself, I’ll happily wear it every day.
“I thought it might give you something to remember me by,” Chloe says softly. “It’s heavy enough, at least you won’t be able to forget you have it on.”
I nod, humbled. The girl never stops surprising me, and the universe never stops reminding me just how unusual this thing between us is.
“I love it, Angel,” I say, slipping the thing onto my wrist. “I won’t take it off. Ever. I’ll carry it on my right arm like I’m carrying you with me.” I lean forward and give her a chaste kiss, thanking her, my eyes threatening to go a touch misty.
I press her second gift forward. “Your turn.”
Once more she carefully removes the tape and unfolds the paper wrapping the small box. She sets the paper aside, then lifts the lid.
Chloe’s eyes grow large, filled with question, then she too laughs out loud.
“How did you…?”
She lifts the bracelet from the box. It’s almost identical to the one I’m now wearing. They’re a perfectly matched set.
“You liked it,” I say. “And I liked it. It’s solid, like you. I asked the guy to hold it for me. Told him I’d be back.”
“Oh my…” she says, a little choked up. “That’s almost…”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It means something.”
She slips the hefty piece of metal onto her wrist. It’s a looser, more feminine, fluid fit on her arm. Mine is perfect, snug at the wrist, un-moving.