Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  Would I toss myself in front of the number 11 bus? No.

  Would I survive? Yeah, probably.

  Would I ever be the same? No. Obviously not.

  I wasn’t going to win this one, and I wasn’t going to recover from this one either.

  One thing I did know with certainty: This was hands down the worst day of my life.

  But hey, I’m Fletch. I’ll be fine, right? I’m always fine.

  And you had to smile. Remember me? The moron who didn’t believe in love? Well look at me now. Pretty funny, huh?

  But I’m always fine, aren’t I?

  Sitting on the black marble rim of the fountain, I leaned back and looked up at the arches of the opera house windows, and I tilted my head back—so nothing would roll out of my blinking eyes.

  I don’t cry, I reminded myself. I couldn’t.

  I leaned over my lap and balled the hoody up against my face.

  He’d been wearing it.

  I was so not fine.

  Bent over, with my face buried deep in the soft white fabric, I hoped that somehow, between the muffling sweatshirt and the splashing water behind me, no one would notice the wrenching sobs that ripped through my body.

  Like meat hooks.

  Like rifle shots.

  Chapter 39

  Your Slip Is Showing…and It’s Pink

  Roger

  “Hey, Alice,” I said answering the phone. Alice was Katrina’s secretary. She’d been at the firm since forever. The joke was that Alice could remember when that nice Abe Lincoln had been a summer associate. Alice looked like she’d been the model for those heads on Easter Island. That was Alice—a stone idol in a blond wig. My breezy, casual greeting to her on the phone was a complete front. When Alice’s name came up on the phone, my blood ran cold. The woman scared the living bejeebers out of me.

  “Brunhilde wants to see you,” she growled. That would be Katrina. “Consider yourself summoned.”

  “On my way.”

  It wasn’t as if I was doing anything anyway. I’d spent most of the last couple days staring out the window—wasn’t quite sure how I was going to handle that on my time entries. Lawyers bill their time to clients, and if you don’t bill any time, it tends to raise some eyebrows, to say the least. Honestly, I wasn’t really sure why I was even coming in.

  But I dutifully ran up the two flights to Katrina’s floor, and I was just a bit out of breath when I stood at Alice’s desk. She was, as always, reading a beat-up paperback. This one looked like it had already been read by the entire Bulgarian army. On the front cover was an impossibly handsome guy with a lot of black hair blowing in the wind, and he held in his beefy arms a girl in a period costume and a half-faint. Both parties were showing ample cleavage.

  I never quite reconciled rock-faced Alice with the bodice-ripper paperbacks.

  It had occurred to me that maybe she fantasized about being the bosomy babe getting ravished by the swarthy stud with the storm-tossed hair.

  Then it occurred to me that maybe she fantasized about being the swarthy stud doing the ravishing.

  And then it occurred to me that maybe it didn’t really bear thinking about.

  Alice didn’t look up or speak, but she indicated with a jerk of her wig that I should go in. I tapped and peeked around the door.

  “Hey?” I said.

  “Hello, Roger. Come on in. Alice?” She raised her voice to reach the secretary. “Hold my calls please.” She waited for an answer. None came. “Is she out there?” she asked me. I nodded. She rolled her eyes and called out again, “Thank you, Alice,” and then said to me, “Close the door, would you?”

  I did as I was told, but why? Did Katrina call me in to gossip?

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I began. “Is there something going on between Bob and Janine?”

  “For about a year and a half, Roger.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “Fletch picked up on it, I guess. Obviously I hadn’t.”

  “Hmmm,” she said slyly. “Take a seat, Roger.” I took one. “Roger, you’ve been here going on five years, and I’ve watched you grow, as a lawyer, and as a person.”

  Oh.

  Ah.

  Now I understood.

  This was that conversation. I had to close the door so no one would hear me getting fired.

  “Is this where you tell me…”

  “That we don’t see a long-term future for you here at the firm? Yes. Sadly.”

  “Um—okay. I’m—not really surprised.”

  “The usual speech I’m supposed to give you is: I’m sure you’ll be able to take the skills you’ve learned here and develop your career with another firm or a financial institution that might suit you better.”

  “I’ve known for a while I didn’t really fit in.”

  “Goodkin Berdann is pretty competitive, I know. And that’s just not you. But consider maybe a boutique firm. You know you will have a glowing reference from me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How are you doing otherwise, Roger? I’m asking as a friend—you seem a little stressed.”

  “It’s been a pretty full week.” A mild understatement.

  “You’ve been lovely to work with. And the quartet has become a huge part of my life, largely because of you. So. In addition to the usual speech, as a friend, I feel I should suggest to you that you look on this as a real opportunity. I know that sounds like some lemons–lemonade Hallmark horseshit, but what I mean is—you’re being given a chance to reassess. You don’t have to jump into the next job you find. You can take your time here. And while you’re taking your time and considering your options, maybe you should think about where your talents lie and what you’re really good at.”

  “Because you think that that’s probably not the law.”

  “Because you play a mean fiddle.”

  “And pretty soon you can catch me playing that mean fiddle in the Fourteenth Street Subway Station.”

  “Don’t be dramatic. You know better than anyone how good you are.”

  “It’s way too late to think about playing professionally.”

  “I don’t know that that’s true. What I do know is—you know more about music, and you hear music better, than anyone I’ve ever met. I’ve learned more about playing Beethoven from you than I did in four years as a music major at Northwestern. You complain that you’re no good at analysis, and when it comes to Trust and Estates, yeah, well, you may be right. But I’ve seen you flip through a Shostakovich quartet that was completely opaque to me, and you knew exactly where to begin to find your way into the piece. You have students now, don’t you?”

  “Student. I have one beginner student who’s on the Roger Prescott Scholarship.”

  “You could easily get paying students and more advanced students. Or you could teach in a high school or college situation.”

  “I don’t think I have the academics for it.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that, but this is the opportunity part I was talking about. New York has some of the best music schools in the country. I don’t have to tell you. I know it’s not the same kind of money as in a big law firm, but you’ve never struck me as somebody who needed a huge paycheck.”

  “You mean because of my family?”

  “I mean because of you.”

  “It’s something I’ve thought about. Teaching. Even Fletch was encouraging me.”

  “Good. Think about it. Talk it over with Jeff.”

  I made a face.

  “Jeff’s gone,” I said. “We’re done.”

  “Oh. I can’t say I’m completely surprised. So then are you and Fletch finally?”

  I made the face again.

  “I threw Fletch out too.”

  “My. You hav
e been busy. I’m sorry to drop this on you on top of all that.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ve expected it. In a way, it’s a relief.”

  “You really threw Fletch out?”

  “Yyyyy-eah.”

  “Wow. I somehow thought you two—and then when he turned up at the old folks’ home to hear you play, and you played the way you did, I thought for sure—”

  “Yeah well.”

  “Just didn’t work out?”

  “Guess not. Can we—”

  “You know,” she said, plowing over the top of me, “that first day when he was just there again, at our rehearsal—when was that? A month ago? There was a moment—and I’ll never forget it—the two of you were in the kitchen, and I don’t know what was going on in there, but I looked up just as he wiped a tear from your cheek with the cuff of his sweatshirt—and it hit me as the most beautiful, the tenderest…” She seemed to get lost for a moment and then came back, incredulous of my apparent stupidity. “You tossed him out?!”

  “Yep. I sure did.” And a little dose of Katrina in sappy mode wasn’t making me feel any better about it.

  “Because you know, I thought that day, if anybody ever did something like that for me…”

  “Well, anyway. Let’s talk about something cheerier. You were just about to give me the ax.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And encouraging me to quit my day job because I stink at it.”

  She smiled.

  “Not exactly, but yes.”

  “Now would you just explain it to my family?”

  “I’ve watched you for four-and-a-half years, and I can tell you this much. You’re a big boy, Roger.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I think it’s fair to say that you tried it their way; you gave it a serious shot. And maybe now it’s time to try your way.”

  “Hey, that’s good. Write that down for me, would you?”

  We both smiled.

  “Play out your time here. No one has a problem with you staying through the summer, and then start school somewhere in the fall maybe. But whatever happens, you have to stay with the quartet.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “And here’s something I should have done long ago. You should be playing first violin.”

  “But it’s your quartet!”

  “I knew from day one that you were a much better musician than I am, but I’m vain. And it is my quartet. But here’s my proposal. From here on, you take over, and you play first on anything new.”

  “Seriously?”

  “And you take over music selection.”

  “I’d like that. Wow. Thanks. You know what that means, though—”

  “Ravel!” we said together.

  “I knew it.”

  “Finally! And we need a better name than the Goodkin Berdann Quartet.”

  “Look at you. You’ve just been told to start job hunting. Usually I’m handing over a box of tissues at this point, and instead, you’re sitting there grinning like the canary that ate the cat because you get to play first violin in an amateur quartet. I think if you look closely, you’ll see that there is a tiny clue in there as to where your real interests are.”

  “You may be right.”

  “I’m always right. You’re just figuring that out now? No wonder you couldn’t cut it here.”

  “Wow. Nice, Katrina, real nice.”

  “And maybe think about this Fletch thing, okay?” Like I’d been doing anything else. “Now scram, before I sic Alice on you.”

  Chapter 40

  One Skinny Latte and a

  Double Shot of Therapy, Please

  Tommy

  The usual ritual, me and Roger standing on this incredibly long line in this incredibly small storefront for a goddamn cup of coffee. The overcrowded shop was even worse now that every man, woman, and child among us was wearing a great big ol’ winter coat—in black, because it’s New York. Roger and I pressed ourselves into the queue behind two chattering Latinas.

  “I swear,” I said, “if I have any more of that pumpkin crap, I’m going to turn into one.”

  I thought I was talking to Roger, but apparently not, because he completely ignored me, even to the point of failing to remind me that there was no actual pumpkin in the cappuccinos. Under the circs, one job and two boyfriends later, I suppose it was understandable that he’d be just the teensiest bit preoccupied.

  “So, how are you holding up?” I asked him.

  The deeply ironical part is that I could work for the next thirty years at the same law firm that was tossing Roger out onto the sidewalk. They paid the lawyers a lot better than staff and then treated them way worse.

  Of course I had no intention of working there for thirty years. Sooner or later one of those hot young lawyer boys was going to chase me around the desk and I was going to let him catch me. And we’ll get married, and I’ll gladly stay home, watch soap operas, and make babies. Or die trying. Either that, or I’ll sell my screenplay, as soon as I write it.

  But Goodkin Berdann was going to be a miserable place without Roger.

  Maybe I should shop around. Rumor was Parker O’Neill was dangling a giganto salary to work for some godawful partner. They’re just on the next block, so I wouldn’t even have to switch Starbuckses. But—and it was a big but—but—Parker O’Neill was Jeff’s firm.

  Wouldn’t it just be a hoot and a half to go work for Jeffrey Bornic? Yeah, probably not.

  Anyway, until some mad-handsome young esquire recognizes what’s right under his gorgeous nose—I still had my morning pash, my little Monday-to-Friday heartbreak, my wicked-eyed barista. Not that it was going anywhere, because it wasn’t, but he was sure nice to look at. Sigh. Let me do that again. Sigh.

  But enough about me. Poor Roger was clearly in bad shape.

  “I’ve had better weeks,” Roger said, answering my question from not one, not two, but I think it was four digressions ago.

  “You miss Jeff that much?” I knew better than that, but I figured it was a place to start.

  “No. Isn’t that awful? What does that say about me? It says I’m an awful person.”

  “Probably. But you were still smart to dump him.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So. What about the other one?” He looked at me. “He-who-must-not-be-named,” I clarified, as if he needed clarification. Roger’s turn to sigh. He did it much better than me anyway.

  “Yeah. Him. It’s always the other one.”

  “Are you moping?”

  “No. Yes. Yes, I’m moping. I am in full-on moping mode. Stand back. I don’t want to get any on you.”

  “So what happened? Honestly, I thought you guys were heading toward—”

  “He fucked Jeff.”

  “My aunt Fanny,” I said to express my disbelief.

  The two girls in front of us, who had been prattling away nonstop, were suddenly mute.

  “It’s true,” Rog said.

  The girls turned their heads slightly to Roger, so they could hear a little better. I’m not really sure what it means to cock your ears, but I’m pretty sure—those ears were good and cocked.

  Sounds mad wrong, though, doesn’t it?

  However, back to the subject at hand—I simply could not believe that Fletch, after all I’d seen and all I’d heard from him, would then jump on somebody else. And if he had jumped on somebody else, that somebody else would have been anybody on earth who was not Jeff Bornic.

  “I don’t believe it. It never happened. He hates Jeff, and vicey versy.”

  “Apparently, it wasn’t always so.”

  “Oh. This was…a while ago?”

  “I guess.”

  “Oh. And you know this because…”

  “He told me.”

  “Oh. Jeff?”r />
  “Fletch.”

  “Figures. So was this while you and Fletch…”

  “No.”

  “While you and Jeff…”

  He nodded.

  “Also figures. So you’re pissed off at Fletch because he shouldn’t have told you? Or because he told you what Jeff should have told you but didn’t?”

  “That’s not it.”

  The line snailed forward, our faithful listeners carefully keeping themselves in earshot at all times.

  “Are you pissed off because Fletch slept with your boyfriend? Or because Jeff slept with your boyfriend?”

  “I’m pissed off because nobody should have been sleeping with anybody!”

  Roger was oblivious to the babes in front of us, who by now had given up any pretense of minding their own business. They were doing everything but taking shorthand.

  “I’m mad because he’s such a slut. And I don’t want him to be. I want him to be—better than that somehow. He’s—in so many ways, he’s better than anyone I know. You know?” Roger’s voice cracked. “He’s—you’ll laugh but—he’s finer, somehow. So why does somebody need all that screwing around?”

  “I don’t know. Have you ever asked him?”

  “I’m not going to ask him, ‘Hey, Fletch, why are you a sex addict? What’s behind this unhealthy need to be constantly desired? Why are you compelled to go around, letting total strangers slurp on your hoober-hobber?’”

  Unfortunately, the two eavesdroppers in line ahead of us had just placed their orders and stepped aside—albeit not far—and we were now at the head of the line. In the meantime, my dear friend at the cash register, Miss Max Factor of some recent year, summoned her dignity and drew herself up to her full four foot eleven.

  “If it’s all the same to you,” she said deadpan, “let’s leave my hoober-hobber out of it.”

  At which point the Nosey Twins, quite understandably, burst into screams of laughter. It was pretty damned funny.

  The cashier graciously drummed the register with her bear-gutting nails, each nail with a little teeny-tiny turkey on it.

  “Uh—skinny latte—grande,” said Roger. His face was roughly the color of a firetruck.

  “Name?” Like she didn’t know.