by Jill Knapp
“What do you mean by that?” he challenged.
“Well,” I said looking him up and down, “with the aviators, leather jacket, and skinny jeans, you kind of look like a gay Roy Orbison.”
Alex shook his head, grabbed the shopping bag off the ground and tossed it over his shoulder. He was a good-looking guy. If only he wasn’t such an arrogant prick all of the time, I wouldn’t have to be so hard on him.
“And on that note, I will be seeing you tonight,” he said. “Oh, and if you could pick up one of those slutty leprechaun dresses to wear, I would be eternally grateful.”
“Never going to happen,” I said, turning to walk away.
“Maybe some thigh-highs to match?” he shouted halfway down the street.
Just like that, any feeling of guilt I had over being a bitch to him was gone.
By the time I got to the front door of my apartment, I had three missed calls. One from Olivia, whose calls I had been avoiding since I saw her lip-locked with our T.A., one from Nicholas, whose calls I had been avoiding since he started contacting me again, and one from my mother, whose calls I just avoid.
I was delaying confrontation and acting like a coward. I would have to see Olivia tonight at Alex’s place, assuming she was going. I wondered if she would bring John. The thought made me shudder so hard, I could barely turn my key in the door. The moment I did, however, I was immediately taken aback. The apartment was covered with flowers. Not just flowers, sunflowers, which just so happened to be my favorite. I tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter, right next to a ribbon-tied bouquet of sunflowers. I made my way through the hallway into the living room, where a vase of them was decoratively sandwiched on the coffee table between a stack of back issues of Vanity Fair and Christine’s Proust collection.
I sat down on the couch, unable to move, and scanned the room solely with my eyes. Flowers bloomed on the windowsill, on the bookshelf – flowers on top of flowers. Who did this? Why would they do this? I felt a sudden overwhelming urge to call the police, as someone had surely broken into my home. Channeling all of my energy, I scrapped the call to the fuzz and made my way into my bedroom, not overlooking the vase on top of the toilet. As I entered my bedroom, sure enough, more flowers greeted me.
I thought back to this morning and decided today really was like a David Lynch movie. Seemingly innocent at first, but an underlying feeling of dread inevitably leads to horror and chaos. There on my pillow, a solo sunflower, most likely staining my linens with its pollen. I picked it up off my bed and held it to my nose. It smelled beautiful, like the distant memory of summer, a season I hadn’t seen in what felt like years. For a moment I imagined all of these flowers were from Michael. I imagined he changed his mind, that this was his way of telling me he loved me and that he was leaving Marge. And then I noticed the vase on my desk, with a single beige envelope sticking out on the side. I held it to my chest and closed my eyes. If I prayed, this was a good time to do so. I opened my eyes and read the note.
Amalia,
There are really no words to describe just how foolish I have been, but I’m going to give it a shot. You were (are) the most important thing in my life. I can’t apologize enough for the way I treated you, and on your birthday no less!
I am infinitely sorry, and will do anything to get you to speak to me again. Please forgive me. I love you – always and forever.
-Nicholas
I dropped the card on the desk. Something about this felt off. A rush of emotion washed through me that I couldn’t pinpoint. Anger? No. Happiness? No. Then I figured it out.
Fear.
The whole Michael debacle had done a great job of distracting me from the pain of Nick leaving. Now, it seemed, he wanted me back. Regardless of whether or not I was going to call Nick, one thing was certain. I had to get all of these flowers out of the apartment. I took a single flower from my bed, pressed it inside one of my biology textbooks and began to purge the rest. I grabbed a black garbage bag from underneath the sink and went to town. By the time I was finished disposing of the evidence – if I didn’t see something, I wouldn’t have to deal with it – I decided now would be as good a time as any to do a full-blown spring cleaning. I slapped on rubber gloves, armed myself with Clorox, and made my way into the bathroom.
The cleaning frenzy lasted longer than anticipated. By the time I checked the clock, two hours had passed and I had to start getting ready for Alex’s party. Snapping off the rubber gloves, I plopped onto the couch, exhausted. Michael would probably be at Alex’s apartment, and my day was going to most likely get worse, not better. I rubbed my eyes. How did my life get so complicated? When did I start feeling so sorry for myself all of the time? It was time to start making decisions, to stop sitting back and waiting for life to happen to me. I got up and made my way into the bedroom to change clothes. On the way there, I grabbed my cell phone and scrolled down to my address book. If I was going to this shindig, I was going to need backup.
Chapter 29
Shadows of sobriety
“Oh my God, we’re going to die!” Cassandra shouted, aggressively pulling at my arm. “This tram car is going to flip over and fall out of the sky.”
“Could you lower your voice?” I said in an elevated whisper. A family stood nearby, with their five-year-old son staring at us, panicked. “It’s okay! She’s just a little afraid of heights.” I smiled politely at the mother, who then proceeded to pick up her child and move to the other side of the tram.
Cassandra and I were on our way to Alex’s St. Patrick’s Day party, and it was a little bit of a trip to get there. There are two ways to get to Roosevelt Island. The normal way is to take the F train and get off at the Roosevelt Island stop. The other way is to take the overhead tram from 59th street that runs on a cable over the water. It runs about every fifteen minutes and you’re only on it for about five or six. This would be a breeze except my good friend Cassandra is petrified of heights, which I’ll admit to overlooking when asking her to join me on this excursion.
A few minutes and a few claw marks from Cassie’s nails later, we arrived on the other side of the water to the elusive island. Roosevelt Island is a small island in between Manhattan and Queens. It is inhabited by 9,520 people, one of whom happens to be Alex Carlson.
“So, why are we here again?” Cassandra asked, stumbling over her four-inch Louboutins.
“We’re making an appearance. Showing Michael, and all the others, that I’m fine,” I said with as much gumption as I could muster up. “I’m tired of letting everyone else make decisions for me, Cass. Michael, Nicholas – it’s time for me to just live my life the way I want to, and if someone wants to come along for the ride, well then that’s great.”
“Wow. That’s amazing, Amalia, good for you!” Cassandra said as we approached Alex’s apartment building. “You totally should have brought Hayden to make Michael jealous.”
“Cass, I haven’t talked to Hayden since the night we all met,” I laughed. “So if you are in fact trying to set us up, you’re not doing a very good job.”
She stopped walking and smoothed out her green dress. Unlike me, who believes that dressing up like a sexy leprechaun is childish and provocative, Cassandra fully embraced the opportunity to shine.
“Well, whatever. He’ll call you eventually,” she fluffed up her hair.
“I really don’t care,” I answered, staring at her outfit.
“I still don’t know why you chose to wear jeans,” she said, disappointed I didn’t join her in this tradition.
“Because I’m fresh out of buckles, and green was never my color. Can we go in now? I’m a little cold.”
When we got to apartment 32F, I quickly realized we were the first to arrive. It was 8:00 on the dot, but I should have realized most people wouldn’t start to show up until 9:00.
Turning on the charm, Alex immediately took our coats and offered us each a glass of wine. I graciously accepted and took the liberty of giving myself a tour of the place. Alex’s
apartment was nice, really nice, in fact. I knew he came from family money, but now I could see I didn’t know the half of it.
He lived alone in this huge, two-bedroom, two-bath apartment. The shades in the living room were open, revealing a gorgeous evening view of the Manhattan skyline. The door to the master bedroom was closed, so unfortunately, I couldn’t sneak a peek in there. His kitchen was huge; All-Clad cooking ware elegantly suspended from the ceiling. The rest of the kitchen was completed with a dining area you could actually sit down in. Most New Yorkers end up perched on a stool by the counter, or eating on their living-room coffee table; it is quite unheard of to have a dining room. The furniture was brand new, possibly from ABC Carpet or Restoration Hardware. Not a hint of Ikea in the joint. Even the dark-burgundy throw pillows were perfectly placed on the plush beige-colored sectional. The matching burgundy lamps on the end table made me wonder if he had a decorator, or an interior-design team. The rest of the living room was pulled together by a state-of-the-art entertainment system, completed with Denon surround sound. He definitely did not have to be in graduate school. His family clearly had enough money for him to be set for life. I immediately hated him more.
“So what do you think of the digs?” Alex grinned, fighting with the cork on a bottle of white wine.
“I have to admit, you’ve done well for yourself,” I muttered, doing my best to take the acidity out of my voice.
Alex smiled as the sound of the cork popped out of the wine bottle. He reached above him and grabbed three expensive-looking wine goblets.
“So, Amalia, why didn’t you dress up?” Alex asked, challenging me.
“I’m not Irish, so I don’t usually celebrate the holiday,” I said, putting it as simply as I could.
“Yeah, sure, me neither.” He poured three glasses of wine. “But don’t you want to be a part of it?”
“A part of what?”
He placed the bottle down on the counter top and looked at me through confused eyes.
“Part of the whole scene?” he said, as if it was obvious. “Don’t you want to go out and experience New York City?”
“Of course I do,” I shot back. “I just don’t think thigh-highs and food coloring are that important.”
“It’s not about the costumes, Amalia. It’s about embracing all this city has to offer. It’s about feeling like you’re a part of something,” he declared, unfazed by my defensiveness.
“I don’t think I need to dress up and binge-drink in order to prove myself, okay?” I said, hoping to finally prove my point and move on.
“If you say so, Hastings.” He took a sip of wine. “I guess you’re just not a true New Yorker.”
This infuriated me more than I probably should have let it. Being challenged by Alex on my social standing was one thing; hell, he could even tease me about my academics if he really wanted to, but there was no way I was going to let him tell me I wasn’t a real New Yorker.
I put my wine glass down and took a step closer to him. “Listen buddy, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” I started my diatribe, speaking slowly. Measured. “There’s more to being a New Yorker than reading The Village Voice and getting drunk in SoHo every other night. And not that I have to defend myself to you, but I have lived in New York my whole life and my parents are from Queens. I’m about as New York as it gets. You’re the one who moved here from ‘Anytown USA’ a whopping six months ago. I lived here before the precious Highline ever opened, and I was here when that haberdashery you love so much down in Alphabet City was a crack house. So don’t give me speeches about your little amateur night holidays and how they somehow reflect your Manhattan-ite status. And don’t you ever sit here and act like I’m not a true New Yorker.”
The room fell silent for a brief second, and all I could hear was the dinging of the elevator arriving down the hall.
“Okay, Amalia!” Cassandra twisted her mouth into an uncomfortable smile. She laughed politely as she pulled on my arm, dragging me over to the couch. “Let’s take a seat and get out of Alex’s way so he can finish setting up.”
I shook my head and followed her. The sound of the door opening stopped my heart and I whipped around hoping to see Michael. I was quickly disappointed. It was only Olivia.
“Hi, Amalia!” She nearly knocked Alex over to give me a hug. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long.”
I had been avoiding Olivia since I saw her with our T.A. I softly hugged her back.
“Hey, Cassandra, how are you?” she asked, giving out another hug.
Olivia seemed to be in a wonderful mood, or maybe she was already drunk. I think I smelled a hint of Crème de Menthe on her breath, or did I imagine that?
An hour later, the apartment was packed, and Olivia was bombed. St. Patrick’s Day, New Year’s Eve, Independence Day, and even Cinco De Mayo are often referred to as “Amateur Night.” It’s the few special evenings of the year when people who are usually reserved or light drinkers all year round come out of the shadows of sobriety and use the holiday as an opportunity to go a little crazy.
Make that a lot crazy.
Olivia was currently dancing on the end table that held the beautiful burgundy lamp. Or should I say, used to hold. Olivia kicked it off the table during an interpretive dance set to an LMFAO song. Was he really still playing Party Rock Anthem? A few seconds later, Alex sprinted over to the table in the living room, and grabbed Olivia. He effortlessly flung her over his shoulder and carried her fireman-style into the spare bedroom.
“Well this was fun,” Cassandra said and she downed the remainder of her green martini.
It went down easier than the green beer. Or the green potato chips. And was that green bread on the counter, or had Alex just not gotten a Fresh Direct order in time?
“So, I’m going to leave,” she grimaced, placing the empty glass on the scene of the crime.
“No, you can’t leave yet!” I pleaded. “It’s still early, plus I heard there’s a shipment of green cupcakes from Georgetown Bakery on their way. Yum!”
Cassandra just shot me her best “are you kidding me” look.
“All right, fine, but I’m going to hang out for another hour or so,” I said. “Do you know how to get back?”
“Oh I sure do,” she whipped out her cell phone. “Hi, I need a car back to Manhattan, please.”
I shook my head and laughed; of course she would never take the tram again. I hugged Cass goodbye and sat down on the couch.
I let out a soft sigh. Pretty much everyone I knew had left, or had to be put to bed. The party still went on around me. People were toasting, and making out in corners. One guy just ran toward the bathroom, odds were to vomit. As I looked around the room at my peers, I thought about how ridiculous it all seemed. I went through this phase in my undergrad years. Now New York City seemed just like college, but with a bigger campus. I took the last sip of my green wine and resolved to call it a night.
“Done already?” Michael asked. I turned around and he took the seat next to me on the couch.
“No, not yet. Fashionably late?” I asked with a small smile. I was happy to see him, but I didn’t feel my usual heart pounding excitement. “You missed the show.” I raised an eyebrow and pointed to the broken lamp.
“I heard,” Michael said, putting his arm around the headrest, which placed his arm somewhat around me. “Alex is in there with her now, holding back her hair.”
“Well, that’s gentlemanly of him,” I scoffed. “He should really get back out here; his pristine apartment is being torn apart.”
“The cleaning lady will come in the morning, and it will be as if none of this ever happened.” He turned toward me and looked me up and down. “No green?”
“What, my Riesling didn’t count?” I said playfully. I shook my head and smiled. “No, I didn’t feel the need to partake in the festivities.”
“So then why are you here?” he asked.
Why was I here? Was it to run into Michael? I hadn’t seen
him since our talk on the Highline, and I had to admit, this conversation wasn’t a completely comfortable one.
I looked at Michael. He was so gorgeous. Even now, wearing a green button-down with a black sweater over it, he was easily the most handsome guy in the room. But somehow, it wasn’t enough anymore.
I thought about everything Michael had put me through this year. Making me feel like he had feelings for me, when he was obviously using me for sex. Keeping the status of his relationship covert, and then spending New Year’s Eve with Marge. Not showing up for my birthday after being the one to suggest we all get together. But above all, his dishonesty. His dishonesty to me, to his girlfriend, and even to himself. The truth was, he had no idea what he wanted, and after nearly a year of pining over him, I decided that was no longer my problem.
I looked down at the nearly empty glass in my hand and took a final swig. I placed it on Alex’s glass coffee table next to about three more empty wine glasses and a copy of Gentlemen’s Quarterly and stood up. I was woozy from all the wine, but I was still in a clear enough state to make it to the F train.
“You know what, Michael? Now I’m done,” I said. “Have a good night.”
Before he could answer, I grabbed my coat and walked out.
Chapter 30
Jersey Girl
Before Michael, before NYU, even before New York City, I was a college student studying at Rutgers University. For four years, New Brunswick, New Jersey was my home, and Harvest Moon on George Street was my local watering hole. Nicholas and I used to spend nearly every Friday night there. It was the best place in town to grab a beer after going to Stuff Yer Face for some stromboli. To this day, Harvest Moon still holds fond memories of my time at Rutgers, which after the year I’d had felt like a lifetime ago. So when Nicholas suggested we meet there Wednesday evening for a drink, my nostalgia got the best of me and I finally caved in. After he flower-bombed my apartment, I started to soften up to the idea of talking to him again. Not necessarily getting back together, just a conversation.