New Amsterdam: Julia

by Ashley Pullo

  “I don’t know much about baseball. I mean, I know where I am, and I know this is a playoff game leading to the World Series in a few weeks. I could probably name a few of the players, and I love sunflower seeds and Cracker Jacks – but that’s about it.”

  “Seriously? I can’t imagine my life without baseball.”

  “Did you play?”

  “Little League, high school, partial scholarship to the University of Alabama. I was never going to play professionally, but it did lead me here.”

  Julia relaxes her shoulders under the warmth and heaviness of his arm. He’s just a normal guy, passionate and sincere, and super easy on the eyes.

  “Fucking dammit,” Alex shrills, flying from his seat while knocking Julia’s head in the process.

  “Everything okay?” asks Julia, rubbing her crown.

  “I’ll be right back,” he huffs, climbing over her and stepping on her foot.

  Rolling her eyes, Julia removes her phone from her purse and sends a text to Meredith.

  Jules: Yankees Alex is intense.

  Meredith: How so?

  Jules: I think he’s like super pissed the Yankees are losing.

  Meredith: What inning?

  Jules: How would I know?

  Meredith: Scoreboard.

  Julia squints her eyes to read all the surrounding digital signs and advertisements. Delta, Ford, Casio, and at least a dozen Pepsi markers steal the attention from the actual details of the game.

  Ah, ha! She finds the scoreboard and relays the information.

  Jules: There are numbers up to the 5 column. 2 runs for Astros and 0 for Yankees.

  Meredith: 2-0. 5th inning. #truecolors

  Julia looks back at the glass enclosed suite to find Alex standing at the top of the stairs with his arms crossed. She decides to wait it out, hoping his passion for the game is the cause of his pouting and not an indication of a potential man-boy that needs to be coddled.

  Jules: I’ll keep you updated.

  Meredith: Prepare for the Hulk. Yankees fans don’t like to lose the playoffs.

  At the top of the sixth inning, Alex finally returns to the box seats carrying two beers and a bag of sunflower seeds. He sits on the left side of Julia so he won’t be forced to climb over her.

  “So . . . tonight my job sucks, but you shouldn’t have to see that side of me.” With a kind smile, he places the beers in the cup holders and passes Julia the bag of sunflower seeds. “The only thing that could save this game would be to watch Julia Pierce spit sunflower shells on the floor of the press box in Yankees Stadium.”

  “Oh, really?” she teases, ripping open the bag with her teeth. She offers him a handful, and then shoves a mouthful through her perfectly-stained ruby lips. Trying to suck off all the salt while fighting laughter, Julia adds, “I swear to God, if you put this in your write-up, I will sue you for defamation.”

  “Threats actually turn me on,” he deadpans.

  Laughing, Julia parts her legs and lowers her head to carefully deposit the tiny shells onto the cement floor. Because of the lack of projectile force, the seeds tumble across her leg and land on her boots. “Crap,” she utters between fits of laughter.

  Alex leans into her with a devilish grin and teases, “Spitting is almost as sexy as swallowing.”

  Taking a swig of her beer, she nods sarcastically. “Do you like all sports or just baseball?”

  “All sports, really. My first assignment with the Herald was the Sochi Olympics. Surprisingly, I loved every minute of it. Even the figure skating – those girls were so young and tiny, but their discipline was unmatched.”

  “I was an ice skater!” Julia says.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Dancer too, I bet.”

  “Yep, ballet.

  “Confession?”

  “Sure.”

  “I was nervous about asking you out. You’re slightly intimidating at the paper.” Alex spits out the sunflower shells and drinks his beer. Placing his arm around her shoulders again, he adds, “The bull pen even gave you a nickname.”

  “What? Tell me!” she demands.

  “It’s really crude.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Prissy Pussy.”

  Julia’s mouth drops in horror. “Are you serious?”

  Alex whips his arm back to his side and leans forward. “Yeah.” As the Astros score their third run during the seventh inning, he kicks the back of the chair in front of him and curses under his breath. He removes his phone from his jean pocket and rapidly fires a text to his editor. “Well, fuck me,” he whines.

  In the bottom of the eighth inning, Alex clenches his jaw and crosses his arms, silently praying for a late-game miracle. Annoyed by his moody disposition, Julia replies to several emails while Alex pouts. “Do you want another beer?” she asks, assessing his mood.

  “Nah, I’m good.” As the Astros strike out in the top of the ninth, he smiles with a glimmer of hope. “Here we go.”

  “So the Yankees need three runs and it’s a tie?” asks Julia.

  He shakes his head. “Three runs and then extra innings. There’s no tie games in baseball.”

  “Oh,” she mutters, sinking into her seat.

  When the umpire calls the third Yankees strike, the game is officially over. “Fuck!” yells Alex, kicking the seat. “The season’s over. God damn it!”

  “Crap!” Julia feigns interest. “Let me buy you a drink.” She drops her phone in her purse and smiles, hoping she can lure him from the depressive aura of Yankees Stadium.

  “Yeah, let’s get out of here. Are you Downtown?”

  Standing from her seat and pocketing the bag of sunflower seeds, she replies, “Yes. Where are you?”

  “A tiny shithole in Alphabet City.”

  “Gross. We’ll go to my place.” Stepping over the puddles of beer and the wet piles of unwanted shells, Julia subtly adds, “And by the way, I’m not prissy. And I hate cats.”

  Guiding her up the steps with his hand on the small of her back, Alex whispers into her ear, “Um, I don’t think the guys were referring to the feline type of pussy.”

  Inside the small lobby of Julia’s Gold Street apartment, Alex takes a few exaggerated steps backwards toward the exit. His face is ashen, his shoulders are tense, and his smile is awkward as he says, “I had a great time, Julia. Maybe we can catch a Knicks game sometime.” He’s possibly interested in a second date, yet his voice is shaky and strained, slowly plummeting toward the abyss of dating aberration.

  “That would be fun,” Julia replies. Never gonna happen, she thinks.

  As Alex blindly reaches for the handle to the large glass door, he mistakenly bumps into Theo entering the building with a paper bag of steaming bagels.

  “Sorry, man,” Alex apologizes as he darts past Theo.

  Julia shrugs her shoulders and presses the button to the elevator. “Did you get plain?” she asks, eyeing the brown paper sack.

  “Always. So who was that, Jules?” Theo extends his arm through the small opening of the caged elevator door and then lodges his body against the frame, allowing Julia to safely enter.

  “Yankees Alex from work,” she answers flatly.

  Vaulting into the deathtrap without a second to spare, Theo leans against the padded velvet wall and smirks. “You know I have a strict policy about Yankees fans getting too close to me.”

  “Ha – I forgot you love the Mets. And don’t worry, I scared him off.”

  “He did look like he might have the shits.”

  As the elevator moans to a halt on the third floor, Julia pulls apart the cage door and says, “Let me grab Fletch – meet me on the roof?”

  “You mean, the wooftop?”

  “Oh, Theo.” She sighs.

  Unlocking the door, Fletch playfully attacks Julia and humps her leg. He sniffs around her knees, and then her boots, before prancing toward the kitchen. “Yes, I had a date,” she admits. Throwing her bag on the sofa and then joining him in her tiny, galley-st
yle kitchen, she removes two hard ciders from the fridge. Latching a leash to his harness, the pair make their way up three flights of stairs to the rooftop.

  “Ah, good. You brought apple juice,” Theo teases, taking a bottle of Angry Orchard.

  They lean against a brick wall, whimsically painted with stars and aliens, and watch Fletch run along the small patch of grass. Julia tears her warm bagel in half and takes a big bite.

  With her mouth full, she asks, “You know what I do at the Herald, right?”

  “Journalist – rich people weddings.”

  “Does it freak you out?”

  “Journalism or rich people?” asks Theo, guzzling the super sweet alcoholic beverage.

  “The wedding part.”

  “No, why?”

  “On the way home from our date, I asked Yankees Alex if he’d like to go to a wedding I’m covering for my column. I’d normally take Meredith, because she’s loads of fun with her snarky commentary, but I thought, why not take an actual plus one for once? “ Julia rips off a piece of her bagel and tosses it on the grass, laughing as Fletch devours it in one bite. “The panic on Alex’s face was hilarious though.”

  “So he took you to a baseball game, which was technically a work thing, but he can’t go with you to your work thing?”

  “Yeah, and he thinks I’m too intimidating.”

  “Yankees Alex is a dick.”

  “Why do all the men I date assume I’m obsessed with marriage? It’s not like I have a collection of bridal magazines and wedding veils stashed in my closet.”

  “Jules, most men are dumb. When’s the wedding?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  Contemplating the idea by rubbing his stubbly chin, Theo asks, “And what does one wear to a Wednesday night wedding?”

  “Something less formal than a Saturday night wedding,” she replies, the corner of her mouth curling into a grin.

  “Will there be a chocolate fountain?” Theo narrows his eyes and waits for her answer.

  “One can only hope.” She sighs dramatically.

  Placing his hands on hips and puffing his chest, Theo roars, “I shall escort the lovely Julia Pierce to thy work thing.”

  “Whether they admit it or not, people love to carry around emotional baggage to feel connected to their past. Luckily for me, my suitcase is empty.”

  Chapter Four

  Theo Barnes, born to a teenage mother in the spring of ’88, survived every cliché within the foster care system. His young mother, terrified of her strict parents, ran away from home and into the arms of her unemployed, older boyfriend. Life was miserable for the former high school cheerleader, and a crying baby only added to the stress. So at six months old, Theo was swaddled in a flannel blanket and left outside the door to the Poughkeepsie Firehouse.

  His first temporary foster family consisted of a lazy, miserable woman that profited from the government subsidies allotted to fostering three children, Theo being the youngest and still in diapers. Mama Patty of Peekskill would spend her days smoking Marlboro Reds in front of the television watching the QVC network. The kids were fed and clothed, but rarely given any sort of attention, and the house was always a mess. Eventually, Mama Patty’s only biological child living in the house, called the police on a snowy Thanksgiving when the velour recliner caught fire from a dangling cigarette. An investigation was opened, the community was briefly outraged, and then Theo was transferred back to the Poughkeepsie boys’ home.

  The second foster family was considerably better. Theo lived with Mark and Alison Bates of Whitestone for ten years. He did well in school, played baseball, had several friends, and truly believed that they would be his forever family. But as soon as he turned thirteen, the Bates family ended their arrangement with Theo prior to the birth of their triplets.

  Over the next few years, he was passed from family to family, borough to borough, and school to school. There was no constant, no feeling of permanence, and his hormonal emotions were raging. He sold weed, participated in phony slip ’n fall scams in grocery stores, and offered his social security number for credit applications to several fosters – basically, Theo did whatever it took to be noticed. He was simply needed, never wanted. But beneath the never-ending drama and pain from lack of affection, there was something that held his attention and made him feel in control – computers.

  A month after he aged out of the foster care system, Theo got an entry-level job with Verizon developing their new fiber optic technology, Fios. And during his spare time inside his shoebox room in affordable housing, Theo would hack the databases of security law firms. Getting caught was actually a good thing – because the rowdy teenager with the crooked grin became the youngest information specialist hired by the SEC.

  He was making more money than he’d ever seen in his life, he wasn’t in fear of being homeless, and he was finally getting the recognition he deserved. But an orphan is conditioned at an early age to not expect any sort of commitment. So within in a few years, Theo left the cushy job in finance to start his own business technology consulting firm – Trash Bag Hero.

  With a thriving business, a great apartment, and a killer collection of vintage action figures – all Theo needs now is the opportunity to give his court-given name a constant place in the world.

  Straightening his tie and clearing his throat, Theo knocks on the door to Julia’s apartment. Fletch barks, deep and hollow, as Julia opens the door.

  Taking in her low-cut sapphire dress, Theo whistles like a deflating balloon. “You clean up nicely, Jules.”

  “Smoke and mirrors,” she replies.

  “And me? Whatcha think of my suit?” He takes a step back and opens his navy, wool jacket. Slowly turning around, he lifts the tail of the jacket to reveal his sweet ass, and then completes the rotation to face Julia.

  Taking a step forward, she reaches for his silk tie, a deep shade of persimmon with tiny embroidered horseshoes. “I think I’ll be the luckiest girl at the wedding,” she deadpans.

  “Well, this is my lucky tie.”

  Shaking her head, she says, “Cheeseball.” Julia grabs a small clutch from the entry table and calls for her pup. “Fletch? Don’t stay up too late watching TV – and keep out of the liquor cabinet!” Julia locks the door behind her and then takes Theo’s arm.

  “How’s Fletch doing in doggy daycare?”

  “Oh, you know. The French bulldogs are giving him lip, but he’ll make friends in no time.”

  “Bullies,” Theo banters.

  Smiling uncontrollably as she pushes the button to the elevator, Julia says, “You are just full of the one-liners tonight.”

  “I just like watching you smile.” Theo slides apart the cage door and asks, “Where are we going?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  As Theo and Julia make their way through the well-dressed crowd of guests congregating at the entrance to Brooklyn Bridge Park, an event coordinator with a headset approaches them and shrieks, “Ms. Pierce?”

  “You’re famous,” Theo mumbles under his breath.

  Smiling, she replies, “Hi. Yes, I’m Julia.”

  “I recognize you from your photo! On behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman, I’d like to welcome you to Jane’s Carousel of Brooklyn Bridge Park. The reception is being held on the deck,” she motions to an intimate dining area arranged under hundreds of stringed lights, “and you and your guest are invited to sit anywhere you’d like.”

  “It’s a stunning venue,” Julia compliments.

  “I have to agree – just look at that amazing view of Manhattan.” The event coordinator holds her hand up and then barks orders into her headset. “Sorry about that,” she says, “dinner and champagne will be served at seven-thirty, so please enjoy cocktails and tapas inside the carousel.”

  “Thank you,” Julia replies as the coordinator scurries away.

  “Your job is kinda weird.”

  “It’s most definitely weird. Shall we find the bar?”

  “Words to live by.
”

  As they walk inside the large glass building housing the 1920s restored carousel, Theo’s eyes flicker with childish delight. “Can we ride it?”

  “I don’t know – there’s no one on it.”

  “Because they’re all too busy enjoying tapas.” Theo raises his pinky and laughs.

  “I’ll make you an offer, you give me your description of the wedding, and if I like it, then we’ll ride the carousel.”

  “Ooh, a bet.”

  “A negotiation,” she corrects.

  “Okay, but I also want a dance.”

  “I don’t normally dance at weddings.”

  “And I don’t normally wear a suit.”

  Julia extends her hand with a smile. “Deal.”

  “Deal,” Theo repeats, as he kisses the top of her hand.

  A roaming waiter interrupts their innocent flirting with a tray of tiny glass plates. “Stuffed fig?” he offers.

  Julia and Theo simultaneously shake their heads while darting toward the bar. When they reach the L-shaped full-service bar, Julia motions to a sign that describes the Jane’s Carousel signature pear vodka cocktail.

  “Fruity,” grumbles Theo.

  “I’m not a fan of signature drinks.”

  “Yeah, unless it’s a milkshake.”

  “What can I get you?” asks the bartender.

  “I’ll have a gin and tonic . . . Jules?”

  As Julia orders a glass of rosé, Theo gazes at her stunning profile, watching as the words fall from her ruby lips like billowy puffs of air. She’s goofy yet elegant, strong but delicate, wrong and oh, so right. And as the twinkling lights of the carousel illuminate her golden glow, a halo of clarity suddenly appears.

  Theo’s falling.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, eyes large and defensive. “I like a glass of rosé on occasion.”

  With a casual shrug, he says, “Oh, uh, maybe we should grab some seats before the good ones are taken. You know rich people, always taking the best seats.”

  Clearing his throat, he leads the way to the reception area. After passing on three perfectly acceptable tables, Theo finally chooses a square table closest to the water – delivering views of the wedding party, the carousel, Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Julia.