New Amsterdam: Julia

by Ashley Pullo

  Feeling like a creeper invading his privacy, Julia removes her phone from her clutch to call him. But as she swipes her finger across her iPhone, Theo looks directly at the camera and smiles.

  Totally spooked, she shuts her laptop, shoves it under a pillow, and then jumps from the bed. “No way!” she shrieks. Grabbing her shawl and clutch, Julia makes the climb back down the stairs, using the handrail to steady her balance, as she tries to figure out how he did that.

  Once outside, she’s immediately ushered by the wedding staff to a path that bisects the garden used during the ceremony. Following the other guests to the north lawn, Julia silently prays that she won’t be seated at a family table – it’s incredibly awkward to make small talk with strangers, but to her delight, Mindy actually respected her request. Picking up her printed name card, an attendant shows her to a table with a preppy mix of boys and girls in their early twenties.

  “Here you are, Ms. Pierce.” The white-gloved attendant slides out a chair for Julia.

  “Thank you,” she replies.

  A pretty girl seated next to her says, “I love your dress. Are you a friend of Heather’s?”

  Forgetting the name Heather for a brief second, Julia furrows her brows and asks, “Heather?”

  “The bride! She was my babysitter – and I’m dating Max, her brother.” Placing her hand on her chest, and then subsequently introducing the other guests at the table, she says, “I’m Bree. This is Henry, Charlotte, Kai, Travis, and Grace. We’re all friends with Max, and our parents are friends with Dom and Gloria, Heather’s parents.”

  That’s a lot of names, Julia thinks.

  “Oh, I’m Julia. I write a column for the New York Herald – I guess I’m Heather’s guest.”

  Whipping out her glittery cell phone, Bree asks, “Are you on Instagram? What’s your last name?”

  “Oh, um Pierce. I’m not really active on Instagram though.”

  “Done. You should follow me back so I can tag you in photos,” she instructs, holding the phone out in front of them and snapping a picture.

  Trying to smile for the awkward photo with her new best friend, Julia mutters, “Okay.”

  “Where do you go to school?” Henry, attractive redhead to the left of Bree, leans forward and pours himself a glass of wine. “You think we can get something less gay for our table?” he snaps.

  “Julia is a journalist – she’s like a legit adult, Henry.”

  Henry places his arm around Bree and then asks, “Then where did you go to college?”

  “I graduated from Columbia. Are you all in school together?”

  “No.” Bree shakes her head. “I’m a senior at St. Anthony’s. Henry and Charlotte go to Yale, Kai’s graduating from NYU in the spring, Travis is like, confused or something, and Grace is a model.” Bree takes a candid picture of her friends at the table and laughs. “Snapchat, bitches!”

  “Take another one! I wasn’t ready!” complains the model, Grace, drawing vapor puffs from an electronic cigarette.

  “I’m going to the bar.” Henry stands from his chair and removes his suit jacket. He drapes it over the back of his chair and then asks, “Who’s with?”

  “I’ll go,” Travis answers.

  “Don’t you just love weddings?” Bree poses the question like a statement.

  Ignoring her, Julia pours a glass of wine while admiring the transformation of the reception space. The tented ceiling is virtually invisible, dripping with flowers and vintage chandeliers. Cascading warmth floods the circular guest tables, highlighting the various layers of cream and rose fabrics, lace overlays, rustic mercury glass candelabras, and not one, but three floral centerpieces with cerulean-blue hydrangeas and white roses. The place settings are mismatched, various china patterns and utensils placed in front of each guest, and the stemware is a delicate shade of pink. Shabby chic with a luxurious price tag.

  “Although, I doubt I’ll ever get married,” Bree continues.

  Suddenly interested in Bree, Julia asks, “Why not?”

  “Because women in other countries are enslaved, mutilated, and forced to wear layers of awful clothes. Don’t even get me started on sex trafficking. I’m a feminist, and marriage is just another open contract for a man to control my body.”

  Confused by her answer, Julia probes, “What about having a family?”

  “Ew, marriage is the last reason to start a family – maybe it’s my generation. I don’t know. But it’s like, a union of expectations. I’d definitely have kids before I even considered marriage. I think in the next ten years, we will bring back communal relationships like the hippies.” Bree types on her phone and then laughs. “Grace, you did not just post that! Hooker!” she squeals.

  Placing her clutch on the table, Julia sighs. Is the idea of marriage really a generational debate?

  “Max!” Bree jumps from her chair and into the arms of young man wearing a tuxedo, nearly knocking over one of the many candles. “When can you get out of here?”

  Sipping her wine, both amused and disappointed by her tablemates, Julia returns her focus to the reception. As she removes the notebook from her clutch, someone bumps her chair and knocks her elbow. “Ah, I see I’m marooned at the kids table once again.”

  Glancing at the person sitting in the chair next to her, Julia smiles, recognizing him as the handsome man by the pool. “Hi,” she says suggestively.

  “So, who did you piss off?” his deep voice booms with an inflection of sarcasm.

  “What? Oh, the table?”

  “Yeah – I know why I’m being punished, but how could someone as lovely as you be stashed in the corner with the cast of Pretty Little Liars?

  “I actually requested to be seated with the fun crowd. Why are you being punished?”

  “I worked with Heather’s father at one time. Terrible person. He hates me, I fucked him over – typical stuff. “

  Julia stares into his playful green eyes, wondering if he’s as naughty as the tone in his voice. Erasing the dirty thoughts from her head, she adds, “I’m sure we’ve all done stuff to piss people off.”

  “So what do you do? I saw you taking notes earlier.”

  “I write a column for the New York Herald.”

  “Ah, a writer. My favorite class of women. So, do you describe what you see or what you’ve been told?”

  “I, uh . . . that’s a fascinating question.” Before she can fully answer, a waiter places a tiny plate in front of each guest.

  “Fresh, lump crab meat on a bed of Florentine spinach,” he announces.

  “Wouldn’t it be awesome if a wedding served hot wings and craft beer?” He places his napkin in his lap and then pours a glass of wine.

  “Or nachos,” Julia suggests.

  “Yes! Add a lazy-Susan in the middle of the table and pile it high with a tower of apps,” he jokes.

  “Stash a few kegs near the dance floor.”

  “Dance floor? You mean arcade room.” He smiles, confident yet completely humbled with himself.

  “I’m Julia, by the way,” she says, returning the smile.

  “Julia!” Bree hangs off her seat, bubbling with excitement. “Max stole the keys to the Bartleby’s boat. Bring your friend if you want.”

  Although very discreet, the man in the gray suit bumps Julia’s knee and nods his head. Fighting a smile, Julia says, “I think I’ll stay here.”

  “Yummy!” Bree snaps a photo of Julia’s crab plate and then turns toward Henry. “That’s going on the gram.”

  “I don’t think she was listening to you, Julia,” he whispers.

  An uproarious contagion of applause erupts among the guests as Heather and Dennis Bartleby enter the tent.

  “Ah, look, here comes the happy couple,” he chides, clapping his hands.

  Joining in the congratulatory applause, Julia’s smile disappears as she notices the groom’s uncomfortable body language. Heather is a dreamy vision – radiating with happiness in her Vera Wang lace gown, but Dennis is tense, s
neering as he stares straight ahead.

  “Her dress is amazing,” comments Julia.

  “So you’re a style columnist?” he asks.

  Shaking her head, she replies, “Not exactly, but the dress is an important detail for a wedding article.”

  Pouring another glass of wine for Julia, he asserts, “I assume you have to follow guidelines for your column.”

  “Readers actually like a formula – couple, venue, dress, ceremony, reception, and then a closing paragraph about love,” she recites.

  Pushing his plate away, he turns into Julia and asks, “How many weddings do you think you’ve covered?”

  “Tonight makes ninety-nine.”

  Shocked, he says, “What’s the saying . . . always the reporter and never the bride?”

  “Something like that.” Julia smiles.

  “So, tell me about your favorite.”

  “Honestly, I don’t really remember most of what I write, and there are very few favorites. But there was a couple a few months ago, both on their second marriage after losing their spouses to cancer – their story stuck with me.”

  “What about it makes them special?”

  “Their relationship was honest. Cecil and Barbara met in a hospital waiting room under pretty crappy conditions.”

  “And they fell in love?” he interrupts.

  “Not exactly – well, not romantically at least.”

  “So Cecil and Barbara married for companionship?”

  Julia tilts her head and smiles. “No, they married for love.”

  “And what exactly is love, according to the wedding chaser?”

  “Wedding chaser?”

  “Ninety-nine weddings under your belt, and yet you can only remember one . . . you’re definitely chasing something.”

  “Like a paycheck?” she jokes.

  “Nah, that’s not it.” He pauses, gazing into her eyes like he’s uncovering her secrets. “You want what I want – love.”

  Feeling vulnerable, Julia tightens the shawl around her shoulders and lowers her head. “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Ah, yes, I’ve been in love – well, I’m still in love. I think.”

  “So you’re with someone?”

  “We’re on an extended break.”

  “Do you date other women?”

  “Nah, I just sleep with them.”

  “Wow, honest and charming,” she teases.

  “Let me explain! Sex is one of the purest forms of human connection, and some people,” he points to himself and then to Julia, “crave the physical interaction.”

  “Crave it, huh?” she asks, her finger circling the rim of her wine glass.

  “Being in love is like a state of indefinite emotional consciousness. Love is . . . love is what?”

  “Abstract,” she mutters.

  “Everything is abstract unless you have it.” He cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “I can’t decide if you’re a cynic or a hopeless romantic, Julia.”

  “Ha! I prefer to think of myself as a passionate conceptualist.”

  “Freedom to love.”

  “Freedom to be loved,” she adds.

  “And if love is just a blind leap into an abstract relationship without the physical dependency, then . . .”

  “Love is trust,” she finishes.

  Bobbing his head with hooded eyes, he softly says, “Which brings us back to sex.”

  “Of course,” she replies, her cheeks flushed from the heat radiating between them.

  “I think we just solved one of life’s great mysteries.” He leans in closer, protecting their newly found secret.

  “I’m not sure they would agree,” Julia whispers, nodding in the direction of Bree and her friends.

  “No, their idea of love entails a heart emoticon.”

  Breaking their intense gaze, Julia says, “Let me ask them.”

  “This should be good,” he mumbles, placing his napkin on the table.

  Julia shifts her attention toward Bree and taps her skinny arm. “Hey, Bree?”

  “Julia! Did you meet Henry?”

  “Er, yeah.” Like twenty minutes ago.

  “He’s so funny, right? But ignore him if he starts flirting with you – he’s totally wasted.”

  “Okay. Can I ask you a question? I need some romance perspective from the under-twenty-five demographic.”

  “Oh, my, gosh, are you going home with that hot guy next to you? He’s seriously rockin’ the sexy Liev Schreiber look.” Bree tries to whisper, but her volume increases with each word.

  Liev Schreiber – yes! “No, I just met him.”

  “Then what’s your question?” she asks, running her fingers through her glossy hair.

  “Never mind.”

  “Meet us at the beach, ’kay?” Bree wraps her arm around Julia’s shoulders and snaps another selfie.

  “Sure,” Julia lies.

  As the group of young friends bolt from the table with a bottle of chilled wine, Julia shrugs her shoulders and scorns, “The youth of America, right?”

  Playing along, he shakes his fist and snarls, “Crazy kids stole our prosecco.”

  “But now we have the entire table to ourselves,” she toys.

  Easy, Julia.

  “How about . . . we get really drunk and cause a scene? I’m due for some social shaming.” He stands from the table and removes his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. “What can I get you from the bar?”

  “I’ll go with you,” she replies, admiring the colorful peacock cufflinks on his white dress shirt.

  Offering her his hand, he says, “Julia, I don’t think I ever introduced myself.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  With an evocative smirk, he reveals, “I’m Lucas – the love chaser.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa – start from the beginning.”

  Julia sinks into her seat by the window on the LIRR and covers her mouth. “I’m on the train, Meredith. I can’t really go into details,” she mumbles.

  “You met a guy . . .”

  “Yes, Lucas.”

  “And he was hot?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “Did you fuck him?”

  “Meredith!” Julia shrieks.

  “Oh, c’mon. Sex with a stranger at a wedding is customary.”

  “We didn’t have sex.”

  “Well, that’s lame.”

  “We spent the entire night flirting and touching, and our connection was crazy intense – but when I invited him back to my room, well . . .”

  “Oh, Jules. Maybe he’s just a gentleman?”

  “He basically disappeared. I didn’t see him this morning for breakfast, and we didn’t exchange numbers – I don’t even know where he lives, Mere.”

  “Are you okay? You seem upset.”

  “I’m fine, really. I’m prepared for all sorts of rejection.”

  “What about Theo? You have a date tonight, right?”

  “Yep. Oh, hey, I’m going into Penn, I may lose you.”

  “Call me later,” she yells through the static.

  As the train arrives at Penn Station, Julia gathers her satchel and hanging bag and makes her way up the escalator. She braves the subway Downtown, finding a seat across from a homeless man with the most delicate hands. He clutches a Macy’s bag and stares down at his dirty sneakers. They’re too big, and he’s not wearing socks, but the shoelaces are tied in a perfect knot.

  At the next stop, a group of rowdy teenagers hop in the car, sneering and pointing at the man, and making gestures that he stinks. The man doesn’t seem to care, but it bothers Julia. She snaps her head in their direction and says, “Shut up.”

  They laugh at her and then move to the other end of the car.

  Opening her bag to find her wallet, Julia removes her phone to answer a text from Theo.

  Theo: Are you a vegetarian?

  Jules: No, I love meat.

  Theo: I bet you do.

 
Jules: Funny. Why do you ask?

  Theo: Because I plan to stuff you with so much sausage you won’t be able to walk for days.

  Arching a brow, Julia types a witty comeback.

  Jules: Mmm, nothing like a chockablock of sausage.

  Theo: Damn, girl, you naughty.

  Arriving at the Wall Street station, she tucks her phone back in her bag and removes all the cash from her wallet. Passing the homeless man as she exits the subway, Julia hands him thirty-three dollars and a free burrito coupon to Chipotle she’d been saving for weeks. He smiles as he takes the money and coupon, shoving them inside an interior pocket of his army jacket. “God bless,” he says.

  Draping the hanging bag over her arm and the bags over her shoulder, Julia makes her way toward Gold Street. She makes a quick stop in Yip’s restaurant – it’s not Chinatown, but they do serve a decent selection of bubble tea. Balancing her luggage and a cardboard tray of tea, Julia finally arrives at her apartment building at just the wrong time.

  “Hi, Julia. Have you considered the open position on the co-op board?” Mallory Dunkin, resident busy-body and lover of corgis, blocks the button for the elevator.

  “Oh, Mallory, I really don’t think I’ll have time.”

  “Nonsense! It’s two meetings a month, and I always bring refreshments.”

  “Can I give you an answer later this week?” Julia lifts the tray and adds, “Trying to get to my apartment right now.”

  “Okay, but we would love to have you.” Mallory presses the elevator button and shrugs her shoulder. “Being single like me, we girls should really stick together and change some things around here.”

  Opening the cage door with her leg, Julia replies, “I love this building.” Quickly hopping inside and pressing the interior panel, the doors close before Mallory has a chance to respond.

  “Weirdo,” scoffs Julia.

  She knocks on Theo’s door, but there’s no answer, not even a wimpy bark from Fletch welcoming her home. Assuming they went for a walk, Julia retreats inside her apartment and begins to unpack. Glancing at the clock on her bedside table, she tosses her dirty clothes in a small wicker basket and heads to the laundry room.