by Ashley Pullo
Molly shakes her head in agreement. “That sounds lovely. Do whatever you think he’ll like – but I’m paying for everything! Deal?”
“Molly, you’re an amazing person. Do you know that?”
“Oh sweetie, you make an old, Southern lady blush. Zach purposely left you in good hands, and I couldn’t be happier.”
It’s true. Most dreams are simply a pursuit of happiness.
ASTORIA, QUEENS, IS an urban center set against the backdrop of 1970s Europe. And I mean that in a good way – actually, no I don’t. The butchered goat heads in the storefront windows make me want to barf, and I’m fucking lost in a neighborhood without a goddamn woman to be found.
I pop into the nearest bakery for some directions and chocolate baklava for my guilt gut. It smells delicious and maybe I can convince my clients to have a dessert party instead of their requested menu of lamb gyros and falafels. I smile at a cute older woman behind the counter. She seems normal enough to help a crazy Canuck like me.
She returns my smile and waves me over. “Hello, koukla mou! What can YaYa get you?” Her accent is thick and scratchy but surprisingly, very comforting.
“I’m lost,” I say.
“YaYa knows.” She winks.
I glance around the socialist-looking bakery to make sure there are no KGB informants or eavesdroppers, and then, whether she wants to hear it or not, I let my heart explode. “The man I love is fighting a never-ending war in the mountains of Afghanistan and yet I can’t seem to keep my legs closed. I slept with a really decent guy for no reason except to have the numbing pain leave my body for a short time.”
YaYa hands me a napkin and small square of baklava. Tears start to burn my eyes as I shove the nutty cake in my mouth. “I convinced my sweet cousin to move to New York and follow her dream of being a famous musician, but she’s working in a bar – and I don’t care as long as she stays with me. She met a great guy, like she really likes him and he’s incredibly gorgeous – and I would know because I slept with him, too! I think.” YaYa lowers her chin to her neck and peers at me through her tiny glasses. “I know. I’m a selfish, horrible person. Can I have another one?”
YaYa picks a gooey Loukoumade and places it on a napkin. “Koukla mou, would you like some advice from an old lady?”
“Yes,” I say while shoving the second pastry through my salty tears.
“You need to go home.”
“Like Toronto?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “What I mean is, men come and go, but family is with you until the end.” YaYa takes a pastry for herself and joins me on my side of the counter. “Many years ago, my sister Anna fell in love with a rotten boy. He was awful, a real Malaka, but she married him anyway. He had a woman for every day of the week and while she was visiting me here in the States a few years ago, I begged and pleaded for her to leave him and stay here, with me. Horrible things were said that day and we haven’t spoken since. Anna’s husband eventually ran off with their neighbor and then my dear Dimitri passed away last month . . .” YaYa kisses a wedding ring hanging on a chain around her neck. “Now I’m alone. Well, I have my five sons, three of which won’t get the hell out of my house. But my dear sister, my best friend, doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“That’s horrible, YaYa. So, you’re saying I should tell Chloe I slept with Adam?”
“What? Of course not! You know the old lady in Titanic? The one that tosses her necklace into the Atlantic Ocean?” I nod my head – movie references are my favorite. “She says something like, a woman’s heart is an ocean. And what I think she means is, some secrets are meant to be buried deep beneath the surface – untouched.”
Wow. The baklava is delicious, but YaYa’s wisdom is perfection.
“Thank you, YaYa. I know what I need to do.”
“Are you still lost?” she asks.
“No, I’m going home.”
I STUMBLE INTO the apartment after a delightful two-hour subway ride with a refreshing forty-minute stop somewhere underground between Lexington and 53rd. Luckily, I was thoroughly entertained by a blind man playing a harmonica and a tiny Asian woman shouting loudly about her awesome batteries for one dolla. Never fucking again.
Chloe is sitting on the sofa watching a rerun of Sex and the City, so I join her with my box of half-eaten pastries. She’s laughing and drinking a beer, but I know my cousin, and she’s hurting.
“So, Astoria is odd this time of year,” I say, propping my feet up on the coffee table.
“Oh yeah – what’s in the box?”
I carefully untie the bakery floss and slide out the biggest slice of chocolate baklava for Chloe and take one more orange cookie for myself. “Greek pastries for my favorite cousin!” I shriek nervously.
“Yum. Hey, you found your necklace?”
Ah shit. How many lies will swallow up the truth? It’s time to come clean.
“Chloe – I had sex. With that hot janitor in my office building . . . Miguel! We did it on my desk after Molly left one night and then I watched him empty the trashcans. My necklace was on my desk the whole time.” I chug some of her beer and smile. “Do you think I’m a horrible person?”
“Oh come on, I would never think you’re a horrible person . . . incredibly slutty and a horrible liar but you are my favorite person. Do you want your own?” She gets up from the couch and walks toward the kitchen, humming some song I’ve never heard.
“No, no more drinking until Zach gets home. What’s that song you’re singing – I like it.”
“Oh crap, Nat – I’m so sorry I forgot. A letter came today.” Chloe flaps the envelope in her hand. “And I didn’t even open it this time!”
I jump from the couch and run to snatch the letter from her hand. It’s amazing how one letter can ease the hollowness I’ve been feeling lately. Zach just knows. He’s always present and knows exactly how to make my heart full. “Thank God. Chloe, I’m going to read it in our room, okay?” I ask as I bring the letter to my chest.
Chloe places her arms around my shoulders and squeezes. She doesn’t say anything but that’s exactly what I need to hear. I go to the bedroom and shed my coat. After crawling under the covers, I rip open his letter and clutch my necklace. Jesus, it’s dated from September!
September 11, 2003
Ma femme,
(I’m sitting on a plastic bucket outside our tent with only a flashlight, so forgive my handwriting — although it could never be as bad as your serial killer doodling.)
Today marks the day it all changed. Aunt Patty told me that Mom was added to the list of 9/11 victims and her name will be read at the Remembrance Ceremony. That’s good, I guess — but shit, does it even matter anymore?
I’m fighting a fucking war so Mom’s name can be read as a victim of the war I’m fighting. There’s just something wrong with the idealism behind this crap and I’m ready to come home.
Life as I know it goes like this: Our tent is collapsible and portable so we roam around the mountains or the occasional poppy field like a gang of boy scouts. We sing songs, play cards and pretend our MREs are cheeseburgers and chili fries. I’ve tried to take as many photos as possible of my squad being complete jackasses — oh, and there’s a few of our mascot, Gumby the goat . . . but I won’t have a chance to upload them until I get back to base.
Shit, I miss base. Being on base was like Camp Anawanna from Salute Your Shorts, and being on a mission is like a boring episode of M.A.S.H. I spent all that time hating Camp Hammond, but now I would kill (it’s a joke — I haven’t killed anyone) to get back there to play a game of hoops and take a hot shower. Don’t be scared or disgusted — that case of hand sanitizer was a big hit with the guys, although they prefer the pictures of you in that yellow bikini from the Fourth. But more than anything, it’s monotonous and tedious and I cannot wait to come home to you.
Not a day goes by that I don’t dream of devouring your soft skin. Not a day goes by that I don’t dream of consuming a plate of barbecue. In that order
of course — or simultaneously for fun.
There she is! Laugh for me Natalie.
I come out here at night so I can see your star. The guys think I’m a creeper staring up at the sky — but they don’t understand. Keep smiling, ma femme, your star is brighter than ever. My pleasure from the pain — my beacon.
I love you,
Zach
September 26, 2003
IT’S BEEN TWO weeks since the Adam Ford disappearance and Chloe is still moping around the apartment. The problem with passionate people is they tend to love hard and fall hard, and Chloe is no exception. I try my best to avoid the subject of Adam, but I really need to know if she likes him as much as I think she does. How can I sit around and not do anything about her future happiness? Zach would want me to – Zach always makes things right.
And then, one of my not-so-brilliant plans pops into my head. While Chloe is in the shower, I take her cell phone and scroll through the numbers. She’s singing the soundtrack of Cabaret – I’ve got plenty of time. His name isn’t on the contact list, but there’s a Manhattan number she called last Friday afternoon that I don’t recognize. I hit redial.
It rings.
“Adam Ford’s office, how may I help you?” The voice is snotty and intimidating.
“Der, uh – duh, yes!”
Smugly, she asks, “Are you okay? May I ask your name please?”
“My name is uh, Delta. Delta Burke. May I speak with Adam?”
She sighs dramatically then says, “Let me see if he’s available.”
What the fuck am I doing?
“Hello, Ms. Burke? I’ll put you through.”
The phone beeps twice and then his deep voice breaks through. “Ms. Burke – how nice to hear from you. Let me start by saying that I loved Designing Women.” Adam’s voice is full of sarcasm.
“Listen, you fucker, I don’t like being put on the spot . . . it’s Natalie, Chloe’s cousin,” I whisper.
“Why are you incognito and why are you whispering?”
“Because!” I yell. “Because,” I whisper. “We need to talk. I have to talk to you.”
Adam is silent and I can understand why. Some crazy girl calls him to talk – no guy wants that.
“I have to be in court in an hour, but we could meet at the Starbucks on Worth later this afternoon,” he finally says.
“Yes . . . in public, I get it. I’m not that crazy, ya know – I’m not going to boil your bunnies or anything. Three o’clock?” I ask.
Again with the fucking unnecessary silence on the other end of the line. He would make a fantastic telephone stalker – sexy, masculine, and mysterious.
I need help.
Like a sex lobotomy or sessions with a therapist that forces me to act out my sexual fantasies while they wa—
“Natalie, I’ll see you at three.” He hangs up and I quickly delete my call log. I toss Chloe’s phone across the room, freaked, nervous, and relieved.
Phew.
“MOLLY, I’M GOING out for coffee. Can I get you something?” I ask while shutting off my computer.
“Oh goodness no! I’m actually headed out myself. Mr. Ross got us tickets to the Met tonight and we’re having an early dinner.” Molly drapes a scarf over her shoulder and packs her bag, stopping briefly to ask, “How’s Zach’s party coming along?”
Zach. Just hearing his name makes me want to join the Marines and fight by his side – although the Navy really has the better uniforms. I stand to put on my coat and check my lipstick in my tiny compact – no sense in behaving like a psycho in front of my boss. “The bar is thrilled to host the party and it’s a VIP-invite only. I haven’t asked, but I’m sure Chloe will perform.”
“Perfect, Nat. He’ll love it.” Molly walks to my desk and smiles. “Shall we?” She was one of Claire’s best friends and I know she loves Zach like a son, but the way she looks after me in Zach’s absence is beyond amazing.
“Yes, let’s.” We link our arms and head to the elevator.
STARBUCKS IS PACKED this time of day, which is no surprise with the courts down the street and the afternoon rush of Frappuccino-loving-emo-teenagers. I don’t see Adam, so I grab a small table in the corner and bite my nails. God, I need a cigarette. But just as I’m contemplating my exit, Adam appears on the Starbucks rubber mat, rakish and handsome. He’s so dreamy – shit, that’s a lame word, but there’s no other description. Adam’s like a dab of Robert Redford, a dollop of Rock Hudson, and a sprinkling of John F. Kennedy, Jr. – a mind-generated perfect specimen of fuck me now.
Crap, he sees me, possibly with my mouth hanging open and saliva pooling on the table. I can’t hide now, but I don’t want to . . . Adam’s presence is powerful, like a pyramid of veracity reigning over Manhattan. How can someone so dark and mysterious make me feel so calm? I wave, but my embarrassment is intensified by his brilliant smile, mocking me – like this secret meeting is the stupidest thing ever. It is.
Adam places his briefcase on the table and removes his jacket. And even though it’s a simple gesture of politeness and not a private strip show, my ovaries immediately begin knitting baby booties at the thought of this man naked.
“Skinny vanilla latte – hot or cold?” His voice is deep and sexy as he awakens me from my inappropriate daydream.
“Hot, but . . . how’d you know?” I shake my head in disbelief but he simply smirks as he approaches the register. This is all so very strange and my only conclusion is that Adam is an alien. Not an actual alien, he’s probably more like a secret robot spy. Like Small Wonder! No, that would be weird. Oh shit, maybe I’m being watched by the government and they’re deporting me.
“One grande skinny vanilla latte for the lovely Delta Burke.” Adam places the cup in front of me and laughs. He sits down across from me with an iced green tea minus the lid and rolls up his sleeves. Holy shit, those forearms! How do I not remember every detail of this man?
“Do you need a lid?” I ask.
“Nope. I don’t do straws. So what’s up, Natalie?”
“Oh! So, I think I know why you left the bar on Friday and I need to make this right. Truth be told, I um, slept around – in the past. But never would I imagine that I had slept with so many guys that they would start to be recycled with my cousin. It’s totally wrong, a little gross, and we need to fix it.” I spit out my jumbled words and laugh nervously.
Smiling, he asks, “Okay. How do we fix it exactly?” His arrogance regarding my confession is making me angry, and I’m not so sure he’s even good enough for my cousin. He’s probably just a man-whore that gets off on—
“What I mean is, how do I, a guy that bought your coffee last year because you were wearing flip flops and acting a little cuckoo – how do I help you with your promiscuity?” Adam leans forward and winks. “Natalie, you recognize me, right? In this Starbucks?”
Fucking shit. My cheeks burn as I slap my hand across my forehead. I’m a moron. Adam is the one guy in Manhattan who didn’t want to sleep with me and only bought me a latte that day when I didn’t have my wallet. I’m so embarrassed and I hope I never see his chiseled, arrogant face again.
That’s not true, I want him to be with Chloe . . . and his chiseled face is nice.
“Then why are you throwing away a potentially great thing? Chloe is an amazing person. She’s funny and kind and has more passion in her little toe than I will ever have! And she has a great rack that most women would kill for . . .” Adam winces, so I stop. I trace the lid of my latte with my finger as he continues to stare at me with those dark eyes, monitoring every move I make.
“Are you done?” He finally asks.
Am I done? I am never done running my mouth. “Actually, no. You see, Chloe has a gift, and I’m not just talking about her ability to recite the pilot episode of Degrassi – she can feel things. Things feel right or wrong to her. She never doubts her instincts and there’s never a gray area. And you Adam, feel very right.”
“Natalie, I understand what you’re doing.
But you see, I also have a gift.” Adam leans in closer like he’s about to reveal a major government secret. This should be good. “I read people. I study their mannerisms, their body language and their speech patterns.” He pauses, glances at my hand circling my cup, and laughs. “Do I make you nervous, Natalie?” Adam’s smile fades as he continues. “There’s always a formula, especially with people, and feelings only compromise the outcome. Right and wrong, truth and lies, black or white, that’s my gift – but with Chloe, she’s all gray. She’s a fucking gray impossibility.”
Whoa.
“And that makes you uncomfortable?” I press.
“What? I’m never uncomfortable – I’m, I’m pissed.”
“At Chloe? I just don’t get it.” Adam gulps his tea and fidgets slightly in his chair. This is important to him. “Do I make you nervous, Adam?” Two can play this game.
He lowers the cup from his mouth and stares at me. Adam wants to say something but he can’t decide if he trusts me or if he wants to freaking throw me across the room.
“Just say it, man,” I nag.
Agitated by my questioning, he clenches his jaw. “Chloe’s captivating,” he whispers. “And for a guy like me, that’s gold. The way she looks at me, the way she quietly fights her impulses before letting them erupt—”
“She’s great, what’s the problem?”
Adam sighs heavily and slams his hand on the table. “She’s a performer. A flirt. And nothing we experienced was authentic. She gives everyone the same attention when she’s on stage and your friend Jam—”
“Our friend Jamie is a friend from home. Chloe loves him like a brother,” I interrupt.
Adam shakes his head and tightens his lips. “No, that’s not how I saw it. There’s something there and I’m never wrong.”
I laugh at the thought of what he is implying. Is he jealous of Jamie? “Adam! Jamie is gay. Like forever. Like shagged the bartender the other night. Like thinks vaginas are icky. He’s gay – Chloe’s not his type and quite frankly, neither are you.”