by Ashley Pullo
“Natalie,” I say as drop the ukulele. I stand up and move in next to her, taking her in my arms and caressing her fragile body. She cries into my chest, slowly bringing her hands around my neck. Her fingers roam around the back of my head, tugging at my hair and inflicting a small amount of pain.
She releases her grip and looks at me – angry, confused – I can’t tell. And then our lips meet. It’s that fucking time thing again – our kiss is a salty, timeless explosion. My mouth absorbs her tears, every last drop, until I feel her tongue dart in my mouth. Her hands move to my face, pulling me closer . . . consuming me. I grab her cheeks, squeezing gently to kiss the corners of her mouth.
Natalie falls back onto her bed, pulling me on top of her. I stroke her cheek and then lick the last tear resting by her mouth. And then I kiss her. She moans as her hands rest on my waist. Natalie hesitates momentarily and then lifts my shirt. Her nails dig into my back, creating a pleasurable pain to rocket through my body.
“Chris,” she whimpers beneath me.
“Natalie.” My hand moves slowly under her shirt. Her breathing is shallow, but her body is limp . . . frail.
“Chris, I can’t.” Natalie’s hands fall to her side as she stares aimlessly at the ceiling.
Fuck.
She’s not ready.
Fuck.
Not now.
I lift myself off of her and move to the end of the bed. “Natalie, I’m sorry.”
She moves from the bed to stand in front of me, running her hands through my hair. “Don’t be.”
I wrap my arms around her hips and bury my face into her stomach – I don’t want her to see my disappointment. She pries my head from her waist and lifts my chin in her direction. “Promise that you’ll give me another shot someday.”
I look into her eyes, searching for that glimpse of suspended time. “Some outcomes in life are definite. And you Natalie, are my faith in the definitive future.”
“That’s beautiful . . . tu es l’avenir definitif.” Her mouth flinches – a smile hiding beneath her sadness.
“You speak French?” I ask.
“Oui.”
I rise to my feet and caress her chin. “Les étoiles dansent comme des singes dans l’océan et le beurre d’arachide a meilleur gout avec du chocolat,” I utter smoothly.
Her mouth expands to a brilliant, happy smile. She’s smiling! She’s laughing?
“The stars dance like monkeys in the ocean and peanut butter tastes better with chocolate.” Natalie exclaims between snorts of laughter.
“Huh. No shit?”
Thanks Frenchy, wherever you are, for making Natalie smile.
THE CHORUS
NATALIE RUNS HER hand through his blond curls, twirling the tips around her fingers and massaging his scalp. This is the third consecutive night they’ve been together, and on this night, Pete made her a non-romantic dinner.
Pete leads Natalie to the sofa, stepping over a stack of cookbooks. “You staying for breakfast?”
“Are you trying to make me fat?” Natalie responds.
Pete lifts Natalie’s tank over her head and buries his face in the contour of her breasts. “I think we burn enough calories between meals.”
Natalie pushes Pete on to the sofa and pulls down her shorts. “Then let’s get busy,” she banters.
Pete’s hands squeeze her hips as his mouth lingers by her waist – and then – Pete rips at her panties with his teeth. Natalie pulls his shirt over his head, covering his eyes long enough to hide her excitement . . . never wanting Pete to assume this is more than just sex.
He spins Natalie to face away from him, grabbing her long hair and biting her ass. Natalie unclasps her bra, throwing it across the room with a discreet smile. Pete pulls her down, positioning her on his lap and grabbing her neck. Natalie lays into him, resting her head on his shoulder. To most, this is an intimate position – skin on skin contact and a balance of sexual power – but to these two, it’s a means to an end.
Pete caresses her breasts and breathes into her ear. “Couch or bed?”
Natalie squirms on top of him, enjoying the hardness pressing against her ass. Pete wraps his arm around her waist and glides his hand inside her panties. Breathless she answers, “Couch.”
Natalie extends her arm to rest her hand on his head, playing with his hair. Pete embraces her while stroking her breasts, the only time she’ll allow any sort of intimate contact – affection disguised as sexual foreplay.
He kisses her neck. She pulls his hair.
Pete holds her tightly. Natalie squirms in agitation.
“Pete, just screw me already.”
Frustrated, Pete pushes her off his lap and onto the sofa next to him. He stands over her and pulls down his shorts, tossing them to the side. His boxers come next, finding a place on the coffee table. Natalie follows his lead and removes her panties. Pete throws her against the sofa and spreads her legs – kissing her once and then thrusting his cock inside her warm body. Like two teenagers recklessly going at it on a couch, they concede to unemotional sex.
“Is this how you want it, Nat?” Pete asks, pumping into her.
Natalie stares into Pete’s eyes, wrapping her legs around his hips and pulling him closer. Sex fills the void. Sex is a distraction from the pain. Sex is the closest a person can get to salvation.
“Harder,” she finally says.
BACK AT THE LeGrange apartment several hours later, Natalie bursts into the bathroom, interrupting Chloe’s shower rendition of Cabaret. “Happy birthday, hooker!” Natalie exclaims.
“Thank you. Where did you go last night?” Chloe inquires behind the shower curtain.
Natalie backs out of the bathroom and shuts the door, ignoring Chloe’s questioning . . . again. There’s no particular reason Natalie keeps the Pete-thing a secret, and there’s no particular reason Pete allows it. But it’s something they agreed upon while discovering creative uses for salted caramel.
Don’t tell anyone about us.
Okay.
And don’t get that shit in my hair.
Okay.
So their relationship is private – respectful. No point in airing their very dirty, sticky, sexual laundry.
“Nat?” Chloe asks the empty bathroom.
Today is Chloe’s 26th birthday – not a monumental achievement, but definitely a day to celebrate the monumental changes over the past year. She’s meeting Adam for an early dinner at South Street Seaport and then joining Natalie, Pete and Anthony for the fireworks in Chelsea.
Chloe steps out of the shower, drying herself off with elaborate Fosse jazz hands. She combs her hair and dabs moisturizer on her face. A new outfit is waiting for her on the bed – short, fringed and very sexy. Natalie barges into their bedroom carrying the phone and shaking her head in annoyance. “It’s Jamie,” Nat whispers, covering the phone with her hand. “And put some clothes on, ya perv.”
Chloe twists her wet hair and piles it on top of her head. She grabs the cordless phone and shoos Natalie away. “Hey James.” She waits for Natalie to leave the bedroom before pressing the speaker button and amplifying Jamie’s voice.
“Happy birthday, doll face.”
Chloe tosses the phone on the bed and lathers lotion on her legs. “Thanks. What are you up to today?”
“I’m flying to Amsterdam with Charlie. There’s an art show and we’re both featured.”
“That’s cool. How are things going with him?” Chloe selects a bra from the dresser drawer and fights a yawn. But she’s happy that Jamie has someone – someone that can inspire him and love him.
“Four months and counting. Any plans tonight – is that sexy suit taking you anywhere?”
Chloe glances at her record player and smiles. “Dinner.” She fastens her red bra and digs through the drawer for the matching panties.
“Did you get my present?” Jamie asks.
“I did. Gorgeous painting, James.” Chloe glances at the blue canvas blob resting on the floor and rolls her ey
es.
“The composition and saturation of the blues reminded me of you. Moody but beautiful . . . listen doll face, I have to pick up my dry cleaning before they close – have a great birthday and olives you.”
Chloe grabs the phone from the bed and turns off the speaker. “Have fun in Amsterdam!” She disconnects the call and tosses the phone on the floor. This new friendship between Chloe and Jamie is basic – well-defined and categorically platonic.
Chloe puts on her black shorts and bohemian top as Natalie enters the bedroom with a bottle of water and an apple. “What’s that bastard got to say?” Natalie barks between bites.
“Nat, I can handle Jamie.”
Natalie pauses, looking Chloe over and accessing her validity. “Uh huh. Why did you stop taking your medication?”
Embarrassed and surprised that Natalie noticed, Chloe makes a desperate attempt to change the subject. “Oh, that’s under control. Do you like my top?” Chloe spins around, making the fringed shirt shake in motion. “Natalie, what’s wrong?”
Natalie bites into the apple and replies with her mouth full. “Lovely. Why’d you stop taking your meds?”
“Holy shit.” Chloe stomps her foot and frowns. “God, do you have to know everything?”
“Yes.” Natalie moves to the bed, sits on her leg and waits patiently.
Chloe crosses her arms and sighs. “Fine. Remember when I went to Toronto in May?”
“Yep,” Natalie says, tossing the apple core in the trashcan.
“Adam went with me. Adam went with me to the doctor . . .” Chloe trails off.
“Wow. Like he was in your session?”
“No – he stayed in the waiting room. But Dr. McKinstry and I talked about how things were better and maybe it was time to wean myself off the meds. It took a few weeks to regulate things, but, well, Adam just gets me.”
Of course Adam gets her – he’s the balance. The only man that demands her patience, and the only man that can interpret her psyche.
“That’s fantastic! I wish you would’ve told me before I spent an hour researching methods to conceal Zoloft in a smoothie.”
“Come here, ya tart.” Chloe opens her arms and Natalie happily accepts the embrace. “Everything is going to be okay – for both of us. Now stop being such a downer on my birthday!”
Natalie kisses Chloe’s cheek and then twirls her around. “Those shorts are very short – but you look hot. Adam will wanna—”
Chloe smoothes out the wispy fringe of her shirt and says, “Yeah yeah, he’ll wanna fuck me in this outfit.”
ADAM LAUGHS AS Chloe skips toward him. “Babe, you look stunning. Happy birthday.” Adam places his hand on the small of Chloe’s back, guiding her proudly through the outdoor fish market. It’s one of their favorite restaurants – the selection of fresh fish, the kitschy drinks that come in pickle jars, and the quaint waterfront seating dwarfed between the Manhattan skyline and the Brooklyn Bridge.
Chloe looks over her shoulder and winks. “Thank you, lo-ver.”
They pick a table closest to the water, mesmerized by the shimmering reflection of the silver waves. The air is thick and humid, but the salty breeze is cool and refreshing, making for a dynamic spot to watch the sun set. Some moments are just special – and for these two, they’ll have a lifetime of moments.
Adam reaches in the pocket of his linen shorts to retrieve a small box. He places it on the table, chuckling at Chloe’s reaction. “What?”
Chloe’s mouth quivers with amusement, trying to hide her smile. “That’s what was in your pocket? And here I thought you were sporting a massive woody.”
“Do you want your present or not?” Adam retorts.
Chloe shimmies the gold bracelet around her wrist and says, “You already gave me a present!”
“True, but maybe this box has the matching necklace.”
Chloe arches her eyebrow and purses her lips. “A matching set? Right.”
Adam slides the box across the table, keeping his hand on top. Chloe places her hand over his, gently stroking his pinky. “Are you going to move your hand?” she quips.
Turned on by her impatience, Adam smiles. “You’re beautiful.”
Adam removes his hand, allowing Chloe to wedge her thumb in the opening. It’s just a plain, unwrapped cardboard box, but what’s inside is meaningful. Chloe pulls out a coiled belt and begins to slowly unfurl the leather – a leather strap with branded letters.
It’s not a belt – it’s a personalized guitar strap.
Amazed, Chloe moves her hand over her mouth. “Adam, it’s wonderful. You remembered?”
Of course he remembered. That’s the night she was wearing a muumuu – the night he let his guard down . . . The Rainbow Connection.
“So, I know Pete digs you. Natalie loves you. Dennis has a crush on you. Anthony thinks you’re hot and me, well I like you a lot.” Adam smiles widely, taking her hand. “You have at least five fans – and I would consider that mildly famous.”
“Mildly famous . . . perfect.”
PETE’S APARTMENT IS in the coveted neighborhood of Chelsea – which is convenient to his job at Chelsea Market and his dream job at the Food Network. He lives on the twentieth floor of a high-rise overlooking the Hudson River and his small balcony is a prime spot to watch the fireworks. Anthony brought a date – a cute bubbly brunette that works as an industrial designer at an architectural firm. Pete’s sister and several of his buddies from high school have also arrived to celebrate the birth of a nation and/or the birthday of a stranger.
Natalie sits quietly on the sofa, the very familiar sofa, listening to Anthony’s date talk about concrete countertops and tin ceilings. She’s trying desperately to pay attention to the monotone conversation while discreetly staring at Pete. She glances toward the kitchen occasionally, watching him prepare cocktails, but her eyes never linger longer than necessary.
He notices. But Pete is smitten, and he’s willing to wait for the affection from Natalie LeGrange.
Chloe squeezes in next to her cousin, shaking her new bracelet in front of Natalie. “Nice, I will probably borrow that next week.” Natalie watches Adam as he joins Pete in the kitchen . . . she wonders how much Adam knows about the Pete-thing.
Chloe nudges Natalie’s arm and asks, “Hello? Did you have any problems finding Pete’s apartment?”
Natalie was in this apartment less than seven hours ago . . .
“Your directions were excellent,” Natalie responds. She jumps up from the couch and pats Chloe’s head. In the kitchen, she casually drapes her arm over Adam’s shoulder and smiles. Her tone sexy and flirtatious, she asks, “Whatcha making boys?” Natalie learned long ago that her best defense in awkward moments is to use her blatant sexuality as a distraction.
“Cocktails. Here, try this.” Pete passes Natalie a blue glass garnished with blueberries and star fruit. “You’ll like it,” he adds. Their hands brush against each other, nothing to cause a panic, but exciting nonetheless.
“Deliciously tart – like Chloe!” Natalie winks, her witty declaration an excuse to flirt with Pete.
“Chloe, get over here,” Adam beckons.
Chloe makes her way to the kitchen and takes a red version of the cocktail – complete with raspberries and mint leaves. She squeezes in among the group of friends and smiles, taking time to silently acknowledge each of them. “I can’t think of anywhere else I would rather be on the Fourth of July,” she says.
Adam places his arm around Chloe and then raises his glass. “To Chloe.”
“To freedom,” Pete adds, lifting his glass.
“To dreams,” Natalie whispers.
Chloe raises her glass and laughs. “To liquor and fireworks.”
Yes, fireworks.
TANGO FRANTICALLY DIGS through the diaper bag, searching for a pacifier. “Beth, where is it?”
Bethany and Tango Rizzo brought their little family to New York City for the Fourth to visit cousins in Queens after a quick trip to the Bronx Zoo.
Their oldest, Hutch, is playing stickball with some kids while the middle one, Gracie, climbs the monkey bars. Baby Cole is crying and kicking inside the Baby Bjorn fastened snugly against Tango’s chest – hungry, tired and hot.
Bethany removes a blue pacifier and hands it to Tango, patting his head like a pet. “Here, I always keep them in this side pocket.” Bethany walks back to the bench near the playground while Chloe pushes the empty stroller.
“Well, now I know dear,” Tango shouts after her.
Adam and Chloe met the Rizzo family at a park in Brooklyn Heights. Chloe’s heard all the crazy stories about the infamous Tango Rizzo, but this is the first time she’s actually had the pleasure of . . . being disappointed. Tango is a dad. Dad hair. Dad clothes and dad stories. It’s expected of course – Tango’s been a dad since he was eighteen.
Tango sits on the bench next to Adam and exhales loudly. “Dude, don’t have three. Better yet, stop after one.”
“T, your family’s great. How are things in Buffalo?” Adam politely asks. There are a million reasons friendships can start to fade, teenage pregnancy being one of them.
Tango strokes the cheek of a cranky Cole and laughs. “Buffalo fucking sucks. I work ten-hour days at a job I hate and then come home to kids screaming and Bethany in pajamas with spit up crusted on the shoulders. Hutch has baseball practice twice a week and Gracie has speech therapy every Wednesday . . . shit, then I wake up and do it all over again.”
“So, Buffalo hasn’t changed?”
“It ain’t never gonna change! Hey, your mom showed me some pics from your wedding – really wish I could’ve been there, man.”
Adam nudges Tango in the side. “Come on, you guys had just had the baby. That’s more important than the wedding of your oldest friend.”
“Maybe, but we can’t do shit anymore, man. The kids always come first and Beth still wants more.” Tango leans into Adam and whispers, “I have an appointment to get snipped next week.”