The Ballad (The Bridge Series)

by Ashley Pullo

  “Pink Grapefruit Mimosa, babe,” Adam says as he scoots into the patio chair next to me.

  “It looks delicious, thank you,” I say swirling the top with the skinny straw.

  “The likeness between you two is unbelievable. Do people normally think you’re twins?” Mark asks as he looks from me to Natalie and back again.

  “Oh, Mark! Yes, we get that a lot but Chloe is older than me.” Nat sips her tomato concoction and smiles elegantly. She’s so annoying in the beginning stage with a new guy.

  “Yes, I’m three months older than Natalie.” Mark laughs but I can tell he too, is being a little fake and cautious.

  “Hey Chloe, where is your show tonight? I think I can make it as long as it’s not in Brooklyn.” Leave it to Natalie to cringe in disgust if she has to leave the bubble of Manhattan.

  “Williamsburg . . . Brooklyn. It’s at this new barbecue restaurant that moonlights as a Honky Tonk bar. Usually not my thing, but I have a guy coming that I’m considering for management.” I sip my tart cocktail and look over the menu.

  “Wait, you don’t have a manager? How long have you been performing?” Mark looks thoroughly surprised and snickers in disbelief. But since he doesn’t know me well, I’ll give him the benefit of not knowing me well.

  “Six years. I’ve never wanted a manager and I’m still not sure I want one. I need to have control over my career or my music loses authenticity.” I’m not defensive . . . yet.

  “Six years? Do you have another job?” His face becomes smug and the tension at our tiny table swells into a giant balloon about to pop.

  “I do have a job actually. I catalogue and purchase guitars for a very well-known guitar store. I’ve met a lot of contacts and famous musicians that offer me gigs based on the fact that I don’t have a manager.” My tone is a little too defensive and I know Natalie is going to hate me, but she’ll be done with him soon.

  “Let’s order.” Adam signals for the waiter and I stare in disgust at the pretentious asshole across from me that’s banging my cousin.

  I don’t talk much during the remainder of our brunch and I let Adam do most of the charming chit-chat because he’s excellent at distracting people from the truth. When it’s finally time to leave, I hug Natalie tightly as she whispers in my ear, “He’s a dickhead . . . don’t worry about it.”

  Adam takes me to the Barbecue Bucket half an hour before my show so I can check my surroundings and watch some of the other musical acts of the evening. The restaurant is exactly my type of place, kitschy and entertaining. The interior is like an old cowboy saloon with a long bar dispensing glass mugs of foamy beer and root beer floats. The small stage is illuminated at the base by naked bulbs and an old-fashioned spotlight. A maroon velvet curtain with gold fringe puddles along the perimeter of the stage, and there’s a large gilded birdcage with a stuffed yellow bird dangling above. Adam and I find a seat near the front and order a couple root beers from the costumed saloon girl.

  “Adam, this place is so odd . . . I love it! Do you think a stupid manager would ever get me an awesome gig like this?” I’m obviously still upset about today and I’m wondering if the potential manager will even show up.

  “It’s like no other. Babe, you’re up in a few minutes, give me a kiss.” I plant a big kiss on his lips and take my guitar case to the stage.

  “Please give a warm welcome to Chloe LeGrange.” The emcee exits the stage as I climb the spiral staircase and head toward the wooden stool in the center of the stage. I place my case on the floor and take out my guitar glancing at Adam’s blank face. He looks serious and a little detached from the moment so I quickly look away and start my set.

  “Howdy,” I say into the microphone. The acoustics are quite good for a restaurant and I have the perfect opening song in mind.

  “I received my first guitar on my thirteenth birthday. It was one of those crappy Yamaha starter kits, but it came with the most amazing rainbow-colored guitar pick. Every few years I would reward myself with a guitar upgrade until I reached the quintessential prize you see before you!” I pat my black, translucent Les Paul guitar I acquired after a huge commission check last month and smile proudly. “But through all my guitars I always held on to my lucky rainbow pick believing it brought me inspiration and confidence.” I kick open my case and reach down to grab another pick out of the crushed velvet compartment and I can feel the intense heat of Adam’s gaze. I glance at his serious expression and realize what it must feel like to take the stand with him in the courtroom . . . yikes. His face doesn’t change but he gives me a nod, aware that I need his affirmation.

  I’m already blushing as I open the inside compartment to reveal a small ring box in the iconic Tiffany blue. Oh my god. I look up at Adam and he’s beaming with pride and nods for me to go ahead. I kneel down behind the open case, not wanting anyone to see my giddy excitement. I open the little box as my guitar swings down to hit the floor making an embarrassing, echoing thud. As soon as I open the box the light bounces off the shiny platinum and I smile, delighted by his choice. I excitedly take it out of the box and rise to meet the microphone.

  “Luckily, I now have a favorite pick.” I use my new platinum guitar pick to strum the first verse and chorus of Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Deep Blue Something. While playing the song, I tell a funny story about my first week in New York when the neon orange lights of the Dunkin Donuts outside my window inspired me to write Bright Lights. I perform my set with all of my original songs and I never once look at Adam.

  After the best performance I’ve ever had in the kitschiest barbecue saloon east of the Mississippi with a no-show manager and the most thoughtful gift ever in the history of romance, it’s time to go home with the man I love. We sit quietly in the cab as the crazy driver speeds dangerously toward our apartment and I smile at the thought of how much Adam must enjoy thinking he has control over the unpredictable twists and turns of our relationship.

  “Oh, by the way . . . the box I needed for the guitar pick came with this diamond ring.” He removes a huge cushion-cut diamond in an antiqued setting from his pocket and slides it on my finger.

  “Marry me, babe.”

  I pretend to contemplate the idea but it’s way too hard to hide my enthusiasm, so I simply respond with a quiet little, “yes” and a deep, passionate kiss. We smile playfully while zooming under the twinkling lights of the Brooklyn Bridge, forever grateful to that one impulsive moment that lead us to this moment . . . this is us.

  Buffalo to New York City

  November 2004

  “What time are you two planning on leaving tomorrow, Chloe?” Nancy asks.

  Nancy and I are spending the day at Target buying Christmas decorations and whatever’s left of Black Friday door busters. Adam and I flew to Buffalo to spend American Thanksgiving with Nancy and David and then we all drove to Toronto for my annual gig at the Toronto Music Festival. We had a wonderful dinner with Mom and Dad and then returned to Buffalo so Adam could help David get out of some tickets at Buffalo State. It’s been a whirlwind weekend of traveling and visiting and I’m secretly ready for Adam to take me home.

  “Adam has to be in court early Wednesday so I’m sure he will want to leave first thing in the morning.” I say as I throw some wrapping paper in the shopping cart.

  “William and I would take car trips before we were married. If a couple can endure close quarters and several hours in a car together then their relationship will evolve from a superficial attraction to an honest connection.” Interesting that she mentions this because I wondered why Adam was so adamant about driving the three hundred miles back to New York City, which reminds me, I need to pick up some snacks for our road trip.

  “Nancy, do you mind if we stop by the candy aisle?”

  “Of course we can. I have a sweet tooth myself. Hey, let’s get some lunch before we have to meet the boys.” I love the way she talks about her sons . . . they will always be her boys. We continue to pile festive decorations and a few holiday C
Ds in the cart and then grab Christmas Kit Kats and Jelly Belly’s from the snack aisle. I also get Adam some pretzels and Gatorade because he rarely eats junk food. I pass on a paperback romance novel and magazines, determined to spend seven hours completely immersed in Adam’s company.

  Nancy takes me to a cute little café near the campus of Buffalo State and I wonder if she misses her boys. Even though David is five miles from the house and probably goes home every weekend, I imagine that she graciously accepts this stage of her life with a little masked sadness.

  “Chloe, I didn’t know you could play so many instruments. Very impressive.” Nancy is referring to the fact that I accompanied several other groups at the Festival with the banjo or piano, but what she doesn’t realize is that I don’t consider myself skilled at either one and sometimes, if there are a lot of instruments on stage playing loudly, I just bang the same chord over and over to the rhythm.

  “Thank you, Nancy. It’s fun to perform with other people, less vulnerable I suppose.”

  “Oh, but you are so beautiful and confident when you’re on stage . . . I can understand why Adam is drawn to your passion.” Nancy smiles sweetly but there’s a hint of reservation in her statement.

  “Really? I never know what Adam’s thinking. Has he always been so modest with his feelings?” I sense her hesitation in speaking for her son and she studies me intently before she finally answers.

  “Has Adam told you about his photographic memory?” I shake my head confused and a little nervous about where this conversation is headed. “Well, it’s a little more than just a memory, it’s called heightened perceptual intelligence.” I knew it . . . Adam is a robot!

  “Adam has the ability to perceive things with little information, like the ending of a movie five minutes in or the sentiments of a stranger by mere observation. When he was a child, his perception made him very conscious of his own emotions. During his adolescence, Adam started to guard his thoughts because he was terrified that everyone would be able to see right through him.” Nancy places her hand over mine and her eyes flicker with nostalgia.

  “His perception is never wrong and he’s rarely surprised.” Nancy steadily holds eye contact until I eventually blink. Holy shit, perceptual intelligence or not, those Ford stares are intense!

  “This place has the best strawberry shortcake! Would you like to split one . . . our little secret?” Nancy leans into me with a mischievous smile and I know exactly what secret she’s talking about. This information is essential in understanding the enigma that is Adam Ford, yet I can’t help but wonder what would happen if his perception is ever wrong . . .

  Tuesday, November 30, 2004

  6:30 a.m.

  “On the road again, I just can’t wait to get on the road again . . .” I sing along with Willie while Adam taps his fingers on the steering wheel like he’s picking a banjo. We’ve been driving for half an hour and I’m trying to think of sneaky ways to initiate deep, honest conversation . . . ironic, no?

  “Does David have a girlfriend?” I ask, busily looking out the window.

  “Probably.” Adam answers keeping his eyes focused on the road.

  “I bet you had a ton of girlfriends in college . . . tall, smart, soccer stud . . .” I glance at his profile and he smiles quickly then looks at me.

  “What? Are we really doing this?” Adam sounds more amused than annoyed so I continue.

  “You’re a great catch, just wondering what type of girls you dated.”

  “I never really had the patience to date . . . you?”

  “I didn’t date much either . . . I didn’t have the patience for annoyance.” Adam laughs and lowers the radio.

  “I bet you drove the guys crazy! The beautiful girl next door with an inviting smile . . . the poor guys probably spent days trying to build their confidence to speak to Chloe LeGrange, only to be turned away after saying something stupid!” Adam’s laugh is extremely adorable.

  “Ha! Just because I get annoyed easily doesn’t mean I’m not courteous. Okay, then who was the last woman you slept with?” Adam looks at me briefly, studying my face.

  “Fiona.” Fiona . . . I know a Fiona and honestly how many could there be? She’s this short, blonde paralegal at Adam’s office with fake tits and a gritty New Jersey accent.

  “Really? I thought your office had a no dating policy?”

  “We didn’t date . . . and she didn’t require patience.” Adam smiles cockily and looks over at me to ask, “You?”

  I haven’t slept with that many guys but the few sexual encounters I’ve had have been borderline raunchy and unbelievably satisfying . . . therefore I’m a little hesitant in sharing this information with Adam.

  “Pablo.”

  “Pablo? I never would’ve imagined you with a Latino guy.”

  “Portuguese.”

  “When did you go to Portugal?” Adam asks.

  “Not Portugal, Fire Island.”

  “Really? And how did he accomplish the complicated task of gaining your attention and not immediately annoying you?”

  “He was hot and he didn’t speak English!”

  8:00 a.m.

  “Do you want to stop for coffee or keep going?” Adam asks me as we pass a Starbucks.

  “Keep going, I’ll survive.” I dig around in my bag and take out a super sized bag of Jelly Belly’s.

  “Candy time already?” Adam cocks his eyebrow at me while I sort through the jellybean bag. I pull out a few of the dark brown beans and offer them to Adam.

  “Cappuccino?” I ask.

  8:45 a.m.

  “How many times have you made the Buffalo to New York trip?” I’m starting to get a little bored in the rental car with no CD player and fuzzy backwoods radio stations.

  “I don’t know. When I was in law school I had to come home like once a month to check on Mom and David. He was having a tough time in school and he needed . . . well I guess he needed a man around.” Adam’s face turns somber and I can’t imagine what it must have been like without his father. Nancy is really strong and a great mother, but Adam was probably forced to take on the role of the male figure.

  “Adam, tell me about your Dad.” His head turns to meet my eyes and he’s smiling happily.

  “You know how your dad is kinda goofy, like Chevy Chase?” True, he’s very goofy. “Well my dad was more like Steve Martin, dry and sarcastic. He was also the kind of dad that would make sure everyone was happy before himself and would stay up late sometimes finishing his work just so he could take me and David for donuts before school. He adored my mom and was never embarrassed to show his affection toward her.” Adam stops and I assume he’s revealed all he wants to talk about.

  “The summer before his death, I had some things happen to me that caused a lot of embarrassment and pain. I realized I couldn’t control every outcome no matter how hard I tried, so Dad showed me how to appear composed and confident and just let things happen. But then he died abruptly and I wasn’t . . . ready. I had to go to the police station with Mom to collect the things from his car and the drug addict that killed him was fucking smiling, completely unaware. I hated that man but I hated myself even more for not being prepared for unexpected, variables.

  “When it was time to privately grieve, there were so many people hovering over our family just waiting for me to react, but Dad had devoted his last months to my well-being and I wasn’t going to dishonor him by freaking out with everyone watching. Instead, I chose not to feel . . . anything.” He turns back to look at me and his smile is replaced by a nervous grin. He’s waiting for a response and now I’m nervous . . . he wants honesty.

  “Your father would be very proud of the Adam I know and love.” I’m not sure if this is an appropriate sentiment after such a raw declaration, but Adam nods in agreement.

  “Yeah, he definitely would.”

  10:14 a.m.

  “Never, I would never have sex in a public place.” I answer firmly.

  “Really? Why not?” Adam is r
elentless.

  “I’m actually surprised you would consider it, Private Ford!” I joke.

  “Private Ford?” He glances at me quizzically.

  “That’s what Nat calls you . . . she thinks you’re a fetish freak or a serial killer, with one of those sex dungeons and a trunk full of body parts.” I laugh thinking of Nat’s crazy imagination.

  “I gave that stuff up years ago . . . it attracted the wrong sort of people.” He deadpans.

  “So besides you wanting to pull over at the next rest area and get it on in front of a bunch of hobos and family picnickers, do you have any other fetishes I should know about?” I ask.

  “Is fucking my girlfriend a fetish? It’s not like I want to bend you over a picnic table . . . the car will work fine.” He smiles teasingly but I’m not satisfied.

  “Hey, I don’t want to be deep into our relationship and you start wearing panties and corsets.”

  “Really, Chloe? I have normal fantasies; a fetish is an object that has to be there in order to have a sexual response, so by that definition, I suppose I have a fetish for your tits.” He smiles at my chest and nods approvingly. “What about you Chloe, any secret fantasies I should know about?”

  “Ah, my fantasy involves a really big bathtub.” I say dreamily.

  12:30 p.m.

  “What the hell is that?” I point to his plate full of creamy white mush and grimace.

  “You’re Canadian and you’ve never had poutine?” Adam shakes his head in amazement.

  We’ve stopped at what I would consider an eighteen-wheeler hotspot with $3.99 Lunch Specials and lots of junk for me to purchase on my way out. I have my eye on a glittery wind catcher and a bag of taffy . . .

  “Um, yes, I’ve had real poutine! It’s supposed to be made with brown gravy, ya know.” I sip my iced tea and investigate whether my turkey burger is in fact turkey.

  “I know. The gravy is a little . . . off, but it’s not that bad. Eat something and I’ll buy you that pink trucker hat on the way out.” I love a man that will reward me for eating.