by Lia Romeo
Nat looks at me in horror. “You do?”
Mel laughs. “I do too. I think it’s normal.”
“You and Lewis would have really cute babies,” Nat admits.
I sigh. “I know.”
“Except,” she says, “would they be, like, demons?”
“I don’t know!” This hadn’t occurred to me. “I don’t want demon babies!” I sigh again, remembering the events of this morning. “Not that it matters now.”
“Okay,” she says, “so tell me what happened.”
So I tell her the story. “I knew Ben was bad news!” she exclaims when I’m finished. “You’re too sweet, that’s your problem. You’ve got such a good heart that you figure that everybody else must have one too.”
“Well,” I shrug, “it was my fault, really. I screwed up, and now I have to pay the price.”
“Okay,” Nat says, “but you screwed up one time. I don’t really think it was that big a deal.”
“Lewis does.”
“But honestly,” Nat says, “if we’re weighing ‘kissed my ex-boyfriend’ against ‘ruled over Hell for, I don’t know, all eternity’? I think he ought to be a little more forgiving.”
“That’s true,” Mel says. “You know I don’t really subscribe to this whole Satan theory . . . but regardless, he’s not exactly perfect.”
“He’s not perfect at all!” I exclaim. “I mean, he’s great . . . but he lied to me and tried to get me sent to Hell when we first got together.”
“Right!” Nat says. “And you forgave him. I’m not saying you should have . . . but you did. So I think he owes you the same thing.”
“You’re right! He does! He owes me another chance! But how am I going to get him to give it to me?”
“I don’t know,” Nat says. “Ask him?”
“But what if he doesn’t want to?”
“Then he’s not worth it anyhow,” Mel says. The waitress sets down three plates of pancakes—banana walnut, chocolate chip, and strawberries and whipped cream. One of our emergency brunch traditions is that we each get a different kind, and then share all of them.
Mel serves herself from the plates, then looks up. “I have something to tell you guys,” she says.
“Yeah?” Nat says.
She hesitates.
“Mel, what is it?” I ask her.
“Okay,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “Brandon and I broke up.”
So that’s what’s been going on. I knew there was something! “When? Why?”
“Actually,” she says, “a while ago.”
“What?” Nat exclaims. “And you didn’t tell us?”
“I . . .” Suddenly Mel looks like she’s about to cry. “I didn’t know how. I always . . . have it together. I’m the one that has it together. And having it together doesn’t include getting dumped by your fiancé because he found out you were making out with some stupid guy in some stupid club!”
And now she does start crying, which isn’t a sight I’ve ever seen before, let alone in the middle of a public restaurant. Nat and I lean over and put our arms around her, telling her it’s okay, and within about thirty seconds she’s composed again.
“How did he find out?” Nat asks.
“One of his friends was at STK that night that you and I went there,” Mel tells her. “Luce, you weren’t there—you were out with Lewis. So Brandon’s friend Jeff—I didn’t see him, but I guess he saw me, and he told Brandon about this guy I was kissing. So Brandon got mad and confronted me about it, and I told him it was the first time, but . . .” She shrugs. “It wasn’t, and he didn’t believe me.”
“So then he, what?” I ask her. “Just broke up with you right then?”
“Yeah. And then I tried to convince him to take me back. A few times, actually. But it turned out that some other people had seen me too . . . doing stuff, with other guys . . . and after they found out that he and I had broken up they told him. So. It’s over. I’m single.”
“Did you ever think that maybe . . .” I’m not sure if I should say this. “That maybe if you were making out with all these other guys, you didn’t actually want to be with him?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I always figured if I wanted to be with anyone it would be him. But maybe I don’t want to be with anyone. Maybe I just want to be on my own for a while.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “I’ve never been single, you know? I’ve had a boyfriend pretty much nonstop since I was thirteen. It always felt like one of the things I needed. Good grades, shiny hair, cute boyfriend. And Brandon was . . . I mean, he was perfect, he was everything I thought I wanted.”
“Yeah, but that’s not . . . that’s not a good reason to be with someone.”
“Then what’s a good reason to be with someone?” she asks.
“Because you love him,” I tell her.
“Do you love Lewis?”
I haven’t said it—haven’t even let myself think it—but as soon as she asks I know the answer. “Yeah. He isn’t what I thought I wanted at all. I mean, obviously. But I do. I love him anyway.”
“Then you have to go get him back,” Nat says.
– 28 –
WE ALL AGREE, however, that Operation Win Lewis Back will require some planning. So we decide to spend the afternoon engaging in another time-honored tradition that started in college: emergency shopping. Emergency shopping followed emergency brunch, and, given that the many of the stores in Ithaca skewed towards the eclectic, was responsible for such wardrobe treasures as Nat’s lime green sequined leotard and my metal-spiked dog collar.
Today, Mel has declared that she needs “single clothes.”
“Right,” Nat says, “because your current wardrobe is so conservative.” Mel has a penchant for showing off her marathon runner’s legs in very short skirts.
“I mean, I have a lot of stuff that shows my legs . . . but I need clothes that show my boobs. Isn’t that what single girls do?”
“I guess I need clothes that don’t show my boobs, then,” Nat says.
As for me, I need to find the perfect gift for Lewis—something that says both “I’m sorry” and “I’m amazing.” Lewis has given me several beautiful gifts, and I’ve never given him anything, and it’s definitely time for me to correct this imbalance. But what do you get the boy—or rather, evil demon—who has everything?
“What about a tie?” Nat suggests. “A really nice tie?” We’ve taken the subway downtown to Soho, and we’re walking down Prince Street towards Intermix. The sun is high in the sky and it’s turning out to be a beautiful afternoon.
“I don’t know . . . he’s not really the tie-wearing type.”
“Or cuff links?” Mel says. “Does he wear cuff links?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.” I have a very limited knowledge of men’s fashion.
“Or okay,” she says, “What does he drink?”
And then I have it. “Scotch. Really nice scotch.”
“Perfect,” Mel says. “So we’ll find a liquor store, and you’ll get him a bottle.”
A homeless man is slumped on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop we’re walking by. “Hey, beautiful ladies, spare any change?” he mutters. Nat and I shake our heads reflexively, but Mel stops.
“Actually,” she says, “I do have something.” She slides the sparkling three-carat diamond, which she’s still wearing, off of her finger and holds it out to him. “It’s from Cartier. You should be able to get a pretty good resale price.”
The man stares at her, dumbfounded. She extends the ring again. “Take it. It’s real.”
Nat and I are staring at her, mouths open. Nat finds her voice first. “Uh, Mel? You really want to give him your engagement ring?”
“Why not?” Mel says. “I tried to give it back to Brandon, but he wouldn’t take it. And it’s not like I need the money. So I’ll do a good deed.”
Slowly, the man reaches his hand out for the ring. He turns it back and forth, staring at it in wonder as the princess-cut
diamond catches the rays of the sun. It really is beautiful. “Are you—are you sure?” he says.
“Yeah,” she says simply. He suddenly climbs to his feet and lurches toward her, wrapping her in a giant hug. Tiny Mel almost disappears inside his torn green army jacket, and Nat and I step forward in alarm before he releases her and we see that they’re both smiling.
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you so much.”
Mel inclines her head slightly, then quickly turns and keeps walking down the street. Nat and I hurry to catch up with her, and when we do, I see that she’s blinking back tears.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
“I’m fine,” she says, quickly wiping them away. “Oh, look!” She points at a low-cut, wraparound, kelly-green dress hugging the plastic curves of a mannequin in the Intermix window. “That’s cute, let’s go in.”
Forty-five minutes later, Mel has acquired the kelly-green dress and a low-cut silk shirt in three different colors: black, red, and hot pink. Nat, on the other hand, has acquired two surprisingly conservative button-down shirtdresses . . . and a pair of six-inch Lucite heels (“You can’t expect me to change my style completely!”)
And me? I normally don’t even bother to try anything on at Intermix, since prices start around a hundred dollars and go up from there. But while Nat and Mel were flitting around the store, gathering armfuls of clothes to take into the dressing rooms, I spotted a deep red wraparound sweater hanging on the fifty-percent-off rack. I didn’t even let myself look at the price tag, just picked it up and carried it into the dressing room, figuring at least it would give me something to do while Nat and Mel were trying things on.
And it was perfect. It hugged my curves, showed just a hint of cleavage, showed off my dark eyes and brought color into my cheeks. If I wore this, I didn’t know how Lewis would be able to resist me. I checked the tag, and it was two hundred dollars—on sale from four hundred dollars, and still more expensive than almost anything I’d ever bought (for myself, at least . . . Lewis’ gifts were on another level). But I had to have it.
So now we’re walking back uptown, bags in hand, and looking for a liquor store. This being New York, we don’t have to look far . . . within a couple of blocks we come across Soho Wines and Spirits on West Broadway. I’m not sure what brand of Scotch Lewis actually drinks . . . I’ve only seen him order it at bars . . . but fortunately the guy behind the counter is young, cute, and happy to help.
“Johnnie Walker Blue Label,” he says, when I ask him what he’d recommend. He pulls down a bottle from the top shelf behind the counter. My eyes widen at the price tag: two hundred and fifty dollars. Suddenly I’m regretting buying the sweater.
Nat flutters her eyelashes at him. “Do you guys have any kind of loyal customer discount?”
“We do . . .” he says, “but you’re not loyal customers . . . are you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before.”
“Well,” Nat says, “not yet. But if you gave us a discount we would be.”
He thinks about it. She smiles winningly at him. “Okay,” he finally concedes, “how about this. I can give it to you for two hundred dollars.”
I bite my lip and take out my credit card. I’ll think about how to pay the bill next month. “Hey,” the clerk says to Natalie, “would you want to maybe get a drink sometime?”
I shoot Nat a death glare, but as it turns out, I needn’t worry. “I’m actually seeing someone,” she says without missing a beat. “But thanks, that’s really nice of you.”
“Well,” he says, “if it doesn’t work out, you know where to find me.” He ties a red ribbon around the bottle of Johnnie Walker, which comes in a blue box with embossed gold lettering, and hands it to me. “Gift for your special someone?” he asks.
“I hope so.” The clerk looks confused. “I mean, it’s for a special someone—but I don’t know if he’s mine.”
“Good luck,” he says. “I hope he’s worth it.”
– 29 –
ONCE WE’RE BACK at the apartment, Nat and Mel help me get ready. I put on the wraparound sweater with my dark skinny jeans, and Nat lends me a pair of knee-high grey suede boots. Mel helps me brush my hair into a high ponytail and tie Lewis’ scarf around it, and gives me a daytime version of smoky eyes. It’s still more makeup than I usually wear for night time, but she and Nat assure me that it looks great.
I dawdle over choosing a lip gloss, and change my earrings three times before Nat and Mel tell me I’m stalling.
“Of course I’m stalling, I’m scared!” I exclaim. “What about silver hoops—don’t you think those would look better?”
“Stick with the pearls,” Mel says, “they’re classy. And the raspberry lip gloss. And then get your butt out the door.”
“Look,” Nat says, “whatever happens, you’re not going to end up any worse off than you are right now.”
“Right now I’m just alone. If this doesn’t work I’m going to end up alone and humiliated. And almost five hundred dollars poorer, between the sweater and the scotch.”
“The sweater’s gorgeous,” Nat says, “and I’ll drink the scotch. Now go.” She picks up the bottle of Johnnie Walker, puts it in my purse, and puts my purse over my shoulder. Then she takes my right arm and Mel takes my left, and they begin escorting me toward the door.
“But what if?—”
“Good luck!” Nat exclaims, and closes the door behind me.
Heart beating fast, I walk down the hall and take the elevator down to the lobby. Maybe I should call first? But if I do—even if he answers—he’ll tell me not to come. Better to just show up and see what happens. I walk to the corner and stick my arm out for a cab. When the cab pulls over and I climb in, I have the sudden impulse to tell the driver to go somewhere entirely different—like, say, the art museum! I haven’t been to the Met in almost a year!—well, except for the benefit, and I didn’t exactly get to see anything that night. But then I remember it’s Sunday night and all the museums are closed. “Broadway and Rector Street,” I tell him.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in front of Lewis’ building. I probably stand there for at least five minutes, just staring at the glass front doors, before I walk up the steps and pull one of them open. I recognize the doorman, an older, white-haired man with a round, friendly face who’s often on duty nights. I give him a smile. “Hi—I’m—I’m here to see Lewis.”
“Come to say goodbye? I’m sorry, miss—you just missed him.”
“Oh. He went out?”
“He moved out,” the doorman says.
I stop short in front of his desk. “He what?”
The doorman looks confused. “He didn’t tell you?”
“No—we—we got in a fight.”
“He had movers in and out all afternoon,” the doorman says. “Put all his stuff in storage, then took off.”
“He broke his lease?”
“I guess he must have. I wish I could tell you where he went, but I don’t know.”
And I suddenly realize that I do. “You said he just left?” I ask the doorman. He nods. I run out the door and back down the stairs, then stick my arm out for a cab.
“Canal Street RW station,” I tell the driver.
AS SOON AS the cab pulls up in front of the subway station, I toss a twenty-dollar bill at the driver and jump out without bothering to wait for my change. I run down the stairs, fumbling frantically in my purse for my Metrocard, and managing to drop two tubes of lip gloss and my Duane Reade card before I find it. No time to pick them up . . . I swipe my card, run through the turnstile, and find myself on the RW platform.
I know if I don’t catch up with Lewis right now, I’ll never see him again. He’ll come back to the city eventually, at least I assume he will . . . but he’ll live somewhere else . . . he’ll probably even look like someone else. I’ll never be able to find him. Unless I do something terrible and get myself sent to Hell . . . but I’m really not willing to wait until after I die to experience what
it feels like to kiss him again.
And of course, it’s possible that he isn’t even headed for Hell. He could have gone to Vegas . . . or anywhere else in the world. He could have shifted shape already. Or he could be traveling as an elemental, a fiery wind. But this is the only hope I’ve got.
And then, on the platform, I stop short . . . realizing I have no idea which direction the doorway to Hell is in. I run to the left side of the platform and peer down the tunnel. Nothing but darkness. I run to the right side . . . not that I expect to be able to see anything. Lewis had said the door was a ways down the tunnel. But on this side it feels decidedly warmer . . . almost as though a gust of hot air is blowing from the tunnel up onto the platform. It’s got to be this way.
I look the other way to make sure there isn’t a train coming, then squat down, put one hand on the concrete to steady myself, and jump down into the subway tunnel. I hear a couple of alarmed shouts from passengers on the platform—“Miss?” “Hey, what are you doing?”—but I ignore them and begin running down the tunnel, staying as close to the wall as I can.
There’s some light, but not much . . . which is probably just as well, I realize when I hear a squeak and see a large rat scurrying into a hole in the wall in front of me. I keep going, half-running, half-stumbling, steadying myself against the wall, looking over my shoulder from time to time to make sure there isn’t a train coming. The further down the tunnel I get, the hotter it seems to be getting, though there’s no sign of a door in the wall yet.
And then, as I’m looking over my shoulder, I stumble over something and land hard on my hands and knees . . . and the bottle of two-hundred-dollar scotch goes flying out of my purse and shatters in the dirt in front of me.
Oh, no! Well, no time to worry about it now. I grab the neck of the bottle and shove it back into my purse, with the vague idea that if I find Lewis, I’ll be able to show him that at least I tried to get him something nice. I get to my feet, brushing dirt off my jeans—I’ve torn a hole in the knee, and it looks like I’m bleeding—and keep running, awkward in my high-heeled boots. I keep my eyes on the ground this time . . . I figure if there’s a train coming from behind me, I’ll hear it.