The Refrain (The Bridge Series) (17 page)

Liquor helps.

“Should I wear heels or boots?” Nat asks.

“There’s ten centimeters of snow on the ground,” I answer. I’m dressed in dark jeans and a cashmere sweater . . . Nat is wearing a wrap dress and black tights. One of us is going to be embarrassed.

Natalie puts her hands on her hips and frowns. “We’ll be in a lounge, why would I care about the snow?”

Point taken.

“Go with the boots,” I suggest.

I stare at my profile in the mirror and wonder exactly when I turned into my mother. All I need is a string of pearls and peach lipstick and I’m all set to play Mahjong at the local library.

Nat moves behind me and smiles at our reflection in the mirror. “So hey, I need to tell you something – did you take your meds?” She picks up the brush from the dresser and runs it through my hair, waiting for my answer.

“Yes, Nat. Ask again and I’ll cut your hair in your sleep.”

Laughing at my threat, she says, “Oh my god, like
Single White Female
? That bitch was crazy!”

“You were so scared after that movie. You made me sleep in your bed the entire weekend.”

“Are you kidding? That’s like the scariest thing ever . . . I kept imagining Piper showing up to school with her hair dyed to match ours!”

I take the brush from her hand and smile back at her reflection. She looks great . . . not happy exactly, but hopeful. “So what’s up, Nat?” I ask.

Natalie moves to the bed and pats the spot next to her. I reluctantly take a seat, thinking this is a conversation about the crappy
As Seen on TV
Christmas present I bought her from the drugstore.

She places my hand inside hers and lets out a deep breath. “A few months ago, I had coffee with Adam. Trust me, my reasons were valid. But I feel really bad for not telling you.” She pauses to access my reaction, but Mr. Zoloft regulates my responses to a nice, smooth
whatever
. “I was going to say something, but then I got a little distracted when the love of my life came home to me in a box.” Natalie laughs like a maniac, her coping skills obviously undependable. “Anywho, I asked him about that night at the bar and why he left . . . do you know what he said?”

“Jamie,” I answer. “But I’d rather not talk about Adam.”

“Wait, what? How’d you know?” She scrunches her nose in confusion. “Well, we’re gonna talk about Adam. And the fact that Jamie needs to stop fucking with your head. At first, I was really pissed – he’s always so smug and serious.” Natalie pauses and clears her throat. “But then, I thought about the bar and your little olive song. That
stupid
song, Chloe! I’ve had to watch the two of you do that crap for years, thinking
I
was jealous or something. Everything made sense – all the other times Jamie has controlled your feelings, manipulating you into loving him, but never reciprocating – it’s sick . . . and Adam saw past the sibling friendship.”

“Nat, I get it. Adam’s not into me, and Jamie’s not like a brother – he’ll always be my first,” I whisper.

Natalie closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Are you fucking kidding me? Chloe, I defended you, I thought Adam was a complete dick and I put him in his place. And oh my God, he’s so into you!” Natalie’s volume increases with each word, ending with a slap against my forehead.

“Ow,” I whine. “What was that for?”

“Because you’re a frustrating idiot. Where did your passion go – that fighting spirit? I mean fuck Chloe, at least you have someone to fight for . . .”

Silence.

Natalie closes her eyes for a second and then jumps up to put on her boots. Sadly she says, “C’mon. We should go or it’ll be 2004 before we know it.”

I slip on my ankle boots and rummage through my bedside table for some gum. There’s not much to say to Natalie and I’ve run out of encouraging sentiments. I cry almost every night – her constant sadness terrifying me. And now knowing that she worries about my happiness, it’s a fucking cycle that no amount of drugs can fix.

We quietly walk down the stairs to the living room to find my parents playing Scrabble and eating popcorn. Aunt Judy and Uncle Dave returned to Connecticut yesterday, and I guess my parents wanted a relaxing evening to themselves.

“Girls!” Mom shouts.

“Wow, now this is a party,” Nat teases.

Mom snorts and rolls her eyes at Dad. “Oh Natalie, we’re old – we’ll be in bed by eleven.”

Dad digs in his pocket for his keys and tosses them to Natalie. “You know the protocol,” he adds.

“Yes Dad,” I answer.

“Have a great time at the party and Happy New Year!” Mom stands to kiss us and dad peeks at her remaining Scrabble tiles.

Natalie and I grab our coats and scarves and head to the garage. A party is the last place either of us wants to be, but all our friends will be there ringing in the New Year. And we’re the LeGrange girls . . . we bring the party.

Life is made up of uncertainty, and for most, embarking on a new year is a fresh start. But for someone like me, I need a constant – a purpose.

January 2004

I
T’S ONLY BEEN
three weeks since the horrific night when our seams unraveled, but Nat and I are settling back into the apartment as expected. New beginnings are being overshadowed by old fears, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find the courage to move on.

Aunt Judy and Mom did a great job sweeping the Worth Street crime scene, leaving no evidence of broken glass or unraveled threads. Natalie and I had to make a few other adjustments to the space, eliminating the painful reminders of the past. I moved the giant olive painting to the basement storage, and Natalie gathered up everything that is Zach and shoved it into the hall closet – including some wooden spoons.

One night when she was out, I organized all the letters and gifts into a storage tub and then hid her star necklace in my jewelry box – praying that she’ll soon reach the final phase of acceptance.

My pain is a little more private, and could never compare to what Natalie has had to endure, but her actions lately have been hurtful and selfish. She’s been with four different guys since New Year’s Eve and she’s blown off work numerous times. I cover for her and make all the necessary phone calls, but Natalie simply looks at me with hatred. She even insulted me in front of her bed companion this morning . . .
just ignore her, she’s a rock star.
Her depression is fueled by anger which in turn, is vile and mean-spirited. And if I didn’t love her so much, I would fucking hate her right now.

Working has been my refuge. I have another gig scheduled for The Bridge, and Bleecker Street is proving to be a phenomenal place of employment. The store is crazy busy today and I have a meeting with Simon after lunch – he thinks I’m ready to procure guitars and instruments for film and television. Holy shit, it’s like a dream I didn’t even know I had swirling in my unrealistic fantasies. I could actually meet celebrities . . .

But first, I need to make a phone call.

I grab my cell and head to the tiny break room. My co-worker Shamus is sitting at the only table, aggressively shoving sushi between his pierced lips. I give him a smile, but he returns my polite gesture with a growl and a scowl – musicians are either
fuck gods
or
ah, hell no
. . . Shamus is the poster boy for the latter.

I hide in the storage closet next to the unisex bathroom and find a nice place to sit on a forgotten drum case. I kick the door closed with my boot and take out my phone. The service sucks in here, but my call seems to be going through . . .

He answers after the second ring. “Hola.”

“Hey James,” I say.

“Chloe? I haven’t heard from you since 2003,” he jokes.

“I know. And I feel bad about that shit on New Year’s Eve. Nat was . . .”

“Speaking of the Natster, did she give you permission to call me?” Jamie asks.

“What the fuck does that mean – listen, I need to talk to you.” I stare ahead at the mop and broom, wondering if those things have ever been used in this place.

“Easy doll face, you know what it means.”

This conversation is about to go from absurd to awkward. 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

“Um, okay. Do you think I’m in love with you?”

“Of course you are, hold on – soy milk please – why are you asking?”

Not happy with his answer, I ask again. “I love you, yes, but am I
in
love with you?”

There’s a slight pause and then some muffled dialogue about lattes. Jamie exhales into the phone and I imagine his annoyed expression – he’s patronizing me. Like when he sighs and tilts his head at those ASPCA commercials or the deep gasp he represses while looking at really bad art.

“Jamie?” I press.

“You’re in love with me, Chloe. You always have been and you probably always will be. Maybe it’s the thrill of knowing you can’t have me, or maybe you want to change me, but whatever it is, it’s not mutual.”

No shit.

I’m pissed. My voice goes from polite to furious in one thought. “Goddamn it James, why did you let me? What kind of friend does that? Shit – I can’t even hold on to someone that’s perfect for me because I’m so fucking terrified he won’t love me back.”

“Chloe, I think we should take Nat’s advice and—”

“Oh, fuck you Jamie! You needed me. You needed me to deal with your own insecurities.”

“Brilliant Chloe, you uncovered my devious plan. People use people, stop being so overemotional.” He pauses, knowing that last bit would sting. “Love comes with baggage. Love comes with intentions and love ain’t as pure and defined as you think it is.” His voice is bitter and defensive.

“Jamie,” I say quietly.

“Hey doll, I’m going into a meeting with an art gallery. Call you back in twenty?” he asks.

Hot tears – the ones that burn the cornea and scorch the skin, slowly make their way down my cheeks. “No.”

With his voice full of condescension, he says, “Chloe, olive you.”

And then I feel it – deception. Our love was formed as confused teenagers with Degrassi on our minds. It’s a charade. We’re not honest, not sincere, and definitely not pure.

“Olives.” I slam the phone closed.

I place my phone back in my pocket and wipe my tears with my sleeve. Slowly, I open the door to the closet and peek at Shamus. He’s still sitting at the table, drumming his chopsticks and looking over sheets of music. I lower my head and try to walk past him, but he holds out his arm, stopping me at my waist.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks.

I’ve never heard his actual voice . . . it’s really high-pitched. “Uh, yes. Great.”

Lowering his arm and glaring at me, he says, “Simon was looking for you.” He resumes his chopstick drum solo, ignoring me.

I take a deep breath before entering the showroom . . . clarity is very liberating.

O
NCE AGAIN, THE
apartment is dark and empty. Natalie promised she would be home tonight . . . hence the large pie with extra mushrooms staring me in the face. I’m single, alone, and should have no problem polishing off four large slices and three glasses of wine.

But being alone can do some crazy things to the mind . . . like . . . that’s strange, I don’t remember my phone making its way into my greasy palm – I also can’t seem to stop my saucy fingers from scrolling through the call log. Ugh, Jamie. Stupid Jamie and his stupid – oh shit – I dialed Adam.

My fingers and brain can’t get it together. I can’t disconnect. It’s ringing, I’m dying, it’s ringing – fuck, red equals disconnect, go-go gadget fingers go . . .

“Chloe?”

I slam the phone down on the table, and then toss it into the pizza box. That’ll show him . . . that’ll show him I’m a stalking psychopath.

I roll my head clockwise and then wipe my hands on my jeans. After a deep breath and a hacking cough from my cotton mouth, I retrieve the phone from the box.

“Oh, hey,” I say breezily. Yes, easy breezy. I’m super easy, super breezy, and really tipsy.

There’s no answer. I place the phone back on the table and stare at the lone mushroom on my plate. This is ridiculous. I will call him when I sober up and apologize. But why am I apologizing? He doesn’t want me and if he did, well, it’s been like three months . . .

My phone rings. It’s him. I can’t.

After waiting five minutes with no voicemail indicator, I decide to call the one person that understands me. The one person that doesn’t patronize me. The only person that is paid to listen to me – McKinstry.

“Hey, Doc, it’s Chloe.”

“Who?”

“Do you find pleasure in fucking with people that suffer from panic attacks?” I ask.

“Some more than others – what’s up Chloe?”

I slouch over the table and pout. “I’m alone – literally. Hey, how’d you know this wasn’t a freak-out phone call?”

“Because you said
, hey, Doc, it’s Chloe
. Freak-outs usually start with
help
or heavy breathing,” he responds.

“Oh, that’s smart.” I laugh nervously. “So do you remember that guy I told you about? The one that’s really intense,” I add.

“Yes.”

Mumbling I say, “I drunk-dialed him.”

“Is that really a thing? It’s a physiological fact that you still have a subconscious while inebriated. Did you have an episode after you called him?”

I pick at the mushroom on my plate and then flick it onto the floor. “Not at all. I was mortified, but he has this way of making me feel centered – comfortable with my embarrassment.”

“That’s a great thing, Chloe. What did you talk about?”

Oh shit, maybe I should’ve mentioned that part. “You know, stuff. Very quick,” I add casually.

“Chloe, did you actually have a conversation with this person?”

“Doc, I have anxiety, I’m not delusional . . . but no, I didn’t actually speak to him. He did call back, though.”

“But you didn’t answer,” he quips.

“Tabernac! Do you have monitors in my apartment?”

“As your therapist, I advise you to avoid situations that affect your decision-making. But as an old guy that believes serenity is a basic requirement in a healthy relationship, I say go with your gut. Does that help?”

“No. I mean, yes. Thank you for taking my call, Doc.”

“It’s my job. How’s your cousin, Natalie?”

Without notice, my eyes well into puddles of sadness – just when I thought there were no more tears to be shed, my emotions send me a nice, big
fuck you
.

“She’s a mess. I want nothing more than for her to be happy. I mean it! I would give up everything – a deal with devil or be forced to eat liver and cabbage for the rest of my life if she would just get a shot at happiness.”

“She will. Existence is a circle . . . we’re all revolving around that center force. Give Natalie time, be a friend, but please don’t take her burdens as your own,” he pleads. “Chloe, I’m sorry, but I have a dinner I’m late for with the people of Pfizer. Would you like to schedule weekly phone sessions?”

I contemplate the idea of routine sessions, but they somehow make me feel pathetic and weak. “No, Doc. I will see you in a few months – hopefully with good news.”

“I’m sure of it. Keep writing, you have a song to tell.”

I sit up straight and take a sip of wine. “Good night, Doc and thank you for everything.”

“My pleasure – good night,” he says before disconnecting.

I toss my phone on the table and clean up my mess. There’s really no sense in staying up and watching television by myself, and maybe tonight I can actually sleep in my room without a strange man making Nat giggle and moan. Barf.

I brush my teeth and wash my face. My eyes are red and glassy and my cheeks are blotchy. Not my best look – not anyone’s best look. I turn on the stereo and pick the Indigo Girls CD. Those chicks get it right! Well, except a few songs that I still don’t understand, but most of their lyrics are pure poetry. I rummage through Nat’s dresser in search for some pants to sleep in. My pile of laundry is higher than—

Holy shit.

It’s like a college bookstore set up shop in her drawer . . . Princeton, Syracuse, Boston College, Penn State, and NYU – gag, figures. Men keep women’s panties, Nat keeps collegiate memorabilia. Whatever.

I slip on the BC sweatpants and curl under the duvet with a book. Maybe I should get a cat – or like six cats! Hey Darren Star, here’s some great material for
Sex In the City
 . . .