Love and Chaos (7 page)

I keep making the same mistakes. That’s why I’m stuck in this ridiculous, destructive holding pattern. I make the wrong choice. Every single time.

I glance up at Gabriel. If it was this time a week ago, I’d date him until he dumped me. I know I would. But that’s not what I want anymore. And it’s definitely not what I need.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. I’m not … looking for anything. Uh, romantic.” Interesting choice of words.

“Okay,” he says, with an “easy come, easy go” shrug. “So you just want to get back to New York and say good-bye, is that it?”

I feel bad. Why do I feel bad? Like I owe him dinner. Like he gets to be with me in exchange for giving me a ride home. Why the fuck am I thinking like that? Sex in exchange for what I want. That’s what Stef said. Is that how I think? It’s not, it’s really not. I accepted those gifts because I never had much spending money and the guys always did. Because I like clothes and nice things, and they liked buying them for me. Because I thought they liked me and I really, really liked them, especially Mani. And most of all, because I thought that when they gave me something, it meant that I was worth being with.

I was wrong.

That’s it. My life has been all about guys for far too long.

I want my life to be about me.

I want to be single. I want my home. I want a real job. I want my friends.

And by the time I turn twenty-three, I want to be doing something that
means
something. Either I have a life that I can be proud of, that I earned on my own merits, or … or … or I don’t know what.

Twenty-three is my deadline.

“You sure that’s what you want?” repeats Gabriel.

I look up. “I am.”

CHAPTER
10

When we land, Gabriel offers me a ride home in their car. He gives me his business card, though I have no intention of calling him, and I thank him and his sisters profusely for being such Good Samaritans. They drop me at the corner of Smith and Union before continuing on to his apartment on Columbus Circle and, shivering from the cold, I walk down the street to Rookhaven.

It’s past midnight. Everyone is asleep, and for a moment, as I walk up the stoop of my house in the darker than dark, freezing-cold February night, it feels like the whole sun-filled superyacht experience was just a dream. Or a nightmare.

With the hidden spare key, I open the front door and inhale the warm, comforting Rookhaven smell. Vanilla and cinnamon from the kitchen, the wood polish Coco uses on the furniture, all mixed with everyone’s shampoo and perfumes and a sort of papery scent that I always think of as old wallpaper.

I have never been as happy to be in Rookhaven as I am right this second.

Minutes later, I’m tearing through my bedroom like that Tasmanian devil cartoon. Wrenching dresses off hangers, taking jewelry out of drawers, grabbing shoes and underwear, every gift from an ex-boyfriend, ex-flings, ex … whatevers. All my labels, all my most expensive clothes … Touching them, knowing now why I got them, gives me a cold, scared feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I’m so stupid.
How could I have ever thought they actually liked me for me?

I will never trust a man again. Ever. They all lie. They lie and lie and lie. My father lies, Stef lies, Mani and Jessop and Marc and, oh God, all of them. Liars.

Now all that’s left in my closet is stuff from H&M and Urban Outfitters and other cheapish places, stuff I borrowed from Annabel and never gave back, and secondhand pieces found in vintage stores and flea markets that I customized to suit just me. I bundle all the designer clothing in a bag to take to Goodwill tomorrow.

But I can’t even bear to have the white dress from the Soho Grand night in the house anymore. It was from Mani, the guy I really thought I might be in love with, the guy who took me out for dinner and talked to me like he
cared
.… The dress was bought with bullshit.

So I grab it, head downstairs, out the front door, down the stoop, and throw the dress in the garbage.

“Watch out there, girlie, you’ll break the lid,” says a voice. I turn around. It’s Vic, the old guy who lives in the downstairs apartment. I haven’t seen him in ages.

“Vic! Hey! What are you doing out here so late?”

“Just sitting.” He’s all bundled up in an old coat and scarf and hat, perched comfortably on the chair outside his apartment. I can hardly see him, his voice is just rumbling out of the darkness as though it came from Rookhaven itself. “Sometimes I like to get some air. What about you?”

“Um, yeah, air.” I don’t even know why, but suddenly, I want to tell him everything. “I’ve made a mistake, Vic. A few actually, really huge mistakes, and I, um, I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself.”

God, I sound dramatic. Pia would be proud.

“What mistakes?”

“I don’t…” I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about them. Ever. To anyone. But I don’t know if I can deal with them alone, either.”

“I understand that.” Vic and I both sigh into the silence. My breath is coming out all misty, and I’m not even smoking. I’m so tired of being cold. I’m so tired of winter.

Then Vic pipes up again. “Regret … it’ll kill you. Out of all the negative emotions, regret is the one that will get its claws into your soul.”

My throat suddenly aches with the desire to sob, and tears well up behind my eyes. I blink them away quickly. I never cry in front of people. Ever.

“You tried talking to your friends? Your parents?”

“No,” I say. “No way.”

“You gotta let it go, girlie. Otherwise you’ll spend your whole life thinking about it. Trust me. I know. And it’s much easier to let go of problems when you share them with the people you love.”

“But what if they judge me? What if they hate me for it?”

“Friends don’t judge. Friends just listen.”

The crying feeling threatens to engulf me again. “But I feel like … like this thing … this will never leave me. Like there’s a permanent mark on my record. A stain on my soul.”

“Nothing is permanent. Everything changes. You can choose to let that comfort you, or depress you. Once an event is in the past, it’s just a memory.”

“A bad memory.”

“Sure, sometimes it’s a bad memory. You can choose to remember it and hold on to it forever, or you can forget it, and it’s like it never happened. You’re in control.”

“I’m never in control.” I start laughing, though the lump of tears in my throat is so big and square it hurts. “I am, by nature, out of control.”

“That’s your choice, girlie.” Vic stands up. “Night night. Sweet dreams.”

CHAPTER
11

“Stef is an evil cockmonkey,” announces Pia. “I hope he rots in hell.”

“I hope he gets an STD!” says Coco.

“I hope Hal gets an STD,” says Julia.

“I can’t believe Hal told you his
dick
liked you,” says Madeleine.

“Diving into the sea was the best idea ever,” says Pia.

“You’re so lucky that guy had a private plane!” says Coco.

“And your parents will have a much better relationship now,” says Pia.

“Totally. No more fighting, no more problems. Divorce is great!” says Madeleine.

“I wish my parents would divorce!” says Pia.

“Being single is the best! Most of the time,” says Julia.

“And you’ll get a job in fashion in a heartbeat. Who wouldn’t want to hire you?” says Coco.

Don’t you just love girls? It’s so simple: I walked into the kitchen two hours ago, apologized profusely for being such a nightmare, confessed everything, and received total acceptance, affection, and absolution in return. It surprised me, but this is how they’ve always treated one another, so it’s how they’re treating me. I’m part of the group. That probably shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is.

Well, I didn’t confess
everything
.

I didn’t tell them about waking up in the Soho Grand with three thousand dollars in an envelope. I just can’t. I told them about the yacht, that Hal had assumed I was, erm, someone who’d take money for sex, that Stef had set me up, that it was a one-off, the culmination of bad luck and bad decisions. They are shocked enough at that. If they knew I’ve accidentally been playing the part of the happy hooker for the past few months with Mani, Jessop, and whoever the dude was from the hotel room … well, I don’t want to think about their reaction. How could they not judge me?
I
judge me.

I told them about my parents divorcing. And about being unemployed and my money issues, i.e., that I don’t have any.

“And I am sorry for going so wild with the vodka,” I said, looking each of them in the eye. “I know I’ve been, um, unreliable, and unpredictable. And a bad roommate. And I’m sorry. I was feeling crazy, I guess, and I acted accordingly. I’ll be different now. I swear.”

And then they all started talking at once. It was an orgy of emotional support, a total validation binge.

Just like Vic told me last night, the moment I shared my problems, I felt better. That cold, itchy feeling in my soul started to thaw and ease. I felt lighter, as if the weight that had been pressing down on me, keeping me from laughing or even smiling for the last few weeks, had magically disappeared. Secure is the word, I guess. I felt secure.

Who knew sharing felt so good? I mean, I hated all those late-night compulsory deep and meaningful heart-to-hearts at school, remember them? When all the girls eat junk food and one girl talks about her parents and another talks about her abusive ex-boyfriend and another talks about her body issues and another talks about whatthefuckever and at the end everyone has a Care Bears hug and then the bulimic sneaks off to puke. I wasn’t really invited to those talks, mind you. But I was in the dorm when they happened.

Anyway. During my confession, Coco got tears in her eyes, Madeleine frowned, Pia gasped, and Julia clenched her fists and muttered “
Those fuckers
” a lot.

It should have been the easiest to confide in Pia. I’ve known her, literally, since I was born. But somehow, I felt most scared about her reaction. Maybe because she was always having her own crises, maybe because my parents aren’t exactly the pull-up-a-pew types, but I’ve never really burdened her with my problems before. I always kept everything to myself. Sharing things felt, I don’t know, like complaining, like asking for help, like saying I couldn’t handle life, like I was weak. Keeping my secrets to myself felt like the only thing I could do … well, keeping my secrets, drinking, and falling for the wrong men.

Letting my friendship with Pia drift is just as much my fault as hers, I’m finally realizing. Maybe more my fault. How can she be around for me if I never tell her I need her?

“So that’s that,” I say finally. “From today, I’m just going to stay single and concentrate on my career. Get a damn job.”

“No you’re not,” says Julia. “It’s Saturday. You can get a damn job on Monday. Today you’re making up for the whole curtain thing by coming with us to Smorgasburg.”

“You’re all going?” I don’t want to be alone, not when I’ve got so much to think about. And to try not to think about. “Pia? Even you?”

“Yep. Aidan’s in San Francisco till tonight, he had some work thing,” says Pia. “It’s a special presummer preview event. I’m going as a corporate spy.”

“She means she’s checking out the competition,” Julia explains to a confused Coco. “We’re going for the dudes.”

“Smorgasburg doesn’t worship at the altar of SkinnyWheels?” says Madeleine, making a pretend sad face. SkinnyWheels is Pia’s food-truck business.

“Apparently my salads don’t cut the Zeitgeist gourmet hand-cut mustard,” Pia says sarcastically, but I can tell she’s genuinely kind of pissed about it. “So let’s go eat quail’s egg quiche and banana-cheddar spring rolls and fig-studded mozzarella balls and crazy shit like that.”

“And meet some dudes!” Julia cheers. “It’s Meet a Dude Day! Angie, are you in? High-five me! Fivies! Come on!”

I’m not the high-fiving type, but Julia grabs my hand and forces me to high-five her.

“There. Doesn’t that feel good? Next we’ll work on hugs.”

At that, I laugh out loud, and suddenly feel happy endorphins flooding my body. Laughing! Who knew it felt so good? Fuck it, why not go with the girls and help them meet dudes? It’ll take my mind off … everything.

Smorgasburg is a weekly open-air festival of unique foods that grew out of the Brooklyn Flea. By midday, in the interest of getting as many tastes as possible, we’ve shared fried anchovies, spicy beef noodles, chicken and waffles, chili mozzarella balls, a caramelized-onion-smothered hot dog, a buttery porchetta sandwich, a lobster roll, teriyaki shrimp balls, and a basil-and-raspberry popsicle. Yeah. There’s some funky food here, all right.

Julia and I are by far the most enthusiastic eaters. Madeleine is picky and sniffs everything distrustfully before taking a tiny bite, and Coco is staring at the food longingly and talking about it a lot, but hardly touching it. (Between you and me, I think she might have a guilty-secret-eater thing going on, based on the number of times I’ve come home to find her scarfing Cheerios at midnight.) And Pia is frowning thoughtfully with every bite, taking notes. Apparently it’s called “competitor analysis.”

“I could do something with basil and raspberries, if they’re really going to be the next big thing,” she’s muttering to herself. “But,
merde,
I need some protein in there, too. With what? Low-fat feta, maybe? Ricotta? Would chicken be too overpowering?”

“Remember when Pia used to be fun?” Julia says to me, handing over a gigantic maple-frosted bacon donut.

“I think I do,” I say, taking a bite. “Da-yam, that’s good.… Was that the Pia who applied Captain Morgan topically to all of life’s woes? The same Pia who is now permanently attached to her iPhone and says shit like, ‘Let’s action that’?”

“Yes! And ‘Get back to me by EOP!’”

“What the fuck is EOP?”

“Exactly!”

“So now you’re bonding over making fun of me?” says Pia, arching an eyebrow. “Whatever. I don’t care, as long as you’re getting along.”