Things I can’t Explain Page 15

  I can see and hear that this has been building up for quite some time between them. I guess it’s good that the issue is on the table.

  “Well, I can see how you feel,” I say, “but I don’t think you should give up hope.… I mean, it’s probably tough for Dad not to have a—”

  “I do have hope, Clarissa,” Mom interrupts again. “In fact, the good news is that we’ve been invited to Genelle Waterman’s wedding, and Marshall wants to go!”

  “I know,” I say glumly. “So have I.”

  “Wonderful,” Mom says. “Weddings are such happy occasions. They have a way of helping people rekindle their romantic feelings, don’t you think? It’s the ‘wedding effect.’ People can’t help believing in love when they see a blushing bride.”

  I try to picture Genelle’s cheeks turning pink. Considering her new physiognomy, I’m guessing her bashful blushing days are long gone.

  “Weddings are about hopes and dreams and promises,” Mom tells me, channeling her inner Hallmark. “It’s just what our relationship needs.” She pauses.

  I wonder if I might be able to change the subject. I wait a fraction of a second to see if this is a real opening for me to speak.

  “Speaking of relationships…” I begin timidly.

  “Yes, speaking of relationships, I think it will be good for you and Nick, too,” she says firmly. “I hope to see you both there.”

  This is my opening, my chance to tell her the truth: that what they saw in the airport doesn’t really qualify as cheating because Nick and I were a scam from the start. This is my opportunity to admit that I made the whole relationship up on the spot, out of the blue.

  I hesitate.

  And why, you might ask?

  Which is worse: Letting my parents think my boyfriend is a two-timer, or telling them the truth about me? I lied straight to their faces not only about my love life, but also my employment situation. Mom’s already worried about Dad and his struggle to reinvent himself in the job market; I don’t want to add to her burden. And then there’s Genelle F. Waterman to consider. Genelle would be more than delighted to hear that I’m a bigger fake than she is, and the thought makes me want to scream.

  Finally, where would that leave me with Nick? I mean, if he’s on-again, off-again, isn’t there still some hope? This wedding might represent a chance for that little spark that was ignited down by the Brooklyn Bridge to be rekindled.

  I sigh. “I can’t wait to see you, too.”

  Let’s admit it: I’m a wimp.

  “Listen, honey,” Mom says abruptly, “I’ve got a batch of brownies in the oven. I’ve got to dash.”

  We say good night and I head straight for the bedroom and face-plant into my pillows.

  I can’t help wondering where Roxie is tonight. Is she with Nick?

  “Off-again, or on-again,” I whisper into the darkness. “Off-again, or on-again. Please let it be off-again.”

  CHAPTER 22

  He’s a bit startled when he looks up from Frankensteam and sees me standing there. I’m a little shocked, too. It took me three times hiking around the block to gather enough courage to walk through the revolving door. Before I dashed inside, I was seized with the thought that this whole plan was hatched three martinis south of common sense. Rodgers’s elegant algorithmic formulas from the night before seem a distant memory. I can’t remember a single reason this was a good idea, but I’ve come this far, and there’s Nick, the scent of Colombia brewing, and my favorite old haunt, the Daily Post building, so I take the plunge.

  “Hey, Clarissa.”

  “Hey, Nick.”

  Okay, so we have now officially ritualized our departure from the micro-zone. Names have been spoken aloud and cannot be retracted. It’s super early and there’re only a few other people milling around the lobby. Clearly, I’m not here on a whim.

  “Great to see you,” he says, a little surprised. “How’ve you been?”

  “Good,” I say. “I got a job.”

  “Wow, awesome! Then this is on the house,” he says, preparing my usual. He looks a little shy, but genuinely happy for me.

  I take the cup and his hand lingers, our fingers touching.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, getting to the crux of it.

  “Neither did I,” I admit. “I mean, think … I’d see you again … either. But then I realized that the other night was all kind of weird and wacky and you were honest with me.”

  “Yeah, about that…”

  I flinch, fearful of what he’s going to say, but he’s interrupted by a customer who orders a grande dirty soy chai, no water, extra foam. I notice the trust-fund hipster in his dark-frame glasses and pomade hair is carrying a bag from the Anarchist Bookstore on First Avenue. When the guy and his overly complex drinking beverages are gone, I take the opportunity to change the subject.

  “Have you ever been to that place?” I ask. “The Anarchist Bookstore?”

  “Been there?” Nick laughs. “I used to practically live there. The Gotham Book Mart in Midtown, too, before it closed.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember the old Gotham,” I say, sipping my coffee. “It was the second thing I fell in love with when I moved to New York.”

  “What was the first thing?” he asks.

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “You’ll think I’m silly.”

  “Nothing wrong with silly.” He gives me a half grin.

  “Okay, I am a die-hard devotee of the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island. It was one of the first things I ever went to when I moved here. Aunt Haddie took me every year, she loved it.”

  I see the smile of recognition percolate up from inside him and I have to admit, it totally turns me on how his face comes to life and his eyes brighten when he’s thinking about something.

  “That’s hilarious,” he says. “Me, too.”

  “Okay, you’re just saying that.”

  “Clarissa, really, what guy would say that if it weren’t actually true? I’m sure I’ve already compromised myself by admitting it. I used to play drums for the fun of it in a band that marched in the parade behind the Singing Crustaceans—you know, the girls with the blue lobster bikinis? The guys had to paint our chests blue and wear blue wigs as we marched playing ‘Rock Lobster.’ I think they called us the Blubbery Mermen of the Deep.”

  We both laugh. God, he’s adorable. And there’s a total lack of weirdness happening. I’ve been sulking about the missed kiss, the airport thing, and all the disappointment, but now that I’m standing in front of him, I’m not feeling anything but good. I decide that before I lose my nerve, I better get on with it. I take a deep breath.

  “Look, I’ve got to go to this wedding.”

  “Friends getting married?”

  “Actually, my archenemy.” He crooks a grin waiting for the punch line.

  “No joke. For reasons I’d rather not discuss, I have to go and I really, really don’t want to go solo. And on top of that, my parents are going to be there, and…”

  “Your parents? The ones who think you and I are madly in love?”

  Shit. Why did he have to say it that way? I know he’s being ironic, but he’s looking at me with the softest eyes and it gives me a kick in my stomach—or is it my heart? It makes me want to kiss him or run away or maybe both. I don’t know what to say.

  “Yep,” I say, “only parents I have.” I take another breath and continue. “So. I wanted to know…”

  “You want me to go to a wedding as your date?”

  “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds terrible. Doesn’t it? I mean, it could be completely platonic, right? We don’t have to be lovey-dovey or kiss or touch or dance. No yucky stuff.” I stop talking, feeling like a six-year-old at a Barbie party. “I’m sorry, I guess you didn’t like your role as my significant other.”

  “Not true. I did like it,” Nick says, “but I figured the reviews weren’t so great for obvious reasons.”

  �
�No, they were excellent,” I assure him. “Raves, actually, except … up until … well, you know, except you have a girlfriend, right?”

  Nick takes a pause. Even though I worry that someone will slip in and ask him for a doppio macchiato soy extra foam and ruin our moment of truth, I’m thankful. His pause gives me a respite to feel like a normal person again after putting myself out there. I can breathe in and out and prepare for the response.

  “Are your parents doing okay?” he asks. I wonder if this is his roundabout way of saying no, or if he’s giving himself time to take stock of his relationship with Roxie and make a decision. I want to give him room because I figure the next thing he says is going to predict whether or not there’s any future between us. On-again or off-again?

  “They’re not great,” I say honestly. “Dad’s still bummed and Mom’s hoping that therapy and handfuls of rice at a wedding will turn things around.”

  For the first time, I realize: Standing this close to him, I don’t really care about Genelle or my parents or saving face after all. I just really like Nick and I hope he says yes because I hope he feels the same way about me.

  “You know, this girl I was going out with, the one at the airport?” Nick begins, not really asking a question but rather identifying the obvious person we’re not talking about. He doesn’t even know that I know they were kissing at the airport between the luggage racks. “It’s always been screwed up as far as I was concerned. I produced this totally kick-ass album for her and it almost leveled us up to a record label and a deal that would have been pretty big career-wise. We hooked up in the middle of it all and then it crashed. Ages ago, really. But it was like we had a baby together or something. I can’t explain.”

  “You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “No, I want to get it out,” he says. “I don’t know why, but when the deal fell apart, I felt like I had let her down. It wasn’t my fault. But there were all of these hopes and ambitions, and this girl, well, she’s pretty crazy, and she knows how I feel and kind of uses it against me when it’s in her interest. It’s pretty messed up. I financed the production with my studio so I’ve had a lot invested and I’ve been trying to disentangle myself. With the financial obligation, it hasn’t been easy. It makes something simple like selling coffee for a living appealing. Just add that to my list of lifelong regrets, right next to getting a Luke Perry haircut in middle school.”

  Wow. That’s more of an answer than I ever expected. He didn’t once say “love,” “girlfriend,” or “Roxie.”

  “So, where are things with you two?” I inquire … okay, kind of demand, deciding it’s one of those “ask now or forever hold your peace” moments. Maybe Mom was right about that wedding thing. Weddings do make you think about life in different terms. More important, I want to know the facts: on-again or off-again?

  “What I’m saying is that it was a mistake. That I was trying to live up to something that I felt obliged to and that I can’t keep putting myself out there like that … and that I’d love to come to the wedding of, well, your archenemy. It would be great to hang out again.”

  “Really?” I almost squeal. I want to kick myself, I sound so stupid. “I mean. Really. That’s good,” I say with as much maturity as I can muster. I can’t help smiling at him, though I’d prefer to be kissing him until he can’t breathe.

  Shit. This actually worked. At least for the moment.

  “But there’s one thing,” Nick begins, and I cringe—off-again, on-again? “About this no-kissing, no-touching, no-dancing clause … I’d like to leave that open to negotiation, okay?”

  Nick crooks that grin again.

  “Sure, I’ll consider that,” I say. Am I blushing?

  “You know, I’m glad you came by, because Denny finished his tour of duty. He’s coming back from Afghanistan,” he says. “My barista days are finished and I was worried I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

  Whoa. Things are changing quickly. Life is moving on. Our micro-relationship would have been finished anyway. I flash on walking into the Daily Post building and finding Nick and Frankensteam gone without a trace and it makes me sad. I can tell that we’re both reflecting on our last coffee cart moment. We’ll probably never visit this old building again.

  “So, what time should I pick you up?” he asks, breaking our contemplation.

  I finish giving him the details as some fuzzy-headed intern comes down with a long coffee order including five lattes, three black, one with extra cream and sugar, and four iced mochas with whipped cream. The morning rush has kicked in. I silently nod good-bye and leave him to his work.

  The minute I hit the sidewalk, my thumbs fly into a texting frenzy. Our group thread is abuzz delivering Jody, Piper, and Rodgers the fabulous news. The first two responses come like lighting:

  “Woohoo!!” Piper texts.

  “My blk lace demi cup bra wl b perf,” Jody shoots back.

  Rodgers, though, is a little slower off the block. Finally, her message pops up.

  “HAVE FUN,” she writes. “JUST WATCH OUT FOR ROXIE.”

  It’s good advice, even if it’s in all caps, but I decide not to dwell on it. Feeling lighter than air, I practically skip to Nuzegeek.

  Off-again for Roxie. On-again for me.

  Here’s hoping it sticks this time.

  CHAPTER 23

  Pulling at least one quote out of Norm that doesn’t include the word dude was quite a challenge. That’s why I’ve been sitting in a nondescript cubicle in Nuzegeek’s sleek offices in an area known as “the bullpen,” combing my notes and QuikVoice files for the last two hours. I have a lot of work to do if I’m going to make Dartmoor’s deadline.

  The bullpen is filled with modular, gray-upholstered half walls and reserved for freelancers in need of a place to work. I’m told no one ever comes here. Most writers have a more comfortable workspace, are juggling eight or ten jobs, or prefer to avoid face time with nosy editors and decide to write at home. But me, I like digging in and being rooted somewhere, so I’ve decided this is going to be my base of operations. Naturally the Wi-Fi is massively great for research.

  There’s one downside to all this, and he’s hovering right above me.

  “I hear you’ll be attending the Fleckerstein-Waterman nuptials,” Dartmoor is saying.

  I look up, startled.

  “Say what?”

  I had hoped to avoid running into Dartsy right away and I’m kind of astonished by what he’s saying. For the life of me I can’t believe that he’s talking about the Fleckerstein-Waterman nuptials I’m attending, but then how many other Fleckerstein-Waterman nuptials could there be?

  The fact that he’s gone out of his way to find me can’t be good.

  “I said, I’ve been informed that you will be attending the wedding of my good friends Wendell Fleckerstein and Genelle Waterman?”

  “And how would you know that?” I say, more bluntly than intended. I force myself to remain calm, wondering in what universe Dartmoor and I coexist in overlapping social circles.

  “I’m the best man—how could I not know?” he responds with indignation. “I have to say, Clarissa, I was a tad dumbfounded as well when I discovered that you’re friends with Wendell’s beautiful bride-to-be.”

  “That makes two of us,” I mutter—on both the “friends” and “beautiful” score. I’m dying to tell him that her boobs are fake and she had her nose pinned—is that petty of me? Yes. I restrain my inner sixteen-year-old. Besides, do I detect a softening in Dartsy’s tone? I wonder.

  I’m also at least a teeny bit interested in how this tidbit of information rose to the attention of the two people at this very moment I hate most in the world. It raises a terrible possibility that the people I dislike might actually get together to talk about me. Every paranoid’s nightmare.

  “I’m curious,” I say, “it must have been a tad odd that I came up in your conversation?” Tad? Why would I say tad? That’s what Dartsy just said. I’ve got to stop this mimicking
thing I do. Someday someone’s going to punch me in the face for making fun of the way they speak.

  “Well, Aubrey and I were dining with my old college chum Wendell and Genelle at the Arlington Club the other night when I mentioned your appearance and all the brouhaha with the skater boy on his knees,” he rattles off, “then Wendie’s beautiful Genelle went totally bonkers when I mentioned your name.”

  Whoa. I hope you don’t mind if I stop everything here to diagram Dartmoor’s last sentence? Even though sentence diagramming went out in the Stone Age shortly after Misters Reed and Kellogg (yes, I’m obsessed with diagramming sentences enough that I actually know who invented them) made a fortune off their literary invention, my crotchety old English teacher Mrs. Walker was a throwback. She insisted we all know how to diagram sentences even though it had ceased being part of the Tupper High School curriculum back in the ’60s, when my parents were in school. Heaven forbid you were dyslexic like poor Chubs Wolenski.

  Hugh was also known to pull out his bloodred editing pencil and make wayward apprentice writers diagram pernicious sentences as a punishment when he became frustrated with their writing. Thankfully, he never had to do that with me.

  If it isn’t obvious by now, I’m an unrepentant meanderer when it comes to ideas and understanding everything going on around me (aka “explaining”). I’ve never met a tangent I haven’t liked. That’s why diagramming has been good for me. When I really float off into the never-never land of thoughts and ideas, diagramming anchors me.

  I know that makes me a total writing geek, but constructing, deconstructing, and reconstructing sentences helps me figure out what I wanted to say to begin with. I honestly think a good sentence diagram is a work of art. Hey, I’m as vernacular as the next girl, but I still think unscrewing a sentence can be revealing—maybe it’s even a hedge against early-onset Alzheimer’s.

  So when I hear a fine specimen, like Dartmoor’s last utterance, sometimes I just have to stop and mentally picture what it would look like diagrammed. It also helps me highlight what is truly weird about what has been said. Case in point: