Love and Chaos (15 page)

Sam turns and looks me right in the eye. “It’s never your fault if someone is an asshole and treats you … in a way that you don’t want to be treated. It sucks, but it’s not your fault. It’s theirs. Fuck those people. Okay? You just … shake it off, pretend they don’t exist, and move on.”

This is a slight variation of Vic’s “let regrets go” speech, but somehow, I’m not sure I agree with the fine print in Sam’s approach.

“Pretend people don’t exist? Isn’t that kind of harsh?”

Sam stares into space. “Probably.”

It occurs to me that I’m basically pretending my mother doesn’t exist. And my dad still hasn’t called me either. Sam’s approach suddenly isn’t looking that out-of-the-ordinary.

We’re both silent the rest of the journey, and fifteen minutes later we’re on the very edge of downtown Manhattan, at North Cove Marina. It’s a square-cut marina for just a handful of incredible yachts, all nestled peacefully together, surrounded by the architectural beauty and chaos of the Financial District.

“It’s totally surreal to see a yacht next to a skyscraper. Looks like drunk Photoshopping,” I say.

“I know,” says Sam. “But they balance each other perfectly, don’t you think? I never even knew this place existed until recently.”

“Why would you? You’re from Ohio.”

“Right. Anyway, there was a job I saw on CrewFile, the guy said he was interviewing in person down here today,” Sam says, as we walk along the pier. “It’s a six-man crew, sailing from here to Greece next month. So I need to make a really good impression.”

“Wow, these are some amazing boats,” I say.

“They’re not boats. They’re yachts. Never boats.”

“Sheesh, touchy. Which one is the one you’re interviewing for?”

“She’s over there.”

“She? Oh … right.”

Sam points to a long yacht, easily the biggest in the marina, at the end of the pier. It—sorry, she—is truly beautiful, like something out of an old movie. Black body, white detailing, and immaculately clean and shiny, with masts reaching far into the sky. When we get to the end of the pier, I see her name.
Peripety
.

Why are real sailing yachts so romantic? I don’t know why, they just are. Way better than the money-monster megayachts favored by sleazy types like Hal.

“She was built in the 1950s as an ocean racer,” says Sam. “See how she’s made from wood, not aluminum alloy? It makes for a smoother ride. Really old-school.”

“How big is she? Is it okay that she’s so old? I mean … is she safe?”

“She’s one hundred and four feet. And she was restored a couple of years ago, she’s in perfect condition. She’s got the most amazing history, she’s a work of art, really, she’s…” Sam trails off, running his hands through his hair, suddenly nervous. “I really want this chance, Angie. It’s all I’ve wanted for a long time.”

“You’ll get it,” I say, trying not to show how surprised I am to see Sam shaken out of his customary cool. “That job is totally yours.”

He nods, his voice low and intense. “This is the yacht, Angie. This is the one.”

“You’ll be fine!” I say. “Go get ’em, tiger. This job is your bitch and you are its daddy.”

Sam’s too tense to even smile.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna go talk to the guy. Back in twenty.”

CHAPTER
20

While Sam is away, I play Let’s Pretend with the boats. I wonder what it’s like to be able to afford a yacht of your very own. To just have it here, waiting for you, whenever you feel like getting out on the open sea.

Pretty goddamn great, I bet.

I bet someone saying “you’re hired” would feel pretty good right now, too.

Sighing, I sit down at the end of the marina and check my e-mail. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I’ve e-mailed hundreds of people about jobs, and I haven’t had one single reply. Since when are job applications spam? And why is everything good in life so hard to get?

I get a text from Julia:
Yoo-hoo. Fashion Guru. Should I get green or purple panties? Ordering online.

I grin to myself. Julia has been saying “yoo-hoo” a lot, ever since I told her it was my old boss Cornelia’s favorite saying.

I reply:
Black.

She replies:
Black feels kinda whorish.

I smirk to myself. Jules is hilarious, and I never knew it before. I reply:
Maybe that means there’s a chance you’ll get some action.

She replies:
BOOM. Okay. You win. Black panties it is.

Julia is fast becoming one of my favorite people. I’ve barely seen Pia in days; she and Aidan are deep in crisis talks. I’m getting used to her not being around, to the point where I feel almost awkward when I
do
see her. Don’t get me wrong; I still totally love her and everything, but it’s a bit weird right now. Female friendship is so much more complicated than any dude relationship.

I pull out my latest romance novel,
Secrets of the Sahara.

After being jilted at the altar, Suzanne goes on her honeymoon alone to Africa, attracting the attentions of big game hunters: arrogant, hateful Ty Hunter and his flirtatious brother, Rock. At first, her romantic preferences are clear, but soon Suzanne’s feelings become tangled, and when their plane crashes in the desert, there’s a choice she’ll have to make.…

I admit, this one is pretty goddamn lame. But it is still somehow calming, you know? When I open a romance novel the real world, all my real world problems just disappear.

Sam comes back after about twenty minutes. I quickly hide my book.

“Fucking washout,” he says angrily, walking down the pier. “It’s always who you know, who you are. Where you goddamn come from.”

“You didn’t get it?”

“No. I didn’t fucking get it.” Sam is striding so fast I have to run after him.

“There are more boat jobs, right?” I say.

“That’s not the point! I wanted
that
job!” Wow, Sam has a temper.

“Calm down. Why don’t you just fly to fucking Nassau, or whatever, and bullshit your way into a crew again? I would totally employ you as my boat boy.”

Sam stops and turns to smile at me, his face softening slightly. “You have such a way with words.
Boat boy
. Jeez.”

“Crew member. Whatever.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Sam’s all laid-back cool again, his anger passing like a storm.

Calling Sam a boat boy immediately reminds me of Turks, and I get a sick sour feeling in my stomach so fast that I feel dizzy. I wish I could take a scalpel and cut those memories out of my brain. Or swap them to find out what happened to me at the Soho Grand that night. I wince at the thought and turn to Sam to clear my head.

“Why do you want it so badly?”

Sam sighs. “I started from nothing, you know? No sailing experience, no training, no contacts, nothing. So if I were to get picked for the crew on something like the
Peripety
 … I’d know I did it all on my own. Sailing across the Atlantic, forging my way on the open sea…” Sam smiles at me. “Like it when I wax a little lyrical for you?”

“Okay, so then you’ll be like, oh, yay, I sailed around the world, woo for me. What the hell do you do after that?”

Sam gazes at me for a few seconds. “That’s the big question.”

I frown at him. “There’s something you’re not telling me.” He doesn’t respond. “You are a stubborn bastard, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Actually, yes,” says Sam. “I’m hungry. Let’s go to the Village and drink beer and eat burgers.”

“I’m eating pasta and Cheerios for, like, every meal this week,” I say. “We’re both unemployed, remember? Why waste the cash?”

Across the street, I see a Duane Reade.

“Quick pit stop, Sammy,” I say. “Tampons.”

“Dude…”

“Oh, grow a pair. Girls get periods. It’s not exactly breaking news. You’re coming with me.” I grab Sam’s arm and pull him into the drugstore. “Hey! Where are the tampons, please?” I ask a Duane Reade guy stacking shelves.

He doesn’t bother to turn around. “Back of the store to your right.”

“Back of the store. Great. Well, it’s not like fifty percent of your customers need them once a month, so why make it easy for them?” I mutter as I stride through the store, a deeply reluctant Sam beside me. “And while we’re there, why not make it fucking expensive, too? Yeah. Nine bucks for a box of tampons. That seems reasonable. Asshats.”

I grab the tampons off the shelf. Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Super plus?”

“Damn straight, super plus. Girls only buy regular tampons so guys will think they have teeny tiny vaginas,” I snap over my shoulder as I stride toward the cash register.

Sam laughs so hard he stops walking for a moment and leans over with his hands on his knees.

“I’ll pick up the new
Us
magazine for Coco, too,” I say. “She’s been a bit down after her dinner party meltdown. It might cheer her up. Oh, and some hand soap for the bathrooms; we’re running out. And one for the kitchen; I hate getting food on my hands and just rinsing them, don’t you? Oh, and body moisturizer. My legs are so dry and cracked right now. Nivea? What do you think?”

“When we met, I thought you were the tough, silent type,” says Sam, as we line up to pay. “Now I know you have heavy flow and your legs are like the floor of an old church.”

I feel the giggles coming on. “I am tough and silent, Samuel! You just bring out the chatterbox in me.”

“That comes to $52.96,” says the woman behind the counter.

Yikes. That’s more than I expected. Giggles canceled.

I take out my credit card and zip it through the machine.

It makes a BA! sound.

I try again.

“It’s not working, ma’am. May I see the card?”

She types in the numbers. Waits a few seconds, shakes her head.

“I’m sorry.”

Burning with shame, I quickly take my card back and look through my purse. I thought I had some cash in here, but there’s nothing. Just coins and one-dollar bills. I also thought I was nowhere near my overdraft limit.

“I’ll pay,” says Sam. “I have cash.”

“No!” I exclaim. “No, no. I don’t want your money. I don’t want you to pay for me. Ever.”

“Angie, don’t be crazy. I have it right here—”

“No,” I say, suddenly fighting the urge to cry. “I’ll … I’ll have to come back,” I say quickly to the woman behind the register.

She sighs with annoyance and picks up my shopping bag, putting it on a counter behind her.

The thing is, I really do need the tampons. I can see them through the cheap plastic of the Duane Reade bag. I could probably afford them if I scraped together all my change. But I’m too embarrassed. Who pays for tampons with fucking quarters?

Sam and I take the train back to Brooklyn in silence. God, the journey to Brooklyn is depressing on a cold weekday afternoon. I’m broke. I’m unemployed. I’m too broke to buy tampons. I’m unworthy of anything except, apparently, something I really don’t want to do. The kind of job that starts with a night out with friends and ends with an envelope of cash on the dresser.

We get out at Carroll Gardens, both eye the Momofuku Milk Bar with hunger but don’t even bother to stop since we can’t afford it, and silently trudge toward Union Street and Rookhaven. Wait, why is Sam still here?

“You’re coming to my place?”

Sam looks embarrassed. “Is that cool? I like Rookhaven.… My friend’s place isn’t as cozy.”

“His place is a disgusting shithole, you mean. How long is he going to let you sleep on his floor like some kind of vagrant bum, hmm?”

Sam laughs. “We’re pretty close. I don’t think he’ll kick me out anytime soon.”

“How do you know him again?”

“Old friends,” Sam says.

I can tell he’s being evasive, but before I can interrogate, we run into Vic, my downstairs neighbor.

“Well, hello, girlie.” Vic’s face creases into a craggy smile.

“Hi, Vic!”

I introduce them quickly. Sam shakes Vic’s hand with a sort of earnest intensity. Such a goddamn Boy Scout.

“Where you kids heading?”

“We’ve been job-hunting,” I say. “I want to work in fashion; Sam wants to work on a yacht.”

“On a yacht!” Vic looks impressed. “That’s hard work.”

“Yes, sir,” says Sam. Such a kiss-ass. I guess they teach good manners in Ohio.

“Brooklyn was a huge naval center, for decades,” says Vic.

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm. When I was young, everyone worked on the docks. But manufacturing dropped, the factories closed, and that was that.” Vic sighs. “There’s a yacht club out in Sheepshead Bay, you know it?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“We used to go out there sometimes.” Vic stares into space for a while, his eyes looking sort of watery. Then he blinks and looks at us, as though only just remembering we’re still here. “Never mind. Say, Sammy, I don’t suppose you’d like to earn a little extra cash? I wanna knock through the wall between my sister’s old room and my room. And repaint the kitchen and update the bathroom. I’m tired of looking at the same damn tiles every day. What do you say?”

“Sounds great, sir!”

Vic starts walking toward Union Street. “No time like the present. Let’s go.”

Sam follows obediently. “I’ve done a little grouting before, and I can do basic plumbing. I also spent a couple of months helping a buddy build a bar on Canouan Island. It was pretty basic stuff, but I’m a fast learner, sir.”

Vic turns and looks at him. “I can see that. And don’t call me sir. Call me boss.”

Now everyone’s got a job but me.

CHAPTER
21

Being broke has a way of fucking with your mind.

The night after the Duane Reade incident I dreamed that I called Stef. Asked him for a couple of grand in exchange for a night of, you know, partying.

In my dream, I knew what I was doing. I felt guilty. And sick. And I tried to stop myself, I tried to tell myself it was the wrong thing to do, but part of me—in my dream, a
big
part of me—felt relieved to know that I’d have cash. That I could survive another month in New York.

The next day I found two hundred dollars in an old purse. Enough to tide me over until I find a real job. In the week since then, I’ve only spent seventy-five dollars. It’s amazing how little you can spend if you do absolutely nothing except hang out with Sam. He’s been working for Vic, but that’s only three or four hours in the mornings. The rest of the day, we mooch around Rookhaven, watching TV and playing cards and eating pasta. If it’s nice out we go for walks around Brooklyn and try to find the bars that offer free food with a two-dollar can of PBR.