Love and Chaos (21 page)

“Hey, you guys. Look at this,” says Julia, pinging the leg of her black tights. A cloud of dust, or skin cells, or something, billows out.

Madeleine looks like she might puke. “Julia! That is disgusting!”

“I know!” Julia looks fascinated and does it again. “It’s like a scab. I can’t stop picking at it.”

“You pick at scabs?”

“Everyone picks at scabs.” Julia waves her hands dismissively. “Anyone who says they don’t is lying. That’s my whole philosophy on life.”

“I don’t
get
scabs,” says Pia, shocked out of her Aidan-induced misery. “Do I look okay, too, ladybitch? No post-breakup sartorial errors?”

“You look perfect, too,” I say. She’s wearing supertight jeans and an extremely cool silk top.

Me? I’m wearing my newly altered slip dress with my Zara leather jacket and mean-looking boots. It’s April, so it’s a little chilly out, but I’m bare-legged anyway. Amazing how subversive bare skin can seem after months of bitter winter. All in all, I look like no one should fuck with me. Which is kind of how I feel right now.

Still haven’t heard a word from Annabel. Or my dad. Maybe he’ll call me on my birthday in a few days. No one forgets their only child’s birthday, outside of a goddamn John Hughes movie, right?

Pia turns to Julia. “Where’s your date with Sam, by the way?”

“Some Mexican joint in Fort Greene,” Julia opens her purse and shows us a toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, and perfume. “But I will
not
smell—or taste—like quesadillas.” She looks at her watch. “Oh, my god! I gotta run! I’m meeting him in twenty minutes! Wish me luck!”

“Ah, young love,” Pia says with a weary sigh, as the front door slams. “So full of hopes and dreams. But it never lasts.” She takes another dramatic slug of wine. “Ever. Love just rots and dies. Like a dog. In a ditch.”

Two hours later, the four of us are at Pijiu, a bar in Williamsburg. It’s one of those places that looks paint-peelingly nondescript from the outside during the day, but sparkles with attitude at night. One wall is taken up with a long wooden bar and, at the back, a stage is lit by hundreds of little red Chinese lanterns. The rest of the space is littered with old brown sofas covered in seventies-style plastic and a cluster of secondhand mahjong tables with mismatched chairs. Sort of Beijing disco farmhouse.

There’s live music later, an up-and-coming Brooklyn band called Spector that Madeleine wants to check out. But for now, a vintage 1950s jukebox is playing Guns N’ Roses, and the crowd is the usual mix of hipsters, yupsters, and normal people (i.e., us).

Since we’re without Julia, who, whatever Coco thinks, is the real linchpin of Rookhaven, and since anything personal is off-limits due to Pia’s propensity for breakup-related hysteria, we’ve turned to a subject that not-quite-perfect social gatherings employ to kick-start engaging conversations all over the world. Yep. We’re talking about blow jobs.

“Use your hand to cup the balls,” says Pia. “The balls are totally the secret.”

“I also like to use one hand to work this bit—” I start miming.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Madeleine is scandalized.

Coco, surprisingly, is fascinated. “What do you mean? The helmet-y bit?”

“No, the helmet-y bit is in your, um, okay. Look—” I start drawing on a napkin. “See, there’s that bit, and that’s the shaft. That’s a vein, by the way—”

“No! No cock diagrams! Jesus!” Madeleine snatches the napkin from me and rips it up into little pieces as Pia and Coco and I collapse into giggles.

“This is just what I needed,” says Pia, after we calm down. “I’ve been weeping—weeping!—about Aidan for days, and the bastard is probably having sex with some Californian bimbo right now.”

“Of course he’s not, ladybitch,” I say, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “California is three hours behind. He wouldn’t screw a bimbo in the midafternoon. He’s probably just masturbating now.”

Coco collapses into hysterics again.

Pia rolls her eyes. “Too far, Angie. I swear you’re like a dude sometimes.”

“A dude with a great rack, you mean.”

Actually, I’m feeling weird and wired. Alcohol, instead of calming me down, is stirring me up. And acting crass and drawing cock diagrams helps me pretend that I’m okay. The truth is, I’m worried about my birthday, I’m worried my parents will contact me and even more worried that they won’t, I’m worried about what Stef might do after our meeting in the Gap the other day, I’m worried about my job and my future. And most of all, I’m worried about Sam and Julia’s date and whether it will go well. Though I know it’s none of my business.

Sigh.

I have enough cash for another two rounds of drinks, and then I’ll go home. (I worked out that it’s all I can afford on my salary from the Gap once I take out what I need to pay rent and kitty, till I get paid again on Monday. I know, how fucking responsible am I? Seriously. High-five me.)

I tune back in to the conversation.

“Of course you should text him,” Pia is saying. “If you want to. Are you sure he’s the guy for you though, honey?”

“Yup,” says Coco. “All I want right now is someone who is kind and stable and smart.”

“You make him sound like a horse you’re investing in,” says Madeleine.

“It is an investment!” says Coco. “I went with my heart with Eric, and that backfired. So this time, I’m going with my head.”

It strikes me that boring little know-it-all Ethan the Cheesemaker isn’t the right choice for her heart
or
head, but none of us will say that, of course.

Madeleine stands up and calls to someone on the other side of the bar. “Heff! Over here!”

It’s her date from the dinner party, the perma-stoned musician. He ambles over, all beaten-up clothes and overgrown eyebrows.

“I’m having a fucking nightmare, man.” Wow, Heff is unusually lucid tonight. “I’m filling in on bass for my friend Amy’s band, but her lead singer has flaked.”

I turn to check out the band. They’re setting up, and a tall girl with pink hair is shouting into her cell phone. She looks pretty tense. For someone with pink hair.

“Amy is freaking. This is the first time Spector has played here, they won’t book her again.”

Madeleine looks over at the girl. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“You will? Fuck, I was too scared to even ask you! That’s totes rad, man!”

“You were scared of me?” Madeleine is stunned.

“
Everyone
is scared of you.” Heff swings an arm around her shoulders as they walk away. “Everyone.”

We all turn to watch Heff introduce her to Amy with the white and pink hair.

“I’m a bit scared of Madeleine,” says Coco.

“Me too, sometimes,” says Pia.

“I’m not,” I say.

Coco sighs. “Yeah, but you’re not scared of anything.”

I snort. Right. I’m not scared of anything. Except for my past and my future.

“My round,” I say, to change the subject. “Same again?”

“Make mine a double!” says Pia, taking a photo of the stage, one eye squinting shut to help her focus. “I am totally Facebooking this so Aidan can see what an awesome life I am having without him.”

*   *   *

The bar is
packed three-deep with young Billyburg hipsters all drinking Yuengling or PBR and talking passionately about their socially engaged graphic design skateboard business or urban farming co-op or karmic slam poetry or whatever. So not my bag, you know? I appreciate a bit of alternative entrepreneurship as much as the next girl, but come the fuck on. “What’s your order?” the waitress asks, one of those short henna types with a lot of tattoos.

“Uh, four gin and tonics.”

She slams them on the bar and I pay, just moments before the drunk hipster next to me stands up and knocks over one of the drinks.

“Whoopsh,” he says, waffle crumbs in his beard, and wanders off.

“Sorry!” His friend stands up, a tall guy with gravity-defying hair and an air of pharmaceutical confidence. “I’ll buy you another.”

I want to say don’t worry about it, but it’s also a waste of my limited cash to replace them myself. So instead, I try to smile. Is there anything worse than worrying about money?

“Thanks. Gin and tonic.”

“Any particular gin?”

“No, any gin will do. You know, your garden-variety, bathtub-produced, boring, ordinary old gin.”

“Mediocre gin, got it. Something … unimpressive. Just my style.”

Cute response. I focus on his hands. Long fingers, square nails, lots of little leather and fabric bracelets. Sam’s hands are like ancient gardening gloves, all worn and battered from sailing.

Argh! Don’t think about Sam.

“Here you go,” Square Nails says, handing me the drink. “I didn’t slip anything in it, I swear.”

“Actually, I roofie myself these days, it saves time,” I say.

He doesn’t laugh. One of those arrogant pseudo-easygoing dudes who doesn’t expect a woman to be funny. Instead he pats the vacant stool next to him, expecting me to sit on it. I don’t sit down. He starts talking anyway.

“Let me ask you a question. So, my buddy and I are creating a morning coffee delivery service around Williamsburg and Brooklyn Heights. It’s like a bespoke food truck service. Your cup of joe, however you like it, whatever time you like it, and you order it online the night before.” While he’s monologuing, I take a cigarette out of my purse and place it between my lips and stare at him. “Naturally, it’s all free-trade organic coffee that’s hand grown by farmers we know personally in Colombia. And you can choose from organic milk from our buddy’s farm upstate, or non-GM unsweetened soy or almond milk. It’s called MyJoe.”

“So what’s the question you wanted to ask me?”

“Would you use it?”

“I usually get coffee on my way to work.”

“Oh yeah? Where do you work?”

I pluck the cigarette out of my mouth. “The Gap.”

His jaw drops. I think he would be less horrified if I told him I made kitten porn.

“Thanks for the drink, big guy. Check you later.”

I stride away, drop off Madeleine’s drink at the stage—where she’s going through the set list with Amy and Heff and looking extremely stressed out—and then walk back to Coco and Pia.

Pia is in full five-drinks-and-this-is-what-I-think-about-everything-goddamnit mode. “Fuck Aidan! And fuck California! I’m gonna start fucking dating as soon as I fucking can. Rip that fucking Band-Aid right off and get right the fuck back up on that fucking horse.”

“That’s a lot of fucks,” comments Coco.

I raise my hand as if to ask a question. “By ‘horse,’ you mean ‘penis,’ right?”

Coco cracks up, sputtering her drink everywhere.

“Here are my new dating rules.” Pia ignores us. “If they’re rude to the waitress, walk away. If they order before me, walk away. If they leave their phone on the table during dinner, walk away. If they would rather live in California than New York City, walk the fuck away.”

“Wow, that rules out, like, every dude I’ve ever met,” I say, and Coco cracks up again, slapping the table with her hand. She’s pretty tipsy. Her phone vibrates, and she grabs it, shutting one eye slightly to read a text, and then smiles a secret little smile.

“Is it Ethan?” I say. “Do you want to share something with the rest of the class, Coco?”

She smirks and ignores me to reply, and Pia continues her Aidan rant.

“Fuck love. You know? Fuck it! Fuck men! They’re all just fucking cockmonkeys. I’m just gonna use and abuse from now on. Abuseorama.” She tries, unsuccessfully, to hide a tiny belch. “What about you, ladybitch?”

“I am not using or abusing anyone,” I say.

“What’s your ideal man?” asks Coco.

I stare at her, my mind a blank. My ideal man? Does that even exist? “I don’t know. Every guy I’m ever attracted to just ends up a lying, cheating sack of shit out for whatever he can get.”

There’s a pause.

“Wow. You want a little lemon to go with that bitter?” says Pia. “I thought I was fucked up, but seriously, dude…”

I shrug. “I call it like I see it.”

“You guys, Ethan and I haven’t even kissed,” says Coco worriedly. “Do you think I should make the first move? Oh, shush, don’t answer! He just walked in! I invited him along, is that okay?”

Pia and I exchange looks. Even without having talked about Ethan the Cheesemaker with her, I know we have the same opinion: he’s a dick. And then when I see his sweaty face, I almost flinch with dislike. I can’t help it. But that’s bad, right? It’s Coco’s decision. Not mine.

“Ethan!” exclaims Coco. “Hi!” She leans in to give him a big hug.

“Do I have a story for you!” Ethan says. “Prepare for a twist in the tale that will shock and surprise! Now—”

Oh God. Ethan doesn’t converse, he lectures. Thank hell Coco accompanies him to the bar, and I turn to Pia.

“Looks like it’s you and me, ladybitch.”

But it’s not.

Because at that exact moment, Pia’s jaw drops, her eyes filling with tears, and she stands up, unsteadily clutching the back of her chair, staring toward the front of the bar.

I turn to follow her gaze.

Aidan.

Jesus, is everyone’s fucking love life turning up at this bar tonight or what?

Aidan strides right over to our table, carrying a huge duffel bag, as though he came straight from the airport, staring right over me at Pia like a man possessed. “Pia, I love you. I can’t live without you.”

“Oh, Aidan, I can’t live without you either!”

Fucking drama queens.

And boom, they start to kiss, squishing my head between them. I have to duck down and crawl under the table to get away. I pause under the table for a moment. It’s so quiet and calm. I just want to hide here. Forever.

CHAPTER
27

But I don’t. Of course. I just get up and find another chair like a normal person.

Then, while Pia and Aidan continue to kiss passionately and tearfully like the last scene of a romantic comedy, and Coco listens eagerly to Ethan at the bar, Madeleine steps up to the microphone, and one of the shaggy-faced bartenders introduces the band.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present … Spector!”

The music starts, and within a few bars, I realize it’s a metal-pop cover version of a 1960s song by The Ronettes, “Be My Baby.” They’re playing it very rough and sultry, with a lot of angry guitar. Heff is on base, pink-haired Amy is on lead guitar, and some dude with a ringletty beard is on drums.