The Album: Book One (22 page)

Natalie

September 13, 2003

C
HLOE’S GOING TO
kill me. Unless . . . she never finds out.

I quietly roll out of the king-sized bed and look on the floor for my underwear, but after last night’s fuckfest they could be anywhere.

I had this stupid friend in Toronto who dropped her panties in the backseat of a cab and she actually went stomping into the taxi depot to retrieve them. Gross! I mean really, panties are replaceable, dignity is not.

Casual sex has a motto: can’t find ’em, replace ’em. I digress.

About last night . . .

Last night was all kinds of fucked up.

When Adam and his friend Pete sat down at the table I immediately felt uneasy. I never forget a face and I
never
forget a chest, and Adam was definitely familiar. The recollection was mutual and I know, underneath his charming Cary Grant smile, he was cringing in awkward discomfort. We’ll save that conversation for a later date.

Then there was Pete – the face of a Von Trapp and the body of a Greek god. He spent the entire night flirting with me. I hated it. I hated it because I liked it and I shouldn’t have liked it because my heart belongs to Zach. Basically, the bar was a clusterfuck of twenty-something drama . . . me staring at Adam, Adam mesmerized by Chloe, and Pete sliding his hand all the way up my thigh underneath the table.

And then Jamie arrived.

Sometime around the fourth bottle of beer and the sudden departure of the mysterious Adam Ford, Pete and I decided that we both needed to get laid. For whatever his reason, mine was the simple fact that I was extremely lonely and slightly horny. Jamie encouraged me to
get
some
while he stayed behind to watch Chloe finish her set. For the record, I basically let my panties do the talking.

And for the record, they are now lost.

Pete shifts in the bed, his deliciously lean body distracting my concentration. Wow – I slept with that! His tan torso is enough to make me dizzy, but the sexy way his stomach muscles contract and relax, begging to be licked . . . I’m doing it, I’m actually licking the air. And his Adonis upper half is nothing compared to his powerful, muscular, tense, strong, defined . . . oh yeah, his powerful, muscular, beastly legs. Pete mentioned he still plays soccer, and holy shit, does it show.

My hand trails along the curve of my neck, thinking about Pete’s soft lips assaulting my body. Maybe one more time? Just to get it all out of my system—

Fuck
. Where’s my necklace?

Opening his eyes like a baby animal for the first time, Pete asks, “Hey, what time is it?” Maybe he sensed me licking the empty space between us.

I ignore his sexy bed head and rake my hands over the comforter. “What? I don’t know! Have you seen my gold necklace? The one with the star.”

He sits up in the bed, the sheet barely covering his playful pecker, and yawns adorably. “Natalie, come back to bed and we’ll look for it after I make you breakfast.” Jesus, stop it.

I spot my black panties on his dresser and leap over a pile of dirty clothes to grab them. “We can’t have breakfast, Pete. Ever.” I drop to the floor again and find my crepe top crumpled under his bed, but I only see one shoe and no pants. I stand up to find my bra hanging on the window’s curtain rod – holy crap, how’d that happen?

Pete picks up his watch and squints to read the time. “Natalie, it’s four-thirty!”

“Pete, you agree that this was a bad idea, right? My cousin was pretty much dumped by your jackass of a friend and I ditched her! You were supposed to take me home – look where that got us.” I frantically search for shorts or pants but settle on a pair of his Penn State sweatpants. If I don’t get back to the apartment before Chloe wakes up this is going to be bad.

“First of all,
you
suggested that I take you home. And I know Adam – he was the one that was hurt.” Pete scratches his head beneath his blond cherub curls and smiles. “Let me call him. I can find out what happened.”

“Are you fucking crazy? Seriously, stop smiling! I’ve spent months being sexually repressed and your dimples are making me hard – uh, wet – weak!” I quickly put on his sweatpants and roll them up to my knees. I don’t care what I look like, I need to get home to comfort Chloe and purge my mounting shame in a letter to Zach.

Pete stands from the bed and grabs his boxers from a nearby chair. My other heel is under his briefs, exactly where I left it when we were fornicating like porn stars on that innocent little chair. I gather the rest of my things while he approaches me with a boner and a sheepish smile.

“Natalie, please stay. We can talk about Adam and Chloe while we look for your necklace.” Pete places his hands on my shoulders and kisses my forehead. And even though it feels warm and friendly, it’s all wrong.

He’s not Zach.

I creep into our apartment a little after five a.m. and find Jamie, snoring on the sofa. His arm is dangling off the side and his butt is in the air. Guys all sleep the same way, like wherever they fall, that’s where they stay. Find me one frat house on a Saturday morning that doesn’t have twenty guys sleeping on the floor.

“Jamie!” I move closer and flick his back. “Jamie! Wake up.” He doesn’t move. Fuck it.

Holding my breath, I quietly open the door to our bedroom. Chloe is sound asleep, so I crawl into bed and pull the comforter over my head. Shit, the sweatpants!

“Nat?” Crap.

I pop my head out from the comforter and smile. “Hey C, what’s up?”

“Did you just get home – what time is it?”

My plan is to be as honest as possible without revealing all the details. “I didn’t want to wake you.” Underneath the sheets, I slide off my sweatpants and then join Chloe in her bed.

“Shit Nat, you stink.”

“Subtle Chloe.” My smoking has increased over the past year and I forget that most people hate the smell. We face each other on the twin size bed and hold hands. “Are you okay?” I ask. Chloe’s eyes are bloodshot and she’s definitely been crying, but she’s the strongest person I know and things always work out for her.

“I’m fine. Well, no – I’m pissed that the record representative didn’t even give me his business card.”

“That sucks. They’re missing out.” I move a piece of hair from her face and smile sweetly. She’s been exceptionally private about her relationship with Adam, which can only mean that she considers it special. “And Adam?” I ask cautiously. I can’t help but think that it’s my fault. Maybe he did recognize me and maybe . . . oh shit – maybe I’ve slept with him!

“Nat.” Chloe lowers her head and sighs. “He left.”

I nervously bite the inside of my lip. “What if he’s a spy and was called on a mission or maybe he really hates your guitar!” Or maybe he decided the cousin-thing was too weird.

Chloe smiles politely but my stupid jokes aren’t helping. “Chloe, did you see Adam when you were singing? The guy was practically masturbating.”

Chloe lifts her head and rubs her eyes. “I did. But I also saw his anger right before he walked out the door. I could feel it, too. The heat, I mean.”

“I don’t know what happened sweetie, but I’m sure you can talk to him.”

“Why? There’s no point.”

I don’t want to push the subject and I actually have a little of my own P.I. work to do before I feel comfortable discussing Adam Ford. How can I give her advice if I’m the reason it fell apart?

Chloe motions to the door and giggles. I turn my head to find Jamie, in tiny leopard-print briefs, skipping toward us. He jumps on the bed and tousles my hair.

“Nat, you look like shit.” Jamie pulls Chloe into his arms and smirks.

“I know! I’m a hot mess – get over it!” I lunge forward and whack his shoulder.

“Where did you go anyway?” Chloe asks.

I’m so ashamed and I really don’t want this to become a backstabbing episode of
Melrose Place
– so I lie. “I fell asleep in a cab. The bastard drove me to Midtown.”

They both look at me oddly, but I’m such lunatic that they shrug it off.

“Hey Jamie, don’t you have something to tell Nat?” Chloe nudges Jamie in the ribs.

“Fine. You know Brett the bartender? The one with spiky blond hair and huge fucking biceps?”

“Yes, I’ve been flirting with Bartender Brett for weeks.” As soon as I finish my sentence, Jamie and Chloe burst with fits of laughter. Holy crap. He can’t be! “Oh shit, Jamie, is he gay?”

“Mmm, very,” he says while making kissing noises.

My dearest Zacharie,

I can only pray that when you read this letter you will still love me. I’ve done something horrible. I lost my necklace. My star is gone.

Please forgive me.

XOnat

“Whatcha doing Natster?” Jamie asks.

I crumple the letter and toss it in the wastebasket – it’s only my sixth attempt. “My diary. What’s up?”

“Let’s go for a run. Or shopping. Yes, let’s go shopping! I’m going home tomorrow and I need some ankle boots.” Jamie rummages through my clothes and frowns disapprovingly. “Chloe, doll, we’re going shopping,” he yells toward the kitchen.

“Ankle boots – like Fonzi?” I ask, putting on a sweater.

Jamie’s eyes expand in excitement. “Yes, perfect. Where can I get some?”

“You’re such a dork, Jamie.”

This will be good. The Canadian Triplets together again – three friends doing what we do best . . . making each other laugh and avoiding
real
conversation at all costs.

Chloe and Jamie walk ahead of me, laughing and commenting on everything around them. They can finish each other’s sentences, start each other’s thoughts, and inspire each other’s creativity. She writes, he paints, and the end result is always artistic gold. When they’re together, the world is their stage, and I’m perfectly fine with being in the audience . . . because it’s always a good show.

We’ve been a threesome since junior high, and during one pot-fueled night in 1995, we almost
had
a threesome. Jamie was confused with his sexuality, Chloe wanted to change him, and I was basically just invited to the party. Luckily, it got weird really fast and it never happened, but the following week, Jamie and Chloe broke the barrier of virginity in a seedy motel outside Ottawa.

Jamie was definitely gay. And Chloe was definitely in love with him. And it would make sense that our dynamic would completely change, but friendship always beats out uncomfortable sexual pretense sprinkled with teenage angst. Always.