Things I can’t Explain (6 page)

After the Ferg left home, Mom discovered that besides tofu being a healthy and tasteless source of protein, it had some serious industrial applications. Empty-nesting can be the mother of invention, at least for my mother. Using her own secret recipe, she turned tofu into eco-friendly superglue. Her “ToFlue Glue
™
” was great for repairing broken china, but even better for NASA. They used her glue to adhere those tricky heat panels to the space shuttle. Then as the shuttle program phased out, the Chinese bought buckets of it for
their
space program. She made millions. Mom's financial independence also became a huge contributor to Dad's midlife depression. I can see Dad go glum as she talks about it. Thankfully, Mom keeps it to a minimum.

Throughout it all, Nick and I luckily manage to pull off a pretty believable impression of a happy long-term couple. Even luckier, no one dies of anaphylactic shock.

The only downside of the evening is when the check arrives. Dad reaches for it but balks when he glances at the total. He's been out of work even longer than I have, which means he couldn't afford to pick up the check at Papaya King, let alone Tamarind. Mom flips a credit card onto the table.

“My treat,” she says. There's a big pause.

Dad forces a smile. I could cry.

Soon we're stepping out of the restaurant and into the New York twilight.

“We're going to head straight to JFK,” my mother tells me. “Do you mind?”

Actually, I kind of wish they were sticking around, because then maybe Nick and I could pretend more parts of our fake relationship together, like talking about our big plans for a vacation, or my next birthday or when we're moving in together or how we like to snuggle when it's raining and … shit, maybe I'm getting carried away here.

The way I felt when they showed up notwithstanding, I'm really glad I got to see Mom and Dad. And let's not forget, if they hadn't waylaid me as they did, I wouldn't be standing here with Nick's arm around me.

Yep. Nick's arm is around me. How cool is that?

And he smells real good, like sea salt and beeswax, maybe the product in his hair? And coffee beans, which always warms my heart.

“It was nice meeting you both,” Nick says, then gives my shoulder a squeeze. “We're going to have to cab it back to the
Daily Post
, babe.”

I'm momentarily dazzled by the fact that he's just called me “babe” for a second time (which is totally fake and only for my parents' benefit but I totally dig it), so it takes me a minute to digest what he's said.

“Oh? And why is that?” I respond in a dreamy voice.

“Because,” he says, waving as Janet and Marshall slide into a taxi, “that's where my Harley is.”

Now I'm picturing this gorgeous guy clad head to toe in black leather, sitting astride an enormous, powerful riding machine. Believe me when I tell you, a Harley is so much better than a white stallion.

That's where my Harley is.
Somebody catch me. I'm gonna swoon!

 

CHAPTER
5

We can't talk much in the taxi because we've found the only friendly cabbie in New York. He's an old Chinese guy who's been driving a cab forever and he wants to know where we're from and how we liked the restaurant and if the jhinga e aatish is as good as he's heard.

The old guy's such an unrelenting chatterbox that it gets me giggling. Nick smiles and shakes his head and I realize with a flutter of delight that we already have an inside joke. Norm and I didn't have an inside joke until three months into the relationship and then half the time he forgot to laugh when it came up. Mostly I just snuggle under Nick's arm, sighing to myself as his arm curves around, hanging on my shoulders.

When Chatty Cabbie says he can't understand why nice folks like us want to go to the former home of an old defunct newspaper like the
Daily Post
after business hours, Nick and I trade smiles. We pull up to the curb and Nick reaches for his wallet. But this time I pay.

“Thanks,” says Nick.

“Are you kidding? This doesn't even begin to cover what I owe you.”

But as the yellow cab zooms off into the night it occurs to me that I should probably still be in it. Clarissa Marie Darling doesn't have a boyfriend with a Harley parked in the alley. I'm not even on an actual date. Technically, Nick and I as boyfriend and girlfriend ceased to exist back on Hudson Street, as soon as my parents were on their way.

The fact that we didn't part company might be considered the sign of the beginning of an
actual
relationship of the true, meaningful variety.

“So you live in FiDi?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I can give you a ride home, if you want?” I nod, speechless at the prospect, as he heads for the alley, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “Wait here.”

Moments later I hear what I think might be thunder or an earthquake. Then the Harley rolls out from between the buildings like some mechanical jungle cat. And there's Nick, wearing a well-beaten-up motocross jacket with a dark red stripe looking like the Bad Boy every girl dreams about.

He's holding an extra leather jacket, complete with an oversized collar and a surplus of zippers.

“Put this on,” he tells me, handing over the jacket. “You'll be cold otherwise.”

I slip my arms into the enormous jacket and it swallows me up. I run my hand along the tough aged surface of the leather. It's big and soft inside and makes me feel like a different kind of girl, which is cool. I'm ready to rumble. “This is the real deal, huh?”

“Circa 1959,” Nick explains. “Got it at the secondhand shop on Bedford Avenue.”

I zip up and throw on a helmet as Nick grabs my arm, pulling me onto the back of the bike like it's something we do every day.

“You have to hold on,” he says, and he doesn't have to ask twice.

The motorcycle roars and we're off growling through the city streets, and since I'm not normally the biker-chick type, I'm a little uneasy and by that I mean my heart is beating like a hummingbird's. But maybe that's because I'm flat-out elated. My arms are wrapped around his smooth and agreeably hard abs. I'm holding on for dear life and for a lot of other good reasons, too.

As we wind our way through downtown traffic, swerving expertly through the late-night cabs and limos with the glow of taillights skidding off the bike's gas tank, I realize that he's driven right past my street. I don't actually mind, but I am a little curious.

“Where are we going?” I shout into the wind. Not that I really care. If his answer is jumping the Grand Canyon, that's fine by me.

He turns his head slightly to holler his reply. “I want to show you something first, okay?”

“Perfectly okay,” I holler back as he guides the bike expertly through the neon-lit darkness. We're swerving in and around cabs and I'm kind of amazed at how dangerous riding a Harley in Lower Manhattan can be. But as I snug myself closer, our bodies in a full press, my mind gratefully lets go. I'm blissfully swept away through the city streets of Soho, dazzled by the reflections of the red, green, and white lights flashing around us.

When the purring machine slows to a halt, I find myself peering around his helmet at the East River, wondering where we've ended up. It's a deserted landing under the Brooklyn Bridge and I realize—I've been here before. Of all the movie scenes and postcards you've ever seen, I can guarantee this isn't one of them. It's just a little bit of nowhere under the Brooklyn Bridge, but to me it's Paradise, and honestly, in a city of over eight million people, I thought I was the only one who knew.

The water is shimmering and Lower Manhattan looks like some kind of hard-core fairyland—magical and edgy at the same time, all shadows and angles broken up by sparks of golden light. The bridge looms above in all its concrete and metallic majesty and I'm struck by the symbolism of it. Mr. Roebling's masterpiece is a connection, a way of bringing two totally different entities together. It's the ultimate joining. Okay, well not the “ultimate” one, but technically, I just met this guy a few hours ago. Still, as far as omens go, I'd say the Brooklyn Bridge is a good one.

He helps me off the bike and we take a few steps toward the water. “Downtown looks awesome,” he whispers, but he's not looking at downtown. He's looking at me.

A shudder runs down my back and I smile. I slide closer until our hips are touching and nod toward the more humble borough on the opposite side of the water. “Well, Brooklyn's certainly holding its own.”

He laughs, his fingers brushing mine as we continue toward the riverbank. “I wanted you to see this place,” he says, some of the old shyness creeping into his voice. “I thought about it a bunch of times before, but we never talk about much more than coffee and…” He pauses, considering his next words. “I guess I've always wanted to share it with you.”

It's all I can do to keep from throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him into a coma. I bet that's what a real biker chick would do. But instead, I tell him, “Actually, I've been here. A lot. It's pretty much my favorite spot in New York.”

He blinks at me, surprised. “Really?”

I nod. “I found it by accident. I was lost. Well, not lost, exactly, but looking for someplace else.”

“Funny how you find the coolest things when you're not even looking for them,” he remarks.

Amen. This afternoon I was looking for coffee. And look where I am now. Look what I've found.

“So tell me,” he says, in a voice that is both boyish and raspy. “What's your story?”

“My story?” I'm caught short, a bit overwhelmed. As an aspiring journalist I've spent so many of my last years reporting on other people's stories, and now, someone wants to know mine.

“Yeah, I mean I know you worked for the
Post
and you were like the star intern or something. Whenever I'd see you in the lobby you had so much going on and then…”

“Yeah, the ugly dark side of the Internet revolution.”

“So how come you keep coming around?” he asks, half shy, but I can tell he really wants to know. And I can tell that he's been thinking about me all these years as much as I've been thinking about him. But I can't say what I'm really feeling because I'm dizzy. After all, I've been imagining this guy in my head forever, secretly dreaming what his espresso-scented kisses would be like and now, after introducing him to my parents as my boyfriend, I'm standing under the Brooklyn Bridge close enough to … well, close enough.

“The coffee?” I say after a long pause and he smiles in a way that makes me want to jump his bones.

“Yeah, the coffee's pretty good,” he says, trying to keep a straight face. “After the paper closed I thought I'd never see you again.…” He smiles a quiet smile and I think a few more stars just lit up in the sky. I smile back and feel warm inside.

“So why haven't you moved on? I mean, are things okay for you?” he asks.

At first I think he's talking about Sam, and I pause. When will that relationship stop feeling like unfinished business? Then I realize he's just asking about life in general and next I find myself rambling on about my parents' separation, why I felt the need to lie about being out of work, and how much I miss writing about … anything, something, every day like I did at the
Post
.

“I feel that way about music,” he says, nodding, as if he understands perfectly. “If I'm not mixing something in the studio or working a song out on the guitar, I feel like I don't exist.”

“Yes!” I cry out. The reply is a bit louder than I'd meant and it bounces back under the bridge in an echo, seeming to affirm itself, and it makes me flinch. But it's so great to talk to someone who gets it. And, ya know, it doesn't hurt that he's sexy as hell, with a firm jawline and a butt like Channing Tatum's.

“What about you?” I ask.

“Me? I pretty much think about HeadSpace all the time,” he says, peering out over the water. I smile but cringe inside, thinking
, Okay, he's a little groovy for me, but you can't have everything.

“Of course some days,” I say like a reflex, unable to keep myself from being a smart ass, “I think I should sublet my headspace and find one with better views.”

Nick laughs and the sound is so mellow and deep that it makes my knees weak.

“I'm sure the view from your headspace is awesome,” he assures me sardonically. “But I'm talking about HeadSpace, the music studio and indie label I started a while back. I took over an old mixing studio in Williamsburg.”

“Oh whoa, that sounds amazing.” I mentally smack my forehead like I'm such an idiot. Who knew the CCG was actually a CMG (cute music guy)? “I'd love to see your studio.”

Oops.

Too much. Too soon. I wish I could swallow the words back into my throat but they're out there. I'm anxious to move past what amounts to me just asking him to take me back to his place, so I rush on.

I yammer about growing up in Ohio, about birthday parties and being the only kid in the elementary school caf-a-torium who could boast an “all tofu, all the time” lunchbox.

There is a mournful sound in the distance—a car horn? A tugboat whistle? A siren fading into the distance, I don't know, but somehow, it sounds like the soundtrack for a movie, the one I'm living. I realize I'm leaning toward Nick—and he's leaning toward me and there's nothing in between us. His hair ruffles in the breeze and I feel my chin tilting up toward him. I can smell the clean scent of his body in the balmy air and I feel a rush of warmth as he leans closer. I close my eyes and hold my breath and any second his lips will be making contact with mine.…

“Clarissa, wait.”