Bloody Valentine
Page 3
When the bar was tidied and clean, Freya shrugged on a green army flak jacket, oversized and gigantic on her small frame. It was the kind of jacket worn by Special Forces teams parachuting into jungles, and it looked incongruous against her delicate features, which made the whole effect even more charming. She pulled up the hood to cover her hair. “Come on, I’m just down the street.”
On the way to her apartment, Freya stopped by the Korean grocer on the corner. She chose a bouquet of flowers, two tubs of fresh fruit, and a spray of mint. Unlike the usual lackluster offerings found at the corner deli, everything Freya touched seemed to glow: the strawberries red and succulent, the melons shone with orange intensity. The mint smelled like it had just been picked from a field in Provence.
She led him to a shabby tenement building with a broken front door. “We didn’t get the gentrification memo,” she joked. He followed her up the stairs to the third landing. It had four doors, and she opened the one painted red. “Thank goodness I face out to the street. Those two over there just look at the courtyard.”
It was a small apartment by anyone’s standards, but in terms of New York real estate, even tinier still. There was an old-fashioned claw-foot tub in the middle of the room and a minuscule galley kitchen with aging appliances. Against the window was a four-poster bed draped with a paisley print tapestry. But once Oliver entered the room, he was startled to find it was not as small as it had looked from the doorway. He had been mistaken. The apartment was large and magnificent, with a library full of books on one side and a proper formal dining room on the other.
“Sit,” she said, pointing to a grand settee that he was certain had not been there before.
There were ancestral portraits on the wall, and what looked like museum-quality art. Was that a Van Dyck? That one was surely a Rembrandt. The usual bohemian squalor had vanished, and instead Oliver was sitting on a proper couch in an elegantly furnished living room with a cracking fireplace. The windows to the fire escape still looked out onto Avenue C, but Oliver could swear he heard the ocean.
Freya disappeared into the back bedroom to change (again, he hadn’t seen it from the doorway—and what happened to the four-poster bed? And the claw-foot tub? Was he losing his mind?). When she returned she was wearing flannel pajamas. She fired up the stove—a sleek industrial design and not the old and ugly white one he had seen from the doorway—and began to crack eggs. “You need breakfast,” she murmured as she chopped the mint.
A delicious buttery smell began to waft from the kitchen, and after a few minutes, Freya placed two plates on the table in the little breakfast nook. By this time, Oliver had accepted the fact that the apartment was not quite what it was, and he was no longer surprised by the appearance of yet another cozy and beautiful piece of furniture. Was this a dream? If so, he wanted to keep sleeping.
Oliver took a bite. The eggs were soft and creamy, and the mint gave them a sharp and interesting taste. He finished the whole thing in three bites.
“You were hungry,” Freya observed, pulling up her knees to her chin.
He nodded and wiped his hands with a linen napkin. He watched as she ate her eggs slowly, savoring every bite. “Tell me about her,” Freya said, licking her fork.
“She was my best friend.” He told her everything about his friendship with Schuyler from the beginning to the bittersweet end. He found that with Freya, he could talk about Schuyler without feeling pain. He laughed and reveled in the memories. Oliver talked into the late morning hours. He dimly remembered helping with the dishes, and then falling asleep in her bed.
“You are too young to be so lost and so bereaved,” Freya had whispered, before he closed his eyes.
When he woke up later that afternoon, he had his arms around her.
FOUR
Under New Ownership
Oliver went back to school and to his life. He felt better than he had in weeks, and he was looking forward to seeing Freya again. She had been hard to reach, neither picking up her phone nor returning his calls, but school and Repository work had kept him busy. It wasn’t until a week later that he returned to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge.
He noticed there was something different about the place as soon as he arrived. For one, there was a bouncer at the door with a flashlight who glared at his fake ID.
“Hawaii, huh?” the big gorilla asked skeptically.
“Look, I don’t want a drink. I’m just here to see Freya.”
“No one here by that name.”
“C’mon, man.”
“You can ask Mack, but he won’t tell you different,” the bouncer said, handing him back his ID. “But order a drink and you’re out of here.”
Oliver nodded his thanks and entered the bar. The bouncer wasn’t the only thing new. There were three bartenders behind the counter now. Two old men wearing bow ties, and a pretty girl who had the steely beauty of an aspiring actress but none of Freya’s charm. Even the crowd was different—polished and sleek in designer duds as they tilted back pastel-colored drinks in martini glasses. There was a leather-bound menu with brand-name spirits.
It was a sea of strangers. Where were the arguing tabloid journalists, the old men with long faces, the young kids at the dartboard? Speaking of, where was the dartboard? And the pool table? Sure, the Christmas lights were still up, but now there was a mechanical singing Santa, and instead of being infused with an offbeat, nostalgic charm akin to a well-worn watering hole, the Holiday looked like a plastic replica of what it had been.
Oliver shook his head and fought his way to a fancy bar stool. He ordered a sparkling water and waited. Even if the Holiday had changed, Freya was always here. She had to be.
Hours passed. Customers left. The bartenders glared at him. But Oliver sat there until last call.
FIVE
Love and Courage
Oliver did not know how long he waited, standing on the sidewalk with a bouquet of lilies, but around four in the morning, she finally arrived. She was still wearing the puffy flak jacket from the other night, but this time she had kept the hood down, and her curly hair danced in the breeze.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, and Oliver was relieved to notice she did not sound angry, only mildly amused. “Hold this,” she said, handing him her grocery bag as she removed her keys from her purse.
“I waited for you at the Holiday. You never showed,” he said. “Did I do something wrong? Do you not want to see me?”
Freya shook her head and unlocked the main door. They walked up the narrow staircase. “How did you find me?” she asked, as she led the way into her apartment.
Oliver crinkled his brow. It had been difficult. He had been sure she lived on Seventh Street and Avenue C. But he had walked the entire block and not come across the Korean deli or the shabby tenement building with the red awning. He had all but given up when he realized it was right in front of him. How had he not noticed before?
“I don’t know, really.” Oliver settled into one of the cozy chairs. “What happened to the Holiday? It’s different. You’re not there.”
“I sold it. I’m moving.”
“Why?”
“It was time,” she said. She crossed her arms. “You look better.”
“Thanks to you,” he said.
“Tea?” she asked.
“Sure.” He waited while she boiled water and fixed him a cup. When she placed the teacup in front of him, he took her hand and held it for a long while. He wanted her so much. She looked down at him. For a moment they stood without speaking.
“I thought I had done everything I needed to do,” she finally said.
“Why are you keeping me away? I’m not a boy.” He pulled her closer and she sat on his lap.
She ruffled his hair. “No, you’re not. You’re right.”
He leaned over and kissed her. He had never kissed a girl other than Schuyler. But this time, he wasn’t thinking at all of Schuyler, only of Freya.
Freya smelled like milk and honey and the wonderful scent of spring. He felt her move against him, and he pulled her closer so that he could put his hand on her chest. He felt his heart begin to pound—he was so nervous—what was he doing?—he did not know how to do this—had not planned for this—and yet…he heard Freya sigh, but it was not a sigh of exasperation…it was the sound of acceptance and invitation.
“Come with me,” she said, and led him to the bed.
She undressed and slipped underneath the covers. She looked as beautiful as a Botticelli painting. Oliver’s hands trembled as he quickly removed his clothing and joined her under the blankets. He was so nervous—what if she laughed? What if he did it wrong somehow? Could one get it wrong? He wasn’t so innocent, but he wasn’t so experienced either. What if she didn’t like what he…. Her body was warm and inviting, and he fell on her like a thirsty man in front of a waterfall. He stopped doubting. Stopped worrying. Stopped feeling nervous.
It was his first time. With Schuyler, they had been waiting for the right time, or perhaps they had waited because they knew the right time would never arrive. It didn’t matter. Only Freya mattered now.
On the way to her apartment, Freya stopped by the Korean grocer on the corner. She chose a bouquet of flowers, two tubs of fresh fruit, and a spray of mint. Unlike the usual lackluster offerings found at the corner deli, everything Freya touched seemed to glow: the strawberries red and succulent, the melons shone with orange intensity. The mint smelled like it had just been picked from a field in Provence.
She led him to a shabby tenement building with a broken front door. “We didn’t get the gentrification memo,” she joked. He followed her up the stairs to the third landing. It had four doors, and she opened the one painted red. “Thank goodness I face out to the street. Those two over there just look at the courtyard.”
It was a small apartment by anyone’s standards, but in terms of New York real estate, even tinier still. There was an old-fashioned claw-foot tub in the middle of the room and a minuscule galley kitchen with aging appliances. Against the window was a four-poster bed draped with a paisley print tapestry. But once Oliver entered the room, he was startled to find it was not as small as it had looked from the doorway. He had been mistaken. The apartment was large and magnificent, with a library full of books on one side and a proper formal dining room on the other.
“Sit,” she said, pointing to a grand settee that he was certain had not been there before.
There were ancestral portraits on the wall, and what looked like museum-quality art. Was that a Van Dyck? That one was surely a Rembrandt. The usual bohemian squalor had vanished, and instead Oliver was sitting on a proper couch in an elegantly furnished living room with a cracking fireplace. The windows to the fire escape still looked out onto Avenue C, but Oliver could swear he heard the ocean.
Freya disappeared into the back bedroom to change (again, he hadn’t seen it from the doorway—and what happened to the four-poster bed? And the claw-foot tub? Was he losing his mind?). When she returned she was wearing flannel pajamas. She fired up the stove—a sleek industrial design and not the old and ugly white one he had seen from the doorway—and began to crack eggs. “You need breakfast,” she murmured as she chopped the mint.
A delicious buttery smell began to waft from the kitchen, and after a few minutes, Freya placed two plates on the table in the little breakfast nook. By this time, Oliver had accepted the fact that the apartment was not quite what it was, and he was no longer surprised by the appearance of yet another cozy and beautiful piece of furniture. Was this a dream? If so, he wanted to keep sleeping.
Oliver took a bite. The eggs were soft and creamy, and the mint gave them a sharp and interesting taste. He finished the whole thing in three bites.
“You were hungry,” Freya observed, pulling up her knees to her chin.
He nodded and wiped his hands with a linen napkin. He watched as she ate her eggs slowly, savoring every bite. “Tell me about her,” Freya said, licking her fork.
“She was my best friend.” He told her everything about his friendship with Schuyler from the beginning to the bittersweet end. He found that with Freya, he could talk about Schuyler without feeling pain. He laughed and reveled in the memories. Oliver talked into the late morning hours. He dimly remembered helping with the dishes, and then falling asleep in her bed.
“You are too young to be so lost and so bereaved,” Freya had whispered, before he closed his eyes.
When he woke up later that afternoon, he had his arms around her.
FOUR
Under New Ownership
Oliver went back to school and to his life. He felt better than he had in weeks, and he was looking forward to seeing Freya again. She had been hard to reach, neither picking up her phone nor returning his calls, but school and Repository work had kept him busy. It wasn’t until a week later that he returned to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge.
He noticed there was something different about the place as soon as he arrived. For one, there was a bouncer at the door with a flashlight who glared at his fake ID.
“Hawaii, huh?” the big gorilla asked skeptically.
“Look, I don’t want a drink. I’m just here to see Freya.”
“No one here by that name.”
“C’mon, man.”
“You can ask Mack, but he won’t tell you different,” the bouncer said, handing him back his ID. “But order a drink and you’re out of here.”
Oliver nodded his thanks and entered the bar. The bouncer wasn’t the only thing new. There were three bartenders behind the counter now. Two old men wearing bow ties, and a pretty girl who had the steely beauty of an aspiring actress but none of Freya’s charm. Even the crowd was different—polished and sleek in designer duds as they tilted back pastel-colored drinks in martini glasses. There was a leather-bound menu with brand-name spirits.
It was a sea of strangers. Where were the arguing tabloid journalists, the old men with long faces, the young kids at the dartboard? Speaking of, where was the dartboard? And the pool table? Sure, the Christmas lights were still up, but now there was a mechanical singing Santa, and instead of being infused with an offbeat, nostalgic charm akin to a well-worn watering hole, the Holiday looked like a plastic replica of what it had been.
Oliver shook his head and fought his way to a fancy bar stool. He ordered a sparkling water and waited. Even if the Holiday had changed, Freya was always here. She had to be.
Hours passed. Customers left. The bartenders glared at him. But Oliver sat there until last call.
FIVE
Love and Courage
Oliver did not know how long he waited, standing on the sidewalk with a bouquet of lilies, but around four in the morning, she finally arrived. She was still wearing the puffy flak jacket from the other night, but this time she had kept the hood down, and her curly hair danced in the breeze.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, and Oliver was relieved to notice she did not sound angry, only mildly amused. “Hold this,” she said, handing him her grocery bag as she removed her keys from her purse.
“I waited for you at the Holiday. You never showed,” he said. “Did I do something wrong? Do you not want to see me?”
Freya shook her head and unlocked the main door. They walked up the narrow staircase. “How did you find me?” she asked, as she led the way into her apartment.
Oliver crinkled his brow. It had been difficult. He had been sure she lived on Seventh Street and Avenue C. But he had walked the entire block and not come across the Korean deli or the shabby tenement building with the red awning. He had all but given up when he realized it was right in front of him. How had he not noticed before?
“I don’t know, really.” Oliver settled into one of the cozy chairs. “What happened to the Holiday? It’s different. You’re not there.”
“I sold it. I’m moving.”
“Why?”
“It was time,” she said. She crossed her arms. “You look better.”
“Thanks to you,” he said.
“Tea?” she asked.
“Sure.” He waited while she boiled water and fixed him a cup. When she placed the teacup in front of him, he took her hand and held it for a long while. He wanted her so much. She looked down at him. For a moment they stood without speaking.
“I thought I had done everything I needed to do,” she finally said.
“Why are you keeping me away? I’m not a boy.” He pulled her closer and she sat on his lap.
She ruffled his hair. “No, you’re not. You’re right.”
He leaned over and kissed her. He had never kissed a girl other than Schuyler. But this time, he wasn’t thinking at all of Schuyler, only of Freya.
Freya smelled like milk and honey and the wonderful scent of spring. He felt her move against him, and he pulled her closer so that he could put his hand on her chest. He felt his heart begin to pound—he was so nervous—what was he doing?—he did not know how to do this—had not planned for this—and yet…he heard Freya sigh, but it was not a sigh of exasperation…it was the sound of acceptance and invitation.
“Come with me,” she said, and led him to the bed.
She undressed and slipped underneath the covers. She looked as beautiful as a Botticelli painting. Oliver’s hands trembled as he quickly removed his clothing and joined her under the blankets. He was so nervous—what if she laughed? What if he did it wrong somehow? Could one get it wrong? He wasn’t so innocent, but he wasn’t so experienced either. What if she didn’t like what he…. Her body was warm and inviting, and he fell on her like a thirsty man in front of a waterfall. He stopped doubting. Stopped worrying. Stopped feeling nervous.
It was his first time. With Schuyler, they had been waiting for the right time, or perhaps they had waited because they knew the right time would never arrive. It didn’t matter. Only Freya mattered now.
