Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 47
“And then?” Brooke asked, even though she knew.
“It was amazing.”
“Do you even know his name?”
“Save it,” Nola said, rolling her eyes.
She stared at her friend, trying to remember back to her single days. She’d dated plenty of guys and hooked up with her fair share, but never had she been so, so . . . free in her willingness to fall into bed with one of them. Sometimes, when she wasn’t terrified for Nola, she was envious of her confidence and the assertive way she approached her sexuality. The one time Brooke had had a one-night stand, she had to force herself to do it by repeatedly telling herself that it would be fun and exciting and empowering. One broken condom, twenty-four hours of nausea from the morning-after pill, six weeks until the HIV test could be assuredly negative, and exactly zero calls from her so-called lover later, she knew she wasn’t cut out for that lifestyle.
She took a deep breath and was relieved to hear the buzzer sound to let them know the food had arrived. “Nola, do you realize you could’ve been—”
“Could you just spare me the ‘he could’ve been a serial killer’ lecture, please?”
She held her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Look, I’m glad you had fun. Maybe it’s just my own jealousy talking.”
Nola made a little shrieking sound at this. She pulled her knees up on the couch and reached over to take Brooke’s hand, which she promptly slapped.
“What was that for?” Brooke asked with a wounded look.
“Don’t ever say you’re jealous again!” Nola said with an intensity Brooke rarely saw from her. “You’re beautiful and talented and you can’t even imagine how wonderful it is, as your friend, to see the way Julian looks at you. I know I haven’t always been his number one fan, but he loves you, there’s no denying it. Whether you realize it or not, you guys are inspiring to me. I know it took a lot of hard work for both of you, but it’s all paying off.”
There was a knock at the door. She leaned over and hugged Nola. “I love you. Thanks for that—I needed to hear it.”
Nola smiled, grabbed her wallet, and headed into the hallway.
The girls ate quickly and Brooke, exhausted from the day and a half bottle of wine, ducked out as soon as they finished. Out of habit she purposefully walked to the 1 train and claimed her favorite end seat, not remembering until she was halfway home that she could afford to take taxis. She screened her mother’s call during the three-block walk home and began to fantasize about her single-girl evening ritual: herbal tea, hot bath, freezing cold room, sleeping pill, and a blacked-out sleep under her massively puffy comforter. Perhaps she’d even shut off her phone so Julian wouldn’t wake her with his sporadic calls, unpredictable in every way except for the certainty that she would hear music, girls, or both in the background.
Lost in a reverie and desperate to get inside and strip off her clothes, Brooke didn’t see the flowers on her doormat until she tripped over them. The cylindrical glass vase was as tall as a toddler and lined with vibrantly green banana leaves. It brimmed over with calla lilies, rich purple and creamy white in color, a single towering stalk of bamboo the only accent.
There had been the occasional floral arrangement, the kinds that all women received at one time or another—the sunflowers from her parents when she had her wisdom teeth removed her freshman year, the requisite dozen roses from various uncreative boyfriends on Valentine’s Days, the bodega-bought bunches friends brought over as hostess gifts—but never in her life had she gotten something like this. A sculpture. An object of art. Brooke heaved it inside and yanked the tiny envelope from the discreet spot where it was taped to the base. Walter bounded over to sniff this new fragrant acquisition.
Dear Brooke,
I miss you so much. Counting the days until I can see you this weekend.
Love, J
She smiled and leaned forward to smell the gorgeous lilies, a joy that lasted exactly ten seconds until all her doubts rushed forward. Why had he written Brooke when he almost always called her Rookie, especially when he was trying to be romantic or intimate? Was this his way of apologizing for being an inconsiderate jerk the last few weeks, and if so, why hadn’t he actually said he was sorry? Could someone who prides himself on having a way with words—a songwriter, for chrissake—have possibly written something so generic? And most of all, why would he choose now of all times to send his very first flower arrangement when Brooke knew how much he hated the very idea of retail flowers? According to Julian, they were a clichéd, overpriced, commercialized crutch for people who couldn’t adequately express their emotions creatively or verbally, not to mention the fact that they died quickly, and what kind of symbol was that? Brooke had never cared much either way, but she understood where Julian was coming from, and she always treasured the letters and the songs and the poems he so carefully took the time to make for her before. So what was up with this “counting the days” crap?
Walter nudged her knee and let out a mournful howl.
“Why can’t your daddy walk you?” Brooke asked as she leashed him and went right back outside. “Oh, I know why. Because he’s never here!” Despite feeling tremendous guilt for leaving Walter alone so long, she dragged him back inside the moment he finished and bribed him with extra kibble for dinner and a particularly fat carrot for dessert. She picked up the card again, reread it twice more, and then gently placed it on top of the pile in the garbage can before walking right back over and retrieving it. It may not have been the loveliest thing Julian had ever written, but still, it was a gesture.
She dialed Julian’s cell, already working out what she would say, but the call went straight to voice mail.
“Hey, it’s me. I just got home and got the flowers. My god, they’re . . . incredible. I barely know what to say.” At least you’re being honest, she thought. She thought about asking him to call her so they could talk, but it suddenly seemed too exhausting. “All right, then. Um, have a good night. Love you.”
Brooke filled the tub with the hottest water she could stand, grabbed the latest copy of Last Night that had just arrived, and gently eased her way in, taking almost five full minutes until she could tolerate having her entire body submerged. As soon as the water washed over her shoulders, she breathed a huge sigh of relief. Thank god this day is about to end.
“It was amazing.”
“Do you even know his name?”
“Save it,” Nola said, rolling her eyes.
She stared at her friend, trying to remember back to her single days. She’d dated plenty of guys and hooked up with her fair share, but never had she been so, so . . . free in her willingness to fall into bed with one of them. Sometimes, when she wasn’t terrified for Nola, she was envious of her confidence and the assertive way she approached her sexuality. The one time Brooke had had a one-night stand, she had to force herself to do it by repeatedly telling herself that it would be fun and exciting and empowering. One broken condom, twenty-four hours of nausea from the morning-after pill, six weeks until the HIV test could be assuredly negative, and exactly zero calls from her so-called lover later, she knew she wasn’t cut out for that lifestyle.
She took a deep breath and was relieved to hear the buzzer sound to let them know the food had arrived. “Nola, do you realize you could’ve been—”
“Could you just spare me the ‘he could’ve been a serial killer’ lecture, please?”
She held her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Look, I’m glad you had fun. Maybe it’s just my own jealousy talking.”
Nola made a little shrieking sound at this. She pulled her knees up on the couch and reached over to take Brooke’s hand, which she promptly slapped.
“What was that for?” Brooke asked with a wounded look.
“Don’t ever say you’re jealous again!” Nola said with an intensity Brooke rarely saw from her. “You’re beautiful and talented and you can’t even imagine how wonderful it is, as your friend, to see the way Julian looks at you. I know I haven’t always been his number one fan, but he loves you, there’s no denying it. Whether you realize it or not, you guys are inspiring to me. I know it took a lot of hard work for both of you, but it’s all paying off.”
There was a knock at the door. She leaned over and hugged Nola. “I love you. Thanks for that—I needed to hear it.”
Nola smiled, grabbed her wallet, and headed into the hallway.
The girls ate quickly and Brooke, exhausted from the day and a half bottle of wine, ducked out as soon as they finished. Out of habit she purposefully walked to the 1 train and claimed her favorite end seat, not remembering until she was halfway home that she could afford to take taxis. She screened her mother’s call during the three-block walk home and began to fantasize about her single-girl evening ritual: herbal tea, hot bath, freezing cold room, sleeping pill, and a blacked-out sleep under her massively puffy comforter. Perhaps she’d even shut off her phone so Julian wouldn’t wake her with his sporadic calls, unpredictable in every way except for the certainty that she would hear music, girls, or both in the background.
Lost in a reverie and desperate to get inside and strip off her clothes, Brooke didn’t see the flowers on her doormat until she tripped over them. The cylindrical glass vase was as tall as a toddler and lined with vibrantly green banana leaves. It brimmed over with calla lilies, rich purple and creamy white in color, a single towering stalk of bamboo the only accent.
There had been the occasional floral arrangement, the kinds that all women received at one time or another—the sunflowers from her parents when she had her wisdom teeth removed her freshman year, the requisite dozen roses from various uncreative boyfriends on Valentine’s Days, the bodega-bought bunches friends brought over as hostess gifts—but never in her life had she gotten something like this. A sculpture. An object of art. Brooke heaved it inside and yanked the tiny envelope from the discreet spot where it was taped to the base. Walter bounded over to sniff this new fragrant acquisition.
Dear Brooke,
I miss you so much. Counting the days until I can see you this weekend.
Love, J
She smiled and leaned forward to smell the gorgeous lilies, a joy that lasted exactly ten seconds until all her doubts rushed forward. Why had he written Brooke when he almost always called her Rookie, especially when he was trying to be romantic or intimate? Was this his way of apologizing for being an inconsiderate jerk the last few weeks, and if so, why hadn’t he actually said he was sorry? Could someone who prides himself on having a way with words—a songwriter, for chrissake—have possibly written something so generic? And most of all, why would he choose now of all times to send his very first flower arrangement when Brooke knew how much he hated the very idea of retail flowers? According to Julian, they were a clichéd, overpriced, commercialized crutch for people who couldn’t adequately express their emotions creatively or verbally, not to mention the fact that they died quickly, and what kind of symbol was that? Brooke had never cared much either way, but she understood where Julian was coming from, and she always treasured the letters and the songs and the poems he so carefully took the time to make for her before. So what was up with this “counting the days” crap?
Walter nudged her knee and let out a mournful howl.
“Why can’t your daddy walk you?” Brooke asked as she leashed him and went right back outside. “Oh, I know why. Because he’s never here!” Despite feeling tremendous guilt for leaving Walter alone so long, she dragged him back inside the moment he finished and bribed him with extra kibble for dinner and a particularly fat carrot for dessert. She picked up the card again, reread it twice more, and then gently placed it on top of the pile in the garbage can before walking right back over and retrieving it. It may not have been the loveliest thing Julian had ever written, but still, it was a gesture.
She dialed Julian’s cell, already working out what she would say, but the call went straight to voice mail.
“Hey, it’s me. I just got home and got the flowers. My god, they’re . . . incredible. I barely know what to say.” At least you’re being honest, she thought. She thought about asking him to call her so they could talk, but it suddenly seemed too exhausting. “All right, then. Um, have a good night. Love you.”
Brooke filled the tub with the hottest water she could stand, grabbed the latest copy of Last Night that had just arrived, and gently eased her way in, taking almost five full minutes until she could tolerate having her entire body submerged. As soon as the water washed over her shoulders, she breathed a huge sigh of relief. Thank god this day is about to end.
