Fade In (3 page)

Looking straight ahead—like I have a choice—I see him opening the back passenger’s side door of his brand new Porsche SUV. My big brother, the high roller.

Coop is in real estate. He's the guy on all those billboards that say, “Hi, I'm Cooper Elliot. Welcome to the Upper West Side,” unless you are driving on the Upper East Side or any of the boroughs. He welcomes home rich assholes all over New York City.

He's smart and everyone loves him. He's made a great career by being honest and truly dedicated to finding buyers what they didn't know they needed and getting sellers the price they dreamed of. I am very proud.

We are not doing too badly for the two kids of vagabond hippies. You heard me. Our parents aren't really that bad, but they're not that far from it either. When we were kids, they were only marginally weird, but now they travel the country in a camper, or whatever, and “live free,” as they say.

Coop leans in and gives me a kiss on my cheek. “Happy birthday, Tater. Hungry?”

I nod and get in the vehicle. Shutting the door, he smiles at Winnie while walking around the front and winks at her.

Cooper states, “We are going to Sear. Is that okay with you? Kurt called and said that it is close to his late meeting and he can just meet us there when he finishes up. Sound okay?” Coop knows that I would rather douche with battery acid than pick a restaurant, so he already knew to tell him that it would be fine.

“That sounds great actually. I could use some meat and a strong drink. Did he mention how long he would be? It's been a long day.” I don't know if it is because Dr. Meade asked if I've been more tired lately or if I really am, but I'm really feeling run down right now.

“He didn't say a time, just that he'll be there when he wraps everything up.” Coop looks at me through the rearview and gives a not-sure-what-to-tell-you look.

“I'll just text him after we have a table. I can't imagine those bankers working that late anyway.” I check my phone and it's about five thirty. “We can get the last bit of happy hour.”

We arrive at Sear, a posh steakhouse in Midtown, and belly up to the bar while waiting for our table.

“So I picked out your bridesmaid dress,” Winnie blurts out like she's been holding it in. “It's beautiful so I just ordered it a size larger than what you wear. That way we can have it tailored perfectly. Your tits are going to look sinful and you'll love it.” She looks like she is ready for me to take a swing at her, and I kind of am.

“You ordered it without me even seeing it? What the hell, Winnie? I thought we were going to shop for them together? I don't want you to have to do that shit on your own. When did you get it?”

“Just this afternoon. After you left. The show is almost entirely buttoned up for next week, so we all cut out early. I wanted to stop at this place Luis and Tilly told me about and I just went. I didn't see anything for me, but I think... No, I know you are going to love this dress,” she says like it’s an excuse for being so impulsive. “It really is stunning. Here, I have a picture on my phone. You're going to be ravishing.”

I grab the phone and prepare to rant, but when I get a look as the dress, I see that she's not wrong. It's fabulous.

“Fine then. I accept your birthday gift of the bridesmaid dress,” I state, acting put out. “And I will also accept the birthday shoes to go with it. Just no more doing that stuff without me. I want to see you do all of it. Okay? I want to be there.”

I know it doesn't seem selfish to want to help your best friend plan a wedding to your brother, but all I can think of is,
What if I don't get to experience one of my own?
Not that I don't think I'll ever marry. I just don't expect to see it.

Don't get me wrong. I am independent. I own my newly remodeled and fan-fucking-tastic condo outright and alone. I don't require jewelry for special occasions, and I can have dinner by myself and not shed a tear.

I am the boss. Well, I'm at least one of them. And I am a damn good writer. I have three awards from this year alone that remind me of that every day on my mantle.

But then again, I've never had that thing that Winnie and Coop have. So this could be my only chance to literally see a wedding like that.

“Okay, no more,” she concedes. “I don't take a wedding-shit unless you are holding my hand. Promise.” She gets it. She knows me well.

“Okay. I love the dress anyway. But isn't your sister going to be a cow by then? How is she going to look in that dress?” Her sister Molly is bona fide pregnant. Winnie and Coop's wedding is later this summer, but by then her sister will be about six weeks from her explosion date.

“She's not wearing it. I've decided to go with different dresses. I will pick hers out too, if that makes you feel better. Hell, I'll even let you pick it out. You guys wouldn't have looked the same in any dress. So it just didn't make sense making one of you—or both of you—look like shit. It's going to be the best day of my life. I don't need you guys bitching about your dresses. Am I right?”

I look to Cooper for an ally, but he’s idly messing with his phone on the other side of Winnie, totally zoned out for most of our conversation. He only peeked up when she mentioned that she’d bought my dress.

She's right. I thought that same thing a while back when Molly, Winnie, and I were at lunch a few weeks ago. Molly said that she wanted to find something long to hide her already growing trees trunks that were formerly her shapely ankles. And I thought about how I was one hundred percent sure I would get tangled in a longer gown and fall flat on my ass walking down the aisle.

“No. You're right. I like the shorter one for me, and she wants a longer one to hide her cankles. This works.”

We are on our second drinks when I glance at my phone. Six twenty. I decide to text Kurt.

Me
: We are here. Our table is about ready. Are you close?

I receive his response quicker than I expected. Still having my phone in front of me, I read his reply.

Kurt
: Yeah, we are around the corner having a drink. Change the table to six. These guys are joining us.

Well, that's a little irritating. Not that I'm not a “the more the merrier” kind of girl, but it is my birthday. Am I out of line in thinking that he should have at least asked if that was cool? And would I have been out of line if I'd had the opportunity to say no?

I needed more information from my boyfriend the socialite.

Me
: Who is coming? Do I know them?

He promptly shot back a response.

Kurt
: I doubt you know them. They're clients of mine. Just change the table. We'll be there in 30.

That was that.

I'm pissed. No happy birthday. No flowers at work—not that I give a rat's ass. No nothing. What the hell?

“Coop, Kurt wants us to change the table to six. He's bringing some clients. Can you go do that? I'm going to the bathroom.” I need a minute to fume in privacy.

“Are you serious? You're joking, right?” The irritation and utter shock is boldly written all over my big brother's face.

“Not joking. Totally not funny. I'll be right back.”

I walk to the ladies’ room, which I had scoped out before I even left the bar since it doesn't work well for me to wander these days. I need to stand here and just breathe for a few minutes.

Fuck him. Fuck those asshole dinner-crashers. I'm really upset.

Eying myself in the mirror, I see that don't look remotely happy. My cheeks are flushed hot and my eyes look like blue flames. My blond hair, cut in the new shoulder-length bob, looks edgier than it did last week. The skin is tinted pink and my hands are fisted. My brows are pinched, and I have to think to release the tension in my forehead. I don't need wrinkles adding insult to my already prolific injury.

I'm going to take a stand. I take a few deep breaths and reach for my phone. My hands shake as I grab for it out of my clutch and it drops, sliding across the floor.

Gross. The worst place to drop a phone happens to be right here. Just when I'm all about to Mount St. Helens via text message.

I quickly bend down to take hold of it and miss on my first attempt. Turning to get a better grasp on just where it landed, I kneel down. I grasp the vile germ-soaked thing from the floor and pivot to stand back up in these three-inch heels. Save it. They're pretty. I don't want to hear about it.

Smack. And it lights out. My head bounces off the counter and now I am the vile germ-soaked thing on the bathroom floor.

That is where Winnie finds me a few minutes later.

When I wake up, she has her purse under my head and there is an unfamiliar woman standing next to her, telling Winnie that they should call 911.

“No. She's waking up.” Looking at me, Winnie says sweetly, “Hi there, Rocky. The counter took you out. Are you okay?” She has a wet paper towel pressed against the side of my throbbing head and looks worried but calm. “Tatum, are you okay?”

Remembering I need to answer her, I shake my head yes. “Where is my phone?” She looks at me like she thinks I'm still out of it. But I'm not letting a mild concussion ruin this for me. My foot is coming down, regardless.

“Your phone? It's right here. What do you need that for? Are you calling an ambulance? Are you hurt? Let me do that.” She looks down, ready to make the call, and sees the message that was left open from Kurt.

She shakes her head and hands it to me.

I type out my message to him.

Me
: Why don't you guys just have dinner? I'm with Coop and Winnie. I'll see you later at the apartment.

Then I say to Winnie from my new low, “Can we just grab some takeout and go to my place? I'm covered in shit debris and piss splatter. I need a shower.”

“Sure, whatever you want. Let's get you up.” Winnie waits for me to sit up on my own and quickly holds her hand out to block my second go-around with the counter top.

“Shit. Thanks, Winn. Fuck.” I'm frustrated and embarrassed, but she pretends like it is no big thing and helps me to my feet.

Coop is standing in the hallway outside the ladies’ room when we make our way out. He looks angry, but I know he's just upset that I'm hurt.

“How did you guys know I fell down in there?”

“The hostess went in there and saw you. She came out running to us, saying that you were on the floor and had blood on your head. She wanted to know if she should call an ambulance. Then Winnie ran in there and she followed,” Coop explained.

“Yeah, you were out cold for only a few seconds more after that. Just long enough for me to put my purse, which you can replace, under your head and take the paper towel that the girl handed me. Must have clocked yourself pretty good.”

I rub the goose-egg emerging from my forehead.

“Yeah, I dropped my phone and bend down to pick it up. I was mad. I am mad. Coop, I want takeout and a shower. Can we go? I don't want to eat with Kurt and those suits tonight. I told him we were leaving. I really want to get out of here.”

Coop doesn't hesitate, only looking at me with caring eyes and a genuinely sympathetic smile. “Sure. You sit here. I will go pay the tab and we're out.”

They come up to my place with me. I can smell the Mexican food they ordered from the place down the street while I wash the typhoid out of my hair. I feel a lot better after that, and the cut and bump I’m freshly sporting on the right side of my head look worse.

Coming into my living room, I see that Winnie took it upon herself to make us margaritas and Coop set the table and opened up the food. There was enough to feed a small army.

We eat and they give me my presents. Coop bought me the new Kate Spade purse I wanted and Winnie bought me a new iPod loaded with all of our favorites from college. I love both of them and their gifts.

Against his will, Coop and Winnie get up to leave. It's only about ten o'clock. He would rather just stay the night and see how this Kurt thing unfolds. I know that is why he has hung around, but she wants to get up early and go to yoga since we are wedding shopping in the morning.

She claims that she will have to do more than just downward dog to keep the south-of-the-border feast we just consumed off her ass.

Shortly after that—and after finishing the pitcher of margaritas on my own—I hear Kurt at the front door.

“Where's the birthday girl?” Brilliant.
Now
he wants to celebrate. “Tatum, I landed that deal. Sorry I missed dinner with you guys. You know how it is. How was Sear?”

I turn to look at him from the couch where I'm sitting. Waiting. Stewing. Seething.

“We just had a few drinks and then came back here. They were busy and changing our table made our wait longer. We had Jose's and margaritas.”

The sight of him reignites my hostility from before the head trauma.

“Listen, I am a little pissed about earlier.” I try to begin calmly. “It was my birthday dinner, and I understand how juvenile that sounds, but I was looking forward to it. You didn't ask, you just told me that you invited clients. You didn't tell me happy birthday. You didn't ask how my doctor's visit went.” My voice is ramping up to a volume close to yelling. “Now you're here for what can only be described as a birthday booty call? I'm not really sure how to take all of this. So why don't you help me understand what the fuck you think this relationship is, okay?”

He just stands there. Handsome and a little drunk. Kurt is a classic white-collar man, just like his father and grandfather before him. Ivy League educated, entitled, and rightfully confident. To top it all off, he is striking to look at. That's the icing on the asshole cake standing before me.

Chiseled abs, perfectly sculpted dark brown hair, hazel eyes, perfect tan—which usually means he is easy to forgive most of the time, based on his exterior qualities alone.

Inside, he's seems more greedy and selfish lately. Cold and distant at times, especially in the last couple of months.

I decided to accept his booty call after my brother and Winnie had left. I'm not sure when I'll get my next lay, and it is better than just breaking it off over the phone. Right?

Maybe he needs closure on these kinds of things? I'm such a giver.