Fly Me to the Moon (23 page)

Authors: Alyson Noel

Tags: #gelesen

BOOK: Fly Me to the Moon

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“Wait,” I said as the driver started to pull away. “Wait just a moment.” And I leaned my head out the window, watching as Max made his way down the alley, eventually disappearing through the small, unmarked door.

“Can you even believe it?” I asked, shaking my head. “I mean, don’t you think that was a little early in the game to trot out the porn addiction?” I lifted my mug and took a nice long gulp of Dutch beer.

But Clay just shrugged. “Most of the couples I know met up
because
of their porn addictions,” he said, taking a long pull on his cigarette—a habit he’d given up years ago, but occasionally regressed to whenever we found ourselves drinking in some European bar.

“Yeah, well, I’m no prude, but—”

“Hailey, please. Every prude I know starts their sentences like that.”

I rolled my eyes and continued. “Listen, if we’d been dating for a little longer, and we decided to check out that kind of show just to be a little decadent, that would be fine. Maybe even fun. But since we hadn’t known each other very long, not to mention that the sex
we
were having was pretty deficient, well that just made it even worse.”

“But maybe that’s why he took you there,” Clay said, blowing a perfect smoke ring, then turning to face me. “You know, to like get a mood on. Since once you get back to the suite, he can’t produce the goods.”

I took another sip of my beer and shrugged.

“Or maybe he knew you weren’t having a good time in bed, so he thought he’d show you some people who were.”

“But do you think I’d be sitting here now, if it weren’t for the other problem?” I asked.

Clay squinted at me and took another drag. “Quit beating yourself up,” he said, curls of smoke escaping from his mouth with each word. “I think the reason this guy was so perfect in the beginning was because he
had
to be. And once the jig was up, well then he was free to be his genuine, low-life sell.”

I gazed at my empty beer mug, wondering if he was right.

“I’ll buy you a beer for a cigarette.”

I looked up to see this really pretty blonde smiling at us. And even though she spoke perfect English, the accent was pure Holland.

“You’re on,” Clay said, slipping a cigarette out of his pack as she motioned for the bartender.

“Two beers,” she said. And then, slipping the cigarette between her lips, she noticed me and my empty mug. “Make it three.” She smiled.

Several beers later, Clay and I, our new best friend whose name I’d forgotten even though she was still buying the beers, and several of her friends were trying to decide whether to head out to a club or just stay put where we already had a table and the drinks were promptly refilled.

“Let’s go to a club,” I said, feeling loose and happy and anxious to make the most of my night out in Amsterdam.

And before I knew it, I was sitting on the hump, in the back of a taxi, between two people whose names I didn’t know. And after that I can’t remember.

“Wa—” I crawled out of bed clutching the sides of my head, with my tongue feeling thick and swollen and useless, as though somehow during the night it’d grown too large for my mouth. “Water,” I mumbled, heading for the bathroom, where I turned on the faucet and angled my lips under the spray, drinking until I couldn’t hold any more. Then, wiping my dripping face on the hem of my oversized T-shirt, I headed for my bag, desperately searching for something to stop the pounding in my head.

“If you’re looking for aspirin, I have some right here,” Clay said, holding up a tiny travel-sized bottle and shaking it so that the pills rattled against each other. “And there’s plenty of coffee left to wash it down with.” He motioned toward a silver room-service tray hosting an entire breakfast setup.

“How long have you been up?” I asked, downing the aspirin and taking a bite of cheese Danish. “I mean, what time is it?” I squinted at him.

“It’s afternoon,” he shrugged. “Probably around one.”

“Are you kidding?”

“We didn’t get back until after four,” he said, lounging on the couch with his bare feet propped on the coffee table, looking fresh and handsome as ever.

“Well, did we at least have fun?” I asked, unable to recall anything more than a brief flashback.

“You
had a great time.” He smiled.

I set down my coffee and looked at him. “Oh no. What does that mean?” I asked, already fearing the answer.

“Let’s just say Tara Reid’s got nothing on you.” He laughed.

Tara Reid? What could we possibly have in common?

“Yup, ole Jan and you were really whoopin’ it up. And when you climbed up on that table, I thought I would
die.”

Table? What table?
I looked at Clay, panicked.

“You brought the house down. I think you even made some tip money. Check your wallet for crumpled-up euros,” he suggested, getting up and heading for the bathroom.

“But I kept all my clothes on,
right?”
I called after him, frantically reaching for my purse, desperate to get to the bottom of this. I mean, if I really had earned tip money, then not only did I want to know why, but also how much.

Spilling the contents across the duvet, I took inventory of the debris—the brand-new pack of travel tissues, Altoids the curiously strong breath mints, the M-A-C lip gloss that had somehow escaped the Canal Street Prada makeup bag I housed it in, the three black “ouchless” ponytail holders I kept in all my bags and coat pockets in case of unanticipated humidity—but nothing seemed out of place. And then underneath the Burberry wallet I’d bought myself for Christmas last year was a white business card with an Amsterdam address, and the words “Call me” written in small, neat script above the name Jan van Dijk. In the corner was a tiny hand-drawn heart.

Jan van Dijk. Jan van Dijk. Who the hell is Jan van Dijk?
I wondered, trying to match the name to a face. But I’d met so many people last night, I couldn’t keep track of it then, much less now. But wait—hadn’t Clay said something about me and “ole Jan” really whooping it up? Table dancing even? I closed my eyes, determined to remember.
There was that girl at the bar with the cigarette who was buying the beer and smiling at me . . . and then later. . . was it her I sat next to in the cab?
Was she Jan van Dijk? And if so, why had she given me her card? Why did she write “call me”? And what was up with that little hand-scrawled heart?

I stared at the bathroom door just as Clay opened it. “Did I hook up with a girl?”

He stopped in his tracks and looked at me. “Would that be so bad?” He smiled.

“Just tell me,” I said, all keyed up, unwilling to mess around. “Just tell me; I can take it. I made out with a girl, didn’t I? I made out with Jan van Dijk!” I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. So there it was, my own personal rock bottom. Not that I had anything against girls kissing girls. But it definitely wasn’t part of my normal routine.

I mean, what the hell was I thinking? First I’d ditched Max for taking me to a sex show, only to end up in Amsterdam, where I got drunk and made out with a girl. Clearly I needed some kind of intervention. Clearly I needed to go home.

“Hailey,” Clay said, sitting next to me.

“Just tell me,” I begged, eyes still closed. “How bad was it? Did everyone see?”

“Well, not
everyone.”

I opened my eyes to see him clutching his stomach, doubled over in laughter. Well at least one of us was having fun.

“You know what? Just forget it. I don’t want to discuss it anymore,” I said, starting to stand.

“Haiiey,” he gasped, reaching for my arm, unable to stop laughing. “Jan is
a guy.”

“What?” I sank back down onto the bed, narrowing my eyes at him. “How can Jan be a guy? I thought you said Jan was a girl?”

“Jan is a girl, but her real name is Janice. That’s who you were dancing with. But you were just dancing, nothing more. And you weren’t on a table; you were on a dance floor.” He smiled. “Whereas, Jan”—he pronounced it
yawn
—”is a guy. He’s in advertising, lives in Amsterdam, and was quite taken with you.”

“Did we kiss?” I asked as the memory of this Jan dude began to resurface—blond hair, blue eyes, slim build, milky skin, nice smile . . .

“Nope, no contact. I swear,” he said, lifting his right hand. “Though he does want to take you to dinner.”

I just sat there, staring at Clay. “You better be telling the truth,” I warned.

“I’m serious.
Nothing
happened. But Jan is a hottie. You should definitely call him.”

I shook my head and headed for my suitcase. “Forget it,” I said, unzipping my bag and looking for something clean to change into. “It’s time to fly home.”

By the time I got back in town, there was a mountain of mail to sort through. Most of it was addressed to Kat, but some of it was for me—like the one addressed to Current Single Resident, my Atlas AirMiles Visa card statement whose heft and bulk was probably a bad sign, and a plain, white self-addressed stamped envelope that was either from my gynecologist reminding me of my yearly appointment, or one of the six publishers I’d sent my manuscript to. And like a jury coming back from a speedy deliberation, I knew that a quick reply from a publisher was not a good thing for me.

I tossed the mail aside, dropped my bag in the hall, slipped into my favorite, scruffy robe, poured myself a glass of water, and then settled in at the kitchen table with Kat’s mother-of-pearl letter opener in one hand and the mysterious envelope in the other.

And unfolding a piece of stark white letterhead with the words
CHANCE PUBLISHING HOUSE
in black, block lettering, I read:

Dear Ms. Lane,
Thank you for submitting your manuscript. I enjoyed reading about your protagonist’s adventures, and thought you captured the world of a seventeen-year-old girl in a very realistic way.
However, I was somewhat concerned by her friend’s betrayal, and how her parents were never there when she needed them. It is my belief that children need boundaries, and with the chaotic household you provided, coupled with the lack of available role models, I don’t think you’ve given your protagonist a fair shot.
And even though she manages to overcome all of her hardship by the end, I still believe you’ve made her work much too hard for it.
If you’d be interested in rewriting this story, with at least one supportive parent, less hardship, more defined boundaries, and nicer friends, I’d be interested in reading it again.
Sincerely,
Martina Rasmussen

After the third reading I still wasn’t sure what to make of it. Because while it obviously wasn’t an outright rejection of my writing skills, it was definitely a big thumbs-down to my parenting skills. I mean, was this lady crazy? Was she really calling me a bad mother? Because according to her letter, it was clear she thought I was doing a very poor job in raising my
fictional
character, making me wonder if I should expect a visit from child protective services.

I scanned the letter one last time before folding it up and shoving it back in the envelope. Clearly this Martina person was totally delusional, confusing fiction with reality and not understanding that the unstable parents and self-serving friend were the whole point. That without the struggle, hardship, and ultimate triumph, there would be no story.

Shaking my head, I headed down the hall toward my room. Martina was giving me a chance to make my biggest dream come true.

And all I had to do was change my entire story.