Naomi & Bradley, It All Comes Down… (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 1) (3 page)

There were fireworks of a different kind here tonight.  Naomi walked in and Molly and I were sitting there at the table.  I was panicking because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise—we’ve come so far.  I did what I normally do when I’m caught in the act of deceit:  deer-in-the-headlights stare, stammer, stammer, blush of shame.  It was not very manly.  Then she just went crazy, demanding my house keys and telling me I’d have to live in Molly’s basement.  If she hadn’t been so upset, I would have laughed out loud. 

Molly wasn’t helping, either.  She decided to implement her jealousy plan and pretend we were having an affair.  I don’t know who was acting crazier.  She’s only eighteen and I’m thirty-one.  That’s like one inch from being illegal.  Naomi didn’t seem to think it was crazy.  I did what she asked and left.  I am still a gentleman.  I fired Molly and dropped her off at her house.  It’s funny; I could have sworn I saw this weird guy from my gym standing in one of the windows of her townhouse.

I know I told Naomi I’d be back, but something tells me she could use some space right now.  In fact, I’m thinking I’ll wait for her to call me so I can be sure she’s cooled off.  So, I spend the night on my friend Manny’s couch, surrounded by pizza boxes and beer cans.  My stomach is tied up like a garden hose and my heart pounds so loudly I can’t hear anything, not even Manny banging some girl from the club.  I gotta get her back, gotta get her back.  I don’t want to end up like Manny.  I love him, but, geez, look at this place.  It smells like a frat house.  No, I need my Naomi with her Freesia and cedar scent, her rocking body, her crazy sense of humor that always cracks me up.  I fall asleep to the rhythm of her beautiful name in my head like an incantation:  Naomi, Naomi, Naomi.   

NAOMI

Wednesday, February 3rd

I stay in the shower until the water turns cold, like my heart.  When I come out, soaked and sad, I laugh a grizzly sound, remembering how my real estate, mogul-minded mother always described the master bathroom to her friends: “The bedroom features a spacious closet, built-in shelves, and an immaculate en-suite bathroom with a double vanity sink, a walk-in rain shower, and a separate bathtub.”  Mother, a walking ad of self-promotion, always dolling up the truth, she had a minor in exaggeration with a master’s degree in bragging.

I hate this loft.  The only thing I value here is the location. “A rare for Tribeca loft living—that is flooded with northern and southern light and is anchored by immense windows that boast views of One WTC, the Empire State Building, and the Hudson River.”  I parrot my mother with a sneer.

Even expecting Bradley to leave me one day, practically predicting it as if I lived inside a crystal ball, I still feel stunned.  Maybe that’s why my head is drowning in motherly flashbacks.

Bradley’s face, that guilty stare he gave me, the deep swallow, the glancing out the window as if a studio prompter would be there dangling from a wire, holding up a sign of safe words to say. 

“I just knew it,” I spout to my empty bedroom.  “Too damn attractive for his own good, I knew he’d have to beat them off with a club, always competition, pretty boy, why did I accept his first invitation, dammit.”

I glance at our shared king-sized bed and know I can’t sleep there. 

Has Molly been in-between my Bloomingdale’s sheets?

Did Bradley hold Molly tightly and whisper in her ear, tell her she was his everything?  Could he repeat the same phrases he said to me, so easily without a drop of conscience?

Where was he now?

I imagine Bradley, entwined in Molly’s Barbie sheets, nestled on a sleeper sofa next to the furnace.  A teddy bear under his arm.

Didn’t Bradley say he would be back, to talk?

I glance at my black alarm clock and see it’s 2 a.m., not tonight, too damn busy with his teenage girlfriend to explain anything to me.

How long has their affair been going on?  Did they meet at the gym, or before?  Was the gym story only their cover?  No, Bradley’s body had improved, he probably held her ankles while she did setups, then she laid in his arms as he used her for a barbell.

I was going to be sick.

I crave a bottle of brandy and a giant bag of M&M’s. I go into the kitchen, “which features marble countertops and backsplash, a sleek eat-in island with a built-in butcher block, a wall of white cabinetry, a built-in wine cooler, and modern stainless steel appliances. There is also a brand new Miele washer/dryer.”

I know I’m crazy upset.  I haven’t heard my mother’s voice so sharply in my ears for over two years.

I dry my long blond hair, letting it trail over my shoulders in soft waves and drag a blanket out to the living room sofa.  I’ll sleep in the open, in case Bradley comes back so I can hear his knock.  He won’t, but if he does, I’ll know.

The liquor and chocolate cause crazy dreams.  In it, Chase is studying my face, watching me as I run on the treadmill.  I keep running towards Bradley but I can’t get anywhere, I slide further away from his arms until I’m right back with Chase.

I don’t know much about Chase.  Not even his last name.  He wears Nike and Under Armour and all the trendy new styles of workout gear.  He’s covered in navy spandex, it complements his blonde hair.  I’ve caught him watching me many times.  Was it over Molly’s desertion?

Who cares?

I want Bradley. 

I don’t want to cry again, but I do.

I miss him already.

Damn asshat.

Thursday, February 4th

Enough sniveling.

I wake up disappointed and rebellious.  Bradley never returned.

How was that possible?  He acted so contrite, as if he was being noble and I was the guilty one.

He lied; he never came back.  And here I am stuck in limbo with all of his belongings cluttering up my place, crowding the corners with eighteen months of man gear and memories.

Oh hell, I’m also late for work.  I scramble around, knotting my hair high, decorating my eyes with heavy blue to hide the redness, and twisting my ass into a black pencil skirt.  I’d like to get my hands on the designer who decided tight fabric, stretched across your ass was a good idea for office wear.  Black heels, making me nearly 5’11”, and I toss in my power walk just because I can.

I’m rapidly approaching thirty, living alone like my cousin Betty, with one pet named Bradley, a big, black Russian alley cat who likes to stray.

I hop in and out of cabs like a maniac, dodging snow, dogs who have tangled themselves in their leashes, and burly men with heavy briefcases and weighty frowns.

Wall Street, home of dead hopes, tremulous dreams, financial disasters, and the hedge fund McMaster Swartz, my employer.

I ride the long elevator ride, ignoring my reflection in the many-mirrored walls.  What’s with mirrors in an elevator anyway?  Some decorator trick from the 50’s that’s supposed to make a tiny cage look bigger? Make you forget you were hanging a few hundred feet in the air by a thread?  It doesn’t work.  It never worked.  Oh, I’m in a fine fit this morning.

I rush past Carl’s desk but he catches me and whistles.

“Hey hot stuff, where’s the fire?”

Like I haven’t heard that crack every morning for the last five years.

“Just in a hurry.”  You old bastard.

“Come into my office at ten, I want to give you another client to handle.”

And look at my legs, and peek inside my blouse, and rub against me as much as possible.

“Yes Sir, see you at ten.”

Unless I start your actual office on fire just to make your corny joke finally reality.

It’s another long day of peddling stock lingo, staring at green screens, and watching waves of lines move up and down.  My mind drifts back in time and I lean on my open hands and sigh.

“You’re not good enough Naomi, you’ll never be anything.”

My childhood critic haunts me.  Mom with the stern looks and even harsher words.  She stored all her anger built up from my father’s affairs and channeled it towards a safer target, me.  From my earliest memories I only remember being criticized.  It was her specialty along with serving Jell-O for dinner dessert and humming off key.

“Naomi, you’re too tall to catch a man.”

“No one wants to know a smart talker.”

“Too bad your hair is such a weird blonde, off-color shade.  It looks like wet rice soaked in butter.”

She used to sling her insults like David threw rocks with his slingshot, all with deadly aim.

Twenty-five years of hearing her slights and I wonder how I can barely hold my head up alone.  Not to mention graduating tenth in my class from NYU Leonard Stern School of Business. 

I glance at my watch.

Six o’clock at night and Bradley never stopped by or called.

I rub my eyes and my finger comes away shaded blue.

“Guess Mom was right, I’ll never get a man, and if I do, I won’t be able to hold him.”

I might own a “Top Manhattan SoHo Tribeca, 11
th
floor loft” but I’ll never be a woman a man will want for long.

Seems like my mother was right about something.

BRADLEY

Thursday, February 4th

Manny doesn’t work.  He’s one of those people who stumbles into money and lucky situations like he’s covered in four-leaf clovers, riding a leprechaun.  For example, this apartment I woke up in this morning, sunlight slicing into my closed lids like one of Naomi’s Santoku knives, belongs to this dude who is always away, taking pictures of the tops of mountains or something.  They met on Avenue B, when the dude’s Beagle broke leash and ran out in front of a Zipcar.  Manny shoved himself between the dog and the car, somehow denting the car, but not getting injured himself.  See what I mean about the luck?  Two years later, Manny’s still living rent-free on the top floor of an awesome building on the lower east side, two doors down from the hottest restaurant in the city.  He’s also never been in a relationship for more than a couple of months, so he doesn’t get it when I say I have to go and make things right with Naomi.

“Dude!  Let’s go get some grub, man.  I’m
starving
.”  Manny walks out into the all white living room where I’ve been half-sleeping all night.  He is completely naked.  I wonder what Naomi did all night?  Probably shredded my clothes and set my Nutri-bullet on fire. 

“Nah, thanks for the couch, but I gotta go find Naomi.  Explain some stuff.”  I run my hand through my hair, rub my eyes, and try to wake up.  The next thing I see is a leggy red head, all creamy skin and freckles, emerging from the master bedroom, tying up a hot pink wrap dress. 

“Diane Von Furstenberg?” I ask her.

She grins.  “Yeah!  How’d you know that?”

“I did a shoot for them one time.  Still have the tux.”

She looks at me a little closer, and…wait for it…whump, there it is:  the look. 

“Hey, I know you.  You’re the Devil of Deveraux.”

“Nah, I just played him on a book cover,” I answer with a wink and a smile.  Harmless flirting feels so freeing, like taking off a too-heavy coat.

“Well, nice meeting you,” she says then lays a big one on Manny.  “Gotta get to work…call me later?”

Manny grabs her ass, pulls her back in.  I turn away, study the contents of a pizza box, think about eating it.  “Sure baby,” Manny says, escorting her to the door.  My stomach growls so loudly, Manny whips around.  “Homes, you sure you don’t wanna get something in your belly?  Soldier shouldn’t go into battle with an empty stomach.”

“You know what?  I’m in.  Maybe Naomi needs to miss me a little.  I mean, I didn’t do anything wrong.”  I’m building up a little healthy resentment now, changing my hurt and fear into anger.  Manny stands there, laughing at me growing a backbone all of sudden at thirty-one.

“Alright, alright, lemme just put on some clothes.  I know a great place, couple blocks away.  Let’s have some
fun
, man.”  The doorbell rings and Manny, still buck naked, opens it up.  A parade of models walks in, each kissing Manny on both cheeks before settling down around me on the couch.  “Give me a sec, ladies; this here is my good friend Bradsky.”  Manny has called me that ever since he met my Russian parents.  The girls stare at me like I’m a tall frosty Diet Coke.  Luckily, Manny’s a quick dresser.

We end up in this secret Mexican speakeasy called Ole, hidden behind a Duane Reade on Fourth Street.  A few years back, Manny loaned the owner some money to help open the place, and now he eats and drinks for free whenever he wants.  It’s only around eleven in the morning, but damn if the place isn’t hopping with models, suits, a couple of Hollywood types, maybe in town for the Independent Film Festival.  The food starts the second our asses hit the tooled leather seats. 

“Tequila?”  Manny asks.

I should say no.  I should go to Naomi and explain everything.  I should at least text her, let her know I’m not giving up that easy.  But.

I hear myself answer, “Oh hell YEAH.”  Let the games begin.