Principles of Love (23 page)

“Puppy love?”

Robinson wraps his arms around me. “No, nothing like that. We just go way back, that’s all. She’s been there for me during some rough patches and I’d drop anything for her.” I know this should make me feel like I have a loving boyfriend who is so concerned with another’s well being that he’d run to her in a time of crisis, but what I feel is funny. Not haha. Odd. Suspicious. Would he drop me to run to her?

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Brunch a little ways from here and then maybe a walk in the park if it’s nice? Or a museum? What sounds good?” Just like that, regular Robinson is back. I picture us having omelets and home fries and walking hand in hand.

“Any of it — all of it,” I say and then I let him lead me into his room. We kiss and lie down on the bed, kissing more with his shirt off and then in one experienced motion my own shirt is flung to the floor and I’m looking up at Robinson above me. He kisses my neck and when he moves, he gives a clear view of the picture frames on his side table. Him with Lindsay on the beach as young teenagers. Lindsay with her hands on his chest, looking up at him. Lindsay Parrish alone, in front of some European monument I don’t know.

I sit up and reach for my shirt. “What’s wrong?” Robinson asks. He’s breathing heavy and has the glazed over look of a guy with a booty mission.

“Nothing,” I say but I stand up. “I’m just really, really tired.” Robinson hugs me.

“Stay here?” He pats the bed.

I pretend to consider it although I know damn well I need to be alone tonight. “Not tonight,” I say. He walks me back and we kiss more. Then he tucks me in and turns out the light.

I draw back the blinds and look at the night-view of New York. Everything still looks small — distant.

“Rise and shine, Love.” The scent of waffles and fruit rouses me before I even open my eyes. Is there anything sexier and more appetite-stimulating than a half-naked Robinson Hall holding a tray of breakfast goods?

“Thanks — that’s so sweet,” I say and sit up. Robinson puts the breakfast in bed tray on my lap and we nibble at the Belgian waffles, dipping them in a warm pot of syrup. He’s even put an apricot colored rose on the tray. I point to it. “Did you get this color on purpose?”

“I went out to the grocers this morning,” he says and gives me a sticky kiss on the mouth.

“I thought we were going out for brunch,” I say. And then, in case he thinks I’m disappointed, “But this is better.”

Later, we’re taking the promised walk in Central Park amidst the joggers and baby strollers. The leaves are unfurled and the crocuses are blooming. A horse and carriage trot by.

“Newlyweds, ugh,” Robinson says.

“What — you have a problem with them?” I ask.

“No,” Robinson puts his arm around me. “I just think those carriages are so cheesy. So touristy.”

“Yeah,” I nod. “But they could be fun.”

Robinson suddenly drops his arm from around my shoulder and runs to catch up with a spandex-clad person ahead. “Linds!” he calls. The leggy runner slows down and turns. They double-kiss (um, are we IN Europe?) and Lindsay Parrish, breathy and aglow with cardio-induced endorphins strides to me.

“Morning,” she says. “What brings you two lovebirds out here?”

“I’ve never been to Central Park before — I just wanted to check it out,” I say.

Lindsay nudges Robinson, “A first-timer, huh?” I get the feeling she means more than a Central Park virgin. I watch a young family — mother, father, shaggy dog, two kids. Then I think about my dad and suddenly am hit with how lonely it must have been for him taking care of me by himself. I want to talk about this — share it with Robison.

“I’d love a cup of coffee,” I say.

“Great,” Robinson nods and takes my hand. And to Lindsay he adds, “See you later?” I’d bet good money it wasn’t a question so much as a statement.

At Piccolino, a small Italian place with pastries and frothy drinks, we sit outside and watch the passersby. I try to express my thoughts coherently — a challenge in itself — about my family, my Dad thoughts, even how he’s dating Math Thompson. Robinson listens — I want to say politely — but doesn’t really push for details or comment the way he would if we were talking about the latest movie.

I switch gears, going from emotional digging to girlish poking and prodding. I’m filled with a certain amount of self-loathing when I do this, but I am too curious not to. “So, does Lindsay go running on that path often?”

Robinson doesn’t take my bait — I thought he’d say something like yes, every morning and then I could accuse him of taking that route just to bump into her. But he says, “I don’t know. I mean, she’s on the cross country team at Tate Academy.” My face is blank so he goes on. “That’s probably the best girls’ school — it’s right near where we live.” We meaning the collective Upper East Siders.

“Oh,” I say. And making a concerted effort not to be bitchy, “It’s funny to picture it as
cross-country
in Manhattan.”

“Well, she might transfer,” Robinson says. “I keep telling her to go to Hadley Hall next year.”

“I thought she was a senior.” Is that jealousy, panic or coffee acid in my stomach?

“No — sophomore. Like you.” Robinson leaves money on the table and we go off to explore the windows of Fifth Avenue.

Over the course of the next twelve hours we have moments that register as film-like in my mind, or like Robinson’s black and white summer snapshots. Kissing by that fountain near the opera, each of us trying on wigs in some transvestite-populated store in the village, Robinson wiping my mouth free of mustard after a hot dog at Gray’s Papaya.

We head home in the early evening for a recuperative change of clothes. He heads off to shower and I change then explore the house a little, choosing a room to read in. I snuggle into an oversized armchair and begin paging through one of the movie scripts on the shelf. I read a couple of scenes from one that says
Perchance to Dream (working title)
on it’s cover. Then, tired of epic nature of that one, I choose another one. This one, weirdly, called
Apricot Rose
. I’m drawn in from the beginning — especially when I read scene two and Chester, the main character, tries to woo Lucy with an apricot colored rose. In the stage directions, it calls for Chester to hold up the rose to a window where Lucy sits painting in the formal drawing room.

Fine, so it’s set in Great Britain in the late 1800s, but it pretty much mimics Robinson’s visit to Slave to the Grind — with Chester disappearing before Lucy can thank him. This makes her long for him. Like I did. I quickly skim for more likeness. Nothing, nothing, tea in a shop, formal dinner party, and then — boom — the breakfast in bed scene. Chester delivers toast and poached eggs to Lucy after they’ve had an argument.

I want to page ahead, find out what else lies in store for me (me and Lucy), but can hear Robinson talking on the phone, walking this way. I slide the script back in among the others, and wonder if this is what Lila meant when she talked about Robinson in New York. And maybe why she never slept with him. I mean, I love the cinema, and obviously spend a bit too much time camera-angling at myself and my life, but I still want something real.

And this doesn’t feel like it is anymore.

“Ready?” Robinson asks. I almost want to call him Chester, but I don’t.

“Sure,” I say.

We head downtown to meet up with — surprise, surprise — English Paul and potentially Hadley-bound Lindsay and Plant. Another bar, another round, another night of being on the outskirts, and then tender Robinson at home. In the morning, I’m up and dressed and packed.

“I wish you’d stay and just come back to school with me Monday night,” he says as we try to hail a cab for Penn station. “We could have another whole twenty-four hours together without parietals.” He smirks. “A night…” This last word comes out as a question to which I shake my head.

“I know,” I say. I put my hand on his back and know I’ll feel weird on the train having left early. “But I have to do work and you should see your friends.”

Robinson puts me in the cab and leans in the window for a kiss. “You’ll have to come for a week this summer. The Hamptons, baby. You’ll love it.”

On the train back, I think about Chester and Lucy and movieoke. I think about other scenes we could have acted out. Maybe the Dirty Dancing one with “Nobody puts Baby in a corner” — except the reality of it would have been that I was.

Screeech, halt. I’m woken up from my train slumber not by motion but the lack of it. The conductor comes on to announce we are stuck. No shit, really? Passengers, me included, look out the window as if this will give us a clue as to what’s going on. We’re informed that shuttles will take us into Providence and from there, we’ll be given vouchers for a bus ride back to Boston. I’m fairly sure that this was not in the
Apricot Rose
script.

On the shuttle I am squeezed between an enormous man with a cat in a carrying case. I sneeze before we’ve begun the journey and he glares at me.

“I’m allergic,” I say.

“So is Muffy,” he answers. “To people who are cat people.” Why do I always find my way to the freakshows? Why can’t there be someone nearby with whom I actually want to converse? I’m wondering this and blowing my nose on a waxy napkin I find in my bag when I hear a familiar cough.

From behind me comes this, “I’ll trade seats with you.” Much to my surprise, the voice and cough belong to Jacob, saving me from welts and hives and wheezes.

“Thanks,” I say and stand up. I reach for my bag and Jacob says not to worry about it. “What’re you doing here?”

Jacob doesn’t answer, but I quickly move two rows back to avoid further congestion and splotchiness. Nothing more appealing than a hive and welt covered woman. Not that I care how I look in front of Jacob. Okay, not a total truth.

When we park in Providence, I stay still, letting the shuttle bus clear until Jacob and I are the only ones left.

“My dad lives in New Haven,” Jacob explains as if we’ve just been talking. “So I go to the city now and then.” He looks directly at me. “What’s your excuse for slumming?”

I think of Robinson’s fancy apartment — hardly slumming. This time, it’s my turn not to answer. Instead I stand by his seat and get my bag from where it’s wedged between his knees and the row in front of him. “You’re my hero.” This comes out more forceful and weighted than I intend and I cover it up by blowing my nose and laughing about the cat guy.

“Hey,” Jacob says when we’re on the sidewalk. “Let’s check our bags at the bus station and walk around.” It’s like we’re both apologizing for something — the way we’ve entered and slunk back from each other’s lives.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say.

We have all intentions of seeing the whaling museum and walking around Brown University campus, but we wind up finding a diner housed in an old cable car and once we’ve ordered, we end up sitting and talking for three hours straight.

Grilled cheese crusts strewn aside, fries eaten, Cokes drunk, we convince the waitress to let us sit while she cleans and closes up.

“First love — I remember it,” the waitress with piles of bright red hair says.

This makes me crack up and Jacob look like he’s going to pass out.

“We’re not…” I try to explain. The waitress holds up her palm.

“I’ve heard that one before,” she says and fills the salt and pepper. “Tell me another one.”

The light fades on the bus ride back to Boston. Dad will pick us up at the station and it occurs to me I might need to explain leaving to visit one guy and returning to campus with another one. Jacob starts to nod off.

“Can I listen to your cd player?” I ask, totally forgetting he has Robinson’s cd in there. Jacob hands it over and falls asleep.

Watching the non-descript office buildings and warehouses, and listening to the mix, I feel let down and confused. How could such great music come from a guy who used a script to figure out how to have a relationship with me? How could such a cool person like Jacob need to live vicariously through a dormmate’s mixed disc?

Jacob’s head lolls onto my shoulder. I don’t shrug him off. His hair smells like vanilla. Yum. I press stop on the player. This wakes him up.

“You like it?” he asks pointing sleepily to the mix.

“Actually, I wanted to say — I think it’s kind of bizarre — and by bizarre I meant creepy that you have this. I mean, are you even friends with Robinson? Does he know you have it?”

Jacob sighs and shakes his head, annoyed. “You’re really something, aren’t you, Love?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. The bus stops in the station and people collect their bags and walk down the narrow steps. I can see my dad leaning on a pole, reading the Sunday paper while he waits.

“You really thought this…” he grabs the cd player and coils the head phones around it. “Was from
him
?” I’m dumbstruck.

“Passengers off, please,” the driver calls back.

Jacob stands up. I follow and we take our bags. Dad starts over to me.

“I made this,” Jacob says. My heart stops, starts, jumps. “For you.” Of course. Of course. I am the biggest ass ever. Of course Jacob knew me well enough to know the songs that would hit home so hard. The ones that made me swell with — love?

“Jacob — I didn’t — I just assumed…”

“Love,” Dad interrupts. He hugs me and I stare at Jacob. All this time I’ve given credit to Robinson for pouring himself into the song list. “Ready?” Dad takes my bag and starts to walk away, presumably to the car.

“You coming?” I ask Jacob.

“No,” he says quietly and stares at me with his dark blue eyes. “I think I can make it back by myself.”

I stand there for a moment hoping he’ll change his mind, but he doesn’t. I back off first and follow my dad to the car. In my head I hear some of the lyrics from the mix and imagine them like subtitles over the marathon conversation Jacob and I had at the diner. Should I run after him? Make my dad follow him and insist on giving a ride? Should I make him a mix? Too many easy options. And this time, I have to take the tougher route and just explain how I feel myself. Without props.

I fiddle with the radio and consider doing RLG and then think better of it and turn the thing off.