“This should be interesting,” Philip chuckled to himself.
“Final mike check . . . Testing, testing,” Philip slurred as he clung to the microphone two hours later.
We all dripped sweat. Ben’s flat was stifling with the combination of our body heat and the exertions of the last ninety minutes. The beer had followed us to our makeshift stage, and we stood in a semi-circle in front of the television. Tom had removed his soaked shirt and was seated behind a small ring of black “drums.” Philip clutched the microphone as the bare-chested lead singer of our band. Ben played bass guitar.
“You can’t fuck this up, Cris. We’re all counting on you,” Ben cheered with a huge grin of camaraderie on his face.
Yep, you guessed it. I, Cristina Pereira, had been conned into playing lead guitar by three drunken Englishmen. I will admit: it was a great deal harder than I ever would have thought. I will also admit I had a blast.
“Make sure you don’t start the last riff until I finish singing the line, ‘He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus,’ ” Philip pressed.
“Piss off!” I replied drunkenly. “Ben, you worry about staying on beat because you weren’t fooling me the second time we came to the chorus, and you’d better not forget the words again, Mr. I’m-So-Perfect Philip. This time, the one who ruins it has to put two shots of whiskey in their Guinness,” I announced. My shirt was soaked through in an incredibly unbecoming fashion, and my hair was matted to my forehead as though I had spent the last hour swimming in a pool rather than playing a video game. I didn’t care one bit.
“Agreed! God, I love this woman! Will you marry me?” Ben cried.
“For the thousandth time, no! You’re too short for me!” I teased. The sound of my drunken giggling brought a huge smile to Tom’s face.
“That’s the tenth time you’ve been rejected, Benjamin. Just give it up.” Tom spun his drumsticks clumsily around his index fingers and managed to release one too early. It vaulted through the air and nearly smacked Ben in the process.
“At least I have the balls to ask, you idiot,” Ben mocked as he chucked the drumstick back at Tom.
“Enough! Focus! Final mike check!” Philip said forcefully.
Tom counted off the beat, and we all stood in readiness as Ben programmed our chosen song into his game console: When You Were Young by The Killers.
I directed my intoxicated brain to the TV in front of me and watched as the commands scrolled up the screen and into the flashing horizon on the game’s prompter. As I had done many times before on this particular evening, I moved my left hand to the matching buttons at the end of the guitar and “strummed” along to the tune that I, thankfully, knew quite well at this point.
“You sit there in your heartache, waiting on some beautiful boy to . . . to save you from your old ways,” crooned Philip in the semi-chant of Brandon Flowers.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Tom pound away on the drum set and bob his head in time to the tune as he stared at the TV screen in deep concentration. I grinned like an idiot at him, and he winked back with a look that made my heart swell with pleasure.
“Right, Cris!” Ben shouted as I made it through the first verse and chorus without error. He mock head-banged with a look of boyish glee on his face that caused me to laugh like a little girl.
Philip jumped up and down as he continued to sing with a passion that suggested he fed his family through his efforts. It was adorable. We came to a lull after the second verse where Philip should have been the only one performing . . . and yet, all four of us proceeded to belt out the lyrics along with him. He even turned around to face us so that we could ham it up as one. I spun around to make sure Tom and I played exactly in time with one another as the drums and the lead guitar pounded out the melody in the song’s biggest instrumental crescendo. We received sustained “Star Power” credits like crazy on the Guitar Hero system.
“Hell yeah!” Ben yelled energetically as Philip rejoined the chorus.
We all paused with our hands positioned on our “instruments” as the final notes rang from the speakers. Glancing at one another in awe at the fact we had managed to make it through the song perfectly, we reveled in the moment for a few seconds of silence . . . and then cheered raucously. I was yanked into numerous sweaty hugs and clapped on the back with a fervor that nearly caused me to keel over. Ben lifted me off the ground with the sheer exuberance of his embrace.
“Watch it there, mate,” Tom chastised Ben affectionately as he removed me from Ben’s arms to hold me in his.
“Fine, I’ll let you borrow my wife for a few seconds but you have to give her back.” Ben laughed with drunken abandon.
“Like hell,” Tom murmured as he smiled and pressed his face into my neck.
“So, who has to drink the Boilermaker?” Philip asked jokingly.
“I say we all drink one!” Ben replied.
“I can’t drink another one, you idiots! The wheels may still be turning, but the hamster upstairs is definitely dead! Plus, I’m like . . . half your size!” I protested.
Ben grabbed the beer and whiskey. “Half our size means half a drink! Bottoms up, love!”
Like an idiot, I drank.
Forty-five minutes later, I stumbled down the stairs leading to the street outside of Ben’s flat. Philip was fast asleep on the sofa in the apartment, and Tom was trying to grasp onto a sliver of sobriety as he held me tightly in his arms to prevent me from killing us both.
“Oh God! I’m wasted!” I moaned as we made our way out the door and onto the furshlugginer cobblestone.
“Yes, you are,” Tom agreed with a laugh.
“This is terrible! What are your parents going to think?” I cried as a hiccup escaped my lips. My ankle nearly twisted out from under me, and Tom’s steady hands wrapped around my waist securely.
“Darling, it’s past three. They’ve been asleep for hours,” he said soothingly.
I hiccupped again and pitched forward as my shoe snagged on the edge of another ancient stone.
“Those damn shoes. This is not going to work.” He bent over, wrapped his arms around my thighs, and hoisted me over his shoulder so I dangled unceremoniously upside down against his back. My arms hung a few feet above the ground, and my hair swung from side to side with each of his steps.
“Those effing Boilermakers!” I moaned.
“I don’t know why you felt the need to keep up with three men. Three British men, at that,” Tom teased.
“Anything you can do, I can do better!” I sang in a hideously nasal voice.
“Annie, get your gun . . . and shoot yourself. That was horrid.”
“Psshh. You’re just jealous,” I slurred as my arms and hair continued to sway by my face.
He laughed as he walked towards a major thoroughfare where we could find a hack to take us home. All of a sudden, the motion of swaying while upside down affected me in the worst way possible.
“I think I’m going to be sick, Tommy,” I lamented as I poked at his back, urging him to put me down.
He quickly removed me from his shoulder and placed me on the ground. I stumbled to the gutter for my penance.
“Don’t come here!” I moaned. “This is so embarrassing!” I was sick again. He ignored my earlier request and collected my hair in his right hand so it wouldn’t be in the way.
“Go away!” I cried. “I’m that stupid girl puking in the gutter . . . like some sad cliché of a tourist! Wooo, London!” I punched my fist weakly in the air, only to resume my position of prostration on Shakespeare’s curb.
“Watch it now, that’s my girlfriend you’re talking about,” he said soothingly as he rubbed my back with his free hand.
When I finished, he removed my shoes and lifted me once more. He cradled me against his chest and wrapped my legs around his waist. I rested my head on his shoulder and draped my arms behind his neck.
“You smell so good.” I sighed against his collarbone.
“You smell like puke.”
/> “I’m sorry. I’ll understand if you never want to see me again,” I slurred.
“I don’t think there’s much you could do that would ever make me feel that way.”
“Hmmm.” I barely managed to stay awake at that point.
“I’m addicted to you, Cris Pereira . . . and I don’t want a cure,” he whispered in my ear.
I smiled and clung even more tightly to his neck. That was the last thing I remembered from that night.
Chapter Eighteen
From: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Cris Pereira [email protected]>
Date: Thurs, Sept 17, 2009 at 11:12 AM
Subject: ?
This is getting ridiculous. I guess the only way I know you’ll hear what I have to say is through email. So be it.
I want you back. My life is shit without you. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you believe me. At least give me the chance to say this in person.
Ryan
From: Cris Pereira [email protected]>
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Date: Fri, Sept 18, 2009 at 4:41 PM
Subject: Re: ?
Too bad.
From: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Cris Pereira [email protected]>
Date: Fri, Sept 18, 2009 at 5:09 PM
Subject: Re: Re: ?
Ouch. Do you want me to come to your house and beg? I can.
Ryan
From: Cris Pereira [email protected]>
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Date: Fri, Sept 18, 2009 at 6:32 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: ?
No. I want you to leave me alone. Seriously, Ryan. I can’t believe you think this is okay. I’m happy now. Stop trying to ruin it.
You don’t deserve to set foot in my house, so don’t show up here. I won’t hold Mami back.
Cris
From: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Cris Pereira [email protected]>
Date: Fri, Sept 18, 2009 at 6:51 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: ?
You’re not happy. You’re dating a handsome man with a disposable income, so you think you have it made for the moment. But I know that’s not you. Stop trying to trick yourself into thinking it is. I’m not trying to ruin anything. I’m trying to get you to see reason. Fairy tales are meant for children.
We can be happy again. I know it. It’s all there, and I don’t need a fairy tale to prove it.
Ryan
From: Cris Pereira [email protected]>
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Date: Fri, Sept 18, 2009 at 8:01 PM
Subject: Piss Off
HOW DARE YOU? You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about! You think you can tear people apart and analyze them to death based on external factors alone because you’re “smart.” If you’re so smart, why did you screw up a good thing? Oh, I know! Because you’re pathetic. In case you haven’t forgotten . . . we were happy. Until you ruined it by CHEATING ON ME. There are no second chances. You always knew that. STOP DELUDING YOURSELF. I’m happy because a good man loves me. If you think that’s a fairy tale, then I feel sorry for you.
Cris
From: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Cris Pereira [email protected]>
Date: Wed, Oct 7, 2009 at 8:17 AM
Subject: Re: Piss Off
Just so you know: I didn’t technically cheat on you. Thought it might be pertinent.
Ryan
From: Cris Pereira [email protected]>
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Date: Fri, Oct 9, 2009 at 9:22 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Piss Off
I really have no idea what to say. I’m not interested in some Lewinsky story of how you didn’t “technically” cheat on me.
For the last time . . . PISS OFF.
From: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Reply-To: [email protected]
To: Cris Pereira [email protected]>
Date: Mon, Jan 4, 2010 at 12:22 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Happy New Year, Cris. I’m really sorry if I upset you the last time I wrote.
I went to the grocery store yesterday and saw a picture of you at a New Year’s Eve party in Hollywood with whatshisface.
You looked beautiful, mi corazon.
I’m so sorry I hurt you. I would do anything to take it back.
Ryan
I hauled my dry cleaning from the back of my Civic and walked into the family room to unload my burden on the first empty space I saw.
I loved Fridays. This weekend in particular was sure to be incredibly relaxing. I had absolutely nothing major planned. The list of “To-Dos” in my purse I wrote while at work included self-indulgent things like a mani/pedi session and the reorganization of my closet. After my crazy New Year’s Eve in L.A. the weekend before, this would be a welcome respite.
The holidays had been a mixture of the mundane and the fantastical. Tom came to Raleigh for Thanksgiving, and we spent Christmas apart with our respective families. The time at home had been wonderful, but my mind was often preoccupied with missing Tom entirely too much. I had to confess that my heart felt noticeably lighter when the taxi dropped me off in front of his apartment before New Year’s Eve. The raucous nightclub party we had attended left scattered remembrances of flashing camera lights, glittering jewels, and pounding music. Of course, all of those recollections paled in comparison to the best memory of all: the soul-jarring kiss we had shared to welcome in 2010.
I smiled to myself at the thought.
Mami came home as I prepared supper, and we passed the evening in each other’s company with jokes and lighthearted conversation.
“You’re so happy recently,” she commented in Spanish during dinner.
I shrugged. “Life is good.” Except for the intermittent emails of doom and gloom from my ex.
“It’s more than that. I think it’s because of Thomas. You know, I didn’t want to say this, but I was worried for a long time you were too hurt by everything that happened last year. After your father died, I could see that you were only pretending to be happy, and it upset me a lot. I’m so grateful to see you smile easily again.”
I grinned at her affectionately to further illustrate her point. “Don’t worry about me, Mami. Everything’s going to be okay.”
My phone shrieked in my purse as I toweled off the last of the dishes. I checked the caller ID, and I couldn’t stop myself from experiencing a small rush of contentment when I saw the words “Blocked ID” illuminated in the window.
“Hi,” I said.
“What are you doing?”
“Drying dishes,” I replied.
“That could be sexy.”
“Only if you’re a chauvinistic pig with a June Cleaver fetish,” I chuckled. “How was filming today?”
“Hellish. It was impossible to manage the extras on set because they didn’t have enough people organizing everything. Anyway, I think it came out well, and everyone was really nice. But it’s kind of like forcing yourself to smile whilst listening to a broken drill right beside your head.”
I laughed as I put the last dish in the cupboard.
“Still no plans for the weekend?” he queried.
“Nope. I’m totally free! I was invited to go dancing with some co-workers tomorrow, but I bowed out gracefully.”
“Maybe you should do something more low-key,” he mused.
“I’m
sure I’ll find something to fill the time with. It’s impossible for me to sit still for long,” I joked.
“I’m well aware of that fact. On that note, I think I’ve come up with something for you to do.”
“Like what?” I teased suggestively.
“Well, for starters . . . you can open the door.”
“Huh?” I gasped.
“Open the bloody door, love. I’m outside.” He chuckled.
I dropped the dishtowel on the floor, raced to the front door, and yanked it open.
Sure enough, my tall drink of water stood in our front yard with a huge grin on his face and his cell phone in his hand. A taxicab idled in our driveway with its lights on.
“Wha- what?” I stammered as I clicked my phone shut.
“Do you want to go with me to a museum?” he asked without missing a beat.
I raced towards him and threw my arms around his neck.
“Are you crazy?” I demanded through my laughter.
“Yes. Do you want to go with me to a museum?” he pressed as he waved back at the house behind me. Mami had come to situate herself by the front door with a look of flabbergasted shock on her face.
“Um, what museum?”
“It’s a surprise. You’re just going to have to trust me. Yes or no?” His eyes sparkled with merriment as he gazed into mine.
“Yes, of course—but—”
He didn’t let me finish. “Go upstairs and grab your passport.”
“Are you nuts? Where are we going?” I insisted.
“I told you: to a museum. I know you’ll like it.”
“Thomas!” I cried.
“Cristina! Come on, you promised to live outside your head more. Trust me. Go get your passport.” He placed a kiss on my forehead and strolled over to Mami and hugged her.
Confusion and excitement warred within me as I considered arguing further with my obstinate boyfriend but decided against it as I raced upstairs to retrieve my passport and brush my teeth. Upon further contemplation, I changed my clothes and threw some necessities into a small bag to take with me.
I came back downstairs. Tom and my mother were seated at the little table in our breakfast nook. She held both of his hands in each of hers and lavished words of thanks on him. He smiled kindly at her with such caring compassion that I could feel myself fall in love with him all over again. As I walked over to them, she released his hands, and he hastily rose to his feet.