Nate lingered behind them, fingering the wet joint still in his pocket. Blair could be a little scary when she got into decorating mode, but at least she wasn’t unleashing her, um, energy in his direction. He felt sorry for Aaron and Tyler, though. Aaron had piled everything into a big laundry basket and was struggling to hold it upright. “Hey man. I saw some carts by the front of the store—want me to go grab one?” he offered.
Aaron shook his head, his short dreadlocks knocking back and forth. “Sis refuses to use a shopping cart,” he told Nate helplessly.
“I heard that,” Blair snapped without turning around. “Shopping carts are for old ladies,” she declared, continuing at her manic pace. She stopped at the kitchen section, touching a steel wine rack. She turned and smiled mischievously at the three boys. “Besides, who needs a cart when you’ve got three strapping young men to carry your things for you?” She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow, grabbing the wine rack with one hand and placing it on top of Aaron’s mounting pile.
“This is child abuse,” Tyler complained from behind a lacquered baby-blue-and-white polka-dot hatbox, his voice nasal from the clip on his nose. Tyler’s pageboy helmet of light brown, stick-straight hair had grown out so that it nearly reached his chin, and his Brooks Brothers khakis were torn at the knees. Who knew what he would look like after four years of high school in L.A.? He placed the hatbox on the floor and grabbed the white wire easy-glide bin on the shelf in front of him, which was filled with boxes of snacks. He passed over the Carr’s crackers and Pringles, pulling out a box of Le Petite Écolier cookies.
“Tyler, those are display items—you know, to show how much you can fit in the bins?” Blair scolded, now holding up a set of glass measuring cups.
“He’s hungry. I should take him home,” Aaron offered eagerly. “I mean, uh, since you and Nate probably want some alone time and all,” he added, already putting the overloaded laundry basket at Nate’s feet.
“Fine.” Blair sighed, returning the measuring cups to their shelf. “Nate and I can handle this ourselves.” “Thanks,” Aaron nodded quickly. He grabbed the bag of cookies from Tyler. “I’ll make sure we pay for these. Later!” They made a dash for the front of the store, as if they were trying to outrun a tornado.
Hurricane Blair?
“Hey,” Nate murmured. Blair was reading the instructions on a speed mixer. He was suddenly aware of how alone they were—and remembered what had happened the last time they’d been alone together.
At lease she’s wearing soft rubber flip-flops.
Blair seemed calm now, but maybe she’d just been waiting for Aaron and Tyler to leave. If that mixer was plugged in, it could really do some damage to his face. But, then, to his utter relief, she smiled.
“Hey, yourself,” she responded, her blue eyes shining.
“Natie, I’m glad you came. I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about the other day. I got . . . carried away. And I’ve been thinking about it. We can totally make this work.” She gave his hand a squeeze and then dropped the mixer back on the shelf with a loud thump. “You never know what surprises the future may bring.” Nate felt his body sag with relief. He hadn’t even realized how tense he’d been.
“Let’s go to Bedroom.” Blair suggested. Then she giggled. “I said to bedroom, not to bed. Don’t get your hopes up, horndog.” She turned on her heel and started walking down the gleaming white aisle, an extra flirtatious swish in her step.
Nate bent down and picked up the massive laundry bin stuffed with carefully selected items. “Seriously, Blair, why do you need all this stuff? Where are you going to put it?” he asked when he’d caught up with her, his arms sagging under the bin’s weight. Suddenly he remembered the description of hell in Dante’s Inferno from eleventh-grade English class. There were different circles of hell, and everyone suffered according to their crimes. Was carrying the leaden bin his penance for sleeping with Serena? Was he doomed to carry that guilt for all eternity?
The Curse of the Container Store—coming to a Blockbuster near you.
“I admit, fitting everything into a tiny dorm room is going to be a challenge.” Blair paused at a shelf filled with clear plastic boxes and bins of every shape and color. She ran her hands over a huge set of colorful, stackable drawers, opening each drawer one by one. “But I had the Yale housing office fax me a floor plan this morning. If we loft my roommate’s bed way up close to the ceiling, we should have just enough space for a double bed and a dresser and maybe even a small love seat.” We?
“And it’ll only be for a few weeks, anyway—before we find a cute little colonial house with ivy and one of those claw-footed bathtubs and a woodstove. That’s what the kitchen stuff is for.” “But you don’t cook,” Nate pointed out. Suddenly the rest of what she’d said hit him in a rush. “And wait—we? But I’m going to be here in the city. . . .” Blair tossed the set of drawers on top of the stack in the overflowing laundry bin. “Well, you could just take the train into the city in the morning and come back to New Haven at night.You get out of school at, like, three anyway.” She moved down the aisle and held up a yellow-and-white-striped pillow with attached lap desk, contemplating its usefulness.
Right, because she only buys useful things. Like wine racks.
After talking to her father and realizing there was a distinct possibility he might not be able to get Nate back into Yale—apparently colleges took those diploma things pretty seriously—Blair had gone into full contingency-plan mode. Nate would take the train into Manhattan in the morning and come home to her at night. They would be like one of those suburban families, where the dad commutes to the city every day and then comes back to his cozy home—not to mention his horny wife—at night. He would walk in the door, loosening his tie as he made his way toward the kitchen, and she’d be waiting for him in nothing but a red-and-white polka-dot apron and bright red toenail polish. Then they’d stay blissfully in each other’s arms all night, kissing nonstop until dawn broke in the morning and Nate had to leave again—already pining for her as he waited for the morning train.
Okay, so it wouldn’t be the most glamorous thing in the world to tell her new Yale friends that her boyfriend was still in high school, but she could easily tell them he had a great banking job and was going to work for a year before starting college. Or maybe he was just so smart he didn’t need a college degree at all, he was one of those stock market prodigies she’d seen in the news.
The Prodigal Stoner?
Nate frowned. “Take the train every day? But doesn’t it take like an hour and a half each way? Why don’t I just stay here in the city during the week and visit you on weekends?” “And leave you here all by yourself, with those slutty L’École girls? I don’t think so,” Blair responded tersely.
Nate shifted his eyes to the floor beneath her icy blue stare. “You can trust me,” he mumbled. Besides, he wouldn’t be with any L’École girls. He’d be with Serena. Not that he could actually say that out loud.
“You can do your homework on the train,” she added decisively. Seriously, he was lucky she was even talking to him. Yale had been her dream her whole life, and for years now Nate had been a part of that dream, too. He’d pretty much shat all over her plans with his no-diploma bullshit. Maybe he could be a little more conscious of the fact that she was giving him a second chance, that she needed to keep her dreams intact.
She shook the lap desk up and down, trying to figure out what was in it, and then sat down cross-legged on the floor, placing it on her lap and mock-writing on it. Nate couldn’t help but smile, watching her fake-scribble so intently like a little kid.
Blair signed her pretend letter with a flourish and then tossed the lap desk back on a shelf. Nate had never met anyone who knew so clearly what she wanted or didn’t want. Each object she tossed into that laundry basket somehow fit perfectly into the life she had mapped out for herself years ago. But to him the color-coordinated pencil holders, the shower totes, and the dry-erase message boards lo
oked like a bunch of useless junk, stuff he’d never use in a place he couldn’t even picture.Yale was Blair’s dream, not his.
“Okay, I think we’re done here.” She pulled a list out of her oversize brown leather Chloé bag and examined it carefully to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
Unlikely.
She led the way to the register, where she snatched up a little metal hook attached to a suction cup. “For your razor,” she explained. Nate nodded in silence, his shoulders slouching under the weight of the heavy laundry basket. As crazy as Blair was, the fact that she was trying to squeeze him into her tiny dorm room made him fall in love with her all over again. Jesus, life was confusing.
If only those people in their neat blue aprons could help.
speak your mind, and the rest will follow
It was a ridiculously hot day in Prospect Park. Picnickers found shade underneath leafy green trees, and small children ran around wearing as little clothing as possible. The lake in the middle of the park was surrounded by people looking longingly at the water, wishing it were swimmable, and the dog beach was filled with wet pooches splashing and slobbering as their owners tried to keep up with them, leashes tangling into one huge knot.
Tiny beads of sweat trickled down Vanessa’s back as she unloaded food from coolers onto a picnic table near the lake, its white tablecloth flapping in the breeze. She wiped a hand across her brow, wishing the wind were stronger. At least she’d ditched that hot, itchy blond wig. Her crazy night of table dancing at Coyote Ugly had been a lot of fun, but her wicked hangover the next morning, combined with her reflection in the mirror, was positively sobering. With black mascara streaked all over her face, red lipstick smeared clownlike around her mouth, and the blond wig hanging off her head like a dead animal, Vanessa hadn’t felt sexy anymore—she’d just felt like roadkill. Today, she was back to her trademark shorn scalp and black combat boots, though she had worn a sky blue Betsey Johnson party dress for the occasion—Blair’s influence, of course.
Of course.
She pulled a tray covered in tinfoil from the last cooler and peeked inside. Her sister’s famous soy-tempeh lasagna. Of course the wedding food was gross—other than Vanessa, the entire Abrams family was vegetarian. It would be the first time she’d seen her parents since their visit in March, when their “found art” exhibit was on display at a gallery in the city. The exhibit had rather memorably included a chain of metal cheese graters tacked to a wall and a live horse, eating Caesar salad from a wooden bowl and pooping freely on the floor. During her parents’ short stay, her father had even worn his full-length hemp skirt to a fancy party on Fifth Avenue.
So that’s what started the men-in-skirts trend.
“Eggplant!” Vanessa’s mother’s voice rang out, calling her by her childhood nickname. Gabriela Abrams wore a brown-and-yellow African tribal robe despite the heat, and white ribbons tied at the ends of her long braided gray pigtails. She looked like a cross between Gandhi and Little Bo Peep.
“Hey Mom,” Vanessa mumbled as her mother threw her arms around her. The robe was stiff and scratched Vanessa’s bare arms.
Arlo Abrams appeared from behind Gabriela and joined in on the hug. “This place has good chi,” he noted approvingly, pecking Vanessa quickly on the cheek. His long gray hair was braided down his back with another white ribbon tied in a bow at the bottom, and his body was cloaked in what appeared to be a white linen bathrobe. It was no surprise that Vanessa’s parents had similar clothes and hair-styles. If Gabriela didn’t dress Arlo, he’d simply walk around naked.
Let’s hope nothing ever happens to her.
Vanessa fidgeted, smothered by her parents’ embrace. Vanessa looked over her dad’s shoulder and spotted Dan approaching from a distance, wearing a stiff blue button-down shirt and tie. She didn’t even know he owned a tie. Her stomach flip-flopped when she saw him, and she suddenly wished she’d eaten breakfast that morning instead of drinking the Humphreys’ gross instant coffee.
Don’t worry—there’s plenty of tempeh lasagna to go around.
“Mom, Dad, why don’t you sit over here?” She ushered her parents toward one of the picnic tables arranged alongside the grass aisle, wiping the sweat off her brow. “I have to talk to Ruby and Piotr.” She glanced at the two lovebirds who were standing at the makeshift altar/oak tree, trying to keep their hands off each other and not doing a very good job. In their usual unconventional manner, her parents chose to perch on top of the picnic table rather than sit on the bench.
“Our little girl’s a maid of honor!” her mother cried, pulling a woven burlap handkerchief out from between her breasts.
Her father put his hand on his wife’s knee and squeezed it. “Now, Gabriela, save your juices for the wedding!” Vanessa made her way down the aisle, wondering if that’s what happened to you when you stayed in the woods of Vermont for too long.
Dan wove his way around picnic tables decorated with white balloons, hoping he’d have time to stick napkins in his armpits to sop up the sweat trickling down his sides and staining his light blue oxford shirt before reading his poem.
“Isn’t this romantic?” Jenny’s voice broke through his thoughts. She gazed up at the trees as she walked, a dreamy expression on her round, freckled face. She was wearing a pink, gauzy sundress that looked a heck of a lot more comfortable than the long-sleeve button-down shirt and tie Dan had worn for the occasion. “Easy for you to say, little Miss Barely There Sundress.” He grunted and tried to unstick his shirt from his sweaty back.
“Oh, come on, Dan,” Jenny scoffed. “Don’t you just think weddings are the most amazing things?” Actually, he did. There was something really romantic about watching two people stand up in front of their friends and family and promise to stay together forever. It was almost . . . noble. What would it be like to have someone who loved him enough to want to be with him forever? “Yeah, I guess so,” Dan mumbled, weaving around a suspicious-looking clod of dirt.
They approached a large oak tree with rose petals sprinkled at its roots. Piotr stood beneath the tree, wearing a canary-yellow tuxedo and holding onto Ruby’s hand. She wore an antique-looking ivory-colored dress with a hot-pink sash around the middle. And next to her was Vanessa, looking beautiful in a slinky blue slip dress. Dan looked down at her feet— she was wearing her trademark combat boots. At least some things never changed. Dan dropped Jenny’s arm and moved closer, taking in the curve of Vanessa’s hips swaying under the thin material of the dress. He felt his pulse start to race.
“Hey.” Vanessa’s throaty voice broke into his thoughts, and he realized his feet had brought him directly in front of her. Ruby stood behind her, madly kissing Piotr even though there had been no “You may kiss the bride” yet. The ceremony hadn’t even begun.
“Hey.” Dan smiled shyly. “You look . . . uh, nice.” Damn. He was a poet, and he couldn’t come up with anything better than “nice”?
Roses are red, violets are blue, your lips are real nice, and so are you!
She smiled back shyly. “Um . . . just trying something new for the wedding.” “He means gorgeous.” Jenny threw her arms around Vanessa. “I love your dress!” “You guys can sit here if you want.” Vanessa pointed at an empty bench, and Dan and Jenny sat down. “I have to go cue up the music and get my camera ready. You’re up after Piotr’s friends, okay?” she told Dan and then quickly made her way to a picnic table farther down the aisle, where one of Piotr’s friends, wearing a white T-shirt with a black skull and crossbones printed on it, was fiddling with an iBook.
Dan inspected the other partygoers, who were mostly dressed in casual clothes—except for Piotr’s friends, who were wearing black-, white-, and red-striped suits. They resembled a pack of hipster clowns just released from some bizarre Czech prison.
Just then a Czech ballad struck up, and Ruby and Piotr began skipping backwards hand in hand around the giant oak tree. Some guy in one of those weird striped suits whom Dan could only assume was Piotr’s best
man joined in the skipping and the crowd cheered.
Whatever happened to “Here Comes the Bride”?
They stopped skipping and stood off to the side as the Czech ballad quieted and a group of four striped-suited guys made their way over to the tree. One guy stuck out his tongue and wagged it obscenely.
“I am animal!” he yelled. “Filled with lust of carnivore!” “I am love,” the group behind him began to chant, crouching down on the ground. “I am love, I am love, I am love. . . .” Ruby and Piotr held hands, entranced by their friends’ display. Behind them, a yellow Lab chased a squirrel up a tree, barking loudly.
“. . . love, love, love, love . . .”
Jenny’s brow was wrinkled in thought, as if she were trying to decode the symbolism. Dan could barely contain his giggles—and there was only one other person who probably felt the same way. He glanced at Vanessa, who was standing off to the side, her camera trained on the altar as she desperately tried to keep a straight face. He caught her eye and grinned; then he stuck out his tongue and wiggled it, imitating Piotr’s crazy friends.
The striped-suited guys finally stopped screaming and bowed to a confused smattering of polite applause. Jenny elbowed Dan in the ribs. “You’re up.” He smiled nervously. He didn’t even know if this poem was any good, and now he was going to have to test-drive it in front of Ruby’s entire wedding party—not to mention his ex-girlfriend.
No pressure.
Dan walked to the front of the crowd and opened his notebook. He cleared his throat and began to read, his voice wavering.
Open the fridge and put
My heart on a plate.
I’m just as you left me, and I taste even better leftover.
He kept his eyes on the page. It took all his effort to decipher his own scrawl. As he focused on the white paper, he couldn’t help feeling moved by what he’d written. He looked up and locked eyes with Vanessa.
Pale fury, why did you leave me?