Chapter 22 Why Not Now? #2
“Pfft. I know. . . . I wasn’t thinking that.” Though I was totally thinking that.
The subway was crowded during rush hour. Grace stood with her back to my front and leaned against me. I wondered if her eyes were closed. I bent and whispered near her ear, “We could have taken a cab or walked. I forget that we’re grown-ups now.”
“I like taking the subway with you.”
I pulled her closer against my body. It felt like all the years I’d lost with her never existed.
When we got to my building, the elevator opened to my loft on the fourth floor and Grace stepped out in front of me. She immediately looked up to the exposed-beam ceiling. I flipped on the lights. “This is gorgeous, Matt.”
“I like it.”
There was still a little bit of light left in the sky, casting a nice glow throughout the room. Grace walked to windows. “You can probably see the top of my house from here.”
“No, you can’t.” She turned and smiled. “Can I get you a glass of wine?” I asked.
“That would be great.”
She walked around my sparse loft as I went into the kitchen. The bedroom, kitchen, and living room flowed into each other within a large, high-ceilinged, open space, separated only by a few beams. As I poured the wine, I watched her run her hand across my white comforter.
“Your place is really nice. I like the rustic feel. Usually people go for modern in a space like this.”
“Call me old-fashioned.”
“I don’t think you’re old-fashioned.” She was standing near the wall, staring up at the picture that had won me so many awards.
“Passé?” I asked as I handed her the glass.
“Timeless,” she answered with a grin. I wished instantly that she was speaking of us. Weren’t we though? Timeless? Nothing could change what we’d had all those years before, even if the idea of what might’ve been lingered between us.
“Oh, well, thank you. That’s a nice sentiment.”
She pointed up to the picture. “But that . . . that’s powerful. Children and guns . . .” She shook her head. “How tragic. Were you scared when you took that?”
“No, not scared. Sometimes the camera feels like a shield. In the beginning, when I was on location like that, I took a lot of risks.”
“Do you think you’ll win another Pulitzer?”
“It’s kind of a once-in-a-lifetime thing, but I do want to go back into the field.”
“I bet some of the best photos are happy accidents.”
“Such is life.” I stepped toward her and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I want to kiss you.”
She took a quick sip of her wine. “Um . . . do you ever go to any shows around here?”
I chuckled. “You’re an amazing subject changer.”
“I don’t think I can say no to you much longer, and I really want . . .” She swallowed and looked around.
“What, Grace?”
“I really want a do-over.” The conversation was making her nervous; her chest was heaving in and out.
“What do you mean?”
“You were my best friend.” She choked back tears and looked away.
“Please don’t cry.”
When her eyes met mine again, they were intense, blazing. “I’m trying to tell you something, Matt.”
I took her in my arms and held her against my chest. She wanted to take it slow, the way we had done before—all of those amazing moments in our dorm just being together, dancing, singing, playing music, taking pictures.
That’s the problem with adults. There’s no taking your time because you think, even at the relatively young age of thirty-six, that your days are numbered.
You think you know everyone inside and out, heart and soul, after talking to them for five minutes.
Pushing back her shoulders, I searched her face. “I have an idea. Stay here, get comfortable, take off your shoes.” I pointed to the shelves of vinyl. “Pick a record. I’ll be right back.”
I left the loft, took the elevator, ran across the street, and hustled up three flights of stairs in one minute. Rick Smith was the only stoner I knew in a five-mile radius. I pounded on his door.
He answered wearing sweats, a rainbow-colored sweatband, and no shirt. He had an extremely toned body for being a fortysomething writer who only left his house to walk his cat, Jackie Chan. “Matt, my man, what’s up?” He was out of breath.
“Sorry, Rick, did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, no, I was just doin’ Tae Bo.”
“Oh, Tae Bo. Is that still around?”
“Well, it’s not like it could disappear; it’s an exercise, bro. Come on in.” He held the door wide open. I had never been in his apartment, only to the door; I had returned Jackie Chan once after he got out.
It was like I had traveled back in time, and I kind of liked it. Everything in his apartment was old but in perfect condition. The Toshiba TV in the corner was paused on Billy Blanks in midmotion. Rick was exercising to a seriously old Tae Bo video. “Is that a VHS?”
“Oh yeah, my VCR works like a dream. Why get rid of it, you know?”
“Yeah.” I expected his apartment to seem like that of a hoarder, but it was totally the opposite.
He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle out of the refrigerator. “Welcome to my humble abode. Can I offer you some water, or perhaps a wheatgrass shot? I have an emulsifier, too, if you’d like me to whip you up a nice, fresh juice.”
“Oh, thank you, Rick. You are too kind.” He was a health nut. I thought idly that I probably should have read one of his books before I came over and asked him for pot.
“To what do I owe this visit?”
“Yeah, so um, I don’t exactly know how to say this, but . . . I have an old friend over and we . . .”
“You guys need some reefer?”
“Yes!” I pointed at him like he had won The Price Is Right. No one used the term reefer anymore, but whatever.
“Why’d you think I’d have any? You think I’m a stoner or something? You think I’m some kind of drug dealer?” His face was blank.
“Oh shit.” I would have sworn on a Bible that every time I saw him his eyes were bulging and bloodshot, and he reeked of pot.
“Ha! I’m kidding, bro. I’ll totally spot you.” He chuckled and then slapped me on the shoulder as he passed by me. “One sec.”
He came back holding a prescription canister with no label.
I could see the buds inside. Lifting it up to my face, he said, “Listen and listen closely. This is King Kush. It’s medicinal marijuana.
I got it from the first medical marijuana dispensary on the East Coast. I rented a car and drove all the way to fucking Maine to get this shit.
Do not pass go, do not fuck around, do you understand me?
” His beady eyes were shooting lasers at me.
“Rick, I don’t know. You’re starting to scare me.”
“It’s superstrong. You’ll love it and you’ll thank me.” He pulled a pack of papers from a drawer and held them out. “Need these?”
“Uh, yeah.” I took the papers and the pot and shoved them into my pockets.
“Roll her thin, man, and smoke like half with your buddy at first before you do any more.”
“What if my buddy is a five-foot-five, small-boned woman?”
“She’ll be fine. Women love this shit.”
Walking toward the door, I turned back. “Rick, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Ah, no worries. Consider it payment for bringing Jackie Chan back that day.”
Back in my apartment, Grace was sitting on the couch with her tights-clad feet propped up on the coffee table. She had put Coltrane on the record player and her eyes were closed, head resting back against the couch, looking like she was at home. God, I love her.
“Guess what?” I held up the pot.
She looked over at me. “We’re gonna get stoned and dance?”
“Preferably naked.”
“Don’t press your luck.”
I knelt by the table and rolled a very imperfect joint. Grace was giggling the entire time. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“Here, let me do it.” She took a new paper and rolled a nice, skinny, perfectly tight one.
“Gracie, why are you so good at that?”
“Tati and I do this every once in a while. Well, more like every first Sunday of the month.”
“You’re kidding? Leave it to Tatiana to delegate specific time for weed smoking.”
“Yep, some things never change.” She lit it and took a puff. Holding the smoke in, she said in a tiny voice, “Who would want them to?”
We smoked and things got a little hazy. I put on Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and Grace got up and started dancing around. She flipped her hair all over as I watched in awe, bobbing my head, wondering how the fuck I ever let her get away.
“Dance with me, Matt.”
I got up and we danced around until the song was over, and then “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” came on. We froze, staring at each other, until Grace buckled over, cracking up. “This is such a cheesy song.”
“Graceland Marie Starr, this is a great song. It’s a classic.” I took a hold of her and spun her around, then brought her to my chest and made a few exaggerated dance moves.
“It’s Porter.”
“Huh?” I pretended not to hear her. “The music must be too loud, what did you say?”
She shook her head and let me spin her around until we were dizzy and exhausted.
An hour later, we found ourselves sitting on my kitchen floor, eating grapes and cheese. She was leaning her back against the refrigerator with her legs out straight in front of her, and I was sitting the same way against the cabinets across from her.
She lobbed a grape up into the air and I caught it in my mouth.
“I have an idea. . .” she said.
“Tell me.”
“Let’s play a game. Do you have a blindfold?” I wiggled my eyebrows at her. “It’s not what you think.”
I pulled a long, red dishtowel out of the drawer and tossed it to her. She leaned forward on her knees and proceeded to tie it around my head.
“I’m getting scared, Grace.”
“We’re gonna play, ‘Guess what I just put in your mouth.’ ”
“Sweet Jesus. That sounds like a game I’ll like.”
“Don’t get too excited.”
Too late.
I heard her tinkering around in the kitchen, and then a few minutes later she was sitting next to me again.
“Okay, open up.” I felt a cold spoon hit my tongue.
Something slid off it and hit the back of my throat.
It was confusing and disgusting and the texture gave me the chills. “Gross, what is this?”