Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
My only consolation was that Gabriel didn’t know I’d found his notebook. And for all I knew, I wasn’t even the girl he wrote songs about.
Writers used everything as inspiration and songwriters were no different. Jane could have just been some random muse, a girl on the street who caught his eye, that’s all.
What would even make me think it was me?
Regardless, I did what anyone would do. I bailed on our joint birthday celebration.
“What? But why? Can’t you just go up on Saturday?” Annika stood in the doorway, watching me pack my duffel bag. “We made all the plans.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But my mom really wants me to spend the weekend with her. I promised I’d catch a train right after work tomorrow.”
It was mostly true. When I called my mom this morning and told her I was coming up for my birthday weekend, she was thrilled.
Annika sat on the edge of my mattress and crossed her arms over her chest. “Okay. Be honest. What don't you like about him?”
I zipped up my bag and played dumb. “Who?”
Annika shoved my bag aside and grabbed my hand, pulling me down onto the bed next to her. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. It’s like you can’t even be in the same room with him without getting all…” She chewed on her lip. “It’s almost like you’re looking for reasons not to like him.”
“I like him,” I protested.
“Sure, you do.” She scowled at me. “You don’t even come to Monks with me anymore.”
“I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”
“Since you’re bailing on your birthday, you’re coming with me on Monday night.”
She had no idea what she was asking of me. How was I supposed to listen to him sing that song?
I’d spent so much time poring over that stupid notebook, dreaming about the boy who wrote those words, that it felt like all my dreams had been snatched away.
What if I’d met him first?
What if we’d run into each other at the used bookstore that we both frequented or Tompkins Square Park or browsing CDs at Sounds?
Then I would have had my shot at seeing if he really was The One.
But now I’d never have that opportunity because I didn’t meet him first. Annika did.
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” she said firmly.
“Fine. I’ll come.” I’d just have to come up with a good excuse to get out of it, but I’d worry about that on Monday.
She flashed me a bright smile. “Thank you. I know you’ll love him once you really get to know him. Stay right there.” She headed out the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”
I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling until she returned with a wrapped gift and set it on my patchwork quilt.
“I had so much fun tripping down memory lane,” she said as I opened the first page of the scrapbook. A blown-up photo of us riding the subway in the mid-80s. Annika in a short, stretchy black dress and dark lipstick with an armful of rubber bangles. Me in…some kind of crazy outfit.
“God. We were so young.”
“We’re still young,” she said with a laugh. “But what was I thinking with that hair and that outfit? It’s so 80s.”
“You were really into Madonna that year. I was obviously into cheetah print and fake fur.”
We flipped through the pages, tracking our friendship through the years. The 80s hair and scrunchies. The year I got my signature bangs and Annika had a pixie cut.
Smoking cigarettes outside CBGB’s. Sharing an egg cream in front of Gem Spa. Drinking 40s of Olde English under the Brooklyn Bridge with some skater boys. Posing with our prom dates in front of the fountain at Lincoln Center.
“Look at us. Too cool for school,” Annika said when I flipped to our high school graduation photos. “We thought we were going to breeze right out of there and take the world by storm. God, we were so na?ve.”
“We’re doing it though. We’re doing what we set out to do. And hey, we’re not selling khakis at Gap.”
“No, we are not.” Annika punched the air. “We’re totally rocking it.”
I flipped through more pages. Annika and I drunk at a New Year’s Eve party with confetti in our hair and sloppy smiles on our faces.
An impulsive trip to Amagansett with two prep school boys who wore madras shorts and boat shoes and kept name-dropping JFK, Jr. An ill-fated ski trip with her family where I sprained my wrist on the bunny slope, and Annika got food poisoning.
Seven years of friendship. Seven years of falling in and out of love with boys who came and went. Her parents’ divorce. My father’s death. But through it all, our friendship had remained the one constant.
I closed the book and hugged Annika, squeezing her tight. “Thank you. This is the best gift. I’ll cherish it forever.”
“You’d better. Speaking of gifts…” Her eyes lit up. “Can I see the shirt you made for Gabriel?”
My palms started to sweat. I was hoping she’d forget about it. “Yeah, sure.” I retrieved it from my closet and held it up for her inspection.
Annika grabbed the shirt and spread it out on my bed, studying the front and then flipping it over and studying every detail on the back while I leaned against my bookshelves, watching her.
I’d spent hours and hours on that shirt. Designing the collaged drawings and paintings and mix of textiles that I’d had made into a bolt of fabric. Sewing the collar, placket, buttons, the embroidery and sequins. All for a guy who could never be mine.
Annika traced her finger over the embroidered G clef and swirling bars of music. It may or may not have been the notes from the first verse of The Smiths’ “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me.”
“This is amazing.”
“I mean, it’s just a shirt.” That was all it could be. All it should be. A study in lilac and moody blue with hints of black and gold.
“Are you kidding me? This is not just a shirt . This is a work of art.”
“I feel like it’s a bit too Vegas. He probably won’t even wear it,” I said with a laugh.
“Not only will he wear it, he's going to be madly in love with it. Thank you. I know you’re not his biggest fan, but this means so much to me. I want to pay you for the shirt.”
“No way. I’m not taking your money.”
“Well, too bad. I want to give him the shirt because it’s so much better than what I got him. This is one of a kind. A Cleo Babington original design.”
I forced a smile. “Take the shirt and give it to your boyfriend. It’s yours. I made it more for you than for him anyway.”
The next day, I was halfway out the door when Xavi called my name. “Phone call.”
“Can you take a message?” I zipped up my parka and slung my duffel bag over my shoulder. “I need to catch my train.”
“I’m not your answering service.” Xavier shoved the phone into my hand.
I scowled at him and held the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“It’s me.” He paused. In the background, I heard Lou Reed singing, “Pale Blue Eyes.” “Gabriel.”
“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “Is everything okay? Is Annika okay?”
“Annika’s fine. She’s in the shower. I just wanted to thank you for the shirt.”
“The shirt is from Annika.”
“Yeah, I know, but you made the shirt. And it’s…I don’t even have the words to do it justice. It’s fucking incredible. Every little detail is perfection.”
“Well…thanks. I’m glad you like it.”
“Like it? I fucking love it. I want to be buried in this shirt. This is art. You should listen to Simone.”
“Maybe I will.”
We lapsed into silence but stayed on the line. I pictured his face. His jagged cheekbones. His crooked smile. His soulful eyes. A deep, dark shade of brown, like a triple shot of espresso.
I envisioned him lounging on the faded velvet sofa wearing the shirt I made him with his booted feet propped on the coffee table, listening to the Velvet Underground with his hand tucked under his head, phone pressed to his ear.
Just the thought of him filled me with such profound longing that a dull ache settled on my chest.
When the silence stretched out for too long, we both spoke at once and laughed. “You first,” I said. “What were you going to say?”
“I left a present for you,” he said, his voice low, a reminder that Annika was in the shower, and he shouldn’t have been calling me at all. “It’s in your bookshelf. So…I guess you’ll find it when you get home on Sunday.”
I swallowed. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“It’s just something I wanted you to have.”
“Okay, well, Happy Birthday. I need to?—”
“Wait. I just…I need to tell you something.” I waited, my stomach knotting at the gravity of his tone. I had a bad feeling that I didn’t want to hear whatever he was going to say. “I care about Annika. It was never my intention to hurt her but?—”
“Then don’t.”
I hung up and stared at the phone, shaking.
What would he have said if I hadn’t cut him off?