before he walked out the door. I could feel it, too. The heat, I mean.”
“I don’t know what happened sweetie, but I’m sure you can talk to him.”
“Why? There’s no point.”
I don’t want to push the subject and I actually have a little of my own P.I. work to do before I feel comfortable discussing Adam Ford. How can I give her advice if I’m the reason it fell apart?
Chloe motions to the door and giggles. I turn my head to find Jamie, in tiny leopard-print briefs, skipping toward us. He jumps on the bed and tousles my hair.
“Nat, you look like shit.” Jamie pulls Chloe into his arms and smirks.
“I know! I’m a hot mess – get over it!” I lunge forward and whack his shoulder.
“Where did you go anyway?” Chloe asks.
I’m so ashamed and I really don’t want this to become a backstabbing episode of Melrose Place – so I lie. “I fell asleep in a cab. The bastard drove me to Midtown.”
They both look at me oddly, but I’m such lunatic that they shrug it off.
“Hey Jamie, don’t you have something to tell Nat?” Chloe nudges Jamie in the ribs and he lets out a fake whimper.
“Fine. You know Brett the bartender? The one with spiky blond hair and huge fucking biceps?”
“Yes, I’ve been flirting with Bartender Brett for weeks.” As soon as I finish my sentence, Jamie and Chloe burst with fits of laughter. Holy crap. He can’t be! “Oh shit, Jamie, is he gay?”
“Mmm, very,” he says while making kissing noises.
My dearest Zacharie,
I can only pray that when you read this letter you will still love me. I’ve done something horrible. I lost my necklace. My star is gone.
Please forgive me.
XOnat
“Whatcha doing Natster?” Jamie asks.
I crumple the letter and toss it in the wastebasket – it’s only my sixth attempt. “My diary. What’s up?”
“Let’s go for a run. Or shopping, yes, let’s go shopping! I’m going home tomorrow and I need some ankle boots.” Jamie rummages through my clothes and frowns disapprovingly. “Chloe, doll, we’re going shopping,” he yells toward the kitchen.
“Ankle boots – like Fonzi?” I ask while putting on a sweater.
“Yes, perfect. Where can I get some?”
“You’re such a dork, Jamie.”
This will be good. The Canadian Triplets together again – three friends doing what we do best . . . making each other laugh and avoiding real conversation at all costs.
C HLOE AND J AMIE walk ahead of me, laughing and commenting on everything around them. They can finish each other’s sentences, start each other’s thoughts and inspire each other’s creativity. She writes, he paints and the end result is always artistic gold. When they’re together, the world is their stage, and I’m perfectly fine with being in the audience . . . because it’s always a good show.
We’ve been a threesome since junior high, and during one pot-fueled night in 1995, we almost had a threesome. Jamie was confused with his sexuality, Chloe wanted to change him and I was basically just invited to the party. Luckily, it got weird really fast and it never happened, but the following week, Jamie and Chloe broke the barrier of virginity in a seedy motel outside Ottawa.
Jamie was definitely gay. And Chloe was definitely in love with him. And it would make sense that our dynamic would completely change, but friendship always beats out uncomfortable sexual pretense sprinkled with teenage angst. Always.
September 22, 2003
M ONDAYS SUCK. EVERY socialite in the tri-state area calls at exactly 10:15 a.m. Monday morning to schedule an appointment for their upcoming big event. And every client thinks their event is the Vogue party of the year. Currently, I’m planning a Roarin’ Twenties Bat Mitzvah, a Halloween party in Sleepy Hollow, and my favorite, a White Trash engagement party.
Molly and I have two clients coming by today to finalize their details and bitch about the price – the richer they are, the less money they want to spend. And
“I don’t know what happened sweetie, but I’m sure you can talk to him.”
“Why? There’s no point.”
I don’t want to push the subject and I actually have a little of my own P.I. work to do before I feel comfortable discussing Adam Ford. How can I give her advice if I’m the reason it fell apart?
Chloe motions to the door and giggles. I turn my head to find Jamie, in tiny leopard-print briefs, skipping toward us. He jumps on the bed and tousles my hair.
“Nat, you look like shit.” Jamie pulls Chloe into his arms and smirks.
“I know! I’m a hot mess – get over it!” I lunge forward and whack his shoulder.
“Where did you go anyway?” Chloe asks.
I’m so ashamed and I really don’t want this to become a backstabbing episode of Melrose Place – so I lie. “I fell asleep in a cab. The bastard drove me to Midtown.”
They both look at me oddly, but I’m such lunatic that they shrug it off.
“Hey Jamie, don’t you have something to tell Nat?” Chloe nudges Jamie in the ribs and he lets out a fake whimper.
“Fine. You know Brett the bartender? The one with spiky blond hair and huge fucking biceps?”
“Yes, I’ve been flirting with Bartender Brett for weeks.” As soon as I finish my sentence, Jamie and Chloe burst with fits of laughter. Holy crap. He can’t be! “Oh shit, Jamie, is he gay?”
“Mmm, very,” he says while making kissing noises.
My dearest Zacharie,
I can only pray that when you read this letter you will still love me. I’ve done something horrible. I lost my necklace. My star is gone.
Please forgive me.
XOnat
“Whatcha doing Natster?” Jamie asks.
I crumple the letter and toss it in the wastebasket – it’s only my sixth attempt. “My diary. What’s up?”
“Let’s go for a run. Or shopping, yes, let’s go shopping! I’m going home tomorrow and I need some ankle boots.” Jamie rummages through my clothes and frowns disapprovingly. “Chloe, doll, we’re going shopping,” he yells toward the kitchen.
“Ankle boots – like Fonzi?” I ask while putting on a sweater.
“Yes, perfect. Where can I get some?”
“You’re such a dork, Jamie.”
This will be good. The Canadian Triplets together again – three friends doing what we do best . . . making each other laugh and avoiding real conversation at all costs.
C HLOE AND J AMIE walk ahead of me, laughing and commenting on everything around them. They can finish each other’s sentences, start each other’s thoughts and inspire each other’s creativity. She writes, he paints and the end result is always artistic gold. When they’re together, the world is their stage, and I’m perfectly fine with being in the audience . . . because it’s always a good show.
We’ve been a threesome since junior high, and during one pot-fueled night in 1995, we almost had a threesome. Jamie was confused with his sexuality, Chloe wanted to change him and I was basically just invited to the party. Luckily, it got weird really fast and it never happened, but the following week, Jamie and Chloe broke the barrier of virginity in a seedy motel outside Ottawa.
Jamie was definitely gay. And Chloe was definitely in love with him. And it would make sense that our dynamic would completely change, but friendship always beats out uncomfortable sexual pretense sprinkled with teenage angst. Always.
September 22, 2003
M ONDAYS SUCK. EVERY socialite in the tri-state area calls at exactly 10:15 a.m. Monday morning to schedule an appointment for their upcoming big event. And every client thinks their event is the Vogue party of the year. Currently, I’m planning a Roarin’ Twenties Bat Mitzvah, a Halloween party in Sleepy Hollow, and my favorite, a White Trash engagement party.
Molly and I have two clients coming by today to finalize their details and bitch about the price – the richer they are, the less money they want to spend. And
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