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Bisoux,
Janette
Well, that explained how he knew the address: he didn't. Janette Jadot née Chambers––otherwise known as my mostly absent mother––was one of the few people who received address updates from me each time I moved.
It didn't escape me that she called her own daughter "darling" and named herself Janette in the same letter. Nor did the reference to being an artist completely evade the irony of the fact that she left me and my father to do just that. Several times. I could never quite figure out if my mother was masterfully Machiavellian or just tone-deaf.
I shoved the note into my jeans pocket and walked back into my bedroom. The addition of the piano in the corner completed the weird, non-sequitur look with the futon mattress, the desk lamp, my suitcases, and the bright blue walls that suddenly looked like Brandon's exact eye color.
The piano was truly lovely––shining mahogany that would no doubt have fantastic sound. It was an incredibly generous gift, but in no way made up for the fact that my mother had largely been absent from my life since I was twelve. I hadn't actually heard from her specifically in over three years. This was more than just a gift. It was a ten-thousand-dollar announcement. But for what?
"So it's from him?" Eric wandered into my room, coffee cup in hand.
I shook my head and rubbed the sides of my arms as if I were cold. "No, my mother. I really don't know why."
Eric watched me carefully, eyebrows raised as he took a long drink. He was a good-looking guy––I could see how his combination of sardonic charm and slight indifference made certain women come at his beck and call. Fortunately, it did nothing for me, or that sinking feeling of regret. For the fifteenth day in a row, I hadn't heard anything from the tall blond man I actually did have feelings for. And that, of course, was all my fault.
Instinctually, my hand crunched the note in my hand. I held it up, and only then noticed that Janette had scribbled an addendum on the back of the letter.
P.S. All of us will be in Boston next month. We'd love to see you, and I want desperately for you to meet your brother and sister.
See you in a few weeks.
xJ
"Right, then," I said abruptly, and strode out to throw the crumpled paper into the kitchen garbage bin. "I'm going to change, and then I want to go get really good and drunk."
Eric, still standing in my doorway, smiled slyly and gave me a mock salute with his mug. "Your wish is my command."
~
"Nope."
Eric sat on the couch, flipping through channels on the TV that took up most of the space on the brick wall. He wasn't even looking at me when I walked out of the bathroom, still putting on a pair of silver hoop earrings, but his resounding "Nope" could be heard across the room. Probably through the entire building.
I looked down at my outfit. This was the third one that had been vetoed. The first, a knee-length gray dress, had been deemed "Amish", and the second, a pair of loose, stone-washed jeans and a gray flannel shirt, was nixed as "farmer clothes." Now I was wearing a pair of tight black jeans, a fitted black sweater, and my favorite black ankle boots that Jane called my "shit-kickers." I had tied my hair back to let my earrings dangle freely. It wasn't the most revealing thing I owned, but I thought I looked good and a little bit edgy. It fit my shitty mood.
"Christ, you're worse than Jane, do you know that?" I snapped.
"Great minds think alike."
"No, really. What's wrong with this? Nothing is oversized, and I left three buttons undone."
Eric looked down at his outfit as if that would explain his response. His fitted gray pants and tight black shirt were a far cry from the jeans and T-shirts he had worn most as a student, but also vastly different from the conservative suits he maintained at the office. His light blond hair was messy in that way that actually required a lot of product, and the V-neck of his T-shirt revealed a small silver cross on a leather cord.
Jane would have cackled and probably asked him where the boy band auditions were happening.
"You look like you're going to a Swedish disco," I said. "I do not see your point."
Eric shrugged and finished off the bottle of beer he was holding. He had, I had realized, an amazing ability to let almost anything and everything roll off his back. The boy was immovable.
"Well, my grandparents did emigrate from Amsterdam," he said. "Look, it's stylish, it's simple, it's easy to take off––" at that I grimaced, not wanting to imagine my roommate naked ––"and I look hot, which is the main objective. You, though..."
Eric tipped the bottle at me and cocked his head in a way that was not positive.
"I'm a prude just because I don't want to dress like a two-dollar hooker after sunset?" I demanded with my arms flung out to the side.
Eric snorted. "You said you wanted me to take you out. Well, where we're going, I'm not going to get laid if I look like I'm chaperoning my baby sister on her way to a slam poetry contest, and you're going to be sitting at the bar all night counting coasters. But hey, it's your choice, Crosby."
"I do not look like your baby sister!" I yowled, even as I stamped my foot like a toddler.
Eric came to stand next to me so that we were both looking through the bathroom door into the mirror over the sink. He didn't say anything, just let our joint reflection speak for itself. He looked savvy and hot, a spitting image of Alexander Skarsgård. He had that Nordic roughness in his messy hair and slight stubble, combined with his Upper East Side polish, that would draw girls to him like flies. I, on the other hand, looked like...a beat poet. On her way to an Amish festival. As much as I hated to admit it, Eric was right: I'd probably stick out at a night club.
"You said you wanted something different, Crosby," Eric reminded me with a jocular nudge to my shoulder.
"Goddamn it," I muttered, even as Eric grinned in victory. "Okay, you win. Give me ten more minutes, and I'll be ready to go."
"Take twenty," he said as he headed back to the couch. "And fix your makeup too."
~
