Take a Chance on Me Page 6

  Lady Sterling perched on the edge of Rhys’s bed, picking up his English notebook from a pile on the hardwood floor. “Shall we begin brainstorming?” she asked expectantly, flipping to a blank page.

  Suddenly, Rhys’s expansive bedroom felt tiny, and everything—from the framed photos on the wall of him and Kelsey kissing in Central Park to the pile of dusty swimming medals he had haphazardly strewn on his bookshelf—reminded him of who he used to be. Now he wasn’t even sure who he was.

  “I’m going for… a walk,” he muttered, stuffing his black Lacroix wallet in his back pocket and grabbing his iPod. The last thing he needed was relationship advice from his mom.

  “A brisk walk is good for circulation.” Lady Sterling stood up and crossed over to the door, nodding approvingly as if she’d come up with the idea herself. “Do you want me to come with you? This could be a great opener for the show. ‘How to Break Up Without Breaking Down.’ I can call David and see if the crew can get together.”

  “No thanks,” Rhys said. His life was already pathetic. Seeing it play out on Tea with Lady Sterling would only make it worse.

  Outside, Rhys finally felt like he could breathe. He turned and walked down Madison Avenue, not sure where he was even going. Normally he’d head down Fifth to be near the park, but he didn’t want to take a chance at running into Kelsey, who lived at Seventy-seventh and Fifth.

  He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his khakis. It was definitely fall. Last year, he and Kelsey used to spend hours wandering around the neighborhood, catching leaves as they fell from the trees that lined the sidewalks and stopping in the tiny cafés on Madison to share cappuccinos and napoleons. Kelsey was always impulsive and full of life. He tried to imagine his future without her. No swimming. No Kelsey. What would he do?

  Please. This is Manhattan. There’s always something—or someone—to do.

  Once he safely passed Seventy-seventh Street he turned west and entered the park. He sat down on a bench near the East Lawn, where a group of guys were playing Hacky Sack in the center of the grass. That was where he and Kelsey used to go on picnics in the summer, where she would spend the afternoon lying on her stomach, reading Henry James novels and sketching. Even though he’d always lugged Ulysses or Sons and Lovers or another thick book to impress Kelsey, he’d spend most of the time watching her, sometimes running his hands through her silky strawberry blond hair.

  Rhys watched the guys blissfully kick the Hacky Sack up and down in the afternoon sun. What was the point? There was no competition. Hacky Sack was so dumb. It wasn’t a sport, it was a remedial activity for stoners who lacked the attention span and the muscles to play real sports. But they looked so… happy. Rhys knew he never looked happy when he swam. He looked stressed out and angry.

  Suddenly, as if by silent agreement, the group wandered over to a large oak tree. Rhys saw one of the guys pull something from his pocket, light up, then pass it to the rest of the group. They were getting stoned. No one around seemed to mind, though. When they’d finished, they made their way back to their spot on the lawn. A few resumed the game, but two of them just lay down on their backs, looking up at the sky.

  Rhys awkwardly plopped down from the bench onto the grass and lay back too. He knew it was sort of gay, but he wanted to see what the stoners saw. The sky was a beautiful, cerulean blue, but there was one large, gray-flecked cloud, right over him. Figured.

  He stood up and brushed the grass off his Hugo Boss khakis. Just then, the Hacky Sack sailed through the air and thwacked him on the head.

  “Ow!” Rhys rubbed his head. That hurt.

  “Sorry, man!” one of the stoner guys yelled. “A little help?” He held up his hand, ready to accept the Hacky Sack. Rhys picked up the weird little ball of hemp. Whatever. He dropped it onto the arch of his limited edition John Varvatos Converse and kicked the ball toward the guys. As the ball sailed into the air, Rhys lost his balance and landed on his back. Hard.

  He blinked his eyes. The same ominous cloud was above him, and his back fucking hurt. He cautiously pushed himself to a sitting position. At least he hadn’t broken anything. Although it might have been better if he had. Then he could lie in a hospital bed and feel miserable without anyone judging him.

  “Man, are you okay? That was the worst Hacky wipeout I’ve ever seen.”

  Rhys blinked. A Birkenstock-wearing guy was frowning down at him. He wore a tight yellow T-shirt with a picture of a smiling whale that read A WHALE OF A TIME IN WASHINGTON. His dirty brown hair was clumped into greasy-looking dreadlocks, and he had a silver nose ring that glinted in the sun.

  “I’m fine,” Rhys snapped harshly. He felt himself turning red. The Hacky Sack wipeout was further evidence he couldn’t do anything right. He unsteadily stood up. “Bye,” he added, giving the guy a weird half handshake, half fist bump. He felt like he had won the Dumb Asshole of the Year award.

  “Relax, bro!” the guy yelled behind him.

  “I’m fine,” Rhys repeated as he shuffled toward the winding path out of the park. He awkwardly rubbed his head. Maybe he’d get as far as Seventy-seventh Street and collapse right under the green awning of Kelsey’s building. She’d take him in and nurse him back to health and promptly forget about that fuckwad Owen Carlyle.

  Or maybe he needs to get checked for a concussion.

  o and k redefine intimate seating

  One if by Land, Two if by Sea was a restaurant housed in what used to be the carriage house of Aaron Burr’s seventeenth-century colonial home. It was on Barrow Street, a narrow, cobblestone street in the Village. It wasn’t trendy, but it was definitely couple-friendly. And completely not his scene, Owen realized as he placed his hand on the small of Kelsey’s back and escorted her from the cab into the narrow doorway. Owen preferred sticky-floored dive bars with beer specials and burgers for under five dollars. He’d never really understood why people were so averse to fast food chains. Hadn’t anyone ever been to In-N-Out Burger in California? That shit was so good he’d marry it.

  A french fry is forever?

  “Aw, this is so sweet!” Kelsey exclaimed as they stood next to the narrow oak bar, adjusting the strap of her chocolate brown dress so it would stop falling down. She whirled around and gave Owen a kiss.

  “Name?” an ancient, skinny guy at the reservation desk asked uncomfortably. Obviously, the restaurant wasn’t used to having teenagers on a date. Neither was Owen. Somehow, it seemed more natural for the two of them to be naked, in his bed, than all dressed up at a fancy restaurant.

  “Carlyle.” Owen cleared his throat and loosened his blue Armani tie slightly. Avery had made him wear a jacket, and he felt very buttoned up. “Owen Carlyle.”

  “Right this way.” The maître d’ motioned for them to follow him up a rickety set of stairs and into a muted, dark-wood dining room, complete with faded Oriental rugs and exposed redbrick walls. Kelsey giggled, poking Owen and gesturing at a man who seemed half asleep over his chocolate soufflé. His oblivious, skinny wife continued to chat to the couple next to them.

  Owen smiled and shook his head in disbelief. How typical of Avery to recommend a restaurant that was perfect for a seventy-fifth anniversary dinner. He just hoped they didn’t have senior citizen–size portions. “Here you are.” The host escorted them to a small, white linen–covered table in the corner. As he left, he snatched up the wine list, making a point that he knew exactly how young they were. A single rose and a dripping red candle adorned the table.

  “Thanks again for planning this, Owen. This was a great idea.” Kelsey smiled, displaying her adorably imperfect crooked left incisor. Owen instantly wanted to kiss her. Why couldn’t they be on Kelsey’s antique sleigh bed, or on his rooftop terrace, or in their special spot in Central Park…?

  “So, how’s swimming?” Kelsey smiled sheepishly, as if she were trying to drag her mind away from the same dirty thoughts Owen was having.

  “It’s all right,” Owen began. He focused on the slight hint of cleavage busting
out of her dress. Her skin was sparkly. Owen always noticed that about girls. If he hadn’t lived with Avery, he would have assumed it was totally natural, rather than courtesy of Benefit’s Kitten Goes to Paris sparkling body powder.

  “Tell me about it! I want to know everything about you.” Kelsey raised her blondish eyebrow at him as a gray-haired waiter shuffled over to the table and delivered the menus.

  “Good evening. Would you like to hear the specials?” the waiter asked in a bored voice. He looked like he was at least one hundred years old.

  “Of course, we’re always up for specials,” Kelsey said teasingly, biting her adorable coral-colored lower lip. Owen felt her fingertips lightly dance over his leg.

  Sea bass, char-grilled salmon… as the waiter rattled off the list, Owen tried to ignore Kelsey’s fingertips drumming his knee. At this rate, he wasn’t sure he could last the whole meal.

  Down, boy! Patience is a virtue.

  “I’ll have the sea bass,” Kelsey said agreeably. The waiter winked at her, showing more life than he had in the past five minutes.

  “Me too,” Owen agreed hurriedly, not even sure what they had ordered. Who cared about food?

  “So, where were we?” Kelsey pulled her hand away and Owen felt a surge of disappointment. “Swimming…”

  “Yeah.” Owen nodded. He still wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell Kelsey about making captain. It would just remind her of Rhys, and then they’d both feel shitty—again—for what had happened. But she was going to find out eventually. “I was actually made captain. Rhys quit.” There.

  “Rhys quit?” A frown crossed Kelsey’s face, but was quickly replaced by a sunny smile. “Well, that’s awesome for you! Congrats.”

  “Yeah,” Owen agreed, unsure what else to say. There was so much he didn’t know about her. He knew she went to Seaton Arms, that she was a fabulous kisser, that she had a gorgeous antique sleigh bed and a gorgeous body… and that was pretty much it. “So, do you do any sports? Or clubs?” he asked lamely.

  “Tennis, remember?” Kelsey said teasingly.

  “Of course!” Owen exclaimed like an idiot. Right. He’d stopped by her apartment a few days ago and she’d worn a flirty white skirt that hit mid-thigh, her strawberry blond bangs adorably pushed back by her visor.

  “I mean, that was a dumb question. I guess, what I wanted to know was, what other stuff you like to do?” Owen stumbled.

  “You first!” Kelsey exclaimed. “You’re the one who wanted to have a sit-down dinner. Tell me something I don’t know.” She shrugged and smiled.

  Thankfully, their salads arrived just then. Owen glanced down at the mix of greens on his plate. He racked his brain but couldn’t come up with one interesting thing to say. He’d read an article in the paper the other day about how polar bear communities were shrinking, but that suddenly seemed extremely lame to bring up. He took a large bite of salad.

  “I’m going to the ladies’ room—maybe you could help me find it?” Kelsey’s eyes danced mischievously as she scraped her wooden chair back.

  “Of course.” Was Kelsey suggesting what he thought she was suggesting? Owen stood up so fast the walnut chair practically clattered to the floor. Together, they wove their way through the maze of tables and down the stairs, ignoring the curious stares of other diners.

  “I think it’s this way,” Kelsey said, taking Owen’s hand and leading him toward a door near the bar. Owen squeezed her hand, his heart racing.

  “Come in with me!” Kelsey said in a sexy whisper. Owen didn’t hesitate. He followed her inside, quickly pulling the door closed. The bathroom was lit by several candles, making it seem almost romantic. He pushed her up against a wall and kissed her hard on the lips. It was exciting and explosive and romantic, like the first time they met. Kelsey kissed back hungrily, then bit into the shoulder of his white button-down shirt.

  Suddenly, a knock on the door echoed through the bathroom. Kelsey and Owen froze, their eyes locked. And then they started kissing harder than ever.

  “Get out immediately!” a stern female voice called as the doorknob rattled. Busted. But it only turned Owen on more. He pulled the strap of Kelsey’s dress down her shoulders, exposing her creamy white skin.

  “Yes!” she moaned eagerly.

  “No! Get out now!” the voice yelled.

  “We’ve got to go.” Owen pulled away reluctantly, then opened the door.

  “Uh, we were…” Owen stammered as he found himself face-to-face with a bevy of waitstaff who’d all formed a huddle around the bathroom door.

  Probably to protect the eyes of the senior citizen patrons.

  “I was feeling sick,” Kelsey explained as she brushed past a skinny, fifty-something waitress.

  “You are sick,” the waitress said, rolling her eyes.

  “Please leave the premises immediately,” the maître d’ said as he weaved his way toward Owen and Kelsey. Owen nodded. He couldn’t look at Kelsey because he knew if he did, they’d just start laughing.

  And making out again?

  “Follow me down the back stairs,” the maître d’ barked, thrusting Kelsey’s large blue Marc Jacobs satchel toward her as if it were contaminated. “Now,” he added, clapping his hand against Owen’s shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Kelsey and Owen mumbled at the same time. The maître d’ led them down a rickety staircase and to a nondescript door, holding it open.

  “Out!” he growled.

  “Of course, sir!” Owen said. He couldn’t resist grabbing one of the roses from one of the unoccupied tables as he ushered Kelsey out onto the cobblestone side street.

  Finally, they both burst out in laughter as the door closed with a thud.

  “My lady?” Owen teased, holding out the slightly wilted rose toward Kelsey.

  “My hero!” Kelsey said goofily as she accepted the flower. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him gently. Owen sighed in happiness. Maybe getting kicked out of a restaurant wasn’t all that classy, but it was definitely fun. “Let’s go somewhere more comfortable?” she asked hopefully.

  Owen nodded giddily as he put his hand up to hail a cab. Avery was right. A date was a great idea. A taxi screeched to the curb, and, giggling, Kelsey scooted inside. Owen followed, squishing in next to her, their thighs touching.

  “Seventy-second and Fifth.” Owen gave his address, slipping his hand inside Kelsey’s as she accidentally-on-purpose let the strap of her dress slide off her glittery shoulder.

  That cabdriver is going to be in for a surprise.

  hey people!

  news flash

  Unmentionables on the side of a bus? Old news. The new news is a larger-than-life billboard campaign, announcing the fabulous downtown Cashman Lofts. And the flawless face of those lofts is none other than our J. Surprised? I’m not. She’s the crème de la crème, and she always rises to the top. Which brings us to…

  climbing the ladder

  For a city designed on a grid system and dotted with skyscrapers, is it any wonder New Yorkers are obsessed with knowing exactly where they are at all times? I’m not talking about the girls who BlackBerry message all of their acquaintances to let them know they’re ordering coffee at EAT on Madison or trying on a Thakoon dress in Bergdorf’s. I’m talking about knowing where we stand with our friends, our enemies, and everyone else who matters. It’s human nature to want to know where you fit in. After all, how else would you know how much further you have to reach? But when you feel yourself shaking in your Sigerson Morrisons as you lift your foot onto the next rung, remember: It’s better to be halfway up a desirable ladder than at the top of one you never wanted to climb in the first place.

  sightings

  O, standing alone and looking sad outside Paragon Sports… Somebody get stood up? At least until K showed up and proceeded to make out with him inside the store. What an, ahem, athletic couple! A, sneaking around the Bliss spa locker room after a Blissage 75 massage. Who’s she avoiding this time? B, reading I’m Okay, You’re Okay near those gross
dollar bookshelves in front of the Strand. My verdict: not okay. R in a random touristy shop on St. Marks, looking at Hacky Sacks. New hobby? J seeing her mom off at JFK, then stepping into a Lincoln Town Car and being whisked down to Industria studios on Jane Street for a Cashman Lofts photo shoot. Smile for the camera!

  your e-mail

  q: Dear Gossip Girl,

  I’m a therapist and I’m worried that I am losing touch with my younger clients. Since you seem to be a bit of an expert in today’s youth, please tell me what you think the dreams, desires, and goals are of your generation. Your answer may help millions of young and confused individuals!

  —ListeningtoelephantsPhD

  a: Dear LE,

  While I’m flattered to be considered an expert, I think you’d be better off going directly to the source—try reading your clients’ blogs. Or just listening to them. Instead of, um, elephants.

  —GG

  One final word about climbing: The higher you go, the farther there is to fall. And sometimes, there’s no net to catch you.

  You know you love me.

  gossip girl

  j’s lofty ambitions

  “There.” Jack adjusted an oversize framed photo of a pointe shoe on the wall near her new California king-size bed. In the artsy photograph the pink satin of the shoe looked almost sweet, while the scuffs on the toe proved how hard it had been pounded against the stage. It expressed everything she loved about ballet: how it was exactly the right balance of beauty and grit.

  Sound familiar?

  The intercom buzzed in a gentle, three-toned chime and the face of the Cashman Lofts doorman appeared on the grainy video feed.

  “Hello?” Jack cradled the receiver against her shoulder, gazing at her surroundings. It was a world apart from the garret. The apartment was intended to be used as a showroom only, so it had already been decorated to hype up the aesthetic of the building: The loftlike space was painted muted grays, and was decorated by Gavin Palmer, an interior designer famous for making the green movement actually cool and livable. A chandelier made from recycled airplane parts hung over a long bamboo table, a multicolored silk and wool rug covered the polished free trade–cork floor, and light streamed through a skylight and onto her organic cotton–sheeted bed at the opposite end of the room.