The morning’s craziness continued to escalate. It was terrifically cold and rainy under a dreary sky. I had never taken the time to venture into Wicker Park, but today I was desperate. I had to find him.
The cab pulled up in front of an old brick apartment building, the bottom level of which was an indie-type coffee shop. He would, was all I could think. I sprinted to the door, hit the doorbell three times, and listened for noise on the other side. Nothing. I banged three times, putting my ear up to the door. My ears hurt, and I couldn’t feel my fingers. Bang, bang, bang! I gave it three more whacks. Silence. I turned around and slid my body down the door, defeated. Suddenly, I felt the door give way, and I tumbled backwards. I laid flat on my back, looking up to see a girl hovering over me in a baggy Blink-182 T-shirt, the Blink-182 shirt I had given him. . . and nothing else, as I could plainly see from my unique vantage point. Not even underwear. I scrambled to my feet, pulling my hair out of my mouth.
“Uh, hello!” I put my hand out for a shake. She stared. I put my hand back at my side. She looked cracked-out and hung-over, her black make-up smudged and her blonde hair a bird’s nest. I’ll admit her anorexic body and chiseled bone structure was a bit rocker chic, though. She squinted against the sky’s overcast glare.
“Is Olly—is Oliver home?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“No.”
“Okay then,” I crossed my arms. “Maybe I should wait for him.”
“Are you that Robbie chick?” she asked.
“Bobbie.”
“Yeah, yeah, Olly mentioned you.” She sounded amused.
Well, I’m amused, too, I thought, feeling seriously grumpy and displeased by the turn of events. I mean, couldn’t he do better than this? I knew Oliver was into the whole artsy, hipster-chick thing with girls, but still, this one just didn’t seem his type.
“We hit it pretty hard last night, and I think he lost his phone, or cracked it, or something,” she said. “Oh wait, maybe that was my phone. I don’t know. You can wait inside if you want. It’s cold as shit out here.”
I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs behind me, and I turned to see Oliver carrying a brown bag and two coffees.
“Bobbie!” He looked startled to see me, and a blush spread over his cheeks. “What’s up? Uh—Lottie, Bobbie,” he said by way of introduction, nodding at each of us in turn.
“Yeah, I kinda figured it out,” Lottie said.
“Nice to meet you, Lottie. Olly, I really need to talk to you.”
“Okay. . .” He thought a moment. “You should go back inside, Lot. Maybe put on some real clothes? I’ll be in there in a minute.” Oliver took the girl by the shoulders and turned her around, pushing her in through the door, which he closed carefully behind her. He turned around and looked at me. “Hi,” he offered.
“Hey,” I said hesitantly. I felt mortified. I had just walked in on Oliver with a morning-after girl!
“She’s um. . . that’s actually my cousin, Lottie,” he said, and scratched his head. “That probably looked really bad.”
“Oliver, it’s okay. You don’t have to lie about it. Not to me.”
“No really, she’s my cousin. I promise. She was going to school in Boston, but she dropped out, and she doesn’t want to go home. She’s having a lot of problems, as you can see from her hot mess of an appearance.”
“Olly, I believe you,” I assured him, with an off-hand shrug. No big deal. But inside I felt incredibly relieved. Lottie, his cousin. Right. He had talked about his cousin Lottie over the years, but I’d never met her before today.
“Okay then,” he sighed and relaxed his shoulders. We stood there for a moment looking at each other. “Coffee?” He bent down and picked up a steaming cup. “I’ve got scones too.”
“Oliver, the real reason I’m here is--” I took a deep breath.
“What?” I watched as his eyes lit up. I swear he suddenly looked hopeful.
“Hurricane Sandy.”
“Huh?” He frowned.
“Hurricane Sandy caused a million flight delays, creating havoc with the Centennial. Long story short, I desperately need a good photographer in order to make points with Wolfe and make Ivy and Ella look like professional models who know what they’re doing.”
“Oh.”
“Can you? Would you?” I put my hands together, bending my knees, praying he’d say yes.
“For the Centennial,” he said flatly
I nodded in confirmation.
“Runway or set shoot?”
“Probably both, but I’m really not sure yet. . .”
“Okay. Let me change and grab my equipment.”
“You’re my hero!” I yelped. Impulsively I grabbed him in a hug. He hugged me back, but just briefly, stiffly; then he pushed me away.
I followed him into his flat. We climbed a flight of stairs, and the room opened up into a large white loft. The white walls were covered with giant blow-ups of his photos, and an enormous old-fashioned clock hung on a brick wall above mahogany shelves filled with hundreds of books. Two beautiful guitars were mounted by a window with views of the city. The furniture was leather, and the wood floors were strewn with sheepskin rugs. Lottie was curled up in a chair, flipping through a magazine.
“Want some coffee or vodka or something?” she asked.
“Oh, no thanks,” I said. “I’m uh. . . working.” For a moment I actually considered recruiting Lottie, adding her to my emergency stable of models, but then I thought better of it.
I walked over to look at some Polaroid pictures pinned on a board made of wine corks, and my heart did a flop to see that half of them were photos of me. There was one of me in a new white suit, just before I started my job at Fordham. I had felt so excited and hopeful that day! There were prom pictures, like the one of Oliver and me pretending to pick each other’s noses, and another one of me sitting drunk in my prom dress crying because I dropped cake on my dress. How I had loved that dress. Then there we were, dancing at one of the many music festivals we’d attended together. . .
“Ready?” He snuck up behind me with his camera bag around his shoulder.
“Ready.”
We said goodbye to Lottie and started down the stairs.
“Careful out there,” she called. “I heard there’s going to be a big storm.”