Page 21 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
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 naïve.”
“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 whereI 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 itcouldbe. All itshouldbe. A study in lilac and moody blue with hints of black and gold.
“Are you kidding me? This is notjust 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.”
