Read Online Nothing Can Keep Us Together by Cecily von Ziegesar - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cecily von Ziegesar
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to Carl Schurz Park a few blocks away and had never gotten caught. That had been a good time. Now the good times were about to be over. Maybe they already were.
Nate’s eyes scanned the horizon above the silvery water and low industrial buildings. Somewhere southwest of Queens was Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where Blair lived now. He wondered what she was doing. Standing on her roof, maybe, smoking a Merit Ultra Light and sticking thumbtacks into the little voodoo dolls she’d probably made of him and Serena.
Don’t flatter yourself, honey.
Nate flicked the tears away from his gorgeous green eyes with his thumb and dropped his barely touched slice of pepperoni pizza into the garbage. Anthony came over, slung his thick-muscled arm around Nate’s shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek with mock tenderness. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
“Fuck off,” Nate replied, jabbing Anthony in the ribs.
His friend refused to be shaken off so easily. “Will you just drink a beer with us and stop moping already?” An overgrown hank of white-blond hair swung over Anthony’s freckled face and he brushed it away. “Dude, it’s party time!”
Nate laughed and allowed himself to be shepherded over to where the other guys were standing, drinking beer and listening to the coach talk. Jeremy hitched up his way-too-big dark blue Levi’s and tossed Nate a bottle of Heineken. “Hey, did you hear this? Every Wednesday after practice Coach has been popping Viagra and meeting his wife at the Pierre Hotel.” He cracked open another bottle for himself and took a long swig. “Who would have thunk.”
Coach Michaels stuck his hands into the pockets of his ever-present red Lands’ End windbreaker, looking pleased with himself. “Who says we can’t enjoy ourselves?”
Nate raised his bottle in silent answer to the coach’s question and chugged half its contents. Coach Michaels had all the gruff, fatherly qualities a guy could wish for in a coach, but Nate had never had much affection for him. The coach had made him captain halfway into the season only because the junior who was supposed to be captain went mysteriously AWOL from school. And the coach had yet to congratulate Nate on getting into Yale, Brown, and Harvard. It didn’t surprise Nate that the coach needed Viagra to get it on. He was sort of a cold fish.
Not that Nate was one to judge. After the trunk show at the St. Claire that morning Serena had been all over him, but instead of working up a sweat with her as the cab zoomed up Park Avenue, all he’d been able to do was look out at the grassy divider running down the center of the street, weeping because the heat had caused the red and yellow tulips to scatter their blossoms and wilt.
Guess the tulips weren’t the only things wilting.
Coach Michaels started on a tear about how minivans were actually the sexiest cars on the road because they had two sets of backseats. Nate sipped his beer as he reevaluated the coach. Even in his stupid red Lands’ End jacket he was healthy, sharp, and vital. No one ever caught him crying like a girl at the slightest thing. Maybe a little Viagra was exactly what Nate needed.
Oh, no.
Nate finished off his beer and set the bottle down on the long white collapsible table the school kitchen staff had set up for the party. Then he turned and headed toward the physical education staff office on the other side of the gym, next to the guys’ locker room. Everyone would think he was just taking a piss.
When in fact …
On Coach’s desk was an eight-by-ten photo-portrait of his wife, Patricia. She looked a little like Jennifer Aniston with wrinkles and a dyed-auburn pageboy haircut. Small and leathery, in a magenta-colored Lands’ End for Ladies version of Coach’s jacket, her brown eyes were shining and her pink, lipstick-free lips were parted in a broad, happy smile. Her teeth were so white they had to be fake, and Nate wondered if she took them out during those Viagra-induced
Nate’s eyes scanned the horizon above the silvery water and low industrial buildings. Somewhere southwest of Queens was Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where Blair lived now. He wondered what she was doing. Standing on her roof, maybe, smoking a Merit Ultra Light and sticking thumbtacks into the little voodoo dolls she’d probably made of him and Serena.
Don’t flatter yourself, honey.
Nate flicked the tears away from his gorgeous green eyes with his thumb and dropped his barely touched slice of pepperoni pizza into the garbage. Anthony came over, slung his thick-muscled arm around Nate’s shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek with mock tenderness. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
“Fuck off,” Nate replied, jabbing Anthony in the ribs.
His friend refused to be shaken off so easily. “Will you just drink a beer with us and stop moping already?” An overgrown hank of white-blond hair swung over Anthony’s freckled face and he brushed it away. “Dude, it’s party time!”
Nate laughed and allowed himself to be shepherded over to where the other guys were standing, drinking beer and listening to the coach talk. Jeremy hitched up his way-too-big dark blue Levi’s and tossed Nate a bottle of Heineken. “Hey, did you hear this? Every Wednesday after practice Coach has been popping Viagra and meeting his wife at the Pierre Hotel.” He cracked open another bottle for himself and took a long swig. “Who would have thunk.”
Coach Michaels stuck his hands into the pockets of his ever-present red Lands’ End windbreaker, looking pleased with himself. “Who says we can’t enjoy ourselves?”
Nate raised his bottle in silent answer to the coach’s question and chugged half its contents. Coach Michaels had all the gruff, fatherly qualities a guy could wish for in a coach, but Nate had never had much affection for him. The coach had made him captain halfway into the season only because the junior who was supposed to be captain went mysteriously AWOL from school. And the coach had yet to congratulate Nate on getting into Yale, Brown, and Harvard. It didn’t surprise Nate that the coach needed Viagra to get it on. He was sort of a cold fish.
Not that Nate was one to judge. After the trunk show at the St. Claire that morning Serena had been all over him, but instead of working up a sweat with her as the cab zoomed up Park Avenue, all he’d been able to do was look out at the grassy divider running down the center of the street, weeping because the heat had caused the red and yellow tulips to scatter their blossoms and wilt.
Guess the tulips weren’t the only things wilting.
Coach Michaels started on a tear about how minivans were actually the sexiest cars on the road because they had two sets of backseats. Nate sipped his beer as he reevaluated the coach. Even in his stupid red Lands’ End jacket he was healthy, sharp, and vital. No one ever caught him crying like a girl at the slightest thing. Maybe a little Viagra was exactly what Nate needed.
Oh, no.
Nate finished off his beer and set the bottle down on the long white collapsible table the school kitchen staff had set up for the party. Then he turned and headed toward the physical education staff office on the other side of the gym, next to the guys’ locker room. Everyone would think he was just taking a piss.
When in fact …
On Coach’s desk was an eight-by-ten photo-portrait of his wife, Patricia. She looked a little like Jennifer Aniston with wrinkles and a dyed-auburn pageboy haircut. Small and leathery, in a magenta-colored Lands’ End for Ladies version of Coach’s jacket, her brown eyes were shining and her pink, lipstick-free lips were parted in a broad, happy smile. Her teeth were so white they had to be fake, and Nate wondered if she took them out during those Viagra-induced
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