See Sweet Virginia, The First Date, Just Desserts, To Nobu or Not to Nobu and The Duel for the background on this one.
“Well, I did tell him I wanted to take it slower,” I said.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you don’t want to see him.”
We started going back over everything, parsing and diagramming, whirling up a tale of great lies and underhanded manipulation.
Maybe he was just in it for a quick shag.
Maybe he was just looking for a free place to stay.
Maybe Zoe had foiled that plan by moving in.
Maybe his father wasn’t some rich southerner.
Maybe he wasn’t even really a chef.
Maybe he wasn’t even going to school.
Maybe it was all a big lie.
The only naysayer was Nora, who called from Mexico as soon as she got my message saying #119 was just in it for an easy lay. “Are you sure?” she asked. “You did tell him you wanted to take it slow. He may just not know what to do right now.”
“But if he’s confused, he should ask me,” I said. “I want someone who isn’t afraid to talk to me.”
Nora wasn’t buying it. “You should talk to him,” she said just before getting off the phone.
Having exhausted ourselves, Zoe and I decided it was time to go to bed.
“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” she said.
But I didn’t. I woke up feeling horrible.
“OK, you’re coming with me to the beauty show. We’re going to have a girly day buying makeup.” In an attempt to evade the $80 entry fee, I got together some outdated business cards where the only correct information was my name and ”Writer/Editor," some press clips and an email from an editor at a men’s magazine and we headed to the show. In the Javits Center press room, I told one of the press women that I was doing a freelance story for a magazine and gave her an outdated card. “OK, here’s your badge," she said. Done and done.
Even though we plunged ourselves into a world of frivolous consumerism, which would have distracted any girl’s heart, I still checked my phone every three minutes. Nothing from #120. We stopped at a Starbucks kiosk for refreshments. Verging on total despair, I took the doughnut Zoe got me, walked to the side of the kiosk, pulled my hat down over my eyes and let the floodgates open. She came over with the coffees. “I would never be this upset about this if I were used to being treated better,” I said
It was true. I was so accustomed to the male disappearing act that this kind of thing was par for the course. If I’d been used to good treatment—and had more self-esteem—such disappearances would simply make things abundantly clear for me. I’d be done. But, for me, that was not the case.
I rallied enough in the last 30 minutes of the show to buy a complete set of makeup brushes and discounted eye shadow and lipstick. It was good.
I went home and, via email, told Kevin and Nora what had gone down, and, out of anger, included some unfortunate words about the size of his penis.
“The first day is the worst day,” Zoe said. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
Still, the next day, I didn’t feel better. I just needed to know. One way or another. What was going on.
"You should text him, "So, are we friends or what?'" Zoe said. But, technically, nothing was wrong, so I had to act like nothing was wrong.
“Hey there. You’ve been quiet. How you doing?” I texted to him.
About 20 minutes later, he called. He said he was in the East Village about to meet a restaurant owner about a job. I sat up on the edge of my bed as we talked for a few minutes, both of us sounding fairly animated. I was waiting for his next move. Then he asked if I wanted to meet for coffee. There it was. But instead of making me happy, it made me sink back into panic. In the past, whenever a guy’s gone quiet and then reappears wanting to go for coffee, it means he’s about to end things.
“OK,” I said.
Ten minutes later—grabbing only my coat and some cash because I figured I wouldn’t be gone long—I met him down at The Bean. I kissed him and sat down across from him, waiting to take my coat off in case he wanted to get it over with quickly.
“Do you want a coffee?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. I slid my coat off and over the back of the chair and he slid his credit card across the table, saying I’d have to get my coffee because he was wedged into his seat.
When ordering, I didn’t hold back. If this was the last thing he was going to ever buy me, it was going to be good. So I got the biggest almond latte they had and a carrot cake cupcake. As I sat down, he got a phone call. He told the person on the other end he’d be there in 20 minutes.
“So, he’s going to do it in the next 20 minutes,” I thought. We chatted some more, and, about 20 minutes later, he said, “So, do you want to go meet a French restaurant guy?”
I was stunned. “Sure,” I said, thinking, “Could he be that much a coward that he’d take me to meet someone and then dump me?” I’ve met bigger cowards. I once dated a guy who, I found out later, wanted to break up with me but was so afraid of doing it, he road-tripped with me across five states to a wedding first. Only when I went on another trip a few days later, flying ten states away, did he have the courage to dump me over the phone.
I played along. We walked arm in arm to the restaurant, where we met an Irish restaurateur and took a tour. Afterward, we started walking downtown and I figured he was going to drop me off in front of my place and end things there.
“So, where are we going?” he asked.
About 20 minutes later, he called. He said he was in the East Village about to meet a restaurant owner about a job. I sat up on the edge of my bed as we talked for a few minutes, both of us sounding fairly animated. I was waiting for his next move. Then he asked if I wanted to meet for coffee. There it was. But instead of making me happy, it made me sink back into panic. In the past, whenever a guy’s gone quiet and then reappears wanting to go for coffee, it means he’s about to end things.
“OK,” I said.
Ten minutes later—grabbing only my coat and some cash because I figured I wouldn’t be gone long—I met him down at The Bean. I kissed him and sat down across from him, waiting to take my coat off in case he wanted to get it over with quickly.
“Do you want a coffee?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. I slid my coat off and over the back of the chair and he slid his credit card across the table, saying I’d have to get my coffee because he was wedged into his seat.
When ordering, I didn’t hold back. If this was the last thing he was going to ever buy me, it was going to be good. So I got the biggest almond latte they had and a carrot cake cupcake. As I sat down, he got a phone call. He told the person on the other end he’d be there in 20 minutes.
“So, he’s going to do it in the next 20 minutes,” I thought. We chatted some more, and, about 20 minutes later, he said, “So, do you want to go meet a French restaurant guy?”
I was stunned. “Sure,” I said, thinking, “Could he be that much a coward that he’d take me to meet someone and then dump me?” I’ve met bigger cowards. I once dated a guy who, I found out later, wanted to break up with me but was so afraid of doing it, he road-tripped with me across five states to a wedding first. Only when I went on another trip a few days later, flying ten states away, did he have the courage to dump me over the phone.
I played along. We walked arm in arm to the restaurant, where we met an Irish restaurateur and took a tour. Afterward, we started walking downtown and I figured he was going to drop me off in front of my place and end things there.
“So, where are we going?” he asked.
“I don’t know."
“I know," he said. “Tacos.”
It finally dawned on me: he wasn’t about to end things. He just wanted to spend some time with me. I relaxed. We went for tacos and then to BookWorks to warm up and tell each other stories. He wanted to show me Mario Batali’s Eataly, so before we left BookWorks, I told him I needed to go to the ladies room. I didn’t actually have to pee, I had to call Zoe. She’d been texting and calling me asking if I was OK.
It finally dawned on me: he wasn’t about to end things. He just wanted to spend some time with me. I relaxed. We went for tacos and then to BookWorks to warm up and tell each other stories. He wanted to show me Mario Batali’s Eataly, so before we left BookWorks, I told him I needed to go to the ladies room. I didn’t actually have to pee, I had to call Zoe. She’d been texting and calling me asking if I was OK.
“Everything’s fine,” I said when I called her from the toilet. “I was totally wrong. We’ve been together all afternoon and I’m still with him.”
“Well, that's a shock," she said. "OK, go have fun. Tell me what happened later.”
Back outside, it was clear I was underdressed and freezing. He gave me his scarf, which I wrapped around my neck.
We headed up to Eataly and walked around arm-in-arm. It was like Disneyland for fancy Italian food. He told me all about the different cuts of meat and described where they came from. He saw that they were serving shad roe and we sat at the counter and ordered a dish to share. He touched my leg. I held his hand.
We saw Daniel from our Monday night gathering of likeminded downtowners. ”Let’s stalk him,” we said at the same time. Linked together, we hunched down and followed him stealthily, catching up to him and tapping him on the shoulder. Talking to Daniel, he looked at #120 then me then back again. I could see him sussing out the situation.
We let Daniel get back to his wandering and headed toward the exit ourselves. #120 slowed as we passed the gelato counter. “My treat,” I said. I chose hazelnut and pistachio.
“Well, that's a shock," she said. "OK, go have fun. Tell me what happened later.”
Back outside, it was clear I was underdressed and freezing. He gave me his scarf, which I wrapped around my neck.
We headed up to Eataly and walked around arm-in-arm. It was like Disneyland for fancy Italian food. He told me all about the different cuts of meat and described where they came from. He saw that they were serving shad roe and we sat at the counter and ordered a dish to share. He touched my leg. I held his hand.
We saw Daniel from our Monday night gathering of likeminded downtowners. ”Let’s stalk him,” we said at the same time. Linked together, we hunched down and followed him stealthily, catching up to him and tapping him on the shoulder. Talking to Daniel, he looked at #120 then me then back again. I could see him sussing out the situation.
We let Daniel get back to his wandering and headed toward the exit ourselves. #120 slowed as we passed the gelato counter. “My treat,” I said. I chose hazelnut and pistachio.
“You chose well,” he said.
“I always do,” I said.
He walked me to therapy and we kissed good-bye.
“So when will we see each other next?” I asked. I wanted to have at least some vague idea.
He had orientation for school the next day, which was Thursday.
“Friday?” he asked. I nodded.
I bounded into therapy and bounced onto the sofa. “I love being wrong,” I said.
But was I?
Signs of Hope: He didn’t end things. In fact, he wanted to spend all afternoon with me.
Red Flags: We didn’t actually talk about what had happened or my request to take it slow. Did we need to or were we just not good communicators?
Turning Point: When he suggested going for tacos. I could breathe again.
Diagnosis: For him: He looks like he may be available. Again.
For me: I have far too active an imagination combined with far too much insecurity for my own good.
He walked me to therapy and we kissed good-bye.
“So when will we see each other next?” I asked. I wanted to have at least some vague idea.
He had orientation for school the next day, which was Thursday.
“Friday?” he asked. I nodded.
I bounded into therapy and bounced onto the sofa. “I love being wrong,” I said.
But was I?
Signs of Hope: He didn’t end things. In fact, he wanted to spend all afternoon with me.
Red Flags: We didn’t actually talk about what had happened or my request to take it slow. Did we need to or were we just not good communicators?
Turning Point: When he suggested going for tacos. I could breathe again.
Diagnosis: For him: He looks like he may be available. Again.
For me: I have far too active an imagination combined with far too much insecurity for my own good.
When I told Zoe what had happened, she said, "I was ready to go beat him up. When you started crying at Starbucks, I was ready to kill him."
Zoe and I decided that we aren’t allowed to talk about boys anymore because our two brains put together are far too creatively powerful, concocting bad-boy conspiracy theories that could make even the most trusting of women run straight to the convent.
On a side note: Later that day, I alerted the troops that, in fact, nothing was wrong and that of course I was exaggerating when I included the unfortunate words about the size of his penis.
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