by Tash Skilton
I take a deep breath, duck my head, and turn around to go home. My breath comes out in panicked gasps, making me dizzy.
I can’t go on like this, I tell myself. And I wish, more than anything, it were true.
Because what if the real problem is that I can?
In a city of nine million people who pass me by without a single thought, who would care if I did?
CHAPTER 7
MILES
Charles is a great breakover motivator. If this whole law professor at Columbia thing doesn’t work out for him, he should consider a career change. Maybe Leanne could even hire him as one of her consultants.
I leave the house at around six a.m. now, before he’s woken up, and hit the seven-mile run at Riverside Park. I grab a bagel and coffee from the cart around the corner, and I’m back at the apartment by eight a.m., at which point Charles is gone for his first class of the day, and I get a good twenty minutes of chatting with solo Dylan—my favorite Dylan.
I shower and get dressed—I even bother to put in my contacts—and am out the door again by nine forty-five, so as to miss Charles coming home in between his two classes of the day. This is when I grab the subway and am down to Café Crudité by ten thirty, a perfect lull of time between the morning rush and the lunch crowd, which lets me stake out the good table.
I’ve started looking into the big picture window before I even enter to see if I can catch the telltale two-toned hair and wide-eyed stare of Mary Tampa Moore. She’s not here today. I wonder why. Did someone raise an eyebrow at her and send her scurrying for cover? Moreover, the table appears to be empty and, when I walk in, there’s a handful of free biscotti left at the counter. Look at that: Everything’s coming up Miles. Who cares why she’s a no-show?
I’ve just grabbed my coffee and biscotti and gone over to the sugar and cream station when I sense something wheeling by in my peripheral vision. I glance over.
It is . . . a stroller. Inside of which is a child of maybe two or three. Is that too old for a stroller? Jordan and I used to joke that children always seem to leap from tiny, burrito-sized wraps to enormous slabs of chunky thighs and grubby hands who somehow look too big to be engaging in whatever activity they’re engaged in: drinking a bottle, sucking on a pacifier, whining. “Have you ever seen a kid who’s in the in-between phase?” I asked her one day, not long after we’d gotten engaged. “Do you, one night, put down a tiny blob of indeterminate features and then return the next day to hear Seth MacFarlane’s voice coming out of someone who looks like a Halloween costume of a gigantic baby?” She laughed, as expected. Less expected was when she said to me, “I don’t know. But let’s find out soon.” I don’t think I ever loved her more than at that moment, when I looked at her and knew we were both envisioning the same future.
Anyway. This stroller is being pushed by a different mom, a woman in her mid-thirties who is very, very pregnant (definitely plus six weeks). She looks like she might have been awake for about as long as I have, minus the benefit of a long run or a cup of coffee. Her child is screaming, and I can hear her hissing under her breath, over and over again, “Nathan. Please.”
This causes no change in Nathan’s behavior. But now they are settling down at the large table while she takes out an assortment of jangling, screeching, singing, and flashing toys from underneath the stroller and places them on the table in front of the red-faced Nathan, who merely screams louder with every object that emerges. The last thing she takes out is an iPad, which is the sole thing he finally lunges for—immediately quieting down mid-sob.
I look away as I scan the café for another table. There’s one in a corner farthest away from the large one, which will make it harder to swoop in and grab the table once Nathan and his mom leave. Oh, well. How long can a two, three-year-old last in a café anyway? I’ll just be on high alert for the next half hour.
I squeeze my laptop onto the tiny table, where it takes up the entire surface area, and I log on. There’s an e-mail from Leanne asking to check in on me remotely this morning, and one from Jude saying he found someone in the Match pool he thinks he’s interested in.
I ping Leanne that I’m ready for her, and she sends me the remote access request, which I accept. I ran this morning; I’m on my second cup of coffee—thanks to Charles, I’m feeling pretty confident that Leanne isn’t going to see something she shouldn’t.
Then I click through to the profile Jude linked to. Twenty-five-year-old Bree, aka TheDuchessB. The first thing I notice is the first thing everyone notices on an online dating profile (and the reason Aisha’s never going to be out of a job): She’s attractive. Blond, tan, and fit, she’s definitely playing in the same gene pool as Jude, unless it just so happens that she has a photography consultant too. (Right. What would be the odds?)
Then I start to read. She’s looking for something a little more serious. Good listening, Jude. She enjoys ghost tours: nice, quirky little detail. And—what’s this—she likes classic, action-adventure fantasy films . . . I put two and two together with the screenname and bingo! Someone I can chat about Undersea with? This morning is shaping up to be better than expected.
I start to type a brief but pithy message. In his e-mail, Jude wrote that he has back-to-back clients today and probably won’t be able to hop online but has given me his log-in and blessing to send whatever I think is best. He’ll get a full report of all messages at the end of the day.
Greetings from the ’Neath, my liege. The Sea Lord sends his regards, I start out. Then I delete it. Better to include it at the end, a little wink instead of a full-blown geek-out.
From: GreatSc0t
To: TheDuchessB
Hi Bree, [always include their first name. It’s the simplest thing in the world, and yet, more than 65 percent of messages are cut-and-paste jobs—and they sound like it too.]
Haunted tours, eh? I ain’t afraid of no ghost. But seriously, what a cool idea. I’ve been in New York for two years now and I haven’t even thought to do one of those yet. (Do you think there’s one that includes that guy from Twitter whose apartment is haunted? I mean, honestly, some guys have all the luck. Why couldn’t a terrifying poltergeist choose my building to plague for all eternity so that someone could snatch the rights to my life story. As always, I blame the co-op board . . .)
The café door jangles and I inadvertently look up. It’s Miss Flo Rida herself. I see her eye the large table first, her face falling as she registers the full-blown toy shop that seems to live there now. Then she scans the café and stops when she sees me.
I give her a sort of half smile and a shrug. Guess it’s a stalemate today. But I can’t really read her expression back. Within moments, she’s looking away, eyeing the only other empty table in the place. She looks at her bag, clearly wondering whether it’s worth putting it down and risk getting it stolen or better to possibly lose the table.
Don’t do it, I immediately think. Sure, this is expensive AF, $7.99 latte, Million Dollar Listing New York . . . but it’s still New York. I keep looking at her, sort of trying to will her not to part with her belongings. She walks over to the table anyway though, hesitates, and then takes off one of the arm warmers she’s always wearing and places it over the chair.
She doesn’t look at me as she walks back to the counter, but I almost smile at her again. That was pretty clever.
With impeccable timing, I hear a whoosh informing me of a new company-wide memo from Leanne, and I’m transported back to the whole reason I’m in this café to begin with: to work, save my career, and prove to everyone—most importantly myself—that I am not just a shell of a man.
I reread what I’ve written so far to Bree. It’s a little out there. It could possibly turn someone off.
The Sea Lord sends his regards, I type in the next paragraph. And he’d absolutely love to conspire further with you.
~ Jude
I stare at it for a moment and then, before I can second-guess myself, I hit send. It is out there but the truth is . . . my
instincts for this stuff are pretty good. At least, when it comes to other people’s love lives.
I’ve just copied the message into an e-mail that I’m about to send Jude, along with a brief intro telling him I think Bree is a good choice, when I get a little ping.
Bree has just jumped online and lobbed back.
TheDuchessB: It’s not a poltergeist. It’s a phantasm disguised as a child demon. Honestly. Don’t you know anything about the Internet famous?
I type back immediately:
GreatSc0t: Must have misplaced my Hashtag Handbook for the Recently Deceased.
A little bit of a shot in the dark. But maybe if she likes classic eighties action/adventure fantasy films, she might also know . . .
TheDuchessB: # Dayo . . .
Bingo.
TheDuchessB: You know, when I was a kid, I always wanted ghosts to move in so that I could dance by the ceiling.
GreatSc0t: Is that why you like haunted tours? You’re hoping to become the living embodiment of a Lionel Richie song?
TheDuchessB: Maybe. Wow, my therapist never cracked that one. And here we are two minutes into a chat . . . excuse me, a “lob.”
GreatSc0t: You’re welcome. I charge $125 an hour. But I give special discounts to duchesses, especially those of planet Undersea.
There’s a slight pause, the first of our conversation.
TheDuchessB: Rule number one of Fight Club: never talk Undersea on a first chat.
GreatSc0t: Oh really?
TheDuchessB: I’ve been burned. This is strictly an in-person subject. I need to see the whites of your eyes before I can discuss Her Highness with you.
GreatSc0t: Like . . . in the Battle of Bunker Hill?
TheDuchessB: Dating is war, my good man.
GreatSc0t: Touché. I respect that. Soldier to soldier.
I hesitate.
GreatSc0t: Is it too forward of me to say I’d like that conversation to happen soon?
A pause. Damn, did I jump that gun too early? TheDuchessB: The Duchess acquiesces . . .
Her most famous line, of course, although . . .
GreatSc0t: Uh-oh. Is this a trap?!
She sends through a skull emoji.
TheDuchessB: Whites of your eyes, remember? Don’t make me break my own rule on a first chat.
GreatSc0t: Yes, soldier.
TheDuchessB: Captain.
GreatSc0t: Oh, I’m sorry. I thought this was an even playing field.
TheDuchessB: Is it ever?
There’s a pause, allowing me to take another glance at Bree’s picture. Beautiful and smart. Nice work, Jude.
TheDuchessB: So is it true you’re fresh off the boat? Would you happen to have what they call a brogue?
GreatSc0t: Aye. ’Tis true . . . and you should hear how I sound when I say brogue.
TheDuchessB: Woo. Is it hot in here? But, seriously. Keep talking Scot to me.
GreatSc0t: Whiskey. Heather. Kilt.
TheDuchessB: Hmmmm . . . maybe something else we need to save for our in-person meeting.
GreatSc0t: This isn’t translating?
Mentioning meeting up in person twice is a good sign.
TheDuchessB: I actually have to run. But this was fun.
Uh-oh. Hope I haven’t been reading this wrong. “This was fun” might be the first generic thing Bree has said and it’s only a positive about 60 percent of the time. I hope I didn’t blow this for Jude. Or myself, as I remember the little remote access icon that’s been quietly flashing at the bottom of my screen this whole time.
TheDuchessB: Can we pencil in another one of these? Maybe tomorrow.
Whew.
GreatSc0t: Name the time.
TheDuchessB: Is 9 AM too early?
GreatSc0t: It’s perfect. I don’t have any personal training sessions until the afternoon.
What Jude does is already in his profile, but might as well work in a nice, organic reminder.
TheDuchessB: Is this your subtle way of reminding me you have muscles?
Oops. Maybe that wasn’t as organic as I thought. I should be more careful, especially since this girl seems extra sharp.
GreatSc0t: Yes. It obviously worked, right? You feel very subconsciously attracted to me?
TheDuchessB: Of course. Freud would be having a field day with my id right now.
I grin at my screen.
GreatSc0t: So . . . until the morning sky kisses the stars away, my Liege.
Another pause.
TheDuchessB: You’re a little bit of a rule-breaker, aren’t you?
GreatSc0t: Only in the best way.
I send through a winking emoji.
She sends one back.
TheDuchessB: I guess we’ll see about that. Talk later.
GreatSc0t: Later.
Bree logs off. I copy and paste the conversation to tack onto my unsent e-mail to Jude, feeling pretty pleased about the turn of events. Apparently, I’m not the only one.
Leanne T: Nice work.
Miles I: Thanks!
Leanne T: So . . . can I be relieved of babysitting duties now? Regular Miles is back up and running?
Miles I: Consider yourself relieved.
Leanne T: Thank God.
And then, right before she logs off my computer, one more message:
Leanne T: P.S. I missed you.
I appreciate the sentiment but is Regular Miles back? Not really. It’s going to take more than eight weeks to accept that the woman I thought I was going to marry has now wholly disappeared from any future scenarios I can imagine for myself. Jordan won’t be chatting with me while I cook, she won’t be snuggled next to me on the couch while we’re watching some Netflix documentary, and she’ll never walk toward me down an aisle in a white dress. I inadvertently look toward Nathan and realize that we are never going to stare down at a human we made together, feeling both exhausted and content.
But for Leanne’s purposes, sure, I can be back. I can orchestrate other people’s romances. I’m good at it. And, luckily, I think Bree and Jude just might make this easy for me.
A projectile something catches the corner of my eye, and I see that Nathan has just lobbed his sock out of his stroller in a fit. I also notice that his mom is stuffing all her items back into a myriad of bags, and stroller hooks, and a large underseat compartment that is stretched below Nathan’s purple, contorting body.
I start to gather up my belongings when . . .
What’s this?
No. It can’t be.
But it is. It’s I Am Legend, who has picked up a snack cup that has rolled underneath the large table and is now chatting with Nathan’s mom.
“Need any help?” she asks. She then looks at Nathan, opens her mouth wide, crosses her eyes, and makes a bizarre gargling sound.
Immediately, Nathan breaks out into a fit of giggles.
“Oh, God, please,” Nathan’s mom says. “If you could just keep doing that, I would be forever grateful.”
“No problem,” Legend responds before kneeling down to Nathan’s level. “Did you know I once won a face-making contest? It’s because my tongue can touch my nose. See?” She demonstrates.
“Wow,” Nathan responds, eyes wide. He sticks out his own short tongue which, of course, just goes straight out.
“The key is to practice,” Legend says. “Every day, for at least twenty minutes. And, I’ll tell you a secret . . .” She looks around, and whispers, “Cafés are the best place to practice. I learned everything I know while my mom was drinking her coffee.”
Nathan nods studiously, while his mom looks at Legend like the Sunshine State is, in fact, beaming out of her ass.
“Thank you,” she mouths, tears practically in her eyes, as she strolls a face-making—and therefore silent—Nathan, and his rack of luggage, out of the café.
Legend smiles after them and I can’t help noticing what a bright smile she has. It’s all dimples. I’ve never seen her smile before, and the distraction costs me; sometime during that exchange, she has m
anaged to place her bag right on the seat Nathan’s mom just vacated. She glances over at me. Her smile disappears and it’s like the sun has gone behind a cloud.
Let it not be said I’m a poor sport, however. I give her a slow clap, and she takes a little bow before sitting down with a flourish. I roll my eyes, but, privately, I have to admit I’m pretty impressed. Maybe MTM is going to make it after all.
Nathan’s sock, on the other hand, is doomed to haunt the café floor for the rest of eternity—or at least until the barista sweeps up—reminding us all of his lengthy and memorable residency at Café Crudité. And also reminding me that I should call my mom.
I’ve been putting it off, listening to a lot of concerned voice mails that have been responded to with brief texts just so she knows I’m alive. But this seems like as good a time as any, if for no other reason than when she scans the screen for clues to my mental well-being, she’ll notice that I’ve showered and am out of the house.
I put on my headphones and start up FaceTime. She answers on the second ring. I see her face for a second before my screen is filled up with the white and purple flowers on her shirt as she hugs the iPad to her.
“Oh, thank God. Ahmad, come here. It’s Miles.”
She sets up the iPad on the table in front of her and brings her face closer to it, as if that’ll help her peer at me better.
“At least you’re out of the house. But you look skinny,” she says, like all Jewish moms from time immemorial. “Have you been eating?”
My father comes strolling in then, wearing his standard outfit of a neat, striped button-down with two pens—one red and one black—tucked in the pocket. He is the only person I know who uses an actual pocket protector and is not a stock nerd from an eighties comic book.
“Miles. How are you?” Baba asks. He’s been in America for what will be fifty years next year, but he still has never lost his faint Egyptian accent. My mom looking at me with concern is one thing, but my dad doing the same means I should’ve called them ages ago.