by Max Monroe
“You should’ve just told him you wanted to call it an early night, Ava. Or you needed to get home. Or, I don’t know, thanked him for dinner and just been honest that you weren’t really feeling it with him.”
“I just… I didn’t want to offend him.”
“It’s always better to be honest. Especially with guys. We’re very simple creatures, babe.”
She shoves another bite of ice cream into her mouth and mulls over my words.
“I don’t want to be the one to say I told you so, but I told you online dating wasn’t worth it.”
“Yet, here you are, saying it,” she sasses with narrowed eyes.
I shrug.
“Dating Boat-Lover Brian wasn’t worth it. I don’t know yet about online dating.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re going on more TapNext dates?”
“I’m no quitter, London. I wouldn’t feel right calling myself a Columbia graduate if I didn’t give this the old college try.”
My brows snap together in confusion, and if I’m honest, a little bit of unexplained, seemingly irrational anger. “You can’t be serious, Ace.”
“Oh, but I am,” she responds without hesitation. “I already have another date planned. With Abe.”
All I can do is shake my head and snag the spoon from her hands, popping a bite of ice cream into my mouth.
Christ. What kind of role am I going to be expected to play next time?
November 14th
Ava
The subway at rush hour should be avoided like the plague. Any New Yorker who’s worth their weight in salt knows this to be true. Unfortunately, always avoiding the subway during its busiest hours is entirely unavoidable.
Everything happens during rush hour.
Getting to work.
Leaving work.
Dinner with friends.
Cocktail hour.
My fourth TapNext date at an art gallery opening in Chelsea.
I wish I could say I’m excited about this date, but I’m not. Between smug Brian rambling about his boat, Abe trying to buy Whiskers—his cat that he brought on our date—a movie ticket and getting in a fight with the poor ticket-booth lady when she wouldn’t sell him the ticket, and Frank showing up in a fishnet muscle shirt to Starbucks, the expectation bar is at an all-time low.
Truthfully, I’m not sure it could get any lower. Plus, Luke has officially renounced himself as my way out of any more dates I may choose to go on.
I’ve put him through a lot, I’ll give him that—a fake injury with Brian, asking him to impersonate my doctor and tell Abe I only had one week to live, and pretending to be a jealous boyfriend who dragged me out of Starbucks in front of an agape Frank—but I wish he could just understand how hard it is for me to disappoint other people or how unwilling I am to go home for Christmas-wedding-reunion hell alone.
Though, I never seem to have that issue with him.
Why wouldn’t he just agree to go with me and play my fake boyfriend? Gah.
The A train’s brakes screech and squeak as it comes to a stop in front of me, and when I step through the doors, jockeying around the people exiting, I’m blessed with the familiar rush-hour vision—my fellow subway goers packed in like sardines.
Cheers to too many people crammed into a small metal tube, underneath the ground, which will be sent rocketing through New York’s underground subway tunnels!
Honestly, it’s enough to make any claustrophobe’s skin crawl.
Which, thankfully, I am not.
Already knowing that every seat is full, I choose a teeny-tiny spot toward the back of the car where I can use one of the silver metal poles to keep my balance if the ride gets bumpy.
It doesn’t take long before we’re off, the train picking up speed through the tunnels and heading toward my final destination in Chelsea.
The operator says something over the speakers, but like always, it sounds more like Marlon Brando talking with a mouthful of marshmallows while holding a microphone directly pressed against his lips than anything that could be deemed coherent.
Typical NYC subway.
The times you can actually hear what the operator is saying are so few and far between that most passengers just subconsciously tune out the muffled overhead voice. Unless the train comes to a complete stop in the middle of a dark tunnel. Then everyone listens. Or tries to listen. Or panics and starts asking everyone else if they can understand what is being said.
Now doesn’t appear to be one of those times.
The train continues to move, and I carefully pull my cell phone out of my favorite black leather crossbody purse without bumping into my fellow subway-sardines.
When I check the screen, I find three notifications from my mom.
Mom: Ava, I just ran into Callie at the bank, and she mentioned how she’s excited to meet your boyfriend…
Of course, she ran into Callie. You know, the very person who has been bombarding my email for the past two weeks about cakes and name tags and utter bullshit.
Mom: Did you forget to tell me something?
Mom: Ava Marie??? Hello????
On a sigh, I type out a response before she spams the shit out of me so much that I somehow manage to go over my unlimited text message plan.
Me: Oh yeah, Mom. I forgot to tell you that I just got back from a girls’ trip to Vegas where I met a Swedish man named Sven, fell in love, and got married. Mazel Tov!
Her response is immediate.
Mom: WHAT?
Me: He’s a really nice man, Mom. He had to go back to Sweden to run his Swedish Fish candy factory, but he’s already applied to get me citizenship so I can move to his country soon.
Mom: Ava Marie Lucie. You better be joking.
Me: Actually, it’s Ava Marie Skarsgard.
I think my favorite True Blood vampire, Alexander Skarsgard, is Swedish? Or is he Finnish?
Oh well. It doesn’t matter; she won’t know the difference.
Also, I’m pretty sure there’s supposed to be an accent mark above one of those a’s, but hell if I know what that is or how to get my iPhone to do it.
My cell buzzes with an incoming call from Mom, and I can’t hide my smile when I hit decline. I know I probably shouldn’t mess with Rose Lucie this much, but I can’t help it. Considering all the shenanigans she’s recently tossed my way, my lovely mother deserves a little teasing.
Mom: Ava, why aren’t you answering my call?! You better explain yourself! Fast!
Me: Fine. I can see my new marriage to Sven is upsetting to you, so I’ll request an annulment. Consider my marriage canceled. No more Sven. No more free Swedish Fish. No more future citizenship to Sweden.
Mom: AVA!!!!!
Me: What, Mom? I thought you wanted me to get married.
Mom: Not like this!
I can’t help but laugh.
Me: Relax, Mom. I’m not married.
Mom: But you DO have a new boyfriend that you haven’t told me about, right??? Can I just say that I’m so excited to meet him!
Sigh. This is exactly why you should never lie about anything. It always comes back to bite you in the ass. Not only have I hooked my reunion’s hopes on finding someone, now my mother has probably blown half her money at David’s Bridal “just in case.”
Mom: Is it too early for me to start asking what kind of food he likes since you guys will be here for two weeks in December? I want to make sure I have my fridge stocked with all his favorites so he feels at home! ☺
See what I mean? She’s already trying to get a fucking grocery list together for a month from now.
Mom: Oh, and I want to make sure he has something under the tree from us to open on Christmas morning! You need to give me some gift ideas!
And the texts just keep on coming…
Mom: And his name! I need to know all about this new fella of yours! Oh my gosh, this is so exciting! I mean, I’m mad at you for not telling me, but I forgive you, sweetie.
Shit.
&nb
sp; Don’t lie, kids. Or else you’ll have to deal with the backlash of your mom buying your imaginary boyfriend a wristwatch off Etsy and finding out on Christmas morning that you don’t have a boyfriend, and then your dad will probably start wearing the damn wristwatch, and every time your meddling mother sees it, she’ll remind you about that time you lied about having a boyfriend, and then it will just become this ongoing thing for the rest of your freaking life.
Although, right now, I’m going to have to not practice what I preach. Instead, I’ll hold on to the fragile hope that I will somehow find the man of my dreams in the next couple days and fix all my problems the unconventional way.
Seeing that my train is only a minute away from my final stop in Chelsea, I type out a quick message that will end this insane conversation—for now.
Me: Mom, I gotta run, but I’ll be sure to tell you all the details soon.
Her response—I can’t wait!—comes a few seconds later, followed by ten freaking smiley-face emojis.
Hey, God, it’s me, Ava. Can you, uh, do me a huge favor and make tonight’s date with Mark be the equivalent of a real-life Hallmark movie? Or is that asking too much?
The train comes to a stop, and I slip my phone back into my purse and step onto the platform with the rest of the crowd. It takes me a good five minutes just to get up the steps and onto the sidewalk thanks to how crowded it is, but once I reach the outside, the brisk, late-fall air brushes against my face and provides a much-needed emotional cooldown.
Three blocks later, I stop in front of Art New Vogue, a popular gallery in Chelsea and the very place I’ll be meeting my date.
Thankfully, this time, I had the foresight of sneaking a reminder peek at his profile picture before I hopped on the subway, and when I grab the black metal handle of the large glass door and step inside, I spot him.
Light-brown hair, gray eyes, and tanned skin covered by a white collared shirt, navy suit, and matching tie, Mark Dawson stands near the reception desk of the gallery with a khaki trench coat hanging across his arm.
Man, he’s, like, crazy dressed up.
I have to admit, though, he looks really good.
I glance down at my simple black shift dress, jean jacket, and ankle boots and silently wonder if I missed the formal memo. But that thought bubble is quickly popped when Mark smiles and steps toward me.
“Ava?” he asks, and I nod.
“It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Mark,” I greet and almost reach out my hand for a shake but choose a half hug in the name of not being as formal as his suit. “Did you have any trouble finding the gallery?”
“I think I found it as well as you can find anything in Chelsea,” he responds, and I don’t miss the way he lets the name of the neighborhood roll off his tongue with a hint of disdain.
“You don’t like Chelsea?” I ask, and he scrunches up his face like he just shoved fifteen Sour Patch Kids into his mouth.
“Does anyone like Chelsea?” A stuffy laugh follows. “I think we can both agree that it’s at the bottom of the totem pole when it comes to New York hot spots.”
Actually, I can’t agree. Some of my favorite galleries, shops, and restaurants are in Chelsea, but I bite my tongue and choose a friendly, nonconfrontational direction to steer the conversation.
“So…shall we see some art?”
“Let’s do it,” Mark responds and reaches out his arm so I can slide my hand around his elbow. “Although, I have to admit, I don’t know anything about the artist. Or any art, for that matter. I’m more of a sports and numbers guy, if you know what I mean.”
A stock trader by day, my date is the opposite of me. Where he spends his days on Wall Street, I spend my days at the Met and art auctions and galleries like this. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, you know? Sometimes, opposites do attract.
“That’s okay,” I respond with a little wink as we stroll toward the first area of the exhibition. “Something tells me I know enough to get you up to speed.”
Mark smiles, and we come to a stop in front of the first work. It’s truly remarkable, and I observe a moment of silence to take it all in while I assume he’s doing the same.
I glance in his direction to find him looking a little lost, but I remind myself he isn’t a part of the art world, and it’s probably a lot just to be thrown into the deep end.
“The artist’s name is Juliet Seraphina,” I say. “She’s a very popular, up-and-coming artist who made big waves in Moscow, and as you can see, her popularity is spreading across the world.”
He nods at my explanation and glances back at the wall, so I take a quiet moment to soak up her first piece again—a three-dimensional wall work that layers painting, screen printing, and laser-cut wood.
This is Juliet’s signature style, and her past works grew in popularity because of the way she reimagined scenes that focused on the alchemical properties of nature, and things like water, wind, fire, and light took center stage.
This piece, while it still uses her preferred materials, is different.
With a viewpoint from space, she captures the tiny essence of Earth in such a clever, original way.
“I guess that’s supposed to be outer space?” my date asks finally, and I nod with a smile.
“Yes.” I point toward the bottom of the painting. “And that’s Earth.”
“What? That little fucking ball is Earth?”
“Uh-huh,” I answer, after giggling a little. “She’s trying to convey how small we really are in the entirety of the universe.”
“Oh, gotcha.” My date just shrugs and shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks.
Juliet’s stuff is a little out there for non-artsy people, so I gesture for him to follow me, and we move on to the next installation. It’s much more aesthetically accessible.
He told me that art isn’t really his thing, but he still agreed to go on a first date to a gallery because he knew art was my thing. I owe him the effort to give him a fair chance at finding something he can get interested in.
We make our way through three more artists’ work, but with each one, Mark gets a little more antsy and a little less capable of camouflaging his boredom.
When we reach the back corner of the gallery, Mark spots a small table with drinks and snacks and perks up a little.
“Would you like a glass of wine, Ava?”
I have no desire for wine, but I agree. Just for the hell of it. “Sure. Wine would be great.”
“Fantastic,” he responds, his voice the most cheerful it’s been all night. “I’ll go grab us a few drinks, then. Be right back.”
While he takes an art breather, I move to the next piece. Which, honestly, I think might be Juliet’s best at this exhibition. This work is huge, taking up an entire wall and curving around you in a way that makes you feel as if you’re within the stars. It’s amazing. Truly amazing, and I can’t stop myself from pulling my cell out of my purse, snapping a secret picture of it, and texting it to the one person it makes me think about.
Not even a minute later, my phone vibrates with a response.
Luke: That’s incredible!
Me: I know, right??? One day, this will be your view.
Soon, my best friend will be an astronaut for NASA. And it’s probably only a matter of time before he gets the call and will have to pack up his New York apartment to move across the country to Houston…
The thought makes my chest expand and tighten at the same time.
Of course, I love watching him soar and knowing he’s achieving all of his dreams, but what am I going to do without my best friend across the hall from me?
Luke: We don’t know that yet, Ace.
Me: You don’t know that yet, but I do. ;) Also, I think I want to be Juliet Seraphina when I grow up. She’s so bold. So confident. And I’m officially obsessed with her art.
Luke: The only difference between you and Juliet Seraphina is that you’re more talented.
I roll my eyes and type out a resp
onse.
Me: You’re biased. And you lie.
Luke: I may be biased, but I don’t lie. That gallery display could be yours if you’d just believe in yourself like you believe in me.
His words urge nerves to balloon inside my chest.
God, I wish I had Luke’s confidence. I wish I had his attitude about chasing dreams, and I wish I believed in me like I believe in him. But it’s so hard.
Which is probably why, instead of focusing on my own art, I got a job focusing on other peoples’ art.
Luke: How’s the date going, by the way? Is Marky-Mark and the Funky Bunch everything you thought he’d be?
Me: Well, he’s no Mark Wahlberg and I’m pretty sure he hates art, but he didn’t try to get his cat into the gallery, so I’m calling that a win for now.
Luke: LOL. Why do you think he hates art?
Me: Because he got more excited over the refreshment table than anything else in the room.
Luke: Well, you know, sometimes those art galleries serve really great wine…
Me: You and I both know that’s a lie.
Luke: Yeah. Their wine is shit.
Even though I should probably get back to focusing on my date, I can’t stop myself from asking him one question that’s been bugging me tonight.
Me: Do you think I’m an art snob?
Luke: What do you mean by that?
Me: Like, do I act like I’m better than someone, or maybe internally think that I’m better than someone, because I’m knowledgeable about art?