You're Not Special

by Meghan Rienks

  I had a pretty terrible comedown the following week. Mats’s version of a white flag came in the form of a Chipotle salad. I was too groggy and out of it to refuse, so I accepted. After about a week of random sobbing spells and daily naps in the double digits, I slowly (like really fucking slowly) started to feel like myself again. (Don’t do drugs.) My text messages with Mats that week were sparse and surface-level. We were both tiptoeing around the Vegas incident, unsure of how to carry on our friendship as normal. I had gone out of my way to avoid running into him, asking for meetings to be scheduled at coffee shops near my home as opposed to the conference room we usually frequented. I was annoyed and frustrated at our situation. More than that, I was just hurt. My fear that acting on anything romantic between us would put our friendship at risk was becoming a reality, but I hadn’t had any say in that possibility. The outcome I had once dreaded was coming to fruition, and I didn’t even have any part in it. I was pissed. I was pissed that Mats had made this choice for us, and I was pissed that I was pissed. It meant I liked him. I was also pissed because I knew that actions spoke louder than words, but both his actions and his words fucking sucked.

  Out of the blue, Mats quit his job a week later. He called me into the office to tell me. He had been offered another job at a tech start-up, and he was going to take it. He had already put his two weeks’ notice in and was in the process of interviewing people to fill his position. He told me that he would always be there for me professionally, with business advice and support, and that none of that would change. He then told me he’d like for things to change between us personally. I think I tried to say something witty, but I really don’t remember. He then took a call, excusing himself back to work. He left me alone in the conference room, speechless and dumbfounded at the incidents of the past few weeks. The saying “When it rains, it pours” seems fitting for this moment, but it felt less like that scene from A Cinderella Story and more like a wipeout from Johnny Tsunami.

  Mats’s final two weeks as an assistant were the weirdest fourteen days of my young adult life. They were rivaled only by the time I spent two weeks during senior year attempting to function as a normal human, high off my ass on Percocet as the result of the post-op complications of my wisdom tooth surgery. With the anticipation of his imminent departure, our conversations were no longer tainted with awkwardness. Instead we skipped past our normal flirtations and went straight to blush-inducing territory. Wait, does that sound like it was sexual? It wasn’t. It was like an “Awwww”-inducing, gag me (in a PG way), hit-you-right-in-the-feels kind of thing. We were in uncharted waters, and I won’t lie—I was kind of freaking out. By “kind of freaking out,” I mean, like, really freaking out. And by “really freaking out,” I mean I was balls-to-the-wall, hold-my-hoops freaking out. Or something like that.

  Mats’s last day also happened to coincide with a party my agency was throwing. I RSVP’d to attend with one of my agent’s assistants, Annie. Serendipitously, she had invited Mats to tag along, even though the occurrences of the past few weeks were unknown to her. He and Annie met me at my apartment and we drove to the party together. I attempted to downplay my excitement so as not to draw Annie’s attention. I really didn’t need to worry, though, because she was clueless. In fact, she remained pretty clueless all night. They rented out some seen-and-be-seen chichi bar in West Hollywood for the party, and Annie abandoned us upon arrival to make the rounds with her colleagues. Mats and I made our way to the bar. We had our work event routine down to a science, but for some reason this felt different. For the first time since he and I had become friends, I was not his designated wingwoman. I didn’t strike up conversations with the girls he pointed out at the bar, introducing him as my brother to increase his odds. He didn’t introduce me to any of his friends with the not-so-subtle air of a setup. Instead he bought me drinks and asked me to dance, and his eyes never left mine.

  He asked me to go out with him no less than one hundred times that night. He insisted that he accompany me on my Uber ride home, and when the car pulled up, he confidently invited himself in for a nightcap. We sat in silence on opposite sides of the room, untouched glasses in our hands, just staring at each other. We stayed like that for a while. The things we left unspoken rang out far louder than anything we could say aloud. He called an Uber for himself and asked me to walk him out. I obliged, hoping he couldn’t hear how alarmingly loud my heartbeat had just become. We reached my front gate and the silence between us lingered. I twirled the rings on my left hand, avoiding eye contact. The impatient driver behind the wheel of the Prius with a “U” sticker honked, and Mats tilted my chin up with his finger. He asked if he could kiss me. I said no. He nodded, dropping his hand as he leaned in to kiss my forehead. “It’s okay. I’m patient,” he said. Then he got into the Uber and rode away.

  Turns out he didn’t have to be that patient. Somehow, I ended up agreeing to go out on a date with him the following evening. He had conjured up tickets to a Dodgers playoff game, knowing I was a fan of baseball. He also knew I’d look like a real bitch if I turned it down. Though let the record state, I did not make it easy. The series of texts in which he attempted to convince me read more like he was talking me off a ledge, with lots of soothing words and reassurance. He told me that I’d never lose him as a friend. He said it was just one date. I didn’t have to commit to anything more than that. He also reminded me that I did really love baseball games. Plus he had texted my closest friends about his plan, and they all offered to ignore me that day so I couldn’t even claim I had prior plans. He had thought of everything. I couldn’t run away from my very real feelings. I was backed into a corner with no graceful exit in sight. So I sent my reply before I could talk myself out of it: “I’m in.” Then I texted Lily: “911 come over. Bring vodka.”

  I was already three shots in when he picked me up. He walked through the front door without even a knock and caught me with Smirnoff in hand, jokingly asking Lily if she had planned to escape through the window. Somehow the sight of this did not deter his feelings. Minutes later we were buckled up in the car on our way to Dodger Stadium. To this day I cannot recall another car ride that was as painfully awkward as the one we had to downtown LA. You’d think with three shots in me the liquid courage would at least begin to rear its head. Nope. Nada. My palms were sweating, I was pretty sure I was only breathing through my mouth, and I don’t think I had finished a complete sentence since we got on the highway. In typical form he seemed unfazed by it all, or maybe it was just that, in contrast to my contorted body in the passenger seat, any sort of awkwardness he was feeling paled in comparison.

  I don’t remember who won the game. I could google it, but I think that defeats my point. My point is that I had a really good time. We drank overpriced cocktails and split french fries, and the closest thing he made to a move was closing the gap between our knees until they just barely touched. He didn’t fake yawn to drape his arm around my shoulders or pretend to be cold to warrant holding hands. He laughed at my jokes and took the long way home. I was too busy being smitten to make a snide remark about it. He walked me to my front door. For the second night in a row, he asked if he could kiss me. This time I said yes.

  In a perfect world, now would be the time for puppy love and making up for lost time. Instead, this is the beginning of what we now (not so) fondly refer to as the “Meghan Is a Fuck Boy Era.” If you’re unfamiliar with the term “fuck boy,” let me break it down for you, or better yet, let’s give Urban Dictionary the honor:

  fuck boy

  He will lead girls on just for hookups, says hes [sic] really into you but doesn’t want to deal with all the “relationship bullshit” just to mess with you. He thinks about himself and only himself all the time, but pretends to be really nice. He always walks with his squad never alone. He will say hi to you once then won’t talk to you for the rest of the day. YOU HAVE TO TEXT THEM FIRST BECAUSE THEY “FORGET” He’s [sic] seems quiet but in reality he [sic] just a fuck boy


  Lisa: look at that fuck boy

  Bob: Yeah he’s such a fuck boy

  In my defense, their definition is far more terrible and extreme than I’d ever classify anything I did, but I won’t deny my actions were in that vein. Before I get into it, let me first clarify that I’m not proud of my behavior in the following month. There is no excuse other than that I’m pretty sure I was Pauly D in a past life and those tendencies can creep up on me. In all actuality I’m not even really all that sure what I did. In the moment I had justified all my actions, so—to get a clearer and more colorful perspective—I’ve enlisted Mats to recount this part. Take it away, babe.

  * * *

  Thanks, Meghan! And hello to you, reader. It’s me again, Mats, the aforementioned boyfriend.

  After I dropped Meghan off at her apartment, I was riding a pretty strong high. Like anyone, I’ve been on great dates, mediocre dates, and unmitigated disasters, and I knew this was the first. I hadn’t overplayed my hand or come on too strong. I was even more assured when the next day, as we exchanged a flurry of text messages, she asked me to come over to the apartment. We watched a movie and made out a little, and she even snuggled a little bit, which was something she’d professed hating when we were just friends. I walked back to my car supremely confident that this was the beginning of something.

  And then I started getting the runaround.

  Mats

  Hey, what r u doing on Wednesday night?

  (Wednesday night passes)

  Meghan

  Hey! Haha just saw this—sorry been suuuuuper busy

  I knew what “been suuuuuper busy” really meant. But I tried not to let myself get perturbed. I had said that I was persistent. While Meghan and I were friends, we’d been pretty open about our personal lives with each other. I knew she didn’t really feel like getting into a relationship. There had been one guy she’d liked, whom she always seemed to be circling back to. I remember she’d been really excited that they were finally getting dinner, and like a gentleman her date had paid. Unlike a gentleman he’d Venmo’d her for half the check a few days later, and that had made her more leery of feelings than ever.

  All I could do was keep trying, not become annoying, and not expect anything. I could hope for the best, but, alas, as much as it sucks, you cannot force someone to like you if it’s just not there. But I knew that the first date and the day after weren’t her fronting. So I kept trying.

  Mats

  I know, I used to manage your life lol

  Mats

  All good, let’s plan on something this weekend.

  Meghan

  Ahhhh, don’t hate me buuuuuut

  Meghan

  I have a thing on Saturday & Sunday is a little up in the air.

  Mats

  Okay, maybe next week?

  Meghan

  For sure!!

  Meghan

  I mean think I should be good? Idk I’ll double-check

  This went on for many days. Finally, on a Thursday, she said I should come over. It wasn’t until I was on my way there that she told me that three of her friends would be over too.

  Now, I know what you must be thinking: Give it a break, man, you tried and she’s not really into you. I was thinking it, too, and I really didn’t like getting blown off. I also felt like I was too old for moves right out of the middle school playbook. But I was almost to the apartment. At the very least, if it went bad, I could stew for a few minutes to get my point across before leaving.

  You know that feeling when you walk into a room full of people who were just talking about you? When I walked through the door, her friends all turned toward me with an exaggerated grin. For twenty minutes the conversation was a little stilted, and I did my best to listen and be casual. I remember one of the friends had injured her eye and was wearing a white patch, which helped draw some of the attention away from the awkwardness. (Lindsay, I’m sorry and I’m forever grateful.) Gradually, everyone relaxed and I could tell that I was making the right impression. Toward the end of the evening I looked at Meghan and laughed at her expression: a barely suppressed smile that she was trying to hide by scrunching her nose. Once again I thought I was out of the woods.

  Wrong. One thing both of us had forgotten since I’d quit my job at her management was that we shared a calendar. The idea had been that I’d be able to keep easier track of her personal conflicts, and we’d both used it for approximately four days before we forgot about it. Occasionally she’d put something in and I’d ask a clarifying question, but we used it so little that the day I quit I forgot to unlink my account from it.

  So when I was sitting at my new job and got a calendar alert that read “Tucker’s Formal,” I was a little taken aback. Meghan must have been taken aback, too, because she promptly deleted it. I deleted the calendar, and I knew it would be presumptuous to ask about it. It really wasn’t any of my business. But I could ask her what she was doing that Friday night and see what she said.

  Mats

  Hey! What ru doing Friday?

  (a few hours later)

  Meghan

  Hiiiiiiiiiiii

  (text bubble appears and then disappears fourteen times)

  Meghan

  I promised I would go to something…

  I thought about it for a minute and then typed:

  Mats

  Okay, no worries. What’re you getting into?

  (text bubble appears and then disappears fourteen times)

  Meghan

  Tucker’s formal

  Now, I was a little shocked she was being that frank. I was also a little surprised she was going on another date with a guy who had picked up the check and then changed his mind after the fact. I had thought that this was going to be the last straw, but her honesty surprised me enough to probe a little more.

  Mats

  Really?

  Meghan

  Yeah, promised I would go

  (text bubble appears and disappears fourteen times)

  We kept talking, and she decided that she would come over before she headed out to the formal. I said okay, and she did. We made out and we laughed at all of each other’s jokes. My roommate came home and he cooked us some food. When it came time for her to leave, I walked her to the door and she told me she didn’t want to leave.

  I’ll let Meghan pick up the story again, but I will say that after that night she’s been the type of girlfriend you hope you get: funny, smart, kind, and beautiful. She’s great; it just took her a little while to get there.

  * * *

  I wish I could say Mats’s version of the story has been exaggerated for the sake of your entertainment, but, sadly, it’s not. If anything, he’s being a little nicer to me than he should, probably because I’m cooking him dinner right now and he doesn’t want me to spit in his food. He (sweetly) neglected to divulge that even three months into dating I still insisted we were not exclusive and reiterated to him that he was more than welcome to see other girls. As I’ve mentioned, I have a strong aversion to feelings. I refused to let him say anything sweet or sentimental to me. To honor my wishes yet still get his point across, he decided that the eyeballs emoji would stand for those feelings.

  Anytime he wanted to tell me how he felt about me, he’d text me that emoji. Or several of those emojis. The idea of PDA of any sort gave me the visceral reaction of utter disgust, and I think I visibly dry heaved the first time he drunkenly referred to me as his girlfriend. Honestly, what eventually sparked my acceptance of that label was the first night he tried to tell me that he loved me. We were lying on my bed, he had just come from a bar crawl with his friends, and he was a little tipsy. I had just finished an episode of Parenthood, and as the end credits were rolling, Mats asked me if he could tell me something.

  I told him that it depended on what it was.

  He told me that he thought I knew what it was.

  I did.

  I told him he couldn’t tell me.

  I didn’t look at him as I
said this. Ultimately I knew I was being an insensitive asshole, but I still said this. I cut him off with “If you still want to define us or put a label on it, I don’t hate it as much as I did.” Mats sighed, nodded, smiled, and told me that he did still want that. I knew he wanted to say it, but he waited until I was ready. Except when he was really tired, then sometimes he accidentally said it.

  Just so you know, I am completely aware of how terrible this makes me come across. Because I was terrible. There is no way to sugarcoat it: I was really, really, really shitty. Which probably seems unwarranted and completely out of left field considering how much I anticipated us getting together. And I wish there were some sort of explanation other than that I sucked at dating. The concept of commitment is smothering, and anything that could be classified as romantic results in me visibly cringing. I’d lose interest out of the blue, and ultimately the monotony of relationships bored me—not to mention that my track record in that area wasn’t spotless. I’m pretty sure every guy I dated before Mats had a criminal record. I really hope this doesn’t come across as a “cool girl likes the bad boys” kind of thing, because it’s not cool. It’s self-destructive. Seeking affection and attention from the people I sought out could probably be classified as some form of self-sabotage. I hated that, as much as I promised myself I would not let the home I grew up in and the example my parents set for me affect who I was in a relationship with, I did let it. If I kept those walls up and never let anybody in, they’d either grow frustrated and we’d part ways, or they’d accept it as our truth and whatever we became was so surface-level that I couldn’t be bothered to maintain it. Mats was different. I was standing firmly behind those walls I had built, and Mats sat there patiently waiting for me. On a particularly cold night in February, those walls came down.

  We were lying on the bed of our Manhattan hotel room, staring out at the skyline framed by our nineteenth-story view, when Mats said I love you. This time I didn’t stop him. This time I said it back.