Mismatched in Manhattan: the perfect feel-good romantic comedy for 2020

by Tash Skilton

  “Maybe. I don’t actually think he should have been with her to begin with. But anyway, I could show you a picture … .”

  “If he’s cute, that’ll make it tougher to say no,” I laugh. “But let’s talk later, okay? I’ve gotta run. My new client has a date straight from work and asked me to help her prep.”

  “I’m going to take off, too. Secret-agent duties. Are you headed uptown or downtown?”

  “I’m headed … left, whichever direction that is. Luckily, her office is only a few blocks away, so I can walk.”

  By a “few” blocks, I mean twelve, and by the time I reach Blue Sky Family Practice, I’m a sweaty, frazzled mess, and my socks have sunk low in my combat boots, chafing one heel. That’s what happens when you’re convinced the subway’s going to collapse while you’re inside. Good times.

  Clad in a skirt and blouse, Bree ushers me into the large, empty bathroom for patients, where she’s putting the finishing touches on her makeup. The wallpaper consists of pictures from vintage children’s books. I’m pretty sure it’s Bree’s handiwork.

  I try to ignore the urine samples sitting on a counter by the wall. Most of her colleagues have left, except, apparently, the owner of the hand that reaches through a small wooden window to yank the samples away.

  “’Night!’ Bree calls to the hand, which waves, tilting a urine sample this way and that.

  Bree focuses on me.

  “Did you come from the gym?” she asks kindly. I’m reminded again why I like her; she doesn’t mince words but at the same time assumes the best of people.

  “Yes, I did.” Minimal Bluff. Power walking is exercise, after all. “Did you have a chance to read the messages from this morning? I printed a copy, if that’s easier.” I dig through my bag and hold the pages out to her.

  She’d been brutally honest about skimming our first conversation. (She referred to it as “the blabby blabby.”)

  “The dates are the important part,” she reiterates now. “The rest is noise.”

  “Absolutely,” I assure her. “But reading it is a great way to prepare, see what you’ve ‘already discussed’ and take it from there.”

  I watch intently as she reads our chat from this morning.

  She doesn’t bat an eye at Andrew’s gross interruption.

  My reaction to him is what sticks in her craw.

  “Zoey! You said you weren’t going to be a grammar bitch.”

  What—but—Jude was into it. He agreed with me. He likes this grammar bitch!

  “Sorry, it’s just … if someone doesn’t care enough to write a good sentence, especially for the first impression—”

  “You’re supposed to be acting like me, and I wouldn’t have cared. No one expects DMs to be Shakespeare.”

  “Yup. You’re right,” I say in clipped tones. “If you don’t think I represented you well, or it’s not something you want to deal with, we can always cancel on Jude—”

  “Hell no, have you seen his picture?”

  “I have.” I nod gravely.

  “Sex on a stick. Irish, too, right?”

  “Scottish.”

  “Either way. Me like-y what me see-y.”

  And what you “read-y” is pure gold, but oh well. She flips to the next page like she’s stuck reading a thesis and her torment will never end. She’s bored.

  “Dial down ‘the blabby blabby,’” I summarize through gritted teeth. “Got it.” But if it had been YOU “blabby-blabbing,” you might not have scored a date in the first place, so maybe a little gratitude is in order, eh, DuchessB?

  “It’s all good. But hopefully he won’t have to message you again—hopefully I can take it from here. Nice job getting me this far, though, seriously. He’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

  The operative word being “looking.” She certainly hasn’t absorbed much from his words.

  Bree’s eyes widen at what she sees at the end of the last page, and her kindness dissolves, as if it’s been thrown in acid. “Why did you tell him I’d do the hair? That’ll take at least an hour.”

  “Oh. Well, I can help, and he’s not expecting you until six thirty, so we have time—”

  “You know what it looks like, right?”

  “Kind of …”

  Bree tosses the papers to the floor and yanks out her phone. Huffs some more and pulls up an endless array of Google Images of Mary, circa 1985.

  “See? It’s a big commitment.”

  Oh God. How could I have forgotten?

  It’s not a cute side braid or a sexy, ribboned twist. It’s a pointed, one-and-a-half-foot triangle, made entirely out of hair, protruding from the back of her head like a traffic cone.

  (Mary, regarding an invite from San Diego Comic-Con: “If they think I’m going to tear out what little hair I have left to wear the Pylon Party Hat, they need to triple my fee.” I also have a vague memory of a letter in her scrapbook, written to Lorne Michaels at Saturday Night Live: “Do I owe the Cone-heads any royalties? Then again, I think I have plausible deniability. In outer space, no one can hear you scream (about copyrights) …”)

  “What can I do? How can I help?” I ask gently.

  “Bobby pins. As many as you can find. Now.”

  When I return from my errand at, where else, Duane Reade, Bree’s in better spirits.

  She’s changed into a minidress and freshened up her makeup. She reaches for the bobby pins I’m holding and secures the elaborate ’do while gazing at her reflection in the mirror. “You’re sure he loves Undersea as much as I do?”

  “We’ve talked of little else.” Which you’d know if you’d read the messages!

  God, what is wrong with me? Just because she doesn’t appreciate GreatSc0t’s humor on the page doesn’t mean she won’t appreciate his … attributes in person. (But if she doesn’t appreciate his wordplay, should she really be allowed to meet him in person?)

  It never bothered me when my first client, Tess, dated her matches. It’s moot, anyway; what I told Aisha was true: I’m not dateable in my current state.

  “Good luck, Bree. I hope you have a terrific night.”

  But I cross my fingers behind my back.

  CHAPTER 9

  To: All Tell It to My Heart Employees

  From: Leanne Tseng

  Re: Digging Deep

  Team,

  Love stories … we’ve all got them. Even if, sometimes, we wish we didn’t.

  This week, I want you to dig deep and get a little personal. It’s important for us to work on behalf of our clients, but, also, on behalf of love itself. And the best way to do that is to find the common ground in order to empathize with what they’re looking for.

  Now I can’t very well ask you to get personal without doing it myself, right? So here goes: I was in love once. In love enough to get married. On the surface, we didn’t seem right for each other. Now, as it turned out, not too far down from the surface—I’m talking maybe half a centimeter—we weren’t right for each other either. But here’s where it’s important to selectively examine what worked about the relationship. The jokes that made me laugh, the unbridled enthusiasm and support for my work, and that feeling—however brief—that I was seen and heard and loved for who I was. These are the thoughts and feelings I’d try to conjure up every time I sat down to work for one of my clients.

  At the end of the day, what we do is personal … as well as being a business. Success lies in finding the balance between.

  Yours,

  Leanne

  MILES

  Huh. That’s a memo I wasn’t expecting from Leanne. Has she been feeling nostalgic for Clifford? And if that’s the case, what does that say about my chances of getting over Jordan, who is at least 90 percent less loathsome than Leanne’s ex. Though, considering the cheating, maybe I should bump that down to 85.

  The brewery with the beer flight specials Jude wants to test out happens to be located not too far from Dylan and Charles’s apartment.

  That’s one reason fo
r me to stop by during their date. Another is that I woke up this morning to a stack of Metro newspapers fanned out across the mahogany and glass coffee table in front of the sofa. They were all open to the classifieds section and every single available apartment was circled. Charles doesn’t have any classes today, which means he could conceivably be home all day, and having to confront your passive aggressor is just awkward for everyone.

  And, finally, I admit it. A part of me wouldn’t mind seeing Bree in person, hearing if her humor translates IRL. Hey, I’m supposed to be empathizing with my client’s desires, right?

  As it turns out, I can’t miss her. Holy crap, she actually did do the hair. It stands about a foot above the crowd, a perfect yellow isosceles. And based on Jude’s gawking expression as he shakes her hand, I think I forgot to tell him about it, probably because I thought she was joking.

  The truth is, she looks … hot. Obviously, she’s an attractive girl but this adds a ballsy, nerdy element that takes it to a different level. The two of them together look like something out of a catalog (currently, maybe something out of a cosplay catalog, but still). And if Jude doesn’t quite appreciate that now, I’m just going to have to huddle with him later and get him up to speed on what a rare find she seems to be.

  I slide myself onto a barstool that’s catty-corner from their table. I can see them out of the corner of my eye but, more importantly, I can hear them perfectly.

  “You look …” Jude starts, then hesitates. “Interesting?” Then he catches himself. “Nice?” But he can’t seem to stop the question mark from appearing at the end of his adjectives. Maybe I should take my notebook out so that he and I can have a proper postmortem after this.

  “Thanks,” Bree replies, touching the side of her hair. “Usually, it’s a little bit more accurate than this. I didn’t have a lot of time.”

  “Oh,” Jude says. And then, nothing. He clears his throat. Then he picks up the menu. “Well, thanks for meeting me. I’ve heard good things about this place. They have over forty beers on tap and I think at least six of them are low-carb.” That might be the most animated anyone has ever uttered the phrase “lowcarb” and it was way more enthusiastic than anything he said to or about her. Yeah, the notebook’s coming out.

  “Right,” Bree says, picking up the menu herself. They both seem to be reading it for a while.

  “What are you thinking?” Jude asks. “This Monterey Jack IPA looks good. And I think I might give the Wil Belgian Wheaton a go.”

  “Um … .” Bree says, flipping the menu over and then back again. “I’m sorry, but does this place have any food?”

  “Oh,” Jude says. “Are you hungry? We can ask the waiter for the food menu.”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  It takes a while for Jude to flag a waiter down and during that whole time, they don’t utter a single word to each other.

  It’s true what I said: Sometimes people’s online humor doesn’t translate in person. But with Bree … I can’t help thinking this is mostly Jude’s fault. She put herself out on a limb with the hairdo—if nothing else, an instant conversation piece—and he’s not engaging her at all. I’ve got to talk to him. This girl won’t be on the market for long, and I really think he’d be missing out on something pretty special to let her slip away.

  A waiter finally comes and informs them there’s no food menu except for a forty-dollar cheese plate with a different slice of cheese to pair with each of their beers.

  “What do you think?” Jude asks Bree.

  “Huh, cheese,” she says, and then, “sure. Why not? I’m pretty hungry.”

  “Cool.” He smiles at her. “Do you know what you want to drink or do you need another minute?” Jude asks before the waiter disappears again.

  “Oh,” Bree says. “Just a Diet Coke.”

  The waiter blinks at her before jotting her order down. “And you?” he asks Jude.

  “Um … actually, I’ll take a minute,” he says.

  “Okee dokee. Just holler when you’re ready,” the waiter says, impressively finding a way to express irritation through the medium of retracting a pen.

  “You don’t want to try out the beers?” Jude asks Bree.

  “Nah. I’m off alcohol right now.”

  “Oh,” Jude says, looking thoroughly confused. I can see him throwing a glance my way. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have picked a brewery.”

  Shit. I’m pretty sure she never mentioned this in our convos, but I am going to have to go back and do a postmortem on myself now.

  “It’s okay,” Bree says. “Maybe I didn’t mention it. Who knows?”

  “Well … do you want to go somewhere else?” Kudos to Jude for offering. But I have to dock a point since he’s looking longingly at the menu while he does it.

  “Honestly? I’m not sure this hair would survive a trip to another location. So maybe it’s best if we stay put.”

  “Right, okay,” Jude says, and then awkwardly picks up his menu again, perusing it with extra concentration.

  When the waiter comes back, he ends up ordering a beer flight, along with the cheese plate and Diet Coke.

  “So …” he says, once the waiter’s gone.

  “So …” Bree replies.

  Jesus, this is painful. I’m getting flashbacks to RayaJack5. I wish I could type words straight into Jude’s brain for him to speak.

  “So … you work in medicine? Right?” he finally says.

  “I’m a bookkeeper. For a medical practice.”

  “Ah, right,” he says. “How do you like that?”

  “I like it. It’s more fun than it sounds,” she replies.

  “You’re obviously … a fun person.” He vaguely gestures toward her head. It takes everything I have not to thunk my head onto the bar.

  “I’d like to think so,” she says. “And you … sorry, I don’t remember exactly what you do.”

  Really? But she made that wry comment when I mentioned the personal trainer thing a couple of days ago. Could it be she’s just juggling a lot of matches and doesn’t remember the conversations? That’s not a great sign, but it also means I might have to amp up my game to make sure Jude rises to the top.

  “Personal trainer,” Jude says genially.

  “Right,” Bree says, and then briefly touches his upper arm. “That would explain these.”

  Jude smiles at her. Okay, this is better.

  “So you’re from Ireland. Wait, no …” Bree pauses. “Scotland.”

  “Aye.” Jude nods.

  “Where in Scotland?” Bree asks.

  “It’s a small hamlet near Glasgow called Auchentiber. It’s lovely.”

  “It sounds lovely. Well, when you say it.”

  Jude smiles. “Thanks.”

  You’d think the train was finally leaving the station but, uh … nope. Another stall, just about a foot away from where they started. Neither of them says anything until the waiter comes back with their drinks and an enormous plate of cheese slivers that takes up almost the entire table.

  “Well, cheers,” Jude says, lifting his glass to clink it with hers. He brings the beer to his mouth, then stops. “Oh, wait. I’m sorry. I should’ve asked if it was okay if I drank in front of you. That was rude of me.”

  Bree blinks at him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I just didn’t know if you weren’t drinking because of some abstinence thing or …” He trails off his sentence, thankfully not accusing her of being a raging alcoholic.

  “Oh, no. That’s not it. I’ve just given up drinking on dates for now.” She leans in and whispers to him. “It’s led me to making some bad decisions in the past. So, cheers. Enjoy.”

  “Ah, got it.” Jude smiles at her again and takes a sip.

  “Which ones would you like?” Bree says as she takes the cheese knife and hovers it above the plate.

  “Actually, I don’t eat cheese. I’m paleo,” Jude says.

  “Oh,” Bree says. “So I’m supposed
to finish this by myself?”

  “I’m sure you can get it wrapped up?” Jude replies.

  “Right. Good plan.” She then starts cutting the cheese (literally). She cuts and eats the cheese for a long time without a single interruption: no conversation, no gestures, barely even any eye contact. For all his good looks and charm, Jude needs a lot more help than I thought.

  “Oh, God!” Bree yells and I glance over. A big piece of her hair seems to have come undone and just landed in what looks like a large pile of feta. “Yuck,” she says as she picks up her hair. Jude hands her a napkin. She laughs as she wipes at it. “Guess the Duchess never had this problem in space. Zero gravity and all.”

  Jude smiles weakly and nods, but even I can tell he has no idea what she’s talking about. I guess he’s never seen Undersea. I’ve been obsessed with it for so long that I didn’t even entertain that possibility. Maybe our first order of business is to remedy that. A very small price to pay to get in this girl’s good graces.

  “Excuse me a minute. I think I’m just going to go fix this …” Bree gestures to her hair.

  “Of course,” Jude says and he gets up to pull her chair out, but she’s out of it and on her way to the bathroom before he can get there.

  Once I make sure Bree is out of sight, I walk over to him.

  He’s running his hands through his own hair. “I’ve never particularly been up on avant-garde fashion,” he says to me.

  “Uh, that’s not avant-garde fashion,” I say. “It’s from the movie Undersea. Mary Clarkson?”

  “Oh,” Jude says, and then I see it dawn on him what I’m talking about. “Ohhhh. Right. I remember it. Vaguely. Haven’t seen it since I was a kid …”

  “Well, we might have to do something about that because obviously she is very into it.”

  “Right,” Jude says, though he sounds unsure.

  “Don’t worry,” I assure him. “It’s awesome. Easiest homework you’ve ever had.”

  “Okay,” he replies. “But homework… do you really think …”

  “Shit, I gotta go.” I leap onto my barstool as Bree comes walking back to the table. Her hair is down and normal now and she’s carrying what can only be described as a cardboard dunce cap in one of her hands.