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

by Tash Skilton

  “You do seem violently determined to keep this table. I don’t know what lengths you’ll go to.”

  I place a forkful of black bean quinoa on my tongue. My eyes widen and I contort my face as I force the food down.

  He looks nervous. “Well?”

  “It’s … fine,” I choke out unconvincingly, reaching for my glass of water and taking a hearty swig.

  His nose wrinkles. “That bad, huh?”

  “No, nooo,” I hedge. “You’ll probably like it. Why don’t you take a nice, big, enormous bite and find out?”

  He looks mournfully down at his food. “Great.”

  He digs his fork in and scoops out the smallest possible portion, gingerly raising it to his mouth.

  A moment later, sounding surprised, he says, “It’s delicious. It’s really, really good.”

  I giggle, unable to pretend any longer. “I know.”

  “Why’d you try to trick me?” he sputters.

  “I thought if I made you think it was gross, you might set it aside and I could take it home later.”

  “You’re like … a con artist. Are you sure you’re not from Florida?”

  “Seriously, if you say that one more time …”

  He devours another couple of bites. “Just answer me this. What’s with your arm warmers? And your boots? Nothing about your ensemble makes sense. It’s like you’re dressed for two different countries, like your top half is at war with your bottom half.”

  I’m not sure I like the idea of him contemplating my top and bottom halves. Though God knows I’ve contemplated all of him from the moment he arrived in his clingy wet clothes. A blush threatens to overtake my face again.

  “On cool days, it’s nice to have the arm warmers on outside, and on hot days, when they crank the a/c all the way up, it’s freezing inside and I can’t type if my wrists and fingers are cold. Either way, I need them.”

  “Also to hide your commuter tan?”

  I stare at him. “How do you know about my commuter tan?”

  Now I’m pretty sure he’s the one who’s blushing. He tries to play it off with a shrug. “You had the arm warmers off once. Your right arm looked pale compared to your left. I assume from wasting away your life inside a car all day.”

  He’s right, of course. Not about wasting away my life but about how the lopsided tan came about. My left arm out the driver’s-side window naturally got more sun while driving to work each day.

  “At least the sun shines where I come from,” I shoot back, nodding to the dire weather outside.

  Miles is clearly determined to get back to why he finds my sense of fashion perplexing as opposed to, say, why he’s been staring at me so keenly that he knows my tan lines. “And the boots?”

  I let him squirm a little before I answer. “My first week here, someone stepped on my foot and broke my toe. I can’t risk it happening again.”

  “Pro tip: Some women wear sneakers to commute and then put on high heels at the office.”

  “Are you honestly suggesting I change into high heels while I sit at a café?”

  “It’s basically your office, though, isn’t it?”

  “I haven’t gotten any work done since you sat down,” I point out.

  He mimes zipping his lip and throwing away the key.

  Twenty minutes later, as I sit staring at my blank screen, I have to admit it wasn’t his words that were preventing me from working; it was his presence.

  It’s hard to concentrate with him sitting here. He’s probably judging my every breath and movement, finding them lacking in some way.

  Florida, I scoff. How humiliating.

  The next time there’s a flash flood, I’ll splash home in my apparently ridiculous boots. There will be no repeat offer to share this table, I guarantee you.

  Right. Back to work. I’ve somehow made it to page three of my screenplay, but now I don’t like the setting. Or the characters. Or their dialogue.

  Why can’t the finished script magically appear on my screen so I can fix it instead of having to write it? Why can’t I skip ahead to that part?

  Reflexively shifting my laptop so Miles can’t see the screen, I check Bree’s account for any new messages.

  There is one unread one.

  GreatSc0t: It was my pleasure. If I may be so bold as to ask, what toppings did you get on your doughnut?

  I had thanked Jude for the walking tour, wanting him to know that I—I mean, Bree—was still interested. But I hadn’t mentioned meeting up again yet, knowing that a little suspense couldn’t hurt at this point since he was clearly so interested.

  Now seems as good a time as any.

  TheDuchessB: I could tell you, but maybe I’d rather just show you sometime. ;-)

  I’m thinking about what to follow that up with when I get a ping. He’s online.

  GreatSc0t: You name the time. I’m there.

  I have to double-check Bree’s schedule. Before I can write back, I get another message.

  GreatSc0t: Choose wisely re: the time. You may not have lived until you’ve had a butter pecan/rainbow sprinkle/Boston creme doughnut at 2 a.m. on a school night.

  TheDuchessB: Rebel.

  I’m grinning at my screen and I don’t even care that Miles might notice and make fun of me for it. But a quick glance his way reveals that he’s far too absorbed in his own work.

  TheDuchessB: I’ll get back to you with my sched soon.

  CHAPTER 13

  To: All Tell It to My Heart Employees

  From: Leanne Tseng

  Re: Last Night

  Giles,

  I’ve made an executive decision that you need to get back over here and do that thing you did approximately 37—no let’s make it an even 40—more times. My retainer demands it. I’m in bed now. Naked. Waiting for you to come. (So that I can come … )

  L

  MILES

  65 percent of the time? Zoey has beaten me to the table 65 percent of the time? That’s ludicrous. I clearly need to up my game. Though it’s nice to know her name, finally. I mean, for psychological warfare purposes.

  The bad news is, I now live across the street from Café Crudité. Bad news for Zoey, obviously, because her stats are about to take a major nosedive. Miles-High Hair, is it? I’d like to see Zoey Scaredy-Toes beat my commute now.

  There’s only one word for my new apartment, by the way: spectacular.

  I got a response within an hour of submitting my essay with instructions to take my security deposit and first month’s rent to an old-fashioned smoke shop on Avenue B, where it took me a minute to find the small, old Polish man camouflaged amongst the large selection of bongs (beautiful glasswork, I noted) that were stacked on the front counter. He didn’t respond to my hello, just stuck his hand out for my envelope with the checks, looked them over briefly, and then handed me two keys in return.

  I admit I was slightly nervous about what I’d walk into when I put the key in the door. After all, I had done this whole thing sight unseen and the rent was ridiculously cheap. I was expecting some catch: maybe vermin, maybe dead body chalk lines—neither of which was a deal breaker, by the way.

  What I walked into was a revelation. A bright, airy, true one-bedroom. The kitchen and bathrooms both had some once-neon pink tiling that were somewhat eighties chic, but everything was functional. The living space was definitely big enough for a couch and a dining (or, let’s be real, pinball) table. Wall to wall, the bedroom could fit a full-size bed and a dresser. I was on the fourth floor and the building even had an actual elevator! It wasn’t working when I got in, but that was hardly the point.

  If there was a catch, I didn’t want to know what it was and, quite frankly, I’d probably be fine with it. As I’d established with Bree earlier, haunted apartments were all the rage anyway.

  What the what?! It’s a text from Aisha, but I don’t know what she’s freaking out about. I send her back a question mark.

  I take it you haven’t read Leanne’s e-mail yet …
>
  I saw it come in but since I’m about to run out of my apartment to grab my table, I haven’t opened it yet.

  But Aisha’s text piques my curiosity. I take out my phone as I walk to the front door. I’m just about to click on Leanne’s subject line when I hear a deep voice ring out in the hallway, “I’m coming out!” Ah, my mysterious neighbor. Not sure if they’re a big fan of Diana Ross, auditioning to be an off-brand Price Is Right announcer, or possibly making sure the building knows their sexual orientation at all times, but despite the fact that we’ve never met, I’ve heard that greeting every single day that I’ve lived here. You gotta love New York.

  I read Leanne’s message once.

  By the second time, I probably no longer need that cup of coffee. I’m up.

  I text Aisha back exclamation points.

  Leanne … and GILES … are …, I write.

  Boinking. Yes, it would appear so. Now everything makes SO MUCH SENSE.

  She’s right. Not just all of the little favors Giles has been doing for the company, but also how much more relaxed Leanne has seemed in the past month. I mean, writing an e-mail about her love story with Clifford?!

  I half expect to get an “unsend” e-mail—one of the most pointless functionalities in Outlook—or maybe even a follow-up message from her once she realizes her mistake. Then again, I also half expect her, in a typical baller Leanne move, to just let it stand, daring any of us to make mention of it.

  Either way, I don’t have too much time to ponder, because it’s five fifteen a.m., and I need to get over to the café.

  I hurry across the street, putting my hand out to warn a speeding taxi to let me by, and am just about to open the door when I sense movement by the picture window.

  Un. Fucking. Believable.

  The café has been open for all of fifteen minutes. How the hell did she beat me here? Is she sleeping in the back alley? Is she secretly Evelynn’s roommate?

  She smiles sweetly at me—dimples set to “maximum destruction”—when she sees me walk in, then makes a big show of opening her bag, uncapping her pen, and marking something on her crazy chart.

  What a waste of a perfect smile. For a second, I wonder what I’d do if she were my client. She’s beautiful, obviously. She’s intelligent. But she’s also clearly unhinged. Could I copywrite that away?

  Probably, I think to myself with a smirk. I’m really good at my job.

  Scaredy-Toes Zoey rolls her eyes at me, almost as if she can hear my thoughts. I clear my throat, feeling uncomfortable at the idea, and vow to ignore her for the rest of my time here. I get my drink, find the table farthest away from the Table of Champions (damn it! … now she’s got me calling it something idiotic), and open up my laptop to get to work.

  TheDuchessB: Will you take “Random Questions” for 100?

  I smile at my screen. This will make it easier to swallow my defeat today.

  GreatSc0t: Always.

  TheDuchessB: What’s your most embarrassing misheard lyric?

  I think about it for a second, but the answer comes pretty quickly.

  GreatSc0t: You know that Blues Traveler song “Run-Around”? It was on the radio a lot when I was a kid …

  Though, on second thought, was it? Jude is a few years younger than me …

  TheDuchessB: I know it.

  Oh, well. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to be doing the math.

  GreatSc0t: I always thought it said, “Use your violin to speed things up.” And I figured it was about a magical violin that could make things go in fast-forward.

  TheDuchessB: Wow … that might make it a better song, actually.

  GreatSc0t: I used to dream about owning said violin. Especially during naptime.

  TheDuchessB: Not a fan of taking a leisurely sojourn in the middle of your day?

  GreatSc0t: As a three-year-old boy? Er … no.

  TheDuchessB: And now?

  GreatSc0t: If I’m taking a midday sojourn … I prefer to have company. ;-)

  There’s a lag in her response. Maybe that came across as too sleazy. I quickly start typing up a damage control message, but I don’t get to send it.

  TheDuchessB: Sooooo … are you still down for meeting up?

  YES! I almost pump my fist into the air. I’ve been waiting days for this. Or, I guess I should say, we have. Jude and I.

  GreatSc0t: Of course. Holey Cream, right?

  Though now that I think about it, Jude probably doesn’t eat doughnuts.

  TheDuchessB: Actually, there’s this other place I’ve been meaning to check out. It’s a pop-up cheese shop called, very cleverly, Cheese. It’s in the East Village.

  It’s actually down the block. I’ve seen it. But then I remember, Jude doesn’t eat cheese, either—a memorable point from their first date. Then again, maybe so many other things went wrong that she doesn’t remember. Either way, the fact that she’s giving Jude another chance is a big deal and we shouldn’t give her any cause to change her mind. I can probably get Jude on board; luckily, he’s one of my more affable clients.

  GreatSc0t: I’m in. When would work for you?

  TheDuchessB: Thursday night?

  That’s two nights from now. I have to double-check Jude’s schedule but …

  GreatSc0t: Let’s pencil it in!

  Jude is fine with Thursday night. He’s even fine with Cheese. Sort of.

  “I guess I’ll eat beforehand?” he says to me.

  “Maybe,” I respond. “Or … I don’t know. Could you save your calories for the day or something and just eat a small amount? It would be less awkward … .”

  Jude blinks at me through FaceTime as if he’s thinking of saying something. Maybe another deserved question about why we are trying so hard for this one girl. But then he lets it go.

  “Sure,” he finally says. “I can have Sunday dessert on Thursday this week.”

  “Great,” I say. And now to tell him the other idea I had, which was, in large part, inspired by Leanne’s accidental e-mail.

  Jude needs this date to go well. I need this date to go well. It’s not that I don’t trust Jude to not have another stilted conversation disaster … okay, it is that I don’t trust him.

  “So, do you remember how I mentioned we have a gold package? That comes with a conversational coach who can sit nearby and feed you lines on a date?” Who would ostensibly be Giles, of course.

  “Er … yes, I do,” Jude says. “But I have to be honest … I’m not sure it’s in my budget to get another add-on. The photo package …”

  “Totally, totally,” I respond right away. “And it normally is an add-on, but we’re actually testing out new equipment …” New equipment that Aisha and I have to go to Best Buy to figure out … “So we’re offering a steep discount right now. Only fifteen dollars for a onetime date.”

  “Oh,” Jude says. “That’s not so bad …”

  “Yup,” I say confidently. “It’s a very good deal.”

  “All right. I’ll think about it …” Jude says.

  “Great!” I say. “Do you think you could have an answer by say … eight p.m.?”

  Because Best Buy closes at nine. And Aisha is not free tomorrow. Out of the two of us, she’s the tech whiz, and I’d be more comfortable if I had her with me.

  “Tonight?” Jude asks.

  “If you wouldn’t mind. I just have to make sure everything is in order and our coach is available.” I’ll let him know later that our regular coach will magically not be available and he is going to end up with me.

  “Um … all right, sure. Why the hell not? Let’s just do it.”

  I grin at him. “Great. You won’t regret it.”

  I do get a weird kick out of going to Best Buy with Aisha. Because, inevitably, some employee takes one look at my tiny, female cousin and assumes she needs help when it comes to electronics. And then she gets to run circles around their technical knowledge. One time, when she was helping me pick out a router for the new Brooklyn apartment, some smug dude in his thi
rties actually asked her if she knew what a modem was. Her silence was only her trying to figure out if she should answer or just fall back on her kickboxing.

  “We basically want the most unobtrusive Bluetooth headset we can find,” she says as she scans the aisle we’re in, while I keep an eye out to see if any employees will dare to approach us. I could use the entertainment. “Simplest way is to just have him sync it to his phone, then you call him, feed him lines or what have you and, bada boom.”

  “Sounds good,” I respond.

  “I actually found this spy set online.” She looks up at me, her voice going up in pitch along with her obvious enthusiasm. “The ear receiver is invisible, goes deep in your ear and needs a magnet to remove. Then you put this necklace around your neck as a receiver, and there’s even a Morse code tap thing in your shoes so you can tap out an SOS to whoever’s listening.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Who would need that?”

  “Um … actual spies?” she responds.

  “Right,” I say. “Or, like, a really hopeless TITMH client.”

  She laughs. “Yup. You should talk to Leanne. See if she can spare a grand to get one for the company.”

  “Good idea.” I smirk. “I’ll also point out that she can spend a lot of time going over the minutia of it with our conversation coach.”

  “Yeah, right. Like you would dare bring Giles up to her ever again.”

  “You’re right,” I respond solemnly. “As far as we’re all concerned, Giles is dead. No, he never even existed.”

  “I aspire to be as badass as Leanne,” Aisha says, and sighs as she takes one of the packages off the shelf. “This one should work. But it’s a hundred fifty bucks.”

  “Ugh,” I say as I look at it. “I guess it’s an investment.”

  She stands up. “Are you really that worried about the money-back guarantee? I mean, it’s a two-strikes-and-you’re-out sort of deal, so even if for some reason Jude activates it, you’d still have another shot.”

  “It’s not that,” I say, and then hesitate. “Well, it sort of is. I also just, you know, want to make a good impression. On Leanne. I fucked up so much last month.” Even though it’s not really that either. Would I be doing this for any other client? Or, better question … would I be doing this for any other match except Bree?