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

by Tash Skilton

  I don’t even want to go there because I don’t want to give myself the chance to confirm the answer.

  “Oh, excellent,” I say, as I see an extra-confident-looking dude in a blue polo strolling over to us, opening up his mouth to ask Aisha if she needs help. I take a step back, ready to enjoy the show.

  * * *

  Jude comes to my apartment to test out the headset and then we walk over to Cheese together. But I go in first, telling him to take a stroll around the block before he enters. I don’t want to risk Bree seeing us together.

  I go into the restaurant and assess the situation. There aren’t too many people there. A trio of young women sit at one table, and, behind them, another woman in sunglasses and a fedora-type hat slouches into the corner of her booth. Probably a celebrity of some sort, but I won’t risk tarnishing my “I’m obviously a real New Yorker” demeanor by deigning to look closer to find out who it is.

  When the waitress comes over, I ask to sit at the booth closest to the door. I slide into the bench facing the rest of the tables, giving me a perfect view of wherever Jude and Bree choose to sit.

  I call Jude and he answers on the first ring.

  “I’m outside the restaurant,” he says quickly and quietly. “And I see her. She’s about five feet away.”

  “Great,” I say. “No need to respond to me anymore. I’ll just listen in and will be talking to you when necessary.”

  Jude doesn’t say anything, but I hear him greet Bree and then, a minute later, see the two of them walk through the door.

  I order food as they are getting seated, so that the waitress will have no reason to have a prolonged interaction with me. And then I settle in to concentrate on the conversation happening twenty feet away.

  CHAPTER 14

  To: All the Single Ladies

  From: Clifford Jenkins

  Re: Side Gig

  Hello, my fine friends of the female persuasion,

  Rebound relationships are tough. A balancing act. Some people indulge in a dirty, nauseating affair as swiftly as possible, with whoever happens to be nearby, without regard to professionalism, hygiene, office harassment policies, or standard human decency.

  After stomping on love’s carcass,

  / they need an unsatisfying fling

  / to help numb the sting

  / of losing “the real thing.”

  (Anyone have connections to Eminem or Kendrick Lamar? I don’t spit rhymes on the reg, but this one’s screaming out for a song; I’ll even give it to him for free.) Anyway, we all know people like that, amirite? Not me, though. I’d rather enter into something meaningful. I was reflecting about it tonight, after knocking back a few, and I realized I have access to some of the best creative and romantically inclined minds in the country when it comes to finding and keeping someone special. To that end, I invite you all to submit a poem (no stealing the one above, haha!) for me to put up on my profile (link below), which I plan to go live with on Thursday. It’s my first time on a dating site since … the obvious … and I need to make a good impression.

  Let’s keep this between us for now. I don’t think the dudes need to know at the mo’. (There I go again … )

  Winner gets a cool $150 and my gratitude.

  Yours,

  Clifford

  ZOEY

  One-fifty for a poem? Are we talking sonnet or couplet? (And did you notice the time stamp?? 3:37 a.m.??) I text Aisha as I wait for the elevator. I haven’t seen the Sleeper inside all week, which I think is a record.

  LOL! Srsly. I could be down for a limerick. Between this and my other boss’s digital get-down (don’t ask), I’m setting up a filter. Unless the subject line says “urgent” or “paycheck” all their e-mails are going straight to archive from now on, she writes back.

  And then whenever you want to feel profoundly uncomfortable, you can binge them instead of this torturous slow-drip, I reply.

  Yes!

  I’m about to respond with something along the lines of, “We could make a party of it” when the elevator arrives and I chicken out. We’ll see each other at the work meetup next week and I’ll test the waters in person, see if she’d like to grab brunch sometime. I don’t want to come on too strong; I’m sure she doesn’t lack for friends, so I need to make my move organically, pretend it just came to me in the moment. Maybe a café near the High Line.

  I tap my foot a few times. The elevator’s here but the doors aren’t opening. It sits for a moment, and then it’s called back down to the ground floor and leaves me behind. Sad trombone. Twenty seconds pass before I take a deep breath and head for the stairwell.

  Outside, en route to Cheese, I earn squinting double takes from strangers as I walk by. My brown trilby hat, ponytail, artfully shredded jeans, and Holly Golightly sunglasses convince people I’m Someone, if only for a second. If I ever need to disguise myself again, though, I’m stuffing a BabyBjörn with salami. #MillennialMom for the win.

  It was easy to get myself invited on Bree’s second date with Jude. Over FaceTime, looking contrite and concerned, I offered to drop by in case she needed a bailout. After all, in her view, it was my fault the last date bombed; I owed her one. I told her if it’s as much of a dud as the beer flight, she can Ace him for good.

  At which point maybe I’ll set up a Game, Set, Match profile of my own and … nope. Nope nope nope. Keep it professional, Zoey. Enjoy the opportunity to check him out IRL and leave it at that. Your rent depends on it.

  Luckily, she enjoyed Cheese the first time (minus their outside bottle policy) and was happy to go back. She told me to hide in a booth at the back. I don’t need a disguise, but it made us feel better about me tagging along. If I’m incognito, she can more easily pretend I’m not there and/or that we don’t know each other.

  Her signal for an intervention will be if she loudly asks their server for a Monster Mozzarella to go. But if she orders the Ricotta Mousse with Balsamic Pepper Cherries to split for dessert, that means she’s having a good time and I should skedaddle.

  The back of Jude’s head is sexy. It’s the only part of him I can see from my vantage point, but it’s excellent. It has a high fade, with adorably messy textures and flow on top. Sort of like if Miles-High put a little effort in, instead of his patented “I slept wrong, oh well, guess I’ll go out in public!” look. (I still can’t believe we shared a table last week. I’ve been checking my weather app each morning and it’s clear skies ahead, thank God.)

  You can tell Jude works out a lot, but not because he’s huge; he’s streamlined. He probably has abs like a washboard. And yet, he’s not a meathead or gym rat, not even remotely. His texts are funny and clever and his profession is, dare I say, altruistic—using his superior knowledge of the human body to help others attain their goals. There’s something noble about a job like that.

  I wonder if he has any female clients … .

  Bree looks great. Her hair falls softly down her back, and her crop top and linen pants are casual yet flirty. Was it my imagination, or did Jude look relieved at her choice of outfit and hairstyle?

  Right now she’s telling him about her last visit: “They made me pay sixty bucks to open my bottle of wine. Can you believe it?”

  Actually, they made me pay sixty bucks, but she’s allowed to embellish for a better story.

  “Once we get to know each other better, assuming I don’t make a guddle of this date, I hope you’ll pick out some wine pairings with me sometime, because I’m hopeless at that. My area of knowledge is strictly beer.”

  Guhhhhh. Guddle. He’s so hot and humble. Bree better acknowledge how hard he’s trying. If she doesn’t thank him for the walking tour, I might have to stand up on the table and wave my arms to get her attention. Also, it’s both intoxicating and strange to hear him talking, live and in the flesh. I’ve been listening to his recording on nights when I can’t sleep and his smooth, elegant voice always lulls me into a sense of peace.

  “It’s brilliant really, this place focusing
on cheese. When I was in Switzerland, you could order a plate of cheese—”

  “Swiss cheese?” Bree interrupts.

  “Exactly!” he says (points for enthusiasm). “And with a side of fruit it makes for a perfect meal, so I’m glad you suggested this.”

  “Thanks for giving it a try.”

  My daydream about Jude hiking the Swiss Alps shirtless is interrupted by the arrival of their appetizer: cheese curds. Jude picks up four small pieces and … juggles them. It’s charming and unexpected, and Bree laughs. Score another one for Jude!

  He flounders and drops two on the floor. Bree bends down.

  “Five second rule,” she declares.

  “One, two, three, four, five,” Jude says.

  Crouched on the floor, Bree looks up at him.

  “Six,” he adds, ominously.

  She pops one in her mouth, eats it, and swallows.

  “I live on the edge, baby,” she says with a wink, and returns to her seat.

  He laughs and raises his hand for a high-five and I no longer know what I’m witnessing. If my date essentially licked the floor of a public restaurant, that would be a problem for me. Either the five (or six) second rule also exists in Scottish childhoods, or he has no intention of kissing her later? (Or ever, one can hope?)

  “Do you have any female clients?” Bree asks, eerily echoing my own thoughts from earlier. “Are most of them ramping up for some big event, or summer bikinis, or is that a myth?”

  “I mostly work with blokes to be honest, but there certainly is a lot of eye candy at the job in general.”

  That’s a bit … odd to mention. How he likes to ogle women at the gym. I mean, it’s not offensive exactly, because of course we all like to check out attractive people, especially if they’re a bit sweaty and working their bodies into a frenzy in spandex, but—

  “Wouldn’t it be the worst if you were, like, watching a super foxy girl, just a perfect specimen, running on the treadmill next to you and she suddenly let loose with a big ol’ fart?” Bree says with a giggle. Then she does a sound effect. A SOUND EFFECT.

  I almost spit out my food. Jesus Christ. She’s just thrown her Future Honesty at him. The future is now, apparently.

  Far from disgusted, Jude responds instantly: “That’s happened! That’s really happened to me before!”

  “Noo.”

  “Right hand to God, when they’re running it’s like they can’t hold it in! And then it makes a ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ like a car engine burst.”

  He slaps his hand on the table, and they’re both laughing so hard the other customers look over.

  So far, this date can be summed up thusly: floor cheese and farts.

  Huh. Well, okay. Maybe they needed a silly icebreaker after the awkwardness of their first date, and now they can move on to, shall we say, less flatulence-based conversation. Props to Jude for being so willing to go with the flow. His laughter sounds genuine, too, and since Bree’s facing me, I can see how pleased she is that they’re connecting.

  Jude truly is a saint. A handsome, kind, witty saint. Maybe the “rat-a-tat-tat” sound effect wasn’t witty per se, but I like to think he’s overlooking all of Bree’s behavior because of our—I mean, her—messages the last few weeks. He’s willing to put in the extra mile to make her happy, because he thinks I’m—I mean she’s—worth it for the banter burning up our keyboards.

  They move on to discussing Bree’s job, and when their main courses arrive, their body language is easily decipherable. She’s touched his arm twice, and he’s helped the waitress clear away Bree’s old dish to make way for Bree’s new one. Thoughtful, considerate Jude.

  I dig in to my kanafeh. It’s divine, but I can’t help feeling glum over their obvious enjoyment of each other.

  It’s good, I remind myself. This is what you’re aiming for.

  Then I hear the chilling words: “We’ll have the Ricotta Mousse with Balsamic Pepper Cherries to split, for dessert.”

  No.

  Jude leans across the table toward her. “Why wait for cherries when I’ve got these perfect lips right here?”

  Did he just … refer to his own lips as perfect cherries? Or did he mean hers? If he meant his own, that’d be a bit egotistical. Unless he’s flirt-joking. Yes. That must be it. He’s being ironic. And you know, he’s not wrong. His lips are pouty-plump and would probably feel amazing gliding up and down someone’s—Oh. God.

  They are kissing. They are kissing. I jump up from the table and walk swiftly past them, only to see Bree’s hand sliding up Jude’s thigh under the table!

  Outside, I pace. My mind fills with images. They’re going to leave and they’re going to go back to his place or her place and they’re going to keep kissing, deeper and wetter, and then he’ll lift her up effortlessly because he’s a freaking gym trainer and she’ll lock her legs around his lower back and he’ll carry her to the bedroom, and … I can’t let this happen. I just can’t.

  I dial her number. I get voice mail. I dial again; same result. I text her madly: I’m outside. MAJOR emergency. I need your help. PLEASE!

  A minute passes and Bree exits the restaurant. Her lipstick is smeared halfway around her face.

  “What happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” she asks, patting my shoulder.

  “I’m fine, I just had to get you out of there.”

  “What are you talking about? I did the good signal.” She looks longingly back inside the restaurant. “Did you mix it up with the bad signal?”

  “No, I vetoed it.”

  “Why? We’re having a great time!”

  “You can’t sleep with him. It’s too fast.”

  “You asked me to give him a second chance, and now that I have, and it’s working, you think it’s a mistake? This is exhausting.”

  What doesn’t exhaust her? “This has nothing to do with me. It’s what you wanted. Here’s what you said to me the day we first talked. Look, I wrote it down.”

  I thrust my smartphone in her face, cued up to the notes I took upon meeting her.

  DOES NOT WANT TO HAVE SEX TOO EARLY.

  (I may have caps-locked, italicized, and underlined it just now to hit the point home.)

  Her nose wrinkles and she paces alongside me. “But … I’m fully sober. And I want this. Him.”

  “WELL, YOU CAN’T,” I blurt out.

  “You’re kind of freaking me out right now.”

  I back off and take some calming breaths. “Here’s what I think. It’s awesome you guys are feeling each other, it really is, but the worst thing you could do right now is get physical.” Why am I quoting Olivia Newton-John? Why are my friends so old? “You decided to use Sweet Nothings so you could have a different outcome, right? I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t at least try to help you stick to your plan. If you’re having fun tonight, you’ll have fun again another night, and another one, and each date after that, until it’s a meaningful situation, and, also, you know, it’ll be so much hotter and more satisfying after all that waiting and waiting, all that buildup rocketing through your bodies, it’ll be like …” I make an “explosion” noise, complete with hand movements, and I think I’m turning myself on, which is disturbing. I might even be panting. “And then if you want to”—I pause—“take it to the next level, I’ll be cheering for you every step of the way.” God, I sound creepy.

  She blows a puff of air and slowly nods. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Make an excuse, say good night, and leave him hungry for more. If he messages you later, I’ll handle it, okay? I’ll take it from here. You just go home and chill.”

  She continues to nod. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks for looking out for me, Zoey.”

  Bree smooths her hands down her thighs, straightening her pants, and reenters the restaurant.

  I head home, my heart pounding a mile a minute.

  CHAPTER 15

  To: All Tell It to My Heart Employees

  From: Leanne Tseng

  Re: Speed Ghosting
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  Team,

  Stella does it again! Our feisty freelancer has come up with yet another brilliant idea.

  Over the next week, we’re running a promo. Anyone can sign up for a free “speed ghosting” session with us. What does that mean? It means they get one free ghostwritten chat session with a match of their choosing. Our goal? To retain between 30-50 new clients.

  Now while we cannot pay you for the speed ghosting sessions themselves, there will be a $250 bonus for anyone who can turn our prosaic penny-pinchers into full-fledged clients. So let’s do this.

  And brava, Stella!

  Yours,

  Leanne

  MILES

  Will the record please show that I never told Jude to say anything about farting? In fact, very little of that conversation actually turned out to be mine. Definitely not worth the price of admission—namely the 150 bucks I paid out of my own pocket for that headset.

  It started out fine. I did feed him the line about the wine pairings, though he cleverly Scotified it by using the word “guddle.”

  And then, before I knew it, he was talking about eye candy at the gym. “No, Jude,” I said. “We don’t want to talk about other attractive women …” but before I could tell him why, the two of them were off and talking about gas. As in passing it. Well, I guess that was one way to divert the conversation.

  Apparently, the correct way because suddenly they are heavily making out in the middle of the restaurant and straight into my inner ear. I have to take my headphones off at one point because it’s like listening to a porn podcast.

  That might have been a mistake because before I know it, Bree is flying past me and out of the restaurant.

  Shit. How did things go downhill so fast?

  I look over at Jude, who is looking longingly past me at the door. I’m about to go over to him when the door flies open and Bree comes rushing back in. I don’t have my headset in so I don’t hear what she says, but she bends over the table for a moment, throws what looks like a piece of paper at him, and then leaves for good.