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

by Tash Skilton

  Jude smiles at her retreating form and then saunters over to me, lipstick smeared all over the lower half of his face and a sexed-up haze in his eyes. His hair was already too artfully mussed up for Bree’s pawing to make a difference.

  “You were right. She’s amazing,” he says to me, still drunk on pheromones.

  “What happened?” I ask. “Why did she leave?”

  “Her friend had an emergency,” he replies.

  Huh. “A friend with an emergency” is usually code for someone who was on standby to interrupt the date at a preset signal. But from everything I saw—and heard—it sure didn’t look like Bree wanted to be interrupted.

  “That’s odd,” I say.

  Jude shrugs. “I thought maybe she might’ve been bailing on me, but then she kept saying how sorry she was. And slipped me this before she left.”

  He hands over a cheddar-colored napkin with a kiss stain on it. If I squint, I can make out what looks like an “IOU more of this” in something that looks like chalky grease marks.

  “What did she use to write this?” I ask.

  “Ricotta mousse,” he says, grinning. “She’s insanely sexy, no?”

  “Yes,” I admit. Because she is. In every way. She’s got looks, personality, and—apparently—a healthy disregard for inhibition. Good for Jude.

  Bastard.

  “I’m going to text her,” Jude says, taking out his phone. “What? No!” I say, knocking it down from in front of his face. “It’s too soon.”

  “Really?” Jude asks, puzzled. “I mean, she was just sitting on my lap and, uh, I’m not sure Little Jude was in on the plan to play hard to get. Just, you know, hard.” His eyes twinkle, as if he’s delighted with his clever pun.

  “Right. I get it,” I respond curtly. “Even so. Let’s give her a little time to think about you. Keep some of the mystery going.”

  “O-kay,” Jude says slowly. “You sure? Seems a bit like playing games just for the sake of playing games.”

  “Trust me,” I say firmly. “There has to be just a smidge of game-playing, at least in the beginning. We’ll keep it short. You can text her tomorrow.” His face lights up. “Night,” I amend.

  “If you say so,” he says, but he looks disappointed as he puts his phone away.

  After he’s left and I’m settling my bill, I give myself a postmortem. If I were in Jude’s position, would I have texted Bree right away?

  Abso-fucking-lutely. Probably before the door closed on her way out.

  So why did I stop him?

  It’s because you have perspective, I tell myself. Little Jude—or Little Miles, I guess, though I haven’t actually named my dick—isn’t steering the ship for me, so I can look at the situation from a more logical standpoint.

  Right?

  Right. That has to be it.

  I focus on that instead of the strange other feeling that’s cropping up in the back of my mind.

  Relief that the kiss didn’t turn into something more.

  And then, disappointment that it didn’t.

  Which is the proper emotion. I want this to go right for my client. I want what he wants.

  I ignore the little voice telling me now: You’re not disappointed because Jude didn’t get laid. You’re disappointed because now the sexual tension will be drawn out. And what could have been a one-night stand? Could turn into a slow-burn romance.

  I put my headphones back on and drown out that little voice completely with an Iron Maiden Spotify playlist.

  By 4:55 the next morning, I’ve taken a half-hour jog around Tompkins Square Park, showered, gotten dressed, and am casually reading a book as I lean against the side of Café Crudité. I even wait a respectable minute after Evelynn has opened up the café before I saunter in, giving her a big smile and a hearty “good morning.”

  She narrows her eyes at me before grunting a greeting back. The table is all mine, of course, and I triumphantly place my bag on its bench before I walk over to the counter.

  “How are you doing?” I ask Evelynn before I order, trying to think of something else specific I can ask about and realizing that—despite the fact that I’ve known her name for over a decade—I don’t know a single other thing about her.

  “Fabulous,” she responds drily. “You?”

  “Great!”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she says shrewdly. “Beat your girlfriend today, huh?” She nods in the vicinity of the table.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Anyway. What’ll it be? The usual?” This sad excuse for a conversation has clearly been all that Evelynn can handle at 5:04 a.m. on a Tuesday.

  “Yup,” I respond. “Oh, and how about a muffin. Carrot raisin.”

  “Living dangerously,” she mutters, not even remotely under her breath.

  I smile at her as I slip a five in the tip jar, but she barely even glances at it.

  Okay, so maybe I need to try harder to get into Evelynn’s good graces.

  I sit at the table and for the next few hours I am ostensibly working on a couple of new clients. Clark has made initial contact with a guy who looks promising and I’m crafting his response message. Diego has signed up for this new speed ghosting initiative (I’m beginning to think I may have to put out a hit on Stella), and, though I thought his free chat session went well, I am currently fielding a multitude of questions from him about the packages and trying to work through his reluctance to sign up.

  I say ostensibly because in reality, I am waiting for one of two alerts. The bell of the front door signaling that Zoey has come in and seen me basking in the spoils of my victory; or the Game Set Match ping from Jude’s open profile, signaling that TheDuchessB has started a chat.

  Three times I go to start a chat myself.

  I’m trying to woo a jaded barista into deeming me worthy of morning chitchat. I write the first time, then delete.

  Do you think Mary Clarkson kept the costumes and, if so, do you think any of her boyfriends ever had her role-play with them? I try the second time and delete it again.

  The thing is, I don’t need to be writing her at all. I told Jude not to text her until tonight and he needs to make the first contact for real at this point.

  So moving on from misheard lyrics, what’s one song everyone loves that you can’t stand? At the risk of having you never speak to me again, I’ll take the plunge and go first: “The Rainbow Connection.”

  I hit send. Apparently, I’m unable to talk sense into myself at this point. But why?

  Christ, isn’t it obvious? the little voice says.

  TheDuchessB: SACRILEGE.

  If it wasn’t obvious before, the huge smile on my face and the way my fingers fly across the keys should make it so.

  GreatSc0t: But just think about it … there *aren’t* so many songs about rainbows. Just like … “Over the Rainbow.” The whole song is built on a lie!

  TheDuchessB: Do you hate the Muppets too? And sunshine? I’m starting to get worried this isn’t going to work out …

  GreatSc0t: Of course I don’t hate the Muppets. Well, at least not all of them … can we maybe discuss Miss Piggy’s narcissistic personality disorder though?

  TheDuchessB: MISS PIGGY IS AN ICON AND A TREASURE. Though I agree she and chipmunk Alvin would make an epic crossover. As of this moment, I’m a Pigvin shipper.

  I laugh out loud. At my laptop screen. While in public.

  And, of course, that’s when I can no longer deny what’s actually happening.

  I like Bree. As in me, Miles.

  And if there’s one thing that breaks all the rules, not only of my job, but also of my own self-prescribed romantic exile, it’s that.

  The #1 rule of your job: It’s a job. Always make sure you’re keeping yourself from getting too personally invested in a client or a match. When dealing with love, emotions can run high. Keep yours in check.

  So, no. This cannot happen.

  This cannot happen.

  GreatSc0t: Whoops. Running late for a client. Let�
��s discuss at a later time … hopefully in person. ;-)

  And then I log off. I need to remember to tell Jude this convo happened.

  More importantly, I need to remember to back the fuck off. The best way to do that? Make sure Bree and Jude get together. No more weird, sabotaging pseudo-advice. No more offthe-cuff chat sessions.

  From now on, I’m following my own Freelancer’s Handbook to a T and making sure this goes to its natural conclusion of happily ever after. For them.

  CHAPTER 16

  To: Zoey Abot

  From: Aisha Ibrahim

  Re: Fw: Hamptons Emergency

  HE NAVIGATED AROUND MY FILTER THE FIRST TIME OUT! WILY BASTARD!

  p.s. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A “HAMPTONS EMERGENCY”

  p.p.s. SORRY FOR SHOUTING BUT HOW IS CLIFFORD IN THE HAMPTONS WHILE I’M WORKING A THIRD JOB

  p.p.p.s. CONGRATS ON WINNING THE POETRY CONTEST

  Begin Forwarded Message:

  -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  To: Party People

  From: Clifford Jenkins

  Re: Hamptons Emergency

  Uggggggh, the house I’m renting this weekend has a leaky sink, broken locks, and the blinds are torn. What’s a guy gotta do for a little privacy?

  Anyone know a reliable crash pad for a dude in need? I’ll owe you a crisp high five.

  Also, keep up the good work, my soldiers of love. Not a single person has asked to switch ghosties since the plan was implemented. That speaks super highly of each and every one of you. I always knew I’d hired the best in the business, and here’s the proof!

  Fist bump to Zoey A., aka the Zo-ster, for knocking my socks off her with her wicked-ass prose for my profe.

  Namaste,

  Clifford

  ZOEY

  The reason Clifford liked my poem was because I copied his e-mails into a word cloud app to uncover his most-used phrases, then fiddled around for a few hours until the sentiments rhymed. (He was definitely the kind of person who believed poems must rhyme.)

  I’d fed his own words back to him. You—Only Better was the original name of his company, after all. Of course, instead of writing ethically gray-area poetry, regardless of the paycheck, what I should have been doing was opening Final Draft and starting page four of my screenplay. And what I should be doing now, instead of reliving my win, is hauling ass to Café Crudité.

  The problem is, it’s already twenty-five past six. Miles will have snagged the good table by now, and rage suppression doesn’t leave much room for creativity. He commandeers it more often than not on Wednesdays; not sure what the outlying factors are. I need a new chart that analyzes his frame of mind and not just the nuts and bolts of arrivals and departures.

  I need a life.

  I decide to stay home today and deny him any caffeinated schadenfreude. Caffeinfreude. It gives me a kick imagining the moment he realizes he could’ve slept in. In that sense, I’ve won the day.

  An alert arrives on my phone: $150 (the poem payoff) has arrived in my PayPal account. Godspeed, Clifford, may it bring you a match. And may she have some type of language barrier situation going on so she can tolerate you.

  Final Draft dares me to open it. Simultaneously, my apartment requires dusting. Funny how that happens.

  Armed with dampened paper towels, I dust while listening to music. Then I close my eyes and just listen to music, hoping to coax my muse out. The problem is, I don’t like any of my screenplay ideas. When I was a teenager, I wrote fanfic (aka “fixing what TV shows did wrong, or expounding upon what they did right”) and I always assumed it was practice for writing my own stories. That was supposed to be the goal, after all. And when I got the gig with Mary, I told her I wanted to be a screenwriter. I’d barely heard of script doctoring, didn’t know there were people whose jobs it was to help shape other people’s screenplays. But Mary sent me here to write original material—she’s subsidizing me, essentially. It’s what she thinks I should do, so I have to keep at it. I have to at least try.

  When I needed a creative jump start in LA, I’d stroll the La Brea Tar Pits. The thick, primal, bone-trapping smell reaching out from the earth’s sordid past comforted me for reasons I couldn’t begin to explain. Random fact: La Brea in Spanish means “tar pits,” so we’re all actually going around saying The Tar Pits Tar Pits.

  When that didn’t work, well, I’d get stoned. That’s not an option in New York, unless I go through the trouble of procuring a medical marijuana card. (What would I say my health issue is, “dependent on weed”?) There is wine in the fridge, however. I just need half a glass, something to mellow me out, get rid of the low-key panic running through me all the time.

  Half a glass turns into three or four. I’ve never been a day drinker, so chalk that up as another reason this city is ruining me. Six hours of buzzed YouTubing later, I guiltily open Final Draft. I have wasted this whole day. Nothing’s working! Everything I write I end up deleting.

  My hand darts of its own volition to a different folder: my secret treasure trove of Jude messages, copied and pasted from our conversations the past few weeks.

  The only person who makes me feel even slightly like I’m not drowning is Jude. I click on a document, and relief settles on me like a soft, cool, satin sheet.

  Right before dinner, Bree tells me to message Jude later to confirm their upcoming plans tomorrow. She can’t do it herself because she’s going out with her girls and they apparently confiscate each other’s phones. (But how will the rest of us spend our evenings if we don’t get to see what they eat? I wonder sarcastically.) I’m just sore because three days ago, Bree and Jude snuck off on a smoothie date without me knowing.

  Worse, it was her favorite date so far! The one I had nothing to do with!

  Pride and (what else) prejudice war inside me. Pride that my so-called dick-picker is superior to hers and landed her a great match. Prejudice because I don’t think she’s on Jude’s level, and never will be. I’m not ready to give up texting privileges with him, despite her instructions not to linger while messaging him tonight.

  Was it inevitable that I’d fall for him? If you toss a twenty-something (I can claim that age for one more week) into a new city with no friends or support, force her to cyber flirt with eligible, attractive men who self-describe as “seeking meaningful relationships,” what do you think is going to happen?

  You can see why, then, I’m not in the mood for a brief conversation. And why I might wait until eleven p.m. to do it.

  TheDuchessB: You up?

  GreatSc0t: Is this where I make the requisite double-entendre?

  TheDuchessB: If you must …

  GreatSc0t: I’ll find a way to resist.

  GreatSc0t: Hard time sleeping?

  TheDuchessB: Little bit. You?

  GreatSc0t: Hard something. (ba-dum-dum) Sorry. I repressed the first joke, but suppressing two in a row is a bridge too far.

  TheDuchessB: Like farts. Suppressing them. LOL

  Ugggggh. I loathed typing that. But it’s “in character.”

  The pause after my fart joke seems endless; did I do it wrong? Maybe they’ve passed that phase of their interactions and it’s no longer amusing? Not that it’s a recognized phase anywhere else on God’s green earth. But no, soon enough a new message pops up.

  GreatSc0t: LOL yes

  TheDuchessB: Just confirming tomorrow’s shindig.:) Almost today’s …

  GreatSc0t: Cool, really looking forward to it.

  TheDuchessB: If I woke you, I can go, we’ll be seeing each other soon, so

  GreatSc0t: No that’s okay. I’m definitely awake.

  TheDuchessB: Want to guess my favorite sleep game? You get three tries.

  GreatSc0t: Okay. Based on my own experience, is the game 1) Let’s All Panic About Not Being Able to Sleep 2) The Sheets Are Bunched at the Foot of the Bed, So Now I Must Curl My Foot Into a Crude Hook to Grasp and Pull Them Back Up 3) The Mystery of the Pillow
That No Longer Has a Cool Side

  TheDuchessB: All excellent guesses. *buzzer noise* But all wrong. Here’s how you play the Sleeping Game. You close your eyes and try to convince yourself you’re in a different bedroom. Could be the same house, could be someone else’s house, as long as it’s a place you know well and can recreate in your mind.

  Tonight I’d been imagining my guest room at Mary’s in as much detail as I could: the bedside drawer with the loose handle, the alarm clock, reading lamp, tissue box, desk, wall mirror, basket of yarn and crochet hooks, ten-inch TV on the dresser, and the bookshelf composed entirely of lurid murder mysteries from the 1970s.

  GreatSc0t: How do you win?

  TheDuchessB: To win, you have to experience doubt about your surroundings, convince yourself you really ARE in that other room, on the king- or queen-size or whatever-size mattress, AND that you’re on the opposite side of the bed. If you roll over, you’ll fall out of bed.

  GreatSc0t: That’s how you win? By falling out of bed?

  TheDuchessB: I’ve never won before, but yes—that’s the objective.

  GreatSc0t: Your goal is to concoct a fantasy world that feels so rich and real you’ll injure yourself.

  TheDuchessB: PRECISELY

  GreatSc0t: I think I’d rather picture the occupant of a different room. Her face, for example. Her hair. The person I’m thinking about is pure tidy when it comes to styling her hair.

  I’ve never heard that expression before, but for some reason it causes a pleased blush of warmth to spread through my limbs, which is ridiculous; it’s not MY hair he’s talking about. If he knew Bree was a construct, that she was two of us and we could be separated out, which one would he pick? Is there any universe in which he’d pick me?

  I think of Mary, pushing me out the door, all the way to the opposite coast, then hiring a new assistant like it was nothing, like the last eight years meant nothing.

  I think of my parents, so pleased with themselves for going where the wind takes them that they’ve never tried to steer themselves in my direction.

  TheDuchessB: Why thank you. I try ;) I think you might have been onto something, when you asked if I couldn’t sleep.

  GreatSc0t: Have you tried counting goats? Much better than sheep, for obvious reasons.