Me vs. Me

by Sarah Mlynowski

  Brad is looking faux-James Dean, in faded jeans and a black leather jacket. He gives me a big, dimpled smile. “Hey. You look great.”

  I give him a big smile back. “Thanks, so do you.”

  “Hi, Brad,” Heather says. She’s leaning over provocatively, lacing up her boots.

  Brad’s gaze flickers over the exposed cleavage. “Hey.”

  You’ve got to be kidding. “All right, kids,” I tell them warily. “Let’s get a move on.”

  We stand outside and try to hail a cab. Finally, I flag one, we get inside, and I scoot over to the window seat. I’m expecting Brad to follow me, but Heather climbs in next.

  This is getting weirder and weirder. There is going to be another guy meeting us, right? Brad’s not on a date with both of us? “What’s your friend’s name again?” I ask.

  Brad roles down the window and a burst of cold air floods the cab. “Jono.”

  “What kind of a name is Jono?” Heather asks, leaning into him.

  Brad shrugs. “Short for Jonathan.”

  “That’s the dumbest name I’ve ever heard,” she says, shaking her head.

  We pull up in front of the theater, and Brad hands the driver a ten.

  “There’s Jono,” he says, pointing to a short, stocky, balding guy smoking and waiting at the front of a line of about thirty people.

  I catch Heather’s scowl.

  “I’m freezing,” his friend says as we approach.

  Nice to meet you, too.

  Brad introduces us all, but I can tell that Jono and Heather are not a match made in blind-date heaven. For one thing, Jono is paying more attention to his cigarette—puffing and sucking and then puffing some more—than to Heather. And instead of trying to talk to Jono, Heather is standing beside Brad and me in line, leaving Jono to wait by himself.

  “You’re wearing great jeans,” Heather says to my date. “Where did you get them?”

  “Macy’s.”

  “No way.”

  “Really.”

  And just when I’m minding my own business, examining the ground, someone walking in the other direction smacks right into me, slamming my already bruised shoulder.

  “Sorry,” I say without thinking twice.

  “What the hell?” says Heather, and charges after him. “You just knocked into my friend and didn’t even apologize.”

  The beefy-looking guy turns around and squints. First at Heather and then at me. “Oh. Excuse me.”

  My face turns red and it’s not from the cold.

  “Watch it next time,” she responds, hands on her hips. She nods, satisfied, and then returns to the line. “What were you saying sorry for? He bumped you.”

  I shake my head helplessly. “It just came out.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t,” she snaps, and then turns back to Brad. “So, have you spoken to Mindy this week?” She then launches into a ten-minute conversation with Brad about all their mutual friends while I stand by, now examining my hands.

  I don’t know why I apologized. It just poured out. If I’m going to live in this city, I’m really going to have to toughen up. And I can start right now by stopping Heather from monopolizing my date.

  Unfortunately, Brad doesn’t seem to mind that he’s only spoken to Heather since he picked us up. I keep expecting him to cut her off, or to try to engage me in a tête-à-tête, but he doesn’t. He just keeps talking to my roommate as I stand in line, bored, feeling very untough and wishing I were back at home. Or back in Arizona. What am I doing dating, anyway? I have Cam. Cam would never ignore me on a date.

  “The line is moving,” Heather tells us. “What are we seeing anyway?”

  “Some low-budget independent movie,” Brad says.

  “Thanks again for inviting me,” Heather coos.

  He didn’t—Jono did. Although technically, I guess it was Brad who did the inviting.

  “Anybody want to share a popcorn?” Brad asks.

  “No thanks,” I say. Popcorn always makes me a bit nauseous and this date is already making me queasy.

  “I do,” says Heather. “I want to get a drink, too. Jono and Gabby, you guys get the seats.”

  This is ridiculous. She forced me to agree to go out with him, but now she has hijacked my date.

  As we exit the theater, Heather says, “Who’s up for drinks? Let’s go to Safari Bar on Mercer.”

  I don’t think so. The last two hours were two of the most annoying of my life. First of all, Heather would not shut up for one second to let us watch the movie. We were seated Jono, Heather, Brad, then me, and Heather kept trying to engage Brad in random conversations: about the actor on-screen, the friends they had in common, anything. Brad would nod while continuing to stare at the screen, giving her what I assumed was the brush-off, but she did not take the hint. Instead she would pipe up with a new topic of conversation. Jono actually shushed her twice. Brad seems like a decent guy. He’s cute and he’s sweet, and if it were possible, if we existed in another universe perhaps, I would like to get to know him. But Heather is obviously never going to let that happen. She likes him, and she wants to date him. And I don’t care enough about him to put up a fight. I have Cam. My night is ending right now. “Thanks,” I say. “But—”

  “Sounds good,” says Brad, while zipping up his coat. “Okay, Jono?”

  Huh? If Brad actually liked me, then wouldn’t he want to spend some time alone with me? Jono shrugs his okay and lights up a cigarette as the gang starts walking toward Mercer.

  “You guys go ahead,” I say. “I think I’m going to pass.”

  Brad stops in his tracks. “I’m not going if you’re not going.”

  “No really, go ahead, I don’t mind,” I say. “I’ll just grab a cab home.”

  “Absolutely not,” he says. “You’re my date. We can take a rain check on drinks.”

  Heather swings around. “Come on, guys. Please? One drink. They make the wildest martinis.” She gives me a pleading look.

  Yes, I want to go home. But Heather really, really likes Brad, and this is her only chance to work her nonexistent charm on him….

  “Fine. One drink.”

  I stick to my one-drink suggestion. Unfortunately, Brad does not. Every time he says he’s had enough, Heather orders another drink for him. Four Jack-and-Cokes later, his cheeks are flaming and he’s dancing in our brown leather booth.

  At least the bar is cool. The tables are thick planks of lacquered wood, and the walls are painted bright blue and decorated in African masks. I take another tiny sip from my Mango Mozambique Martini.

  “You are so hilarious, Brad!” Heather shrieks, leaning over the table giving him another peek down her dress.

  He ignores her, continuing instead to bop up and down to the thumping African music. With every drumbeat, he inches closer and closer to my side of the booth, until his thigh is pressed smack against mine. “You’re really hot, you know that?” he whispers, his breath reeking of booze. “Sexy smile.”

  I try to squeeze myself into the wall. “Er, thanks.” I doubt I’ve smiled once all night.

  Across from me, I catch Jono rolling his eyes.

  “Why don’t we get another round of drinks?” Heather asks.

  “Good idea,” Brad says. A trail of drool dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. He wipes the drool, then gives me one of his boyish smiles. He raises his hand and waves down our leopard-halter-top-clad curvy waitress.

  “What can I get you?” she asks, flicking her long blond hair off her bare yet glittering shoulder.

  “Another Jack-and-Coke for me and—”

  “Shots for the table!” Heather suggests.

  “Maybe you’ll join us for a round?” Brad asks the waitress with a flirty wink.

  She laughs, but shakes her head. “My boss will kill me.”

  “It’s already one-thirty—he won’t care. Come on, gorgeous, live a little.”

  She laughs again. I squirm. Heather glares. In addition to quasi-flirting with my roommate, my
date is now full-on flirting with the waitress.

  A moment later, she returns with five shot glasses. The four of them clink their drinks together.

  “Come on, Gabby, you, too,” Heather orders.

  I pick mine up reluctantly and clink it against theirs. Then all five of us down them. Yikes, that’s strong. I put mine down halfway as I feel my throat close up. I notice Heather wincing—I’m not sure if it’s from the drink or from watching Brad hit on the waitress.

  Ten minutes later, Jono stands up. “I need a smoke, and to get me home.” He deposits two twenties on the table and says, “Excuse me, Helen.”

  “It’s Heather,” she says with a scowl. She scoots out so Jono can get out of the booth and then scurries back to her seat.

  Brad burps. “Yup. I guess it’s time to go.”

  Heather squeezes the edge of the table in apparent panic. “You should come over. For a nightcap.”

  Is she insane? I kick her under the table. Heather is flirting with Brad, Brad is flirting with me (and the waitress), and I want to go home. Alone. Now Brad thinks he’s being invited for a drunken roommate threesome.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he says, downing the rest of his drink. “Let’s go to it, ladies.”

  Oh, yeah, he’s definitely getting the wrong idea.

  Tell him no, my inner voice says. Tell him to go home.

  My mouth stays silent. I hate being the party pooper. And anyway…Heather obviously thinks she’s getting lucky tonight. Maybe I can just sneak off to bed and leave them to it.

  Somehow I end up paying the remainder of the bill. Annoying, yes, but not the biggest deal. Once outside, Brad pretends he’s surfing on the sidewalk. Jono salutes us goodbye and starts walking downtown. I hail us a cab. I climb in first, and then Heather and then a slightly paler Brad. “You sure you don’t want to go home?” I ask him. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine,” he says. “Yup. Perfecto. Picnic time!”

  Heather giggles, not getting our private joke. I sigh. Loudly. When we pull up in front of the apartment, the two of them climb out, while once again I get stuck with the fair.

  I try to squash the anger bubbling inside of me.

  I slam the cab door and race to meet them in the elevator. All I want is for this night to end. I won’t make a scene. I’ll just sneak into my room.

  Back at our apartment, I unlock and open the door.

  “Do you want a glass of wine?” Heather asks him en route to the kitchen.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he says, tossing his coat toward the coat tree but missing. He laughs and then holds on to the wall. “You know, I don’t feel so good.”

  I take off my own coat and then unzip my boots. “What’s wrong? Do you want a glass of water?”

  “Dizzy,” he says. And then he clenches his stomach. “I think I’m going to puke.”

  Oh, God. He is looking a bit green. “Toilet. Go.” I point to the bathroom and watch as he scurries over and pulls the door closed.

  I flop onto the couch in despair as Heather emerges with two glasses and a bottle of chardonnay.

  “What did you do to him?” she asks.

  At this point, I don’t appreciate the hostility in her voice. “I sent him to the bathroom. He’s not feeling well.”

  “Oh. Is he all right?”

  “No, he’s not. He’s drunk and he should be in his own house, not in my bathroom.”

  Heather pours herself a glass. “Our bathroom.”

  Something inside me snaps. “Heather, it might be our bathroom, but he was my date. We invited you along, but he was there with me. Not you. If I’d wanted to invite him over, I would have invited him myself. Next time you want to hit on my date, do it on your own time.” There. I said it.

  “Excuse me,” she huffs and storms down the hallway, into her bedroom, and slams her door.

  I spend the next few minutes with my arms crossed, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling.

  I hate that I hurt her feelings. But it had to be done. I have to learn how to put my foot down.

  A little bit later, Heather’s door creeps open. “He’s been in there a long time.”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “I hope he’s conscious.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s been sixteen minutes. It is two in the morning and a guy I didn’t want at my place to begin with has moved into my bathroom. I push myself off the couch and knock softly on the bathroom door. “Everything all right in there?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” I hope I’m not going to have to call an ambulance.

  “Yup. I’ll be out soon,” he answers.

  “Do you want some water?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  I head to the kitchen, fill a glass with tap water and hurry it back to him. When he opens the door a crack to grab the drink, I spot him kneeling on the bath mat, hunched over the open toilet seat.

  Heather follows me back to the couch. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have usurped your date.”

  I wrap myself in the knit throw blanket and look at her. She seems genuinely apologetic. “It’s all right.”

  Heather kicks her heels up onto the coffee table. “Wanna watch a movie while your date throws up in our bathroom?”

  Sure, now he’s my date. “No, thank you. As soon as he’s done, I’m going to bed.” And forgetting this entire evening ever happened.

  Suddenly sounds of heaving echo through the apartment. Heather flicks on the TV. I close my eyes.

  Twenty-two minutes later, I’m awoken by the flushing toilet. The door opens and out comes Brad, face extra splotchy. “Um, you have a flood in there.”

  “Sorry?” I squeak.

  “A flood. In the bathroom. The toilet overflowed. Do you have a plunger?”

  I’m going to cry. I turn to Heather. “Do I have a plunger?”

  “No, but Fred has one.”

  “Who’s Fred?”

  “The super.”

  “Can you get it?” Brad asks.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” I say. I can’t ring the doorbell of a super I’ve never met in the middle of the night.

  Heather jumps off the couch and smiles sweetly at us both. “I’ll run over to the Duane Reade and pick one up.”

  “Thank you,” I say with relief, and then turn to Brad. “Are you okay?” I creep over to the bathroom to check out the damage.

  “I wouldn’t go in if I were you,” he says, retreating to the living room.

  Despite the warning, I peek inside and find the entire floor flooded. I try to stop the nausea from overflowing and ruining my new shirt. The smell is…indescribable. No one should ever have to smell what I am currently smelling. My gag reflex kicks in, as if something were just rammed down my throat. I step away from the door and try not to breathe. Tears spring to my eyes.

  Now I know why Heather left. She wanted to get as far away from this debacle as possible. I figure Brad must be watching for my reaction, so I attempt to compose myself. He must be horrifically embarrassed. I should try not to make this worse for him. Surely, now he’s going to go home, tail nestled between his legs. I order myself to wipe the disgust off my face and return down the hallway to the living room. “How are you feeling?”

  I find him sprawled on his belly across the couch. “Much better, now,” he says. Then he reaches over to the coffee table, picks up Heather’s wine and finishes it.

  I don’t believe it. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  He sits up and then pats the spot next to him. “Why don’t you come get comfortable.”

  Oh God, he thinks we’re making out now? He hasn’t even brushed his teeth. Be nice. “I’m all right, thanks. Can I get you something? More water? Pepto?”

  He smiles. “How about that picnic?”

  “Um, not tonight.”

  He shrugs. “Wanna go to bed then?”

  Finally, he gets it! “Yes, that is what I’d like to do.”

  He r
ubs his hands together. “Cool. Is Heather going to join us?”

  Or not. I try to keep my voice composed. “Actually, you’re going to bed in your own apartment.”

  “But I’d rather stay here,” he whines and then, to my horror, unbuckles his belt.

  “What…are you doing?” Now I’m going to be sick.

  Out come the boyish dimples. “Getting naked.”

  Stay calm. Stay calm. “Yet another thing you can do in your own apartment!”

  He gives me the same exaggerated wink he used on the waitress and pulls down his pants, exposing checkered green-and-brown boxers and freckled knees. “I don’t want to get naked alone.”

  That’s it. I’ve had enough. I storm over to the door and fling it open. “It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Why? Aren’t we going to have sex?”

  “No. We are not going to have sex.”

  “Ever?”

  “We are never going to have sex!”

  “Maybe Heather wants to have sex? She’s looking kind of cute.”

  I pick his coat off the floor and throw it at him. “Get out.”

  He steps outside, jeans still rumpled around his ankles, and tries to win me over with a big grin. “Are we going out again next week?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say and firmly close the door.

  I am never going on a date again. I’m so relieved he’s gone, I’m almost laughing. I mean, come on. My first date as a single girl and this is what happens? As my laughter turns to shudders, I buzz Charlie downstairs. “Will you do me a favor? I just sent a guy to the lobby. Can you put him in a cab, and tell the cab driver to make sure he gets to the Bolton Hotel?”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks.”

  The night finally over, I retreat to my room and change into sweats and a T-shirt.

  A few minutes later, I hear Heather’s return to the apartment and meet her in the living room.

  “I got it,” she says, plunger in hand. She looks around the deserted room and frowns. “Where did he go?”

  “Home. At last.”

  “What?” she shrieks. “Why?”

  “Because he was drunk and gross.” To be honest, I’m feeling pretty proud of myself. I wanted him out and I kicked him out.