All the Frogs in Manhattan

by Carrie Aarons

  My hands grabbed at the material of her dress until I was dragging it upward. She kept resisting ever so slightly, like her head was screaming at her body to stop. I kept going, needing to feel her and possess her. The jealous animal inside of me was feeding on the energy coming off Gemma’s skin in waves, and my head was spinning with every type of emotion.

  I was grasping her inner thigh with my hand, kneading the skin there, when she finally pushed me off.

  “Stop. Stop it.”

  Her breathing matched my own ragged puffs, and if she looked that devastated, I could only imagine what my face showed.

  “I’m sorry … I, I don’t know. I … can’t think.” And I couldn’t. The flurry of feelings and jumble of words forming in my brain couldn’t be expressed. This is why I didn’t go deep with people. I hated feeling vulnerable or helpless or whatever the fucking fuck it was that I was feeling right now. “Come over tonight. Please?”

  Gemma straightened her dress and jacket, a small, sad smile playing at her lips. “No. I’m on a date. That’s not fair to Cody. But we should talk, maybe this week.”

  She looked completely collected, while I felt like my insides were burning and she was literally flaying my skin off. She was going to go back out there and act like nothing happened?

  The bathroom was silent after she left, and I splashed some cold water on my face. Luckily no one saw us both leave the same women’s room, and I walked to the back of the suite as the seventh inning started.

  I could only stomach two minutes of watching her and Cody share a soft pretzel before I turned and left.

  Chapter Twenty

  Gemma

  In my life, it always poured when it rained.

  When every girl started getting her period, I wished I could become a woman. Three weeks later, Aunt Flow came for the first time and stayed for a week. I wanted to punch myself for ever wishing such a thing.

  When I’d cried that I didn’t get accepted into Villanova, the next week letters from Columbia and NYU had come in, and I had to decide between two of the best programs in the country.

  When Sam and I had gone apartment hunting for the first time, we lost the initial place we liked, only to put two offers in on simultaneous listings and had not been able to choose.

  And so, I guess, it was the same when it came to men. For a year and a half, I hadn’t had a single great date. Nothing that had gone past date three, and no worthy contenders. Now, I had two and didn’t know what the hell to do with them.

  I’d wanted one, uncomplicated, fun, sexy relationship. Just one measly man who would make me happy and I could spend time with. Maybe even build a life with.

  Instead, I got sullen Oliver thrown into my path to fuck things up. Seriously, at this point I think life is trying to fuck with me. That spiteful bitch.

  My date with Cody had gone well. Really well. He’d walked me to my door and kissed me properly, lingering but with no tongue. I’d been breathless when he broke away and said he’d text me tomorrow. And he had texted me. And hadn’t really stopped. For three days, we’ve kept a constant flow of conversation through messages, and he wanted to take me out again. Cody was charming, funny, attentive, and didn’t have any hidden racist thoughts or Stepford parents lurking about. He was exactly the guy I’d been combing the bottom of the Manhattan single barrel for.

  But then Oliver had gone and kissed me and tried to articulate his feelings in a fucking bathroom at Yankee stadium and my heart had gone to goddamn mush. Piece of sappy shit. I hated him. But at the same time, couldn’t resist it. I’d become accustomed to him, trusted him, was attracted to him. He had the emotional maturity of a six-year-old, and I wasn’t up for changing him. Changing a man never worked; I and friends of mine had been burned way too many times to think any of that shaping a man bullshit worked.

  My stupid heart sure did want to try though. But I wasn’t willing, and because of that, our agreement had to end. It had worked well for a month and a half, but it had run its course. Feelings were starting to catch, emotions were coming into play, and we couldn’t sustain the carefree fun of it anymore.

  I wanted to find love, Oliver wanted to fuck and I wasn’t sure what else. We were on two separate paths, and our mutual interests didn’t intersect anymore. We could be grown ups about this. I still liked him very much as a person.

  I sipped my cold brew through the straw, and the sweetness of it coated the inside of my mouth. I’d asked Oliver to meet me at a local coffee shop to avoid being at each other’s places. I needed neutral ground, and no awkwardness of leaving after I said what I had to.

  He rounded the corner and I saw him coming. My traitorous heart did a nosedive when I took in his gray power suit paired with a blood red tie. Jesus, the man looked sharp in anything. He might look unassuming sometimes, but he really was as sneaky as a shark. I could see how he got to where he was in the business world. He’d pull the carpet out from under your feet before you even entered the room.

  Oliver enters the coffee shop and it feels like some of the air goes out of the store. My skin prickles and I never believed in that shit in the first place, but over the course of knowing Oliver, I have seen a lot of things I didn’t think were possible.

  “Hey.” Oliver pushes a hand through his hair and pulls on his tie, and I follow his fingers as they brush down his shirt. “It’s hot out there.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I can’t seem to think of something funnier to say.

  This is how I know it needs to end. Our friendship used to be quirky and sarcastic, and sitting here in front of him, I can’t even find a pithy comeback. I’m too distracted by him and whatever the fuck is going on. He can’t handle it; that was clear enough from the stunt at the Yankee game.

  “Couldn’t get me a coffee, huh? Well now I know this isn’t a date.” He smiles wryly and motions for one of the café workers to come over. While he orders an extra-large hot coffee, I try to calm my frayed nerves.

  I have to breath out like I’m about to overcome a bout of stage fright. “Oliver, I don’t think we should see each other anymore. At least, not in the way we have been.”

  I didn’t even let him get caffeine in him before I pounced, but I didn’t want to sit here with him for any longer than I had to. Per usual, my girly emotions were all out of whack and if he said or did one thing, I could either slap him or kiss him. My body, my heart, and especially my mind looked like the room after a sample sale; disheveled and barren with no clue as to which way was up.

  Those black-lash rimmed shiny blues blink slowly. “I … um thought we were doing what we were doing so we wouldn’t ever have to have this conversation?”

  Did the motherfucker have amnesia? “Oliver, you know what went down at the game went way past the normal scope of what we do in our ‘friendship’.” I actually used quote fingers.

  The worker plopped his coffee down on the table and Oliver took a long sip. “I … know that.”

  “Okay?” I couldn’t help leaning in and giving him the “what the fuck?” face.

  “Can we not get so deep here? Maybe … we just, see where it goes.”

  Typical noncommittal answer. Oliver wasn’t made for this, trying to be anything more than friends or fuck buddies. I couldn’t see him jumping to attention if I needed something, or was just feeling lonely and wanted him to drop whatever he was doing. He didn’t seem the type to care much for going out with my girlfriends, or for leaving a toothbrush and a pair of boxers at my place. He was independent and liked living that way. And that was fine. But as long as we both felt something blossoming, we couldn’t continue to fuck.

  I shake my head sadly. Even though the sun is shining and New York is bustling around us, it feels like rainclouds are gathering over our heads.

  “The thing is, we can’t. This was supposed to be fun and easy, and it’s not anymore. You don’t want a girlfriend, a ball and chain. You don’t want romance. Not the way I do. I want a partner. Someone I can build a life with and share a
home with and do everything in between. I want someone who won’t spook at the thought of me sleeping over. Or someone who invites me somewhere and doesn’t let go of my hand, not for one second. Who is proud to be with me and show anyone who asks, but who also lets me shine as an independent.”

  My voice gets stronger with each syllable, and as I become more confident in my decision, Oliver looks ashen.

  “I think you’re a wonderful person, Oliver. You’re hilarious and sexy and we click. But I think we can both admit that you aren’t going to be the person to give that to me. You don’t want to, and that’s seriously okay.”

  Oliver regards his coffee cup rather than looking at me. “I was an asshole, wasn’t I? At the kickball game. And then in the suite.”

  I can’t look away when our eyes connect. “Yeah, but we both knew at some point it would run its course. It’s so fucking lame, but we can still be friends.”

  “Are you using cheesy break up lines on me, Gemma?” Oliver smirks, but I can feel the tiny slivers cracking throughout my heart. And I almost hear the ones coursing through his.

  “I wouldn’t think of ending our fuck fest any other way.” I squeeze his hand as I stand and throw down a few bucks for my coffee. “You have my number. If you ever need a wing woman, or advice with makeup, you know who to call.”

  He doesn’t rise to hug me or make any motion to touch me. The upset is clear in his eyes, even though he is nodding warmly at me. It’s not easy for either of us, but we both have to know it’s better like this.

  “And if you ever need a designated driver, or someone to save you from an awful date, I’m your guy.”

  If only an emotional Simple Plan song started playing now, evoking all of the sentiments from teenage years. That’s what this moment feels like. The end of a movie where the guy doesn’t get the girl, like that heartbreaking Julia Roberts chick flick where she ends up with the gay best friend instead.

  Isn’t that just my luck?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Oliver

  September

  I wasn’t even from New York, much less this coast, but there was a dense fog of mourning that fell over the city on this day. The air seemed bitter, the streets clogged with unspoken words and ghosts of years past. The people who normally buzzed with the energy of a million coffee beans, moved slower. Looked around more. Greeted each other. Nodded in understanding.

  We, and I was talking as an adopted Manhattanite, didn’t try to downplay these feelings. We left them out there, translated for all to see. We sat in our grief, didn’t try to soothe it and tell it everything was going to be okay. We could dedicate this one day to the lost. And then each day after it, strive on to avenge their memories.

  “Thank you all for coming to this year’s 9/11 Memorial Service. Do something kind for a stranger today. Take a minute to remember the strength of this city and its people. God bless you all.” The Chief of Police saluted the crowd, and slowly everyone standing beneath the shadow of the Freedom Tower dispersed.

  "God, I hate today." Jin, the Chief Financial Officer at Graphite, falls into step beside me as he pulls at his tie.

  "Me too," I grumble, focused on getting through the crowd and across the street to our building.

  I'd like to stay out here all day and listen to the stories of the massive crowd gathered around the memorial. But unfortunately, I nabbed funding for my smart home system project and we are taking off full force. With a December launch date, I've been working fourteen hour days, and basically sleeping in my office.

  The product specs are in to our manufacturers, and my designers are still tweaking the look and feel. The coders are still writing the software, and my team comes up with a new, brilliant idea to add every day.

  I have to give a demo to the major tech and news publications in a little over a month, and my communications and marketing team have been briefing me for hours each week. What my speech will be like, how the stage will be set, what graphics and features we will divulge. I feel like Steve Jobs with no turtleneck.

  For two months, I've ate, slept and breathed my business. And good fucking thing, because my personal life was basically non-existent.

  I worked myself into the ground so I wouldn't have to think about what it would be like if I hadn't been such a coward with Gemma. Jesus, she was a woman, not a preying mantis. I'd totally wussed out, and when it came down to the pivotal moment, I'd chosen to fly faster than a Lear jet than fight for whatever feelings had been there.

  I exhausted myself to the point that when I passed out, I could barely see the outline of her face in my memory.

  Karma was a bitch, and not the good kind that dug her nails into your back when you fucked her. I'd dedicated my life to being the eternal bachelor, to never be tied down. And then the right girl got away and I'd become the laughing stock of my own destiny. You only want something when you don't have it. I was the moron who never paid attention to that lesson in grade school.

  It didn't help that I still heard about her. From fucking Cody. They'd been casually and exclusively dating for about a month now, and any time her name was whispered or mentioned around a corner, the knife in my gut turned sharply.

  I should be happy she was happy. Gemma was a great girl, the perfect one. But fuck me, I was a jealous bastard. At least I knew enough to leave her alone, like she'd asked. Well, technically she'd said we could still be friends, but we hadn't started that way and I knew she hadn't meant it.

  In a city full of people, that sometimes felt smaller than that annoying singing ride at Disney, it had been a miracle I hadn't bumped into her yet.

  "Let's get drunk tonight." Jin stood with his back to the mirrored wall of the elevator as we rode it up to the twenty-third floor.

  I digested the idea, knowing I could work late into the night as well. But … I needed a break. And today already kind of sucked.

  "Yeah, happy hour it is. I need about five Johnny Walker's right about now."

  The dank smell of weed filled the air and I inhaled it, liking the way the fumes gave me a little high on top of my massive alcohol buzz.

  I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this drunk.

  Jin sits somewhere across the room, a blonde draped in his lap as he talks to her about his investments and how he's cashed in on millions. He might be a nerd like me, but the guy was a smooth fucking talker. He could charm Megan Fox out of her panties.

  “Let’s do another pickle back!” The girl next to me squealed and clapped, probably because I’d been putting her drinks on my tab all night.

  It was a Monday and I was shitfaced, sitting in some dingy bar modeled after a Prohibition speakeasy, mesmerized by this chick’s hair. It was every kind of pastel color melting into one another. She looked like a unicorn or a kaleidoscope. Her nose ring, a small silver hoop, flared whenever she laughed. She was pretty in a non-conventional way, and I kept referring to her as she because I’d forgotten her name for the fourth time.

  “Fuck yeah, another round!” Jin appeared out of nowhere and waved his hand in the air.

  I’m sure the bartender took that as one round on the house, and I was too drunk to let him know otherwise. Actually, right at this moment, I wanted out.

  There was that point when drinking, or partying, where you crossed from one side to the other. For a while, I’d been on the fun, wild, lets-do-anything, we-can-live-forever train. I was tugging along, full speed with dancing, talking and flirting. Slinging back shots and gulping down poisonous liquor.

  But it always came on in one instant; the bone tired feeling when you’d simply had enough, and wanted nothing more than to leave the noise and chatter behind. It was the same when you ate an entire bag of chips, or binged one too many episodes of The West Wing.

  “I’m going home.” I put a hand on Jin’s shoulder.

  “What?” Jin screams over the music and chatter.

  “I’m going home!” I raise my voice.

  “No! What, man? We’re having fun. Ther
e are beautiful women.” He grabs the closest body and drags her to his side, where she stays curling into him like a smitten feline. “The drinks are flowing. You can’t go home, man!”

  I wave a hand at him as if to say, “Don’t argue with me, I’m going home. Have a good night.” And then I make my way to the stairs, seeking the air from outside and to escape this dingy basement bar.

  My foot hits the last step, unsteadily, and I struggle to push open the door. Once I do, I’m spit out into an alley off of a main street in TriBeCa. The warm summer night air invades my lungs, along with the scent of trash and sweat. Nonetheless, it’s better than breathing in the toxic fumes downstairs. Staggering out onto the regular sidewalk, the streets are empty at one in the morning on a Monday.

  I should feel unsafe, but my alcohol blanket is giving me a false sense of invincibility, and I don’t call for an Uber. I’ll walk to my apartment building, it’s not far. My feet feel heavy and all I want to do is fall into my bed.

  And then I get this lightbulb that flashes on in my head.

  I should text Gemma.

  “What? No.” Oh Jesus, now I’m talking to myself.

  But the idea won’t go away. I haven’t spoken to her since she kicked me to the curb, or onto a dirty coffee shop floor. There have been so many times I wanted to reach out. When I stayed by myself in the Hamptons and watched Breaking Bad for two days straight. Or the time that I saw this lady in the park with two squirrels sitting on her shoulders, I’d wanted to take a picture to send it to her right there. Or when I’d finally gotten funding for the Graphite Home project, and had sat in my apartment drinking champagne alone.