True Love (and Other Lies)

by Whitney Gaskell

  The truth was, I was spooked. What exactly had we just agreed to during our “us” talk? That we were going to continue to see each other? Well, fine, but what did that mean? It was only the second weekend we’d spent together, so surely we didn’t just agree to an exclusive relationship. Men don’t do that after only two weekends, at least not in my experience. So we were going to continue to talk on the phone, and perhaps see each other occasionally, which sounded reasonable, except for one small detail: I was falling for this guy. Which meant that when things inevitably burned out, or when I found out that he was, of course, continuing to see other people, or when his phone calls went from being nightly, to a few times a week, to once a week, to never, where would that leave me? I knew all too well. I’d been there before, and it was a place I’d promised myself I wouldn’t end up at again.

  And had I really promised to tell Maddy everything? Because I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to do that. I knew that I owed it to her, and that coming clean was probably the morally correct thing to do, but frankly, it wasn’t an appealing prospect. Every time I talked to her, she sounded even more down about her breakup with Jack. Wouldn’t it just rub salt in the gaping, oozing wound in her heart to tell her that I was seeing her ex? Could I really do that to her? And what would the point be, since it was only a matter of time before Jack left me with a broken heart, too? Should I really destroy one of my oldest friendships over a man that I had absolutely no hope of having the ever-elusive happily-ever-after with?

  I needed to do some damage control, and quickly. I could hear Max next door—he had, yet again, put Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax” on the repeat setting of his stereo at full volume, and the bass was reverberating through my apartment—so I knocked on his door.

  He didn’t answer until I finally called out, “I know you’re in there, you asshole. Let me in.”

  The door opened a crack, and Max peered out at me. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he said shiftily. He opened the door a little wider and peered behind me into the hall. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, why? Are you hatching plots to take over the world in there? Where have you been? I haven’t seen you for days.”

  “I just haven’t felt all that social,” Max said, stepping aside to allow me entrance to his apartment.

  “Since when? Why didn’t you want to hang out with Jack and me?”

  He just shrugged. “I had stuff to do.”

  “Uh huh,” I said, standing in front of him, my arms crossed. I wasn’t going to let him off that easily. “So, what was it that you didn’t like about him?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I hardly talked to the guy. He seemed normal,” Max said. He wasn’t even making an effort to sound sincere. Usually Max revels in gossiping about anyone I go out with, gleefully pointing out their personal failings, such as weak chins, bad shoes, annoying laughs, or general pomposity. There was no one Max was above making fun of, including his closest friends. Calling Jack “normal” was more of a stinging indictment than if he’d made fun of Jack’s hair, or the way he talked or dressed.

  “Okay, whatever, don’t tell me,” I sighed, and sat down on his couch, folding my legs up underneath me. On the stereo, Frankie and crew were gearing up to sing “Relax” for the four hundredth time in a row. I picked up the stereo remote and silenced them.

  “Make yourself at home,” Max said, sitting next to me.

  “I need to talk,” I said.

  “About what?”

  “Is your friend Tucker still single?”

  Max looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “I want you to set me up with him. On a date, I mean,” I said.

  Max shook his head, now completely confused. “What about that Jack guy? Didn’t he just leave like ten minutes ago?”

  So Max had been keeping tabs on us. And if I wasn’t so caught up in my own neurosis at the moment, maybe I’d be able to get to the bottom of whatever Max’s problem was and why he was acting so dodgy. But I was on emotional overload, so Max, and whatever it was that was simmering in the murky recesses of his twisted little mind, would have to wait.

  “Yeah, he took a cab to the airport,” I said.

  “And . . . it’s over between you two?” Max asked.

  I tried to ignore the hopeful note in his voice. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “So, what then? Are you not really into him anymore?”

  I sighed. “I wish, but it’s just the opposite. In fact, I’m getting a little . . . overwhelmed. So that’s why I want you to set me up with Tucker,” I explained, thinking this made perfect sense. It did to me. Going out with another guy, particularly one that was every bit as nice, charming, and handsome as Jack, was exactly what I needed. That way I’d see that there were other guys out there—with many fewer complications attached to them—and my infatuation for Jack would be exposed as being only that. A crush. A fling. A momentary lapse of judgment. Not love. Certainly not that.

  And Tucker Fitzpatrick was the perfect candidate. I’d met him back when he was still dating his girlfriend, Dina. They were one of those oddball couples—Tucker’s handsome in a crinkly-eyed, ruffled-round-the-edges, Hugh Grant kind of way, and he’s very kind and quite smart. The last time I saw him at one of Max’s many cocktail parties, we had a vigorous debate about whether Woody Allen movies were culturally significant or overrated, self-indulgent crap. He’d argued for the former position, citing Annie Hall and Crimes and Misdemeanors as his evidence. I insisted that Allen is a narcissist and that all of his movies are just the puffed-up sexual fantasies of a nebbish with Walter Mitty daydreams of scoring with women who are out of his league, and pointed to Everyone Says I Love You, Mighty Aphrodite, and Manhattan Murder Mystery. Tucker tried to counter with Bullets Over Broadway, but I scored the victorious blow by reminding him how horrible Scenes from a Mall was, at which point Tucker had to admit defeat.

  Dina, on the other hand, was—not to mince words—a frump. She wasn’t ugly—although it didn’t help matters that she was short and dumpy, and her hair always seemed on the greasy side—but she never really made an effort with herself. A new haircut or a touch of blush or a good eyebrow tweezing might have made a huge difference in her overall appearance. But despite her looks, Dina was brilliant and hilarious, and Tucker seemed to truly adore her. When they broke up—she dumped him, and ended up marrying a colleague she’d been having an affair with on the side—Tucker was inconsolable, and I knew he’d been after Max to fix him up with someone (actually, if I remember correctly, he wanted to be set up with a model, but since I knew he just wanted to make Dina jealous, I didn’t hold it against him). I already liked Tucker as a person, and I’d always admired him for falling in love with a woman who, like myself, fell short of the beauty ideal. He seemed like a perfect first candidate for my new Dating to Forget Jack Program.

  “So let me get this straight. You’re really into Mr. Brit Guy,” Max began.

  “He’s American. You know that,” I interrupted.

  “Whatever. You’re really into Mr. American-Brit Guy, and that’s freaking you out. So you want me to set you up with my good friend under false pretenses?”

  “False pretenses? No, I really like Tucker. I want to go out with him,” I said.

  “So that you can get your mind off of the guy that you really like. I don’t think so, Claire,” Max said with a tone of pious disapproval that was really quite unlike him. “And even if I was willing to do that to Tucker, which I’m not, he’s seeing someone.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed. I collapsed back against the sofa, feeling defeated.

  “However, if you really want me to set you up with someone,” Max said thoughtfully, “I do know another guy who might be up for it.”

  “Oh yeah?” I perked up. “Do I know him? What’s his name? What’s he like?”

  “No, you’ve never met Cooksey—that’s his name, Gary Cooksey. He’s a photographer, although he mainly does sports stuff. And he’s . . . entertaining,” Max said tho
ughtfully.

  The use of the word “entertaining” made me suspicious. This was not the best possible description for a blind date. It was even worse than using the adjective “nice,” which everyone knows is just code for “hideously ugly.”

  “And why are you willing to inflict me on him, when you view me as such a threat to Tucker?” I asked.

  “Because Cooksey isn’t as sensitive as Tucker. And he’s not as good a friend, so if you end up torturing him with your endless list of dating dos and don’ts, I won’t feel responsible,” Max explained.

  The glint in Max’s eye as he said this made me a little nervous, but what choice did I have? I was a desperate woman—so desperate I was willing to break the dating rule I had about never going out on another blind date, ever again. But this time I wasn’t dating for the purpose of meeting that special someone . . . I was dating to forget him. And I was willing to do whatever it took to do that, even if it meant coercing every person I knew into setting me up with every one of their eligible male friends.

  The date with Entertaining Gary was duly arranged for the following Friday. I didn’t mention it to Jack, of course, although when we talked on Thursday, I did tell him that I wouldn’t be around the next night at the time he normally called me because I was going out with some friends. I felt vaguely guilty for the fib—although I have to admit, lying does get easier with practice—which was only made worse when he suggested that I call him if I didn’t get in too late.

  “Or if you get in really, really late, and it’s already morning my time,” Jack said.

  “I don’t want to wake you up,” I protested.

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to go a whole day without talking to you,” Jack said.

  If I’d heard anyone else express this syrupy sentiment, it would have made my teeth ache. But coming from Jack it was endearingly sweet. And romantic. And it made me smile and begin twirling the phone cord around my finger while we talked. Is this what falling in love was? Cooing without shame? I tried to reassure myself with the knowledge that at least we hadn’t reached the point where we were calling each other “baby doll,” or blowing kisses over the phone. I’ve always wished for the immediate extinction of those people, along with tailgaters and the assholes who talk during movies.

  I also started to wonder if during our conversation the previous weekend we had established that we were having a more exclusive relationship than I’d previously thought. If so, it would mean that my going out with this Gary person would be cheating . . . something I had never done to a boyfriend, because I’d always thought that sneaking around behind someone’s back was a dishonest, shitty thing to do. Not quite as bad as adultery, but not so far off, either. But what did people say nowadays to establish that you were in a monogamous relationship? In my early dating years, I’d made the mistake of thinking that sex was a clincher. Not one-night stands, of course, but sex after the fourth or fifth date. Then I learned, through trial and humiliating error, that men don’t think that way. They tend to view monogamy as something that involves the exchange of rings—and even then they liked to keep their options open. I’d always thought that men in their thirties were just older, more sophisticated versions of their twenty-something counterparts, but after my time with Jack, now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe men do mature, after all.

  Gary picked me up at seven on Friday evening. We’d talked on the phone just long enough to establish a meeting time and that we’d do something casual. I was dressed in what is my typical weekend uniform—black V-neck sweater, dark-rinse jeans, and black boots (with a low heel, because Max hadn’t told me how tall Gary was, and it would be Max’s idea of a practical joke to fix me up with a Napoleon clone). He arrived on time, buzzed up to my apartment, and after a garbled conversation through my low-tech intercom, I told him I’d be right down.

  “Gary?” I asked the only man standing on the stairs of my building.

  I tried not to visibly cringe when he nodded. Gary was . . . rotund. He was just shy of obese, soft all over, from his round cheeks to his jiggling stomach. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that his two closest relationships were with his couch and the local pizza deliveryman.

  Don’t be so judgmental, I chastised myself. He could be a really wonderful guy, and besides, I’m always railing against a society that has set out an impossible standard for women, expecting us all to look like the Victoria’s Secret models. It would be hypocritical of me to discriminate against Gary for not having abs of steel. Besides, he was sort of jolly looking, like a young, beardless Santa Claus.

  I mustered up a smile, held my hand out, and said, “Hi, I’m Claire.”

  “Claire? ‘That’s a fat girl’s name,’ ” Gary said. He grabbed my hand—his palms were unpleasantly sweaty—and shook it vigorously. “Ha! You get it? It’s that line from The Breakfast Club. You know, Judd Nelson says it to Molly Ringwald.”

  “Ha,” I said, my smile withering. The Breakfast Club had been the most popular teen movie out when I was in the eighth grade, and the “fat girl’s name” line had been repeated to me, oh, only about four hundred thousand times. Since I was still padded with baby fat at the time the movie debuted, the teasing had stung so much I even considered changing my name in a fit of teenage histrionics. And it was even less enchanting hearing it now, nineteen years later, coming from a sweaty dork with an annoyingly cherubic face. Any empathy I might have had for Gary and his less-than-perfect physique instantly drained out of me. I knew it would be breaking an all-time record if I aborted our plans at the doorstep, but I had a sinking feeling that the date wasn’t going to get any better.

  And it didn’t. A short time later, I was kicking myself for not following my instincts to cut and run, not to mention for breaking my rule about no blind dates ever. My perfect first date is dinner at a nice restaurant, somewhere quiet enough so that you can carry on a conversation, but casual enough so that you can relax, since it’s important to have the time and space to find out if there’s a possible connection without any unnecessary pressure to pose and preen. Gary’s idea of a fun first date was to take me (I kid you not) to Hooters, so he could simultaneously ogle the waitresses’ breasts and watch a Knicks game. Since I’m into neither boobs nor basketball, this was pretty much as bad as it could get.

  “We’ll have a pitcher of beer and a basket of wings,” Gary ordered from the waitress, without first consulting me on either selection. We were perched on high stools next to a tall, round table, and I had to hook my boots over the bottom rung of the stool in order to stay balanced.

  “No, wait,” I stopped her, and ordered a glass of water with a lemon and a salad.

  “Come on, you gotta live a little,” Gary said, his eyes never leaving the television screen, even during the commercials. “Wow, did you see that shot? GO, GO, GO! Aw, shit.”

  I didn’t bother to respond. I figured that once I ate my salad, I would announce that I had a migraine and hurry back to the safety of my apartment. I could even call Jack, a thought that cheered me enormously. Okay, Jack and I might not have the perfect situation, but at least he paid attention to me, which was more than I could say for Gary, who was oblivious to everything other than the stupid basketball game. When our waitress returned to deliver Gary’s wings and my salad, Gary did tear his eyes away from the television for a minute to stare at her admittedly quite large and scantily clad chest. I tried to give her a look of sympathy over her being objectified in such a manner, but she ignored me and just smiled and winked at Gary, which caused his ears to turn bright red. Apparently, the waitress was more interested in her tip than she was in the sisterly bonds of feminism.

  I wolfed down my salad as fast as I could, although I nearly choked on a cherry tomato after jumping off of my stool when Gary suddenly screamed, “REF, YOU SUCK!” shaking his fists and booing loudly in concert with the other Hooters patrons, while I coughed and sputtered until the tomato dislodged from my throat. Not that Gary, or anyone else, noticed—I could have
turned blue, gone unconscious, and slipped from the pleather upholstered stool, and the earliest I could have hoped for medical intervention would have been at the half-time break, and only then if they weren’t playing entertaining commercials starring a singing dog. It was the last straw.

  “Gary, I think I’m going to take off, I’m not feeling too well,” I began, before realizing that he wasn’t listening to me. I stood up, and stood in front of him, blocking his view of the television. Naturally, his eyes fixed on my chest, which I’m sure was a disappointment when compared to the waitress’s cropped-T-shirt-covered implants.

  “I’m going to go,” I repeated.

  “What? Why? It’s only the second quarter,” Gary protested.

  “Um, I’m not feeling too well,” I said, not caring that my excuse sounded feeble.

  “Okay, I’ll take you home,” Gary said.

  I was a little moved at his chivalry. It was the first redeeming trait he’d revealed. Not that I had any intention of taking him up on it, of course, but it was nice to know that he wasn’t a complete asshole.

  “No, no, no,” I said hastily. “I’d feel terrible if I made you miss any of your game. I’ll just get a cab.”

  Gary looked at me and then looked longingly at the television set. It was previewing some kind of a half-time show, and I could tell he was torn.

  “Really,” I said firmly.

  “Well, okay, if you’re sure,” he said. Gary hopped off of his stool and suddenly lunged at me. I shied away from him—I have well-honed survival skills and can block unwanted advances with the skill of a kung fu champion—but then I realized he was just trying to hug me good-bye, an idea I wasn’t too keen on, but probably didn’t merit my kneeing him in the groin. Gary wrapped two meaty arms around me, and I patted his back, trying not to wince when I realized it was soaked through with sweat.