Just Down the Hall

by Alessandra Thomas

  With one hand cradling my aching head, I pushed my glasses on with the other, squinted at the screen, and began to read.

  * * *

  Liz Dates Philly Special Edition - Liz Dates Mr. Perfect

  * * *

  Well, my darling Philly Illustrated readers, you've really outdone yourselves this time. Actually, you've probably been outdoing yourselves for the past several months, hand-picking an admirable crew of stand-up guys for me to date. Unfortunately, since my friend JJ decided to prank the whole darn city, or at least the portion who reads this column, you've been seeing the most – let’s just call them unique - eligible bachelors the City has to offer. I know it wasn't ideal for finding the perfect match for me, but I sincerely hope that one of you intrepid hopeful young ladies found a special attraction for Neil, Brad, Milton, Trevor, or Alex. Maybe some of you are blissfully single no more!

  This weekend was my long-fated and short-awaited date with Nate, or, as you know him, Mr. Perfect. While I firmly believe nobody is perfect - not even President Bartlett, and you know how much I love him -

  * * *

  I grinned. If her readers didn’t know how much she loved President Bartlett, they hadn’t been reading very carefully. She’d made a reference to her favorite show - and mine, since I’d met her - in at least five of her columns since she’d started writing.

  * * *

  - Nathaniel Perfect is about as close to the stereotypical Mr. Perfect as they come. He’s five foot eleven, tall enough to let a girl wear heels but not so tall that she needs a step stool to kiss him. Nicely groomed, with bright eyes and a haircut nobody can argue with. He’s a college graduate, has a really amazing job, just moved to Philly and plans to stay for the long haul, and he loves his sister and his mom! What’s not to love?

  The insane thing is that’s what we know about him on paper. The truth is that Nathaniel Perfect was an excellent choice for my days-long Marathon edition of Liz Dates Philly, and I know you all are dying to know why.

  * * *

  I was used to the format of Liz’s articles by now, and this one didn’t differ. She did a great job of promoting the place that had sponsored the date, even when it was the epically ridiculous Uncle Phil’s Philly Phun Zone, and dropped in a few facts about the date, along with snippets of their conversation, to keep the human interest portion of the date afloat.

  The thing about Liz was that she was always, always kind. Never mean, and only a little snarky - but she also never failed to illustrate exactly why she not only didn’t kiss this guy or hold his hand, but why she would not be going on a date with him ever, ever again.

  She was a genius at this.

  As I skimmed the feature-length article, though, I realized that even though Mr. Perfect was, well, perfect, Liz didn’t really include much more about him than she did about any of the guys who’d come before him. Yes, he had an impressive job. Yes, he told her sweet stories about growing up with his family in the country. The pictures Deanna had added to the narrative bolstered the tagline of the whole thing - ‘Liz Dates Mr. Perfect’ - with shots of Liz smiling, laughing, his hand on her back, and, sometime around four o’clock PM, by my calculations, the guy finally getting enough courage to hold her hand. Liz wrote about those things too, but always in the context of the date location.

  The bridge to 30th Street Station is a great place to stroll hand-in-hand with that special someone. Like he was reading my mind, Nate planned just that.

  It was a picture-perfect Philly date. The funny thing about being Liz of “Liz Dates Philly” is that I’ve become used to having my dates planned out, down to the letter. Every other guy I’ve been out with seems to be perfectly fine with that, but not Nate. And who was I to argue with Mr. Perfect, hmmm ladies? He’d planned the picture-perfect date, complete with candlelight, roses on the table, and a sumptuous dessert cart (One of the top five ways to my heart!) at Morimoto’s!

  It’s been a whirlwind few months, and I’ll be forever grateful to all of you for following along with my little journey. How fitting that while I was looking for love in Philly, I not only fell in love with Philly, but also went on my fifteenth and final date with someone who is literally Mr. Perfect!

  As my readers have figured out now, though, dating and falling in love in Philly has almost nothing to do with the places you go and almost everything to do with the people you meet along the way. Thanks to our live-blog, my careful readers know that Mr. Perfect and I ended our weekend-long Philly date gazing at the most important thing about any date - the person we spent time with. The places you go and the money you spend are nothing compared to the people you’re with and those you’ll eventually fall in love with, just like I have.

  I’m sure you can guess by now that I’m taking a hiatus from dating around Philly. I’ve learned a lot and ended the whole experience in the arms of one of the most wonderful guys in the City, and I have you to thank. I’m pleased to announce that Philly Illustrated has kept me on staff, so you’ll be seeing me jabber on and on about something or other on a semi-weekly basis beginning in the near future. Stay tuned, and thank you, Liz Dates Philly fans. For everything.

  * * *

  Well, fuck.

  If I hadn’t known for sure that Liz slept with Mr. Perfect after their first - albeit ridiculously drawn-out - date, now I did. Hell, all of Philly knew.

  It had only taken one reader-selected guy and a very long date for Liz to fall in love.

  The only reason she could have possibly had to call me again - as a friend with benefits - had just dissolved away before my eyes. With all of Philadelphia reading along.

  Some guys might have flown into a rage, or started drinking, or even cried. I just felt… numb. Like I couldn’t have forced my face into any expression, even if I tried. Like I was drained of anything I’d felt in the past few months, talking and laughing with Liz, getting to know her, learning to appreciate each one of her features—falling in love with her.

  And there it was. A lump rose in my throat just as my phone rang again. I didn’t even have to look at the caller ID. “Hey, Kiera. Did you see it? I mean, she’s basically in love with the guy already. I’m just…ugh.” I hung my head, burying my face in my hands. “Well, hello, loverboy,” an older woman’s raspy voice came through the speaker. “You sound like someone with a broken heart.”

  “You’re not Kiera,” I said, pulling the phone away from my face and squinting at the number.

  “No,” the voice continued. “I’m Monica. And I think I’m about to be your new best friend.”

  Chapter 32

  Liz

  It turned out that Deanna was a really good drinking buddy.

  Her apartment was really close to Mr. Nathaniel Perfect’s. I thought if I went up to his place—perfectly decorated, perfectly kept, by the way - that I could have another glass of wine, flash some skin, invite some attention from him. Get myself into his bed and, hopefully, get off. For just a few seconds, forget about JJ.

  Maybe that was the magic key to activating my emotions, I’d thought bitterly as I finished that glass of wine in record time and set it down a little too solidly on his coffee table. With a smile, he’d reached for a coaster and positioned it under the glass. Even though the wine hadn’t been cold.

  Perfect.

  I’d watched his fingers skate over my crossed knee, just like I’d expected would happen. He’d smiled at me. I’d smiled back and waited for it to come. The feeling, the one that told me that if I didn’t keep going I’d regret it, the one that pushed me to touch and taste him, then go for more, and more, and more.

  It didn’t come, so I scooted toward him and pushed my fingers through his hair, anchoring his head in place and planting my lips on his in the most passionate kiss I could muster. He groaned, and his hand snuck further up my thigh in what would be a very, very slow path to its destination.

  I didn’t want to wait.

  No, actually? I didn’t want it—at all.

  I pulled aw
ay from him, sitting up straight and scooting backward on the couch as I did. Nate watched me, his eyes full of patience and a little resignation.

  “I’d better get going,” I said, standing up and brushing off my skirt.

  “You sure?” he asked as he walked me to the door. I could see how his pants had started to bulge in front. Not a bad size, either, on a decidedly handsome guy. In another universe, in another situation, I might have just gone for it.

  But that would have to be a universe where I hadn’t already figured out what it felt like to really fall in love. A universe where I hadn’t gone completely head over heels for Jordan Jacobs.

  That fucker.

  I bit my lip, nodded. “I’m sure. Thanks for a wonderful day. And evening.”

  Nate raised his eyebrow.

  “No, truly. You saved my ass, doing this marathon tour through Philly with me. And you were good company.” I leaned in to his side for a second, bumping my shoulder to his.

  “Not good enough for a second date, though? Or, I guess, a twelfth one?” I could tell by his soft, patient smile that he already knew. Maybe he didn’t feel anything when he kissed me, either. Maybe he did, but was just so damn considerate and attentive that he’d read my body language a dozen times over. I just didn’t want him like that.

  There was only so far organized, poll-driven dating could get two objectively awesome people in Philly, anyway.

  “Do you need a ride?” Nate asked as he picked up my sweater from where he’d neatly placed it across the back of a chair.

  “Already called one,” I said, waving my phone through the air. Really, I’d texted Deanna, hoping she’d call for a ride. She’d texted back that a car was on its way, and that I could land at her place if I wanted.

  With a gentle kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of Nate’s hand, I walked out of Mr. Perfect’s life and back into my garbage heap of one.

  Deanna’s couch was too short for me and a little lumpy, but it was close by and it wasn’t mine. If I wasn’t so damn broke I would get rid of mine and buy a new one. I didn’t know how I’d ever be able to sit on it again, to really relax, without being flooded with memories of me and JJ cuddling, kissing, and defiling it six ways to Sunday. If it hadn’t been the best sex of my life, I would have tried to erase it from my memory.

  Since I hadn’t been able to sleep that night, Monica had texted me to take Friday to work from home, do a good job with the final write-up that would appear in Saturday’s print edition. After the four - or was it five? - glasses of wine I’d had with Deanna last night, alternately laughing and crying over how ridiculous the past five months of our life had been, I was not going to argue.

  Deanna was faring better than I was and headed to the office to work on a larger spread for “Liz Dates Mr. Perfect,” complete with sponsor plugs, with instructions for locking up her place when I finally dragged my ass off her couch.

  I never did manage to get up. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jordan as I tried to make the “Liz Dates Mr. Perfect” write-up sound cheery and enthusiastic. Before I knew it, Deanna was back home, handing me more wine, and quietly inviting me to stay another night. Luckily, I pushed ‘send’ on my article before I even started to feel the buzz, and lost myself in some Netflix show until I drifted off to sleep again.

  I didn’t sleep much better that night, but come Saturday morning, it was time to face the music. I waved goodbye to Deanna, who stood watching me from her coffee pot, with a muffled ‘thanks.’ It wasn’t long after that that I pulled myself together, tidied up her place while guzzling water, took a quick shower, borrowed some leggings and a sweatshirt, and got out of there.

  As my cab pulled up to the apartment - just my apartment now, I reminded myself – my heart sank thinking about how sad and empty it felt. I hadn’t heard a peep from Jordan in days, which was bothering me more and more by the hour, even though I’d told him that I never wanted to hear from him again.

  I knew I’d yelled at him for being a stalker, but had to know I didn’t mean that literally. I’d sort of expected at least one last effort from him.

  I realized something was different as soon as I opened the door. The cloyingly sweet scent of glazed blueberry mascarpone scones filled the air. Plates stacked with the round pastries decorated every surface of my tiny home - the counter bar of the kitchen, the little dining table, the coffee table, nestled in the corners of the couch that I’d so dreaded looking at.

  The Saturday paper edition of Philly Illustrated sat in the middle of the couch, on top of some folded t-shirts. The headline blared, “Liz Dates Philly: The Final Date—Is Mr. Perfect also Mr. Right?”

  I picked up the magazine, gingerly, and flipped through the preview spread, which was basically my social media feed from the week before beside Deanna’s photos and a healthy sprinkling of sponsor ads, woven through the write-up I’d managed yesterday. The final paragraph read,

  It looks like our Lizzie liked Mr. Perfect enough to follow him up to his place, but did their night have a happy ending?

  I chuckled at what I was certain was Alphonso’s heavy-handed double entendre. I pulled the paper a little closer to read the last two lines on the page.

  You thought the voting was over…. but is there one more choice you can help Liz make? Turn the page to find out…

  What the hell? I didn’t know anything about more voting. In fact, Monica had expressly promised me that this was all over, which is exactly why I wrote the final column like I had. I might have been drinking, but I wasn’t totally sloshed. Monica and I had come to an understanding.

  I frantically thumbed to the next page to see Jordan Jacob’s engineering department headshot staring oh-so-alluringly at me. My hands shook and my heart raced. We’d agreed to play his involvement in this whole thing down.

  I should have known Monica wouldn’t be able to resist the drama of getting her hands on Jordan, though. My eyes frantically scattered over the words next to Jordan’s picture.

  It was a letter. From him to me.

  My stomach flipped and I forced myself to take deeper, slower breaths as I read.

  * * *

  Dear Lizzie,

  (I know you hate it when I call you that, but since I’m not in the room for you to smack me or glare at me, I couldn’t resist. I don’t care if you hate it - the nickname is adorable, just like you.)

  By now, you and all of Philadelphia know that I artificially stacked the ‘Liz Dates Philly’ votes for every single one of your dates, to favor guys I was pretty sure you wouldn’t get along with. I can hardly even remember how it started. After that first miserable date you went on, seeing you coming home with your ego so bruised and your hopes so low, I told myself I was doing it to help you out—the more incompatible the date, the more hilarious your writing about it would be—God, you’re funny, Liz—and the more readers and interest you would get. Most importantly, at least it would be obvious to you that the date going south would have nothing to do with you.

  Because, see, I thought you were perfect. I still do. I assume it’s plain as day to the rest of Philadelphia, too.

  We’re roommates, so we did what roommates do. We watched TV together. We cooked and cleaned and explored Philly together, you and I, and I guess I got attached—to you, to the city, to our place, and to the way it all mashed together in a life that made me happy.

  Each week, when the vote went up on the Phill-Ill site, I got more and more worried. Would this be the guy you liked more than me? Would I be doomed to finish watching The West Wing without your brilliant commentary? Would I have to go to Joey and Hawk’s—the place I think of as ‘our place’—alone, like the loser I so obviously am?

  My bad voting behavior was driven by that worry. Every time I played my very heavy hand in setting you up with guys I knew were all wrong for you was an act of self-preservation, I told myself that I had to. If I was ever going to have a chance with you, I had to.

  It was petty, and it was selfish. You don’t deserve t
hat from someone who’s supposed to be your friend, who’s supposed to be looking out for you. For that, I’m sorry.

  But I’m not sorry for falling in love with you.

  I know you had a great date with Mr. Perfect last night. Finally, when your devoted readers around the city have a chance to really, truly pick a date for you, the guy is a winner. They’ve grown to love you, Liz, and to want the best for you.

  If you really have already fallen for him, I can’t blame you.

  If you haven’t, though, I want you to know that even though I moved out of our place like you asked, my feelings for you haven’t changed. I know it’s weird to hear it for the first time in the publication you work for, but Liz, I love you.

  I’m in love with you, Liz, and if you think there’s even a chance you could love me, if you could forgive me enough to let me prove that I can be the kind of man you deserve, well…

  Turn around.

  * * *

  I whipped my head around without a second thought.

  Sometime in the course of reading that letter, probably between “Joey and Hawk’s” and “I’m not sorry,” tears had started to stream from my eyes. They clouded my vision of Jordan, standing in the doorway in his dark jeans and plaid shirt, hair puffed and messed from what I knew, deep down, had been his anxious hands running through it.

  My insides twisted, affection pulling them one way, rage tugging them another, as I looked at Jordan waiting for me with his puppy-dog eyes and hopefully arched brows.

  After several long seconds, the rage won out, taking over my words. “What the hell is this, Jordan?” I waved the paper helplessly, halfheartedly, in the air. “Are you just—I mean, God! What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”