Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  “Random. You probably know more about the history of my city than I do, in that case.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably true. Let me know if you want to read my history report. Sorry! You were saying?”

  “My parents still live in Lancaster. I went to college out in Colorado, and after, I just kind of stayed for a long time.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I was a ski bum.”

  “Really,” I say, more matter-of-factly than as a question.

  “Yeah.” He nods.

  “For how long?”

  “Five years.”

  “Five years? That’s a long time!”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “You must be a really good skier!”

  He nods. “I snowboard, too.”

  “How’d you . . . make money? As a ski bum?”

  “I waited tables.”

  “Did you have friends out there doing the same thing?”

  “Yeah, a bunch of my college friends stuck around there, too, when we graduated. Ski bumming and working odd jobs.”

  “So how’d you transition into being a fancy lawyer?”

  “Ha. I’m hardly ‘fancy,’ if a lawyer.” He takes a swig from his wine glass.

  “But . . .”

  “Right. But just when I was kind of at the apogee of my skiing career”—he said apogee. Impressive vocabulary for bar small talk—“I had a bad fall and broke a few ribs. It took me out for the rest of the ski season, and I decided it was time to figure out what I was doing with my life.”

  “So how’d you settle on law school?”

  “This sounds stupid, and shallow, but I kind of just wanted to make money and have a steady job. I was tired of being broke all the time. And that seemed like the easiest way.”

  “Well, not really the easiest way,” I point out. “It does involve three years of graduate school. You could have gone into . . . I don’t know . . . finance. Or real estate. Or . . .” I trail off.

  “True, but I also kind of wanted to do something that helps people.”

  “So do you do civil law? Or . . .”

  “No, I work in corporate finance. I know, it’s lame—”

  “That’s not lame. My roommate Cassie is a corporate finance lawyer.”

  “Oh really? Huh. Cool. Anyway, I figured I’d do this for a while until I paid off all the law school debts. And then try to move over to an area that’s got a bit more . . .”

  “Heart,” I say.

  “Soul,” he says at the same time. We both chuckle.

  “Heart and soul?” I volunteer.

  “I try to do pro bono work, and I’m staffed on a pro bono case right now, but it’s not actually working out so well.”

  “For you? Or for the client?”

  He smirks. “Both, actually. Though I hadn’t thought of it that way. What they don’t tell you when you take on pro bono work is that you’re still expected to log just as many hours in your day-to-day case work, and the time you spend on pro bono cases is more or less discounted.”

  “So you’ve got, like, two cases’ worth of work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Given all that, I’m actually impressed you could make it to drinks at all on a school night.”

  “School night. I like that. Yeah, it’s not typical, but my boss is away today and tomorrow, so I seized the moment.”

  “You work weekends?”

  “Yeah.” Then again, almost to himself, “Yeah . . . it sucks.” Then he looks up. “But, my job’s really boring, so let’s talk about something else.”

  “So your family’s in Lancaster?”

  “My parents are. My brother is married and lives in Pittsburgh.”

  “Do your parents work?”

  “Yeah. My mom is a schoolteacher and my dad is an undertaker.”

  “Like, a morgue undertaker? Or . . . mortician? Sorry, I don’t know the lingo.”

  “Yeah. He owns a funeral parlor.”

  “I’m picturing My Girl. Is the funeral parlor attached to your house?”

  He laughs. “Not quite like My Girl, but it’s close by.”

  “How did he get into that business?”

  “It was a family business.” He nods. “My grandfather ran it before him, he inherited it.”

  “Was he disappointed that you didn’t want to take it over? Or that your brother didn’t want to?”

  “I think a little, but not enough to pressure us into doing it.”

  “Did you grow up then . . . around . . . dead people?”

  He laughs again. “Not really ‘around dead people,’ but I did work for him during high school and then again during my summers in college.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Bookkeeping. And I drove the hearse.”

  “No. Way,” I exclaim, wide-eyed. “You drove the hearse? Now it’s like you’re Lurch from The Addams Family.” I quickly add, “Except slightly less creepy.”

  “No, it was a pretty creepy part of the job. This one time . . .” He regales me with a hilarious—and decidedly creepy—story about the time when he got into a car accident at an intersection, and the back door to the hearse opened, and the coffin he was chauffeuring slid out the back and onto the street to the horror of every driver and bystander.

  “Come on, you don’t have to look that horrified,” he chides. “It only happened once.”

  “I think ‘mortified’ would be the word you were looking for,” I tease.

  “Very punny.”

  We talk for three hours until the bartender informs us they’re closing.

  “Wow, we’re the last people here,” he observes.

  “I think we were the only people here.”

  “I’ve never closed out a bar before on . . . a ‘school night.’” He smiles.

  “Then you haven’t lived,” I say mock-incredulously.

  “I get that every now and then,” he says as we turn to walk up the street.

  “I don’t know about that. Ski bumming for five years before going to law school sounds to me like a ripe way to live out your twenties.”

  “I guess.” His hands are in his pockets. “So.” He looks first at the ground, then up at me. And we lock eyes again, and my heart hiccups again. “I had a really good time hanging out with you tonight. Do you want to do this again sometime soon?”

  “Yeah, sure!”

  “I’ve got a friend in town this weekend—maybe we could all meet up Friday night?”

  “I’ve got an alumni reunion-y party on Friday night.” I chew my lip. “But after? I’ll have friends with me, but . . . that could work well if you’ve got friends in tow, too?”

  “Yeah. Let’s do that. I’ll shoot you an email or text to confirm.”

  “Cool. See you soon, and thanks for tonight.” I wave goodbye.

  “I think he just got tied up with work. It sounds like he’s pretty busy, or stressed, rather, about his job,” my mom says.

  “Yeah, but if someone’s interested, he’ll find a way to make time. Even just a two-line text.”

  “But I don’t think he would have been so specific. ‘Friday night.’ When a friend was already coming in to visit. If he didn’t want to see you, he would have just said, ‘I’ve got friends in town this weekend and work is tough, so I’ll call you in the future.’ Or have said nothing at all.”

  I sigh. “So what should I do?”

  “Email him. Short and sweet, just say you hoped he was hanging in there since it sounded like he had a rough workweek ahead.”

  February 10 at 12:20 p.m.

  Hey Paul!

  I know you said you had a lot on your plate this week, so I just wanted to say hi & that I hope you’re hanging in there. Have fun with your friends this weekend!

  Cheers,

  Alison

  It felt surprisingly good to send that. Kind of like mini-closure, though it’s not exactly as if one should require closure after a single date. Unless you’re Brendan.

  Februa
ry 10 at 12:27 p.m.

  Hey Alison,

  Good to hear from you. This email is making me wonder: did you not receive my text? Hang on.

  OK. So I sent you a text yesterday about meeting up tonight, and it’s there, in my Sent Messages. But when I click on it, there’s a red X that says “Error. Message not Delivered.”

  Work sucks, thanks for checking in. Are you still up for hanging out tonight after your alumni thing?

  Paul

  February 10 at 12:39 p.m.

  Weird. I thought the failed missive was just something girls dreamed up to justify why they haven’t heard back from guys they’re crushing on. I didn’t know those actually existed. . . .

  Meeting up tonight post-alumni shindig still works. What time? And where? We’ll be coming from Midtown.

  Cheers,

  Alison

  February 10 at 12:45 p.m.

  10:30? Have you been to The Penrose?

  Paul

  February 10 at 12:49 p.m.

  I love The Penrose! 10:30 could be a bit tight, though. Can we push it back to 11 or 11:30? I hope I don’t sound totally sketchy wanting to meet up late-night, but tonight’s party is a costume party, themed “Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights” (yes, we Yalies really know how to get down) and I kind of really, really don’t want to meet up with you in costume.

  February 10 at 12:57 p.m.

  Oh. No, now we must meet at 10:30. And you must come in costume.

  Kidding. 11 or 11:30 is fine. Why don’t you text (and if I don’t respond, call, since maybe our phones are jinxed) when you’re out. But please don’t go home and change first.

  What is your costume? I hope it involves coconuts.

  “Ugggggh, no. Are you really going to make me do this?” I wail to Cassie as we climb the steps from the subway.

  “It’s already eleven-fifteen! If we go home to change, we won’t be able to get there until eleven-forty-five or later.”

  “But I look like a tramp.” I pout. “And you do, too.”

  She turns to face me. “You look amazing. And maybe a little tramp-ish. But if we meet up with them at midnight, isn’t that just as bad? You’re totally booty calling him without meaning to at that hour.”

  “I think this,” I point my hands to my chest and wave them up and down my body, at my coral-pink, mostly Lycra tanked dress, “is more of a direct booty call.”

  “Call him and ask. They’re probably just waiting around for us, so I’m sure he’d rather see you in your strappy silver shoes and Dancing with the Stars dress now than in jeans and furry boots in an hour.”

  “This wasn’t about what he wanted,” I retort. But I pull out my cell phone and call him.

  “Oh my God, you weren’t kidding.” He smiles as he taps my shoulder from behind. Cassie, Ashley, and I spin around from our bar stools to face him and his friend, also attractive.

  “Stop making fun of me!” I complain, eyebrows furrowed. “It was a theme party!”

  “We take theme parties very seriously,” Ashley explains.

  “No, you look good. Really good. Just, not like a New Yorker in the middle of winter.”

  “Well, in fairness, when I stepped outside earlier tonight, I was struck by this . . . impending sense of doom that I was about to keel over from frostbite or cold-induced cardiac arrest. Besides, I told you I’m not a New Yorker,” I tease. “Also, it’s a really long story, but I kind of needed an excuse to exercise my wardrobe.”

  “Oh yeah? What does that mean exactly?” Paul smiles.

  “Well. So this dress was an amazing, super-luxe designer, at 90 percent off.” I feel myself speeding through this like the Micro Machines commercial spokesman from the early nineties, fairly certain that men hear “dress” and “shopping” and instantly tune out. “And I found-it-on-the-floor-of-T. J. Maxx, it was the only one. My size. Yadda yadda,” I gesture and-so-on-and-so-forth with my hands, “and I had to buy it. This was four years ago. But then I never had an opportunity to wear it. . . . Then we got the invite to this ‘Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights’ party . . . it was like kismet . . . but now I’m evidently never wearing it again.” I sigh.

  “Wait, why not?” his friend, whose name I still don’t know, asks.

  “Because of your—plural—reactions!”

  “No, you should wear it every day. Even in winter,” Paul says.

  “It does . . .” his friend nods, “leave nothing to the imagination.”

  “STOP!” I scold through gritted teeth. Then I turn to Paul and whine, “See I told you it would be better if I could go home and change first. You too!” I turn and scold Cassie.

  “Really, though.” Paul nods. “You should wear it every day.”

  “Ohhhkay.” I sigh. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Tell us about the party,” his friend says.

  “Oh, but first! Cassie, and Ashley,” I point to each in turn as I say their names, “this is Paul and . . .” I raise my eyebrows.

  “Brian.” Brian smiles and extends his hand to shake first mine, then Cassie’s and Ashley’s. “Nice to meet yous” are mumbled in chorus.

  “So, the party is kind of a long story, but back in college, there was this thing called ‘Feb Club.’ The idea was that to combat the winter doldrums, fraternities, dorms, et cetera would rotate throwing parties each night so that every night for the entire month, there was a big fun party to go to.”

  Brian asks, “And you guys went to Yale, Paul said?”

  “Yeah. Nerds can be fun, too,” I say. “The alumni, maybe fifteen years ago, initiated ‘Feb Club for Old People.’ It’s not like there’s a party every night in New York, but there’s an alumni Feb Club party somewhere in the world every night in February. And because there are so many people living in the city, we get maybe ten or eleven in New York this year.”

  “That’s cool,” Paul says.

  “Have you gone to all of them?” Brian asks.

  At once, we each give our different answers. “Most,” “Some,” “Yeah.”

  “Tonight’s,” I explain, “was the biggest . . . the one that was actually thrown at the Yale Club proper, whereas most of the others are at random bars or people’s apartments.”

  “Well, Colorado kids know how to party, too,” Brian says flirtatiously.

  After two rounds of martinis, I beg to go home and change before we relocate to a new venue. The five of us walk back to our apartment, and Paul, Brian, and Ashley wait on the stoop while Cassie and I run up to change.

  “Paul’s adorable,” Cassie says as we turn the key into our apartment.

  “Brian’s not so bad either.”

  “Wanna trade?”

  “No, I’m cool, thanks.” I smile.

  As we step back onto the stoop, Paul says to Brian, “See? I told you she doesn’t always dress like that.”

  I feign looking offended, and Paul says, “Awwww,” kind of like I’m a wounded puppy, and he reaches over and takes my hand in his. Surprised, my head jerks to see my hand, then embarrassed by my surprise, I look up at him and smile. Those sparkling blue eyes again. My heart hiccups, and I feel myself blushing again. Luckily it’s ten degrees outside so I probably just look cold. Or so I tell myself to quell the heart hiccups.

  I look at Cassie, who makes her eyes wide, raises her eyebrows, and smiles, clearly saying, “Yes, I noticed he’s holding your hand, too. Cute!”

  Ashley announces she’s heading home, and when she and I hug goodbye, she whispers in my ear, “You got this. I want details tomorrow.”

  The four of us walk over to a dive bar full of darts and pool. Cassie, a lover of darts, challenges Brian to a round, wagering a beer for the winner. Paul and I are hovering over the jukebox, trying to decide which songs to invest our quarters in.

  “How do you feel about Creedence Clearwater Revival?” he asks.

  “Good. Very good. But . . .” I press the arrow button, flipping through several more pages of song options. “Not as good as I feel about ‘
Bleeding Love’ by Leona Lewis.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re kidding.”

  “I kind of am. And kind of not. It’s Cassie’s favorite song.”

  “Really? Favorite? Isn’t it kind of depressing?”

  “Yeah, well, by ‘favorite,’ I mean it’s her most recent breakup ballad. When her last Tinder romance ended a few months ago, the song was on loop for about three straight weeks, seeping into the living room from beneath her door at all hours of the day. And night.” I take the quarters out of Paul’s hand and slide them into the machine.

  “Isn’t that, like, torturing your friend?”

  “No, she’ll think it’s funny.” He looks at me suspiciously. “I promise. It’s been long enough that I’m pretty sure she sees the humor in the situation. Or, you know, she’ll break down into tears in front of the dartboard. But let’s hope for the former.”

  The first notes of the sad, slow song emanate from the speakers, and Cassie immediately looks over to us in front of the jukebox. “I LOVE THIS SONG!” she exclaims, and she starts to jump up and down, darts in hand, with glee.

  “See? Told you.”

  “Girls are weird.”

  “We always say the same thing about men.”

  “Do you have that? A breakup ballad?”

  “Would you believe me if I said no?”

  He smiles.

  Cassie, from across the room, lip-synchs along, “But something happened for the very first time with you . . .”

  “Do you want a drink?” Paul asks.

  “Sure. I’ll have a cider.”

  Paul moves toward the bar, so I join Cassie in lip-synching passionately across the room, “But I don’t care what they say . . . I’m in love with you.”

  “So.” Paul comes back with bottles in hand and hands me a cider.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you think they’re gonna hit it off?”

  “Cassie and Brian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug.

  “Well, is she interested?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Really,” he says. “So you didn’t ask her when you were upstairs changing? Or when we went to the bathroom earlier. Or . . .”

  “I don’t know,” I say, a bit more mischievously this time. I look over and Cassie is still lip-synching at me.