Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  “Oh.”

  Silence ensues again. And to break it again, I follow up nervously, “I like you. And I really like spending time with you. . . . And I hope we can continue to spend more time with each other.”

  Silence.

  “But I,” I furrow my brow, “I just.” I breathe in again. “I just move much more slowly than a lot of girls.” I bite my lip. “And I’m happy to talk about it, though I don’t know that there’s a whole lot more to say. And it’s fine if you want to make fun of me for being a prude. But,” I stumble, “I need to be . . . there needs to be more of a . . .” I hunt for the right word, then settle on, “relationship . . . there before I move forward . . . under the sheets.”

  He says nothing. So I raise my eyes from my lap and study his face, trying to read his expression, trying to get him to look me in the eyes. “Is that okay?”

  He pauses and speaks slowly. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I’m not trying to rebuff you, in fact I—”

  “No,” he interrupts. “It’s fine.” He rolls onto his side, then sits up. “I’m . . . totally not used to moving at your pace either . . . but it’s fine.” He nods. He reaches for his jeans, slides them on one leg at a time, then he turns his body and faces the television, returning his attention to the Oscars, which until now, he’d hardly watched for ten seconds.

  “Are we? . . .” I reach out and touch his hand. He moves his hand away abruptly.

  “No, Alison, I’m fine,” he says somewhat adamantly.

  I chew my lip, then echo his body language and face the awards show, too. Am I supposed to get up and leave now? But that would be a terrible way to exit, a surefire way to never see him again. And I want to see him again.

  After the award for Best Picture is announced, I pull on my boots and coat, and he offers to walk me home. Hoping this will help return us to good footing, I accept the offer. But we’ve walked four blocks in complete silence.

  I start, “You mentioned you have a busy week ahead. What’s going on at work?” This tactic seems to work, and he talks at length about how the pro bono case he’s working on should move to trial the week after next. This conversation brings us to my doorstep, and my heart starts racing, unsure of whether we’re going to end this with a high five or a handshake or . . . hopefully more?

  We stand there, quietly fumbling. I take a deep breath: “Look, I’m . . .” I stumble over my words, and then my mouth starts moving before my brain can catch up, “really shitty at talking about this kind of stuff, but, like, remember how we talked about Cassie’s version of a Saturday night? Mine’s always been more like the one of a designated driver. In fact, I was the designated driver for my friends all through high school. It’s not that I don’t want to have fun, or, ever have sex . . . it’s just that I enjoy being at the party without needing to get hammered. I like kissing and . . . other stuff.” I cringe at how awkward this is. Do I actually need to finish this thought? Would it be weird if I just stopped talking right now? “But I just need to, I don’t know, ‘round the bases’ a bit more slowly. I want to . . . kind of . . . have a foundation to a relationship before I . . . go all in. Physically. Does that—”

  “—It’s okay.” He puts his hands on either side of my coat hood and brings my face to his. “Sorry about before,” he says, uncomfortably. “I don’t want”—then he kisses me. Don’t want what? Where were you going with that? Can you please finish your sentence? We’re still kissing, but I can’t help but try to fill in the blanks. Don’t want to see me again? Don’t want that to ruin our potential? These are very different things! So I pull my head back and demand, through a smile, “Don’t want what?”

  He smiles flirtatiously, urges “Stop,” and pulls me back in again.

  Monday morning, Deepa tells me that Joanne was looking for me.

  “You can close the door.” Joanne looks up from her desk.

  I do and I take a seat across from her. “You wanted to see me?”

  “I wanted to talk about your analysis of the oxidation on the copper paint at the Armory.”

  “Oh?”

  “I feel that you’re a bit too,” she searches for a word and settles on, “complacent in your research and investigative techniques. Restoration Associates has obviously invested a great amount of time and resources in your training, with the goal of seeing you advance within the company. But if you look around at your colleagues, they all seem to show a bit more initiative than you.”

  My stomach sinks. “I’m sorry, I don’t . . . really understand. We wound up specifying the treatment I devised for the oxidation removal. I did all the testing; the rusty appearance, the blue streaks—they’re gone. The paint looks . . .” I say slowly, waiting for her to criticize, “like shiny copper again.”

  “You arrived at the correct result, it’s the way you got there that frustrates me.”

  I look perplexed but say nothing.

  “You asked too many questions. We have a rich in-house research library; you need to develop your own expertise. Look at Margo. She has never done paint analysis before, and she devised the restoration color palette for the column capitals at St. John’s—”

  “—wait, but I did that analy—”

  “You helped her get started, but she matched nearly thirty samples, expanding her skill set and billable tasks.”

  “But I . . .” I stumble. Last week, Margo said she needed to give the color matches to the contractor by Friday morning. I spent a day and a half holed up in the lab, sanding, mounting, and analyzing three dozen samples under the microscope. Then I emailed her an Excel sheet of my results with a paragraph or two of interpretation. She sent it to Joanne? And didn’t mention the findings were mine?

  But Margo is the golden child of RA. Pointing out that “her” results were actually mine won’t get me anywhere. Will it? I stumble through a few “buts,” “umms,” and fragmented “I thinks” as I try to gather my thoughts.

  Joanne studies me but says nothing.

  “I mean, I really love working on all the paint stuff. Metallic finishes and gilding, too. But . . .” My brain is rushing to piece together a calm but forceful defense. I sputter, “I do think of myself as driven, but . . . I also have to learn it from somewhere. And I thought asking you would be a good starting point? Like, knowledge sharing?” I hope that didn’t come off as condescending but fear it did.

  Joanne clasps her hands on her desk. “I’m glad you mention the word ‘driven,’ because that was something else I wanted to discuss: Every day, you’re the first to leave the office. If you were really ‘driven,’” she hits the word hard, “I would think you’d work longer hours. Your coworkers stay late each evening to meet deadlines or to catch up on the latest journals and scholarship. As it is now, you’re depriving yourself of that same opportunity.”

  My stomach sinks further, now down to the floor. “I’m always on time to work, if not early. The days I’m on-site, I get there by seven, come back to the office after, and still don’t leave until five-thirty.” I take a deep breath to calm myself. “You are right that I’m out the door at five-thirty most days. I work another—”

  “Oh?” Joanne glares at me sharply.

  “I’m not moonlighting,” I assure her quickly. “I tutor. I just . . .” I glance up from my hands to gauge if this has softened her reaction. It hasn’t. “I can’t support myself on my RA salary. I’m not complaining, or asking for a raise. But . . . everyone else in the office is married or lives with a partner. I don’t have a joint income to rely on, and I can’t afford rent if I don’t work evenings, too.” My eyes are getting watery, and I try to compose myself.

  “This is news,” Joanne says matter-of-factly.

  “Tutoring is how I supported myself through grad school. But I don’t let it interfere with my conservation work. I get that everybody else stays later than I do. But I also work through every single lunch break and eat at my desk. I actually just . . . try to be extremely efficient so I don’t have to stay la
te. And none of my clients, or the project managers at RA, have ever expressed disappointment in the quality of my work before, or in my efficiency.” I wish this sounded more like a statement, but I’m so disconcerted I know it sounds more like a whine.

  “This is all interesting to note,” Joanne says. “Moving forward, you need to work on being more of a self-starter. As you know, our employee manual lays out the criteria and skill sets required at each level for professional advancement. I encourage you to consult it and see which areas need further development and attention before you go up for promotion this summer.”

  “Yes. Of course. I will. Thank you.” I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry I can’t.

  As I head to the subway after work I receive the following email:

  February 13 at 6:14 p.m.

  Dear Alison,

  I hope your day’s going well. Mine’s been busy and annoying, as expected.

  I wanted to tell you that you’re a great girl. And I’m more attracted to you than I’ve ever been to anyone. But we’re just too different, and I don’t see this working out.

  Good luck,

  Paul

  That night, I’m cooking dinner at home with Cassie and Nicole. “Oh, hey,” I say, as if just remembering, “I have this email I want to show you guys.” I walk over from the kitchen to the living room and click open my laptop. I pull up my inbox and walk back to the stove, leaving the screen up for them to read, trying to mask my emotion, specifically the eagerness with which I await their collective response. And their sympathy.

  “What happened?” Nicole asks, with concern wrapped in melodrama that I so appreciate at this very moment. I recount the story about his Sunday night pants-shedding charade and our walk home, and our embrace on the front stoop.

  “You would think that kiss meant that he was going to get over it,” Nicole points out.

  “I know.” I sigh, stirring the spaghetti. “I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but that’s what I hoped it meant.”

  “Umm,” Cassie begins, “I have a theory?” We both look to her. She looks embarrassed. “Do you think I ruined it for you . . . by sleeping with Brian on Friday?”

  “Ha!” I laugh out loud. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I wondered that, too.”

  “No, really,” Cassie persists. “Do you think that I somehow gave Paul expectations of what would come next?”

  “‘Next,’ as in ‘the very next night’? Maybe? I don’t know.”

  She bites her lip and appears pained, “If that’s true. I am so sorry.”

  “No. Don’t be sorry. It seems . . . from his email . . . like this was bound to happen with him sooner or later, right?”

  “But maybe it would have happened on a more acceptable timeline?” she asks. Nicole is looking back and forth between us, following the conversation, completely amused.

  “Well, if you want my opinion,” Nicole says, “that definitely could have done it.”

  “Stop it!” I chastise her for making Cassie feel guilty, even though secretly I do think she had a hand in my receipt of this depressing email. “At least,” I counter optimistically, “one of us had fun this weekend?” Everyone laughs.

  “Are you upset?” Cassie asks, sympathetically.

  “Yes.” I pause to think about this. “You know, I’m not sure if I liked him for quote ‘the right reasons.’ I didn’t even really know him very well. But there was this, like, electrostatic spark the minute he walked into Café d’Alsace. I think I’m just really attracted to him . . . but, like, to his face. Not necessarily his personality.” I wonder if Mom will practically run a victory lap around her apartment when I tell her this, given that she had to convince me he was “cute enough” in the first place.

  “Do you feel regret?” Cassie, ever the emotion-seeker, asks.

  “No.” I stir the spaghetti slowly as I contemplate this a bit further. “You know, I did like him, but I don’t know how I could have really played this any differently, without landing in the exact same spot.” Cassie puts her hand on my back and rubs it gently. I grimace. “You know what’s bothering me the most though?”

  “What?” Nicole asks.

  “That I am so, utterly, screwed.” I shake my head.

  “Noooo,” Cassie tries to reassure me, then asks, “What do you mean?”

  “Just . . . that this is going to happen to me on every third date. With every guy. I am never going to make it to a fourth date. Ever. I am . . . just . . . totally screwed!”

  “Well, technically,” Nicole points out, “you’re the opposite.”

  poplockandroll03: Doppelgänger Greg

  January 30 at 9:51 p.m.

  Dear Alison,

  Fancy finding you on this site. Do you remember our romantic weekend last summer in Montauk? I still can’t stop thinking about it.

  Fondly,

  Greg

  P.S. What’d you do with the guy who brought you?

  January 31 at 8:09 a.m.

  Dear Greg,

  I do! I think about it all the time. You, me, 6 other dudes, pouring rain, and really loud Top 40 hits. Oh, and I had the flu the whole time. . . .

  If that doesn’t spell romance, I don’t know what does.

  Fondly,

  Alison

  P.S. He and I had our differences. It was nice while it lasted.

  February 1 at 11:01 p.m.

  Dear Alison,

  Since we’ve already shared so much together, what do you say we take this conversation off Match and to the next level: cell phones?!

  Fondly,

  Greg

  February 2 at 8:07 a.m.

  Dear Greg,

  You certainly don’t beat around the bush, do you? ;)

  Fondly,

  Alison

  Cell number below.

  February 4 at 11:56 p.m.

  347-466-1221: I’M IN SO MUCH TROUBLE.

  ALISON: IS THIS GREG? WHY ARE YOU IN TROUBLE?

  347-466-1221: YES. GOOD MEMORY. I VIOLATED BAND OF BROTHERS. EXILED.

  ALISON: WHAT?

  347-466-1221: OUT WITH PETERSEN BROTHERS. TOLD THEM ABOUT OUR BLOSSOMING ROMANCE. OUSTED.

  Dave’s best friend is Evan Petersen. Evan’s brother, Joe Petersen, is Greg’s best friend.

  ALISON: BROS BEFORE HOS?

  February 5 at 3:21 a.m.

  347-466-1221: WERE YOU EAVESDROPPING, ALISON? DID YOU BUG MY PHONE?!?

  February 5 at 8:14 a.m.

  347-466-1221: UH BOY, LOOKS LIKE YOU WERE A VICTIM OF SOME LATE-NIGHT TXT BLATHERING. YOU’RE A GOOD SPORT FOR TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF IT.

  347-466-1221: THINK I WATCHED ONE TOO MANY GOSSIP GIRL RERUNS YESTERDAY . . .

  February 5 at 9:21 a.m.

  ALISON: YOU’RE A GG FAN, EH?

  347-466-1221: HMM . . . MUST BE MORE CAREFUL WHEN USING CLEVER METAPHORS . . . BUT YES, I’VE SEEN THE SHOW “A FEW TIMES.” LIKE THE AVALON, SPENDING TOO MUCH TIME W/ O-TWINS HAS LINGERING SIDE EFFECTS.

  The mention of the Avalon makes me laugh. It was the flea-infested motel Dave and I shared in Montauk with the Petersen brothers and their friends, Greg among them. At the time, Greg was dating the personal assistant of the Olsen Twins.

  Cassie, Nicole, and I had debated spending Valentine’s Day watching The Notebook and going to town on some quarts of Edy’s Slow Churned Caramel Delight, with me in my ex-boyfriend pajamas—a gift from my sister when I broke up with Scott, they display cartoon photos of couples, torn in two, with the word “EX-BOYFRIEND” emblazoned every three or four inches. Alternatively, Cassie suggested we could negotiate drink specials at a bar and host a single mingle. We collectively opted for the latter, so I text Greg the following:

  February 14 at 11:51 a.m.

  ALISON: ALRIGHT, IF OUR ROMANCE FAILED TO LAUNCH, WHY DON’T YOU COME TO A VALENTINE’S DAY SINGLE MINGLE TONIGHT? I HAVE LOTS OF LOVELY LADIES WHO AREN’T FAMILIAR WITH THE PETERSEN BROS.

  ALISON: KEYBAR. 9 P.M. ON. BRING ELIGIBLE SINGLE FRIENDS!

/>   I then copy and send that exact text (minus the line about the Petersen Bros.) to Secret Agent Man, since one woman’s loss . . . or so the saying goes.

  Greg shows up at the party, John does not. When I’m not circling the room trying to play matchmaker, my dream job, I wind up always coming back to Greg. It’s not that I specifically want to or try to, it’s actually that he seems completely uninterested in meeting anyone new. And since he’s quite an engaging conversationalist, and I haven’t met any true dating prospects at the party, talking to him makes for a fun evening, if one that is only slightly more romantic than watching The Notebook with Cassie and Nicole.

  On the bright side, Ben finally buys a drink for a college friend I’d been trying to push him toward for nearly six months—their shared drinks are the official highlight of my Valentine’s Day.

  A month later I’m at a bachelorette party on Long Island.

  “Why don’t you go say hi?” Nicole asks.

  “I—I really can’t tell if it’s him or not? I haven’t seen him in forever, so I just don’t know.”

  “Would he be here?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe? He’s a banker, so . . . it’s within reason that it could be him?”

  “Go say hi!”

  “But if it’s not him, I don’t want to get stuck in a conversation with some random dude who thinks I’m hitting on him.”

  “There are worse things.”

  “Ehh, I’ll text him. If I see him take his phone out of his pocket after I hit ‘send,’ I’ll go say hi.”

  March 18 at 11:33 p.m.

  ALISON: RANDOM, BUT I THINK I SEE YOU OR YOUR DOPPELGÄNGER. ARE YOU AT THE BLUE PARROT RIGHT NOW? IF YES, I’LL COME SAY HI!

  The next morning, I wake up to the following slew of texts from Greg:

  March 19 at 2:13 a.m.

  GREG: RANDOM BUT I THINK I SEE YOU OR YOUR DOPPELGÄNGER. ARE YOU IN STATEN ISLAND RIGHT NOW?

  GREG: DID YOU JUST DO A BODY SHOT OFF YOURSELF? AMAZING.

  GREG: I OWED U FOR THINKING THAT I MIGHT BE HANGING OUT ON THE UPPER EAST LAST NIGHT. . . . . . . PUHLEESE. . . I DON’T THINK THEY WOULD EVEN ALLOW ME THERE ANYMORE. TOO OLD.