Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  “Really?” he says sarcastically. “Like you wouldn’t be annoyed if I called you at 11:00 p.m. Like you wouldn’t treat it as a ‘booty call.’”

  “I kind of,” I wrinkle my brow, “think we’re past that at this point, no?” My mind flickers back to our sexual escapades—on the rug before his fireplace last weekend, tangled up in his bed sheets throughout this week. I blush. “And besides, if I’m telling you now it’s okay, then it’s okay.” I read his eyes, he nods. “The problem is that even though I know it comes from a good place, when you cancel on me last minute, it means I’m out the time when I could be seeing friends, or staying late at the office, or tutoring.”

  “Is this our second fight?” he asks, eyes wide, faux-disbelieving.

  I force a half smile. “No.” I sigh. “It’s not a fight. I’m not trying to fight. You are a very good guy. Man. And I know that you try very hard to make me happy. So I’m just telling you this . . . one . . . little thing that would make me happy if you tried to work on it a teeny tiny bit.”

  “And that is?” he asks.

  Gah! Is he not listening to me? “Trying to plan your time out a little better. Even if that means not making plans with me, if you think there’s a chance you’ll get stuck working late, or not wanting to come into the city.”

  “Okay. I can do that.”

  “See? That wasn’t so hard!”

  “For you,” he says. “Second fight. You won again.”

  April 29 at 10:51 p.m.

  JAMES: HEY! WEDDING’S OVER. YOU STILL OUT WITH BEN? WANT TO MEET UP?

  ALISON: OOH. CAN’T WAIT TO HEAR ABOUT THE INDIAN CEREMONY. WE’RE AT MCSORLEY’S. YOU CAN MEET BEN!

  JAMES: ON MY WAY. PROMISE NOT TO BE LATE THIS TIME!

  “I think your brother and I could be good friends,” James tells me as we kick off our shoes in his apartment later that night.

  “Oh yeah? He’s pretty great.”

  “Does he golf?”

  “I can’t tell if you’re asking as a joke? Like a blue-blood bro code? But yes.”

  “Does he—”

  “No, he doesn’t play squash, and he’s never rowed a day in his life.”

  “We’re feisty tonight.”

  “No, just playing. Sorry.” I bite my lip. I start peeling off my tights. “What time is it?”

  He checks his watch. “Yikes, close to three.”

  “Okay. I’m gonna go brush my teeth and wash up. Do you want first bathroom?”

  “No, it’s okay. You go. I’m kind of amped up from all the liquor. Do you mind if I play guitar?”

  “Of course not! Serenade away!” I call from the bathroom.

  I reenter the room and climb onto the bed, then wrap his comforter around me. He’s playing and singing, and again, his music is oddly moving.

  Suddenly, mid-song, he claps his hand over the strings and says, without looking up, “We have to talk.”

  A knot plunges to the pit of my stomach. “Oh?”

  He stands up, drops his guitar to the ground, where it clangs discordantly, and starts pacing back and forth. “Yeah. I’m just . . . I’m just . . . the wheels have been spinning up there all day.” He gestures a crank next to his temple. The same gesture we used as kids to say, “Looney Tunes!”

  I nod.

  He raises both hands to his forehead and presses his palms against his temples. “And . . . I’m just . . . I’m just really . . . tweaking out over here.” He lowers his hands into fists and clenches them with each word “tweaking,” “out,” “here.” His voice amplifies. “I’ve just. I’ve just got . . . so . . . much . . . PRESSURE . . . on me from all sides right now. And . . . it’s feeling really freaky.” He growls the word “freaky” through gritted teeth, instantly conjuring an image of Heath Ledger’s rabid Joker intoning it the same way. “I’ve got pressure to do well at work! My boss keeps putting pressure on me to bring in new clients! I’ve got pressure to take care of my younger brother!” He stops pacing and kicks his guitar, which skips across the carpet. His voice rises to a fever pitch and he punctuates each phrase by hitting his right hand into his left palm. “Who’s a fucking MESS. . . .” he barks. “There’s really nothing I can do to help him, since he can’t help himself.” He resumes pacing, his chest puffed up and fists above his elbows. “He’s a drug addict for crying out loud! What am I supposed to do to help him? And I’ve got PRESSURE to pay for the renovations on my house! And PRESSURE from my parents to settle down . . . and now there’s PRESSURE from you!” On the word “you,” he points at me accusatorially, his eyes maniacal. “And—”

  I sit up straight on the bed and choke out, gently, hesitantly, “I’m . . . sorry? I don’t want to get in the way of you and your—”

  “NO! But you’re always trying to change me! Trying to make me . . . be more attentive, and do . . . more of this, and less of that.” He smacks the back of his right hand into his left palm with each emphatic phrase. I glance around the room, keeping track of where the knives and dangerous objects are. “And I’m not getting any younger,” he howls, “and my hair is starting to fall out and—” he goes on. Yelling. But he lost me in this kitchen sink of a meltdown when he started talking about losing his hair.

  I slowly, subtly, start gathering my clothing from the chair, keeping my eyes fixed on him as I start to pull my tights on, then my boots.

  “—It’s like everybody wants something from me! And does anyone ever ask what I want?” I’m guessing the answer is no. “I NEVER get time to think about what I want! Nobody ever asks ME what I want!” he clamors.

  “Okay,” I say softly, abruptly. “I’m going to go.” My coat is on, my purse in hand, and I inch slowly, backward, to the door.

  He clenches his jaw then relaxes it. Then clenches it again. His face is beet red. And terrifying.

  “Bye.” I exit through the door, close it behind me, and call the elevator. I’m practically hopping from one foot to the other as I wait for the elevator to ding and its doors to open. But he comes out first.

  “Hey. Can you come back in here and talk?”

  “No,” I say, as calmly and gently as possible. “I don’t think now seems like a good time to talk. I mean, for you.”

  “Can I at least walk you downstairs?”

  If I say no, he’s going to get incensed. And there’s nobody here since it’s the break of dawn, so I’m not protecting myself by verbally rebuffing him. He can and will follow me if he wants to.

  “Ummm. If you like?” We ride the elevator down in silence, while I scan the ceiling for a security camera. His face is still red, he’s still clenching and unclenching his jaw, and he keeps raising his eyes to the ceiling, too.

  My eyes are watery and I feel a wave of relief wash over me as we step out onto the sidewalk. Doormen! Never have I been so happy to see other people’s doormen! I can feel my body trembling. Traffic on his street is heavy, so nearly as soon as I’ve stepped off the curb and extended my arm, a cab pulls over.

  “Do you . . . want cash?” he asks.

  “Uhh . . . yeah, I guess? I don’t think I have any on me. . . . Thanks.” He pulls out a twenty and slips it into my hand. Once safely inside, I shut the car door behind me without saying another word.

  My pulse races uncontrollably throughout the ride home. Before I know it, we’re stopped in front of my building. It’s only when I pull out my wallet to pay the cab driver that I realize I didn’t need cash from him. All cabs take credit cards. I don’t know what I was thinking. Or what he was thinking.

  I rush into my building, fly up the stairs and into the apartment, lock the door behind me, and then flip the dead bolt. I lean against it and wait for my pulse to stop racing. But it doesn’t. I close my eyes and take three deep breaths.

  I change into pajamas, tiptoe down the corridor, and knock on Cassie’s door softly. I open it a crack. She’s sleeping. I tiptoe over and climb into the empty side of the bed.

  “Are you okay?” she mumbles, half asleep.

  �
��I think so,” I say.

  “Where’s James?” she mumbles again.

  “At his place. Having a navel-gazing nervous breakdown straight out of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men.”

  “Oh no. Do you want to talk?” She starts to rouse.

  “No, no, go back to sleep,” I whisper.

  “Are you okay?” she mumbles again.

  I think. “I am now,” I whisper. Then I pull the blanket over me, roll over toward the window, stare at the glass, and try to calm myself by focusing on my breathing.

  May 1 at 12:27 p.m.

  Are you OK??? Would you like me to make a voodoo doll named James? I would put a Viking-sized ax right between his legs.

  I’m afraid my week is swamped, but are you free late-night this week? You know I will sacrifice my sleep if you need a tequila shot buddy.

  Xoxox

  Nicole

  May 1 at 12:59 p.m.

  Hi hi,

  You are super sweet. Thanks! No need to sacrifice your sleep, but I appreciate the offer. ;) It’s a very long story that we don’t have to talk about if you don’t have time, but in brief, I’m somewhat disappointed in humanity. And I’m freaked out that my judgment failed me.

  With this whole “dating strangers” thing, I proceeded super cautiously on all fronts. Or tried to. I didn’t kiss until fairly late in the dating sequence, I didn’t fall hard, didn’t push it forward, continued to play the field for the first two months of daTing him (capital T as in “going on dates,” not to be confused with dating, as in “you are my boyfriend”), etc.

  Before committing to him in any way, I made sure he had some degree of accountability (met friends, received multiple emails from his work account, thereby proving he had a real job at a real place, saw his house, saw his dad’s office, knew his family history, asked about his prior multi-year relationships and subsequent breakups, asked about future goals, etc.). And then, just as I started to get comfortable, tell friends that he existed, told DAVE because I was trying to do the right thing, he did a complete 180 on Saturday night.

  Again, longer story for in person, but he met up with me and Ben. Was his usual spazzy but super-affectionate self. Told me he thought he and Ben could really be friends, etc., etc. Then we’re at his place, he’s playing guitar, he puts it down and basically launches into a nervous breakdown without me saying a word. It was scary, and my pulse didn’t stop racing until Monday morning.

  My mom asked me if I was most disappointed in:

  a.

  my judgment

  b.

  losing him, just as I’d started to care

  c.

  the world

  The answer is definitely NOT (b). Whether this episode occurred two weeks ago, in three more months, or in three years, I don’t see how I could ever get back to a point where I could care much about him.

  As for (a), perhaps I should have seen the fact that he dumped his girlfriend three days after she moved in as a red flag? But I took what he said at face value and accepted that she was intense and overly self-centered. I feel like I spend 95% of my life trying to be in control; I guess I’m just ashamed that I got this all so wrong. There have to have been other red flags; how did I miss them all?

  I keep replaying all the sweet things he did and said (he told me on Thursday - two days before this - that he told his parents I was “the greatest person he’d ever dated,” and that he thought I might be “The One”), and I fear that even knowing what I know now, I can’t pick out a turning point where I should have seen the signs or done things differently. Nevertheless, I rue the timing of it all. Why, oh why, did I decide this was a relationship - a relationship with promise - SEVEN DAYS before this meltdown? If I could go back and do it again, clearly I’d omit this week’s whole jumping-in-the-sack part. Welp, another notch on the bedpost for me. Ugh, I hate you, timing!

  Although (c) is really a crappy way to feel, it’s the right answer to my mom’s question. . . .

  WOW, was that a vent. Sorry! I’ve had issues talking about it, and word vomiting via email to you just made that all so easy!

  If you need to find me, I intend to spend the rest of the week self-censuring in the fetal position under my desk. With a flask of bourbon.

  Love,

  Alison

  May 1 at 3:11 p.m.

  1.

  You said “sorry” two-too-many times in the last sentence! Don’t ever be sorry for venting or email-word-vomiting!! 99% of the time I prefer to email-vent than chitchat-vent, because my chitchat-venting is so mucky and email-venting is so therapeutic.

  2.

  I like “daTing.” I’ve never seen that before. But why is it the “T” that’s capitalized? This topic so-shouldn’t be #2, it’s not important. I’m demoting it to #37 in this list.

  3.

  I’m so sorry, that’s really shitty. Especially because you did everything right, to a T (ha! Get it? Like daTing). There’s no way that the answer to your mom’s question should be (a) - and I hope there’s not even an inkling of self-blame. Maybe his spazzy exterior also translates into a spazzy/schizophrenic interior?

  4.

  I liked him too, remember? I was probably a bigger fan of his than you were! And as we puzzle through how to eschew situations like this down the line, maybe we chalk this experience up to a not-so-fun reminder that we never really know 100% what’s going on in someone else’s head. Sorry to wax all philosophical on you . . . but it’s weird, right? Someone you know very well might totally surprise you by freaking out, or by proposing to someone else, or by buying you a wedding dress. These things have now officially all happened to VERY good friends of ours! There wasn’t any real advice to this comment, but I think acknowledging the impossibility of knowing for certain what the other is thinking makes these shockers a wee bit less shocking.

  5.

  Did you realize you wrote your whole email without saying his name? You go, girl! Let’s erase him from your life!!

  ;-)

  Xoxoxox

  Nicole

  Three weeks have gone by since I last saw James. This morning I found this note in my inbox.

  May 22 at 7:33 a.m.

  I know we’re not supposed to be friends, so I don’t really expect to get a response, but I just wanted to say hello and see how you were doing. I’m off to London tomorrow and plan to use your great travel itinerary when I get to Florence!

  I’m sorry for how things ended up between us.

  James

  May 22 at 9:08 a.m.

  Um, WOW! I cannot believe he wrote an email to you. Part of me is glad that he did because it shows some humanity from him. The other part of me is not glad because I want him as far away from you as possible.

  What are your mom’s theories on why he wrote? Wow! Wow! Wow!

  ~Cassie

  May 23 at 12:49 p.m.

  Update: since receiving and forwarding that email yesterday, I also received a missed call from him (he rang the moment I walked in the door from tutoring, and I ran to your window to scope the street, on the brink of a heart attack thinking he might have followed me home). I went ahead and blocked his number so they always go straight to voice mail from now on. Anyway, back to fun stuff like hypothesizing!

  My mom thinks it’s EITHER:

  a.

  He feels remorse. As he’s going through his travel shit and found this really funny, long Florence recommendations email I tailored to his interests, he realizes his about-face was unnecessary, and he’s embarrassed.

  b.

  She’s not entirely sure she believes (a) since he said he’d never been friends with an ex. So why bother reaching out to me? Therefore, she thinks he let the dust settle, pondered his loss, is gearing up for this trip to Europe solo, and wants to have something to look forward to coming back to (i.e., me).

  I think his internal monologues defy better logic, so I don’t think psychoanalyzing his motives is especially productive; because with him, we can’t REALLY ever kno
w what he’s thinking and why.

  As a psychology major, what’s your best guess?

  Love!

  Alison

  May 23 at 12:50 p.m.

  It’s been nearly a month – does he realize that? I think he felt really badly immediately after the incident, but he was too embarrassed to do anything about it. I don’t think there was anything he could have done that Saturday to win you back, but he could have saved himself some dignity had he at least apologized.

  I think he thinks enough time has passed that he can address you again without feeling utterly foolish. I agree that he may be trying to win you back (one very small step at a time). Do you have any desire to try to work on things with him?

  ~Cassie

  May 23 at 1:06 p.m.

  EWWWWW!

  NOOOOO!

  Wait . . . seriously?

  EWWWWW!

  NOOOOO!

  If I’d said yes, I hope you would leave your office, come down to mine, duct tape me to my chair, and beat some sense into me. Immediately.

  There are a couple really positive things I know I will miss in future relationships now that I’ve experienced them - namely, having my ego stroked constantly with praises and compliments was nice (until I realized the person they were coming from was insane, which negated all of them), and also feeling like someone is totally physically attracted to you like a magnet and always wants to touch your hair is kinda nice, too. Sometimes. Not when they overdo it in public though. Gross.

  I know it’s easy to say “other people can do this, too!” but the reality is I don’t really like people who are like that. I shy away from romantic types, and, let’s be honest, romantic gestures make me do the awkward dance. My conclusion is that James’s delivery was so outlandish and funny that it stripped away the awkwardness - but that’s really only because I grew used to always feeling puzzled by his gestures (like kissing my eye and yelling in my ear) and learned to appreciate the humor in the situation. So I doubt the person I end up with will be as overtly affectionate and enamored. Sigh.