Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  On the bright side, I look forward to meeting some man, someday, who doesn’t make me embarrassed at all.

  Oy.

  Alison

  A month after that email to Cassie (nearly two months post-James’ meltdown), I receive the following voice mail:

  “Hey. It’s James. I’m back from London and Italy, and I wanted to tell you that your itinerary was amazing. I did almost all of it, including the run along the Arno up to San Miniato al Monte. Anyway, thanks for that. And if you ever want to talk, please know that I’m sorry and that I’d like to make it up to you.”

  I play it once and hit DELETE.

  myownmaster05: Brooks, the Epistoler

  Sometime while I was dating James, but before we stopped seeing other people, I had a lengthy email exchange with Brooks.

  April 3 at 5:31 p.m.

  Dear Alison,

  I’m so sorry - more for my sake than for yours, but also for yours - but I have to cancel our date for Wednesday. I had my wisdom teeth out before the weekend, and though the dentist said swelling goes down quickly, mine hasn’t. So I was already planning on meeting you looking like a chipmunk and hoping that you might, by some stretch of the imagination, be able to overlook my bloated appearance. But then, to reduce swelling, they put me on a prescription that has wreaked all kinds of havoc on my system. Also, I still can’t chew, so our dinner date would have been problematic. Or a flash-forward to life together when we’re old and gray and you have to spoon-feed me everything. . . .

  I’m taking off to visit my dad in Arizona on Thursday, so although I feel terrible punting our date off, on the bright side, when you see me, I will have a sexy refined jawline and be nicely tanned. Silver lining for both of us?

  Anyway, promise you won’t fall in love while I’m gone. And to make it up to you, I’ll upgrade our date from Chipotle to a cloth-napkin venue.

  Best,

  Brooks

  April 4 at 10:58 p.m.

  Bummer! But no worries, I completely understand. Besides, this soon-to-be-new-and-improved version of you sounds way better, so I shouldn’t complain.

  I’ll try my hardest not to fall in love between now and then, but no promises. How about this: even if I do, I’ll at least give the post-Arizona version of you a chance to be my friend? ;)

  Cheers,

  Alison

  When Brooks returned two weeks later, I received the following email:

  April 19 at 2:14 p.m.

  Hey Alison,

  I am still sitting on the tarmac, waiting to deplane. Didn’t want to waste a minute here: How about Tuesday night. Candle Cafe?

  Fondly,

  A tanner, less swollen Brooks

  I wrote back:

  April 19 at 10:16 p.m.

  Subject: Well, they say that timing is everything . . .

  Hey,

  Welcome back! Glad you’re feeling better.

  Perhaps you jinxed it by making me promise not to fall in love, but while you were away, things became a bit more serious with a guy I’d seen a few times before you left. You sound terrific. But unfortunately, I’m off the dating market, for now at least.

  Sorry!

  Alison

  To which he responded, in 24-point Olde English calligraphy:

  April 20 at 7:57 a.m.

  Dearest Alison,

  Indeed ‘tis true that timing is everything, and I am kicking myself for letting it obstruct our blossoming romance. Yet they say that the strongest tales of passion and love are those that were begat through epistolary correspondence, so perhaps our story doth not end here. . . .

  Yours truly,

  Brooks

  P.S. Call me if he snores.

  I’m walking home from tutoring in the dark, cool night. Now that my heart rate has resumed a seminormal level thanks to two days’ distance from James, I loosen my grip on my cell phone and breathe. Then dial.

  “Hello?”

  “Brooks?”

  “Yeeeessss?”

  “Hey! It’s Alison. From Match.com.”

  “Uhh. Hi! How’re you doing?” His voice is pleasantly deep and masculine, attractive-sounding.

  “Uhhh.” I laugh nervously. “Good?” I breathe in. “Soooo. This is a little strange, and I know that that lasted a hot second, but, I’m single again? So, I thought I’d take you up on the postscript from your epic epistolary correspondence . . .” I laugh, and he, thankfully, joins me in laughter, “and call to see if you’re still single and maybe want to meet up? Sorry, this is incredibly odd. And somewhat embarrassing.”

  He laughs. “Oh! No! That would be awesome. I’d love to meet up!” He pauses. “Also, I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. And he sounds genuine. “But I’m happy for me. . . . Yeah, that was clever, right? I felt like when I discovered you could change the font on Match mail, I knew that email was going to be epic.”

  “I was kind of tempted to print it out and hold onto it for posterity,” I agree.

  “So. I don’t want to rush you. Do you think you’d be ready to meet up later this week? Like, Thursday?”

  “Yeah. I could do Thursday.”

  “Excellent. But, you actually caught me at a weird time. I’m in the gym, and now I should probably go so I’m not that douche at the gym who’s yammering on his cell phone while lifting weights.”

  “Oh, yes. Go. Sorry!”

  “No, I’m really glad you called. I’ll shoot you an email with a time when I get home.”

  “Okay, bye!”

  “Bye.”

  I hang up and walk down the street. Thank goodness he didn’t ask me what happened. How would I have responded?

  Later that night, I receive a blank email with no subject line from Brooks. I write back:

  May 2 at 9:50 p.m.

  Re:

  I have to say, I think your last email was better. . . .

  Good talking to you, though. Glad we can finally meet face-to-face!

  Cheers,

  Alison

  May 2 at 10:22 p.m.

  Hi Alison,

  Ha! Sorry about that ghost email. I got a little overeager and hit send before writing anything. Don’t read too much into that. . . .

  Because I feel like we have made some kind of cyber–cell phone connection, it’s important to me to be honest before we flesh-and-blood meet. So here goes: I’m 45 not 35. I totally understand if you don’t want to go to dinner with me now. But I really hope you don’t change your mind. My photos are recent. And if you are still willing to meet, I won’t lie to you about too much other stuff.

  Idiotically,

  Brooks

  May 3 at 6:43 a.m.

  That’s so funny! Because I’m actually 17, not 27.

  OK, just kidding.

  This is a big bummer. The reality is that your emails have ranked among the top emails I’ve ever received. And you seem really smart/nice/charming. But I recently corresponded with a 37-year-old on Match and felt weird about that, so I think that I’m probably not in the right mind-set at this moment to be worth you wasting time on.

  Thanks for being honest. Even though this is a sucky response, I do appreciate it.

  Cheers,

  Alison

  poplockandroll03: Doppelgänger Greg, Continued

  April 16 at 12:43 a.m.

  GREG: RANDOM BUT I THINK I SEE YOU OR YOUR DOPPELGÄNGER. ARE YOU AT GRAY’S PAPAYA ON WEST 4TH?

  GREG: DID YOU JUST WIN THE HOT-DOG-EATING CONTEST???

  ALISON: AS A MATTER OF FACT, YES! I WAS INSPIRED AFTER TRYING THEIR RECESSION SPECIAL, AND MY FRIENDS ROPED ME INTO IT. . . . ARE YOU STILL HERE?

  As he is wont to do, Greg doesn’t respond. But a month later, I’m at a Rosanne Cash concert. She has these Teutonic-looking twin-hipster guitar players, which for some reason I find very amusing. Which for some reason, makes me think of Greg.

  May 13 at 9:16 p.m.

  ALISON: WHOA. WAY TO ROCK OUT ON THAT GUITAR SOLO! ROSANNE CASH IS GREAT & ALL, BUT I CAN’T STOP ADMIRING YOUR NEW C
OIF & PLATINUM HIGHLIGHTS.

  Naturally, because it’s Greg, I don’t hear back until Tuesday morning.

  May 16 at 8:50 a.m.

  GREG: IF YOU THOUGHT I LOOKED GOOD SATURDAY, HERE I AM WITH RC OUTSIDE THE OLIVE GARDEN TIMES SQUARE LAST NIGHT. I ATE 32 BREADSTICKS AND GOT MINESTRONE IN MY FU MANCHU.

  He’s attached a photo showing Rosanne Cash in Times Square alongside a ZZ Top look-alike with a multi-foot-long beard.

  May 16 at 5:47 p.m.

  ALISON: I KNEW IT WAS YOU AND NOT YOUR DOPPELGÄNGER THIS TIME! BUT WHAT OF THE BLEACHED HIGHLIGHTS? THEY WERE *NEARLY* AS SEXY AS THE FU MANCHU. . . .

  ga2nyluke: Older Luke

  “Uhhh. Uh-oh.”

  “What?” Nicole asks.

  “Eesh.” I frown at my computer screen. “Okay. So, I’ve been corresponding with this guy, Luke, and we just set a date for Sunday. . . . But now I’m looking back at his profile, and I just realized he’s divorced.” More to myself than to her, I wonder, “How did I miss that?” I continue scanning his profile. “I mean, I already knew that he’s . . . kind of old? Thirty-seven. I guess I was so focused on his age when I checked his profile after he emailed me, I totally missed the ‘relationship status’ section. Crap.”

  “Is that a deal breaker?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never dated anyone who’s been married before. I can’t decide if that means I should just flake out and cancel?”

  “Does he have kids?”

  “Gosh, I hope not. I doubt I’m ready for that quite yet. Let me check.” I scroll through his profile quickly. “Nope, no kids. Phew.” Nicole leans over my shoulder to check out his profile page.

  “He’s hot!”

  “Yeah, and a doctor. But he’s old. And apparently divorced?”

  “So, is that such a big deal? The divorced part?”

  “I don’t know. Kind of. I guess I sort of assumed that whoever I wound up with, I’d be their first . . . you know, great love. . . . But he’s had that before.”

  “Yeah, I guess I would want that, too. But we can’t always control people’s pasts . . . including our own.” She smirks. “You’ve already got the date set up. I think he’s too hot to ignore.”

  I glance around Trinity Pub and spot him at a low table in the back of the room.

  “Luke?”

  “Hey, Alison.” He gets up from his chair and gives me a hug with a hard pat on the back—the kind you give a teammate after a soccer game. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You, too!” The combination of his buzz-cut brown hair, his rippled biceps peeking through his NAVY T-shirt, and his Southern twang remind me of quintessential military men, like Channing Tatum in Stop-Loss, or Channing Tatum in Dear John. We order pints and make small talk. He’s an only child, a former ROTC, a psychiatry resident hailing from Georgia.

  “I know this sounds weird,” I say, “and I’m not trying to flatter you, but I have a disproportionate number of friends from Georgia. It’s like everyone I’ve ever met from that state is super polite, super warm, and super genuine. . . . No pressure to reciprocate the compliment,” I add quickly, “. . . or to embody it. . . . I’m pretty sure the same can’t be said of New Yorkers. Or suburban New Yorkers.”

  “Yeah, New Yorkers are tough nuts to crack,” he says. “I’ve been here for three years and have found it really hard to make friends outside my program. And, as you probably could guess, I’m kind of in a different age bracket than most of the other residents.”

  I nod slowly and take this to mean it’s alright to ask, “Yeah. So, that is kind of late to be in residency. Quarter-life crisis?”

  “Sort of. My life changed a lot eight years ago, and I was really craving a fresh start. I already had a master’s in chemistry, but the work I was doing for a petroleum company wasn’t fulfilling and didn’t have a lot of growth potential. So I decided to apply to med school, if a bit late, and try to become a doctor.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what triggered the ‘fresh start’ craving?”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t comfortable talking about it.” He shakes his head for emphasis. “My ex-wife and I decided to get divorced at that time. So much of my life was anchored in our small town, I felt like I needed to . . . cut the cord geographically, professionally . . . emotionally.”

  I nod. “How long were you married for?”

  “We started dating in college. And we were married for seven years.”

  “You didn’t have kids?”

  “No. I think we both knew the marriage wasn’t perfect. Or, rather, was imperfect. So we never tried for kids. If I’d analyzed it more closely at the time, I might have seen that decision as symbolic of the larger problem that we should have addressed earlier. Rather than stay in a tumultuous marriage for all those years.”

  “And was it tumultuous? Is that why you got divorced? . . . Sorry, I don’t mean to pry—”

  “No. Please, ask as many questions as you like. We were young and hotheaded. We fought constantly. It wasn’t a good relationship. She was really good at getting under my skin . . . and I did the same to her.”

  “Did you guys . . . ever seek help? Like a counselor or psychologist?”

  “No. We were young and . . . it was kinda like puppy love. If I were going through it again now, I definitely would. But, on the other hand, I’m glad I’m older. And not in that relationship anymore.”

  I nod.

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” I point to myself.

  “Yeah. Have you had any long-term or serious relationships?”

  “A few. Importance-wise they all pale in comparison to a marriage though.”

  “No, that’s not necessarily true. Have you had . . . one? Or many?”

  “Only two significant ones. And one was in college, so I don’t feel like that counts anymore.”

  “That counts.” He nods encouragingly. “What was your post-college one?”

  “A three-plus-year thing. It ended in January.”

  “Do you feel like you’re over it?”

  “God, I hope so. It’s been nearly five months.”

  “Yeah, but relationships can have profound or far-reaching effects on us.”

  “Spoken like a true psychiatrist.” I raise an eyebrow and take a sip of my cider.

  “Are you skirting the question?” he asks, winking.

  “You’re making me feel like I’m on the couch.” I half smile. “And no. I’m fine. I’m not sure there’s a whole lot to say.”

  “That’s not true,” he brushes this off. “What was he like?”

  “I don’t know . . .” I wait to see if we can drop the subject, but since he doesn’t say anything, I take it as a cue to continue, if begrudgingly. “Smart. Adventurous. Generous. We really don’t have to talk about this. . . . Tell me more about your life in New York so far.”

  “Well, I live down by the hospital in resident housing. I’ve been in the same place for three years. I’ve got a rescue dog; his name’s Boomer. . . . My ex-wife and I shared custody of our dog, back when I did med school in Georgia. I’d get the dog every other month. Then when I moved to New York, the worst part was that the distance precluded that. So I got Boomer.” He adds, “But I really miss my other dog.”

  “Have you seen him since you moved?”

  “Nah. That would entail seeing my ex-wife, and it doesn’t really seem worth it, since she doesn’t live near my parents or other people I try to see when I go home. What about you? Do you get to go home a lot?”

  “My parents live two blocks away, so yes. It’s not the home I grew up in—that was sold a few years ago—but their place feels like home now.” He asks about where I grew up. I talk about their reverse migration again, and it sort of rolls off my tongue like a script.

  “Do you have any big vacation plans or summer travel coming up?” he asks.

  “My big one is a trip to Turkey later this month with my parents. And then in July I’m flying to Napa to be maid of h
onor in a friend’s wedding.” He asks me how I know the bride- and groom-to-be.

  “The bride, Catherine, was a roommate of mine in college; Andrew, her fiancé, she met out in California.”

  “What’s their relationship like?”

  “Interesting question. . . . I’m not sure I ever thought about it before.” I describe the bride, and her lovable idiosyncrasies and her strengths, also her needs and insecurities, “Which I think are just . . . complemented, or fulfilled, by him in the best of possible ways.”

  “How so?”

  I explain her messy family background, contrasted with the stable, all-American, close-knit family the groom hails from. I describe her creative, sometimes frenetic, energy, which seems to be endlessly inspiring and intriguing to her groom. “I think it’s actually a pretty ideal situation. She needs someone who is, at the end of the day, loving, forgiving, and stable. And he . . . he just feels like he hit jackpot with this beautiful, ethereal, intellectual woman, and you can tell that nothing will ever change that feeling.”

  He stares at me. I blush. “Sorry! I can’t believe I just droned on and on about that. Next time, will you cut me off, please?”

  “No.” He nods. “I was just thinking. Well, I was listening, but I was also thinking: You’re kind of an old soul, huh?”

  I blush deeper. “Yeah, I get that sometimes. Sorry, didn’t mean to be so deep or serious.”

  “No, not at all. I’m impressed. You could be a psychiatrist.”

  “I think one’s enough for this table.”

  “Have you always been an old soul?”

  “I don’t know. Kind of?” I pause to think this over. “Ever since I was in high school, I’ve kind of always felt . . . old. Like, I loved my friends! And I loved playing bonding games at volleyball retreats, and going to field parties in the woods. But, I also kind of felt like, ‘Gosh, so much of what we’re talking about is so inane and . . . senseless?’ Like, maybe I was a thirty-year-old stuck in a sixteen-year-old’s body? I never cared about who got drunk or who hooked up with who. Whom. . . . But my friends did. And that sentiment reared its head again regarding sorority politics in college and . . . ugh. Why am I telling you all this? I sound like the most boring, negative, plaintive person you’ve ever met!” Seriously. Shut up, Alison.