I grunt.
“Would that work for you?”
“I don’t think I know him well enough to write off the possibility that he could . . . or couldn’t . . . give more if we date for longer . . . and I guess I just find him so funny, and so magnetic, that I probably can’t bring myself to walk away until I know more.”
“But would it work for you?”
“Probably not. . . . No,” I admit.
“You should make a point of trying to tease out some of his issues then. Gently, if you don’t think he can be probed, because you’re making him sound like a minefield of red flags.”
“He is.”
“So then why would you ever choose him over Older Luke?”
I exhale deeply and say through gritted teeth, “Pheromones. Stupid pheromones.” I close my eyes and shake my head, more to myself than to Cassie. “His are like . . . a highly addictive drug for me. It feels as if my brain is working overtime trying to convince my limbs to motivate and walk away, but then, every other fiber of my body wants to, I don’t know, stick around? You know, because of his powerful pheromones and all.” I roll my eyes. I can’t even decide if this is just silly self-justification, or truth masquerading as silly self-justification.
I continue, “Remember when ABC restreamed Trista’s season of The Bachelorette last spring, and we got really absorbed in the show, lamenting how life was so hard! ‘Her head was with Charlie, but her heart was with Ryan!’ I feel like—”
“Older Luke is Charlie.”
“Yep.”
“And Younger Luke is Ryan.”
“Yep.”
“Well, then I think you have your answer.”
July 8 at 8:36 p.m.
YOUNGER LUKE: YOU’RE EITHER. . . DITCHING THE WEDDING TO TIE THE KNOT IN VEGAS RIGHT NOW . . . OR SPEAKING IN FRONT OF A LARGE GROUP OF PEOPLE WITH A PAPER BAG ON YOUR HAND.
July 9 at 1:05 a.m.
ALISON: IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SURPRISE! I THOUGHT YOU’D BE FLATTERED THAT I THOUGHT OF YOU AND BROUGHT YOU BACK THE FREE CASE OF BEER AS A SOUVENIR.
July 9 at 9:27 a.m.
YOUNGER LUKE: YELLOW, I THOUGHT WE HATCHED THAT VEGAS PLAN TOGETHER. . . DID YOU KNOCK THEIR SOCKS OFF?
July 9 at 11:16 a.m.
ALISON: WHAT DO YOU THINK?
YOUNGER LUKE: DEFINATELY.
What Part of This Love Boat Are You On: Luke
As planned, when I exit my office, Luke is standing across the street waiting for me. He watches me as I cross West 24th Street and reaches for my hand as we walk the city blocks to the subway. Be still, my heart.
It feels like I’m struggling to catch my breath the entire subway ride as we head out to Williamsburg together. I fill him in on the puppet show and other highlights and comic errors of the past weekend, and through it, my heart races on. When I returned from California, he suggested he cook me dinner this week. I protested, saying that it was my turn to make up for his generosity in food and drinks over the last few months, but he insisted. And then he justified it as not wanting to be cooped up with roommates he didn’t know.
When we get to his apartment, he has the meat marinating (“I got it ready before work this morning, aren’t you proud of me for planning something in advance?”), and his fridge is far fuller than it’s been before (“I hit up Trader Joe’s. I know how you females love organic food”). He refuses to let me touch anything (“I wanted to cook for you, remember?”), so I sit on the couch with a glass full of wine in hand, ask him about his week, and tell him about mine.
Once the various pans are cooking on the stovetop, he suggests we turn on the TV and moves to join me on the couch.
“I’m going to lie down,” he says. “You can join me, if you want.”
“Umm.” I look around for somewhere to put my glass down.
“Or you don’t have to.” He adjusts his position, extends on the couch, and rests his head on my stomach while I sit upright.
“Dude, your heart is racing,” he says, and I am mortified. He knows! He knows how nervous I am, how nervous he makes me!
“No it’s not. It’s normal,” I say defensively.
“Are you nervous?” he asks, looking up at me. Then smiling, teasing, he asks, “Do I make you nervous?”
“Shut up and watch TV,” I say, feigning anger. But he knows. I’ve shown my hand, and now he knows.
I wash the dishes after dinner, and while he’s helping me dry them, he suggests, “Hey, should we get some tunes going?” He goes into his room, and I can see him through the doorway plugging in his iPod, clicking his computer mouse. I recognize the first measures of Coldplay’s “Yellow.”
I can’t help but smile. “Ha ha. Very funny. How long have you been planning that for?” I call out.
He comes back in wearing a blank expression on his face and playing dumb. “Huh?”
I shake my head and acknowledge, “That’s funny, though.”
“I just . . . like . . . Coldplay. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He comes up behind me, takes the sponge out of my hands, and puts it in the sink. I quickly dry my hands on my jeans. Standing behind me, he then lifts my hands from my sides, interlocks our fingers, and studies them for a moment. “Yeah, this song came on my iPod a few weeks ago, and it made me think of you, Yellow. It’s kind of become my new jam, even though it’s old. I thought you’d get a kick out of it.” Then he turns me around, kisses me, picks me up, and carries me to the couch without breaking embrace, and I get lost in him for several songs.
“Do you want to . . . move to the other room?” He nods his head to the bedroom.
“Oh, I see how it is. Coldplay’s your lead-up. Your . . . Barry White or Marvin Gaye or . . . Dave Matthews Band.” I smile.
“Yeah, except . . .” He looks down, and then up at me again. “I don’t think we should sleep together tonight.”
“Wait—that’s my line.”
“Nope, I said it first. Now it’s my line.” With that, he stands up, leans over the couch, scoops me up, and moves to his bedroom, carrying me across the threshold newlywed-style.
As we lie entwined on his bed, his hands wander under the covers, like he wants to memorize entire areas of my skin. Random creases, like the insides of my elbows and the webbing between my fingers. He kisses my neck, kisses my ear, then groans.
“What?” I laugh lightly.
“No. I just . . . don’t think we should sleep together tonight.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “Yes, you keep telling me that. But first of all, quit stealing my line. Second of all, you’ve said it three times now, and it’s starting to feel offensive.”
He climbs on top of me and meets my face with his. “It’s a good thing. I promise.” He kisses me again, and it’s bliss.
July 17 at 12:18 p.m.
LUKE: WHATCHA MAKIN TONIGHT, YELLOW? AND CAN I BRING ANYTHING? WINE? MANWICHES?
ALISON: WHAT’S A MANWICH? THOUGH I’M PRETTY SURE THE ANSWER’S NO.
LUKE: YOU EAST COAST GALS MAY CALL THEM SLOPPY JOES.
ALISON: AH. OK, NO MANWICHES. BUT HOW KIND OF YOU TO OFFER! STRANGE REQUEST, BUT CAN YOU PICK UP MILK? I USED IT ALL AND WE MIGHT WANT SOME TO CUT DESSERT.
July 17 at 5:46 p.m.
LUKE: MY BAG IS FULL OF MILK AND I’M BRINGIN IT OVER - TOOK IT OUT OF THE CARTON TO MAKE IT EASIER TO CARRY, DON’T THINK ANYONE SAW.
July 18 at 1:02 p.m.
LUKE: THANKS FOR SOME SPECTACULAR EATS LAST NIGHT. STUFFED MYSELF WITH LEFTOVER MERINGUES FOR LUNCH THIS AFTERNOON. MY TURN NEXT.
ALISON: MY PLEASURE - ANYTIME. MAYBE YOU SHOULD TRY DUNKING THE MERINGUES IN MILK, YOU KNOW, SOP UP SOME OF THAT MESS IN YOUR BAG?
LUKE: NICE, BUT I ACTUALLY DUMPED A BOX OF YOUR CHEERIOS IN MY BAG ON THE WAY OUT THIS MORN FOR THE SUBWAY - GOT SOME FUNNY LOOKS THOUGH.
ALISON: HUH. WONDER WHY.
Luke is out in Las Vegas with a friend this weekend while I’m up in the Catskills with Ben and a group of our friends.
July 22 at
1:35 p.m.
LUKE: KNOW U HAVE A BUSY WEEKEND OF HOSTESSING, BUT JUST BIKED THRU THE JOSHUA TREE FOREST AND KNOW HOW U LOVE JOSHUA TREES. MADE ME THINK OF U
ALISON: AND HERE I WAS THINKING OF YOU. WE PLAYED TABOO, AND I GOT THE “SPY” CARD. I SAID, “IF YOU DRESSED UP AS ONE FOR HALLOWEEN, YOU’D DON A LONG TRENCH COAT AND CARRY A PLASTIC WEAPON.”
ALISON: FIRST GUESS WAS “ASPIRING PEDOPHILE,” THEN “EXHIBITIONIST.” WHAT WAS YOUR MOM THINKING LETTING YOU WEAR THAT TO SCHOOL?
“But I don’t want to invite him,” I whine. “I know I’ll just be nervous if he’s around. And I’ve been so nervous all the time lately, I kind of just want to relax, and see all my friends, and not think about . . . feelings.”
“But if you don’t invite him, you’re sending such a clear signal that you’re not interested,” Nicole argues.
“But he doesn’t have to know!”
“Hi, Facebook! Or accidentally letting it slip out. Or me or Cassie accidentally letting it slip out!”
“Uggggh. Fine.” I sigh. “But now I have to try to look cute. UGH!!” I tap my elbow twice, mimicking WWF wrestlers before they drop on their opponents with their elbows. Cassie and I invented this move in college, and it goes a surprisingly long way toward communicating aggravation or anger.
“Hey,” I say.
“You calling to tell me how much you miss me?” Luke asks, and I can hear him moving to quiet his speakers in the background.
“No. Was that your way of trying to tell me that you miss me?”
“Maybe.”
We make small talk about our respective weeks before I begin, “So, I just wanted to tell you something, but I don’t want to put any pressure on you . . . or on it . . . or whatever.” He’s silent. “I’m having a birthday party this Saturday. I have one every year—”
“—A birthday? Get out! I have one every year, too.”
“—and it’s nothing extravagant, just a good excuse to get all my friends in one place, drinking, out of doors. Anyway, I know you and your old man ways don’t like socializing, so if you have to be somewhere else or . . . need to wash your hair . . . I totally get it and won’t hold it against you. But I just didn’t want you to not be invited. Soooo, no pressure. Okay?”
I can practically hear the crickets before he breaks the silence. “Can I bring a friend?”
“Umm, sure. Yeah. It’s not, like, formal or anything—”
“So you won’t be wearing your prom dress.”
“I mean, I might. I haven’t decided yet. But it’s just at a bar on an old boat that docks near Chelsea Piers. I’ll add your name to the e-blast. I just didn’t want to add you without talking to you about it first, because I didn’t want to . . .” I trail off.
“Pressure me. Yeah, you mentioned that. I’ll be there. I don’t know if my friend can even come or not, but I’ll be there.”
“Okay.”
“Wash my hair?” He laughs to himself. “Do you really think I’d skip your birthday to wash my hair? Play guitar, maybe. . . .”
My birthday rolls around, and I receive the following text from Luke:
July 29 at 3:17 p.m.
LUKE: AWKWARD VOICE MAIL. DO NOT LISTEN.
Nervously, I punch in numbers to play the voice mail, my stomach jittery.
“Hey Alsy . . . Al . . . Yellow . . . You . . . So, uhhh, it’s Luke. And I just wanted to say that I hope you have a really happy birthday. And I’m really looking forward to seeing you tonight. And to . . . socializing among your . . . friends. Or family. Or whoever’s going to be there tonight. So . . . yeah. I’ll see you later. Best wishes, Alsy. Oh yeah, this is Luke. Did I say that already?”
ALISON: WITH THAT KIND OF LEAD-IN? ARE YOU KIDDING? OF COURSE I LISTENED BEFORE TEXTING YOU BACK.
ALISON: P.S. I SHALL CHERISH THAT VOICE MAIL FOREVER.
July 29 at 9:22 p.m.
LUKE: WHAT PART OF THIS LOVE BOAT ARE YOU ON?
I’m mid-conversation with some work friends when, out of the corner of my eye, I see him walk onto the boat. My stomach knots again, and I continue conversing with my colleagues. Before too long he makes his way over to our circle and kisses me hello, and introductions are made all around. I part from the group and gather Cassie, Nicole, and Ashley so they can finally meet him. While they talk, I gather Ben, my sister, and my brother-in-law so they can meet him, too. Not surprisingly, my sister, who shares my ability to talk to a doorknob, hits it off with Luke immediately and is trying lovably hard to make him feel at ease. “So, Ali said you’re from Tacoma, yes? My husband lived in Tacoma for . . .” “. . . Did Ali say you have nieces and nephews, too? Where do they live? . . . Oh, what fun ages! My daughter is . . .”
The hours fly by as college friends, high school friends, and city friends come and go. I see Nicole waiting solitarily at the bar, and I make my way toward her.
“So how do you think it’s going? You know, with Luke?” she asks.
“Dunno.” I shrug. “I haven’t seen him in a few hours.”
“Oh, he’s over there by the front of the boat.” She gestures in that direction. “Who are those guys he’s with?”
I scan the circle of men he’s hanging out with. “That’s funny. It’s like all of my Match friends instinctively gravitated toward one another.”
“Well, I guess they’re kind of the odd men out, right? They’re the only ones that don’t fit into a group—college friends, grad school friends . . .”
“Yeah, but, they’re all single. Shouldn’t they be hitting on the single girls here? Instead of on each other?”
“So who are all of them? Now I can finally put faces to names!”
We turn to scope out the circle. “Okay. The dark-haired guy on the left is Justin, then Jake, Luke you know, then some guy I don’t know. I thought Greg was coming, but . . . oh well.”
“Who are Justin and Jake again?”
“Justin is the one who took me to the University Club and gave me a private architecture-themed tour. And, Jake . . . I don’t really know how to describe him. He’s an anesthesiologist? They’re both really wonderful. Actually, you should meet them! Wanna meet them?”
“Yeah, let me just wait for my drink.”
I nod.
“Well, at least if nothing comes out of Match.com romantically for you, you’ve collected enough friends to fill up a bar. Oh, by the way, all your college friends keep talking about how Luke looks like Armie Hammer.”
“Ha! I wish. But, yeah . . . he’s cute.”
“I think he brought a birthday present for you.”
“Huh?”
“He’s been carrying around this big envelope all night. It’s gotta be for you, or else why would he still be holding it?”
After midnight, thunder rumbles and the skies open up to a downpour. Guests start running for cover, but there’s not much to be found on the boat.
Cassie sprints over to me through the rain. “Should we relocate to an after-party bar?”
“Sure, what’s around here?”
“Nothing, we’re on the West Side Highway. . . . But maybe if we make a run for it, we can get to The Half King?”
“Where is that?”
“Just a few blocks up 23rd Street.”
I nod. We rally the partygoers that remain and make a collective group run for The Half King.
When we get into The Half King, I stand near the doorway with the other girls as we wring out our dresses and our hair, giddy and winded from having sprinted through the rain. Luke comes out of the bathroom, and when I stand up, the hem of my dress still in hand, our eyes lock. I smile and shrug, as if to say, “Kinda messy, but fun, right?” I walk toward him, and he wraps his arms around me, leaving his hands on my butt.
“Not here,” I chastise. “Not in front of my brother and sister . . . and all my friends.”
He kisses me. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I felt like I was watching you from across the bar . . . across the boat . . . all night. It was getting me . . .
excited,” he whispers in my ear. “So!” He straightens and releases me. “Can I buy you a tequila shot?”
“I’d rather not forget tonight.” I smile.
“Come on. One tequila shot. Besides, I want to show you something.”
“Okay.”
We walk over to the bar and climb onto the stools. Luke orders two tequila shots. “Here, this is for you.” He puts a large manila envelope on the bar. “Sorry it’s kinda wet now. It’s wrapped inside, so hopefully it’s okay.”
“You want me to open it . . . now?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” I slowly tear open the flap and slide out a rectangular gift-wrapped package and another envelope. “Which should I open first?”
“The package.”
I nod, and my fingers fiddle with the tape and seams. “Oh. Oh. This is so cool!”
“Yeah, I’ve been reading about this guy, and I thought you might . . . find his stuff kinda cool.” It’s a coffee table art book on Banksy.
“Oh, way cool! I thought his . . . ‘residency’ or whatever in New York was amazing. And . . . did you see Exit Through the Gift Shop?” He shakes his head. “Anyway, it’s a documentary about him. And other street graffiti artists. We should watch it sometime.”
“Yeah, sure. . . . So I bought this because . . . well, I thought that you like art, and you do art for a living, but usually, higher-brow stuff. I thought this might appeal to your more . . . alternative or gritty side.”
“No, yeah. It’s awesome. Thank you. Really. Thank you.”
“Nah, it’s no big deal. But I was kinda excited to give it to you.”
“Now should I open the card?” I ask brightly.
He nods. “But first, tequila shot!” He hands me one, and we clink glasses. “Happy birthday.”
I smile and down the small glass.
When I open the card, decals and stickers tumble out onto my lap. “What is this?” I laugh. “Have you been scrapbooking?”
Match Made in Manhattan Page 23