“Read the card.”
I read the card slowly to myself, then close it and look up at him. “That was so thoughtful! You are so sweet!”
“Can we go through them now? . . . Here.” He picks up an American flag decal. “See, so I figure you could put this one on your helmet, and—”
“—my hard hat?”
“—yeah, your helmet.” He pauses and looks at me, smiles, and continues, “And this way, all the construction workers will see your flag and know you’re a solid, God-fearing Amurrican. It’s like an instant ‘in.’. . .” He riffles through the pile spread out on the bar and on my lap. “Or they’ll see . . . this one,” he pulls out a cartoon sticker of the Beatles on the yellow submarine, “and join you in whistling rounds of ‘Yellow Submarine’ on the scaffold.”
He walks me through explanations of the rest, but I kind of stop listening and just enjoy watching him so animated, so at ease, and also, at the root of it, so thoughtful.
The next morning, we’re lying in bed, alternately joking, kissing, and trying to fall back asleep.
“So, let me get this straight: All those guys I was hanging out with last night—you met all of them on Match?”
“I mean, not all of the guys at the party. Just the ones you happened to be hanging out with.”
“Why’d you stay friends with them, if it didn’t work out romantically?”
“They’re great. They’re really great. Just . . . not great for me romantically. . . . I like to think of it as performing free screening tests for my single lady friends.”
“How long did you date them for?”
“Just once. But, don’t worry—I never kissed any of them, or even held hands. I just . . . I thought they were really interesting, really good people . . . so why not be friends?”
“Don’t you think you have enough friends already? That boat was pret-ty crowded last night.”
“We can’t all be old man hermits like you. People who don’t need people . . .” I sigh in mock reverie.
“Soooo. Are you still . . . on Match?”
I swallow nervously and nod once. “Kind of. Are you?”
“Well, look, I don’t want to tell you what to do, but I took myself off Match shortly after I met you. But you should, you know, still use it for social networking purposes . . . or whatever.”
“Social networking purposes?” I laugh out loud. “Like . . . finding potential clients. Or book clubs?”
“Yeah, or whatever.”
Is he saying he wants to be exclusive? And what is it about him that stops me from asking this question out loud? Unfortunately if I ask that question, a question that might solve everything for me right now, he’s going to run the other way. I know he will, what with his hermit-y “old man” tendencies and all. So I soften it:
“You’ve got these . . . old man ways. No socializing on school nights because it’s early to bed, early to rise. . . .”
“You know, I always thought I took after Ben Franklin.”
“Anyway, you and I call these your ‘old man’ ways.” I nod and look to him for confirmation. He nods back. “So, I’ve gotten the sense that you never want to see me more than once a week. Sometimes twice, when I’m lucky.” I poke his arm, trying to turn this into lighthearted ribbing. “But. I don’t know what you’re doing with the rest of your time . . . and you don’t have to tell me . . . but now that you are telling me that you aren’t advertising yourself to the ladies anymore . . . can I see you more than once a week?” I raise my eyebrows. He’s silent. “Like . . . maybe twice?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“So . . . you said you had a long-term girlfriend before. Did you ever see her more than once or twice a week?”
“That was a long time ago, and it was different.”
“Different how?”
“She moved out from Tacoma with me. We packed my car and drove across the country together, we had no money, so we lived together. So . . . yeah, I saw her every day. But it wasn’t a good relationship. And I don’t want to repeat that.”
“How long were you together?”
“Four years.”
“And have you dated anyone since?”
“Yeah. I saw another girl maybe three years ago.”
“For how long?”
“Five months, give or take.”
“Why did you guys break up?”
“It was different than this.” He points back and forth between us. “It was more of a . . . casual thing.”
“But five months is a long time,” I posit.
“Yeah. But, it didn’t really require a conversation when it ended. It just ended.”
“You gave her the fade-out after five months! Luke, that’s . . . mean!”
He shrugs. “I don’t think she was upset. It clearly wasn’t going anywhere. And it’s not like she called me.”
My stomach’s knotting itself again, and I try to steel myself as I ask, “So, then . . . how do I know we won’t . . . just fade out?”
“I . . . can’t answer that.”
“Well. Why not?” I add softly, “It would probably help me if I understood a little better.”
“I don’t know. I’m not an astrologist.”
My shoulders sink, and I feel my eyes start to water so I sniff quickly to clear them, disappointed in this answer, disappointed in him.
“Aww, Alsy.” He lifts my chin with his hand and kisses me. “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll get there someday.”
I blink, and he continues. “Look, I know this sounds weird, but if I didn’t like you so much, I would have had sex with you by now.”
I grimace. “Have you given the fade-out to other girls between the five-monther and me?”
“There hasn’t been anyone between the five-monther and you.”
I squint skeptically. “Really?” Really? In three years?
“No. Maybe a few random dates here and there, but I haven’t gone on a second date since her . . . until I met you.”
I continue to narrow my eyes suspiciously. “In three years?”
“This is the part where you say, ‘Awwww, Luke. You’re so romantic.’”
“Yeah, whatever.” I roll my eyes. “So. Going back to your question . . . a large part of me is perfectly happy to close my Match account, if that’s what you’re asking. But a larger part of me doesn’t want to be a super optimist who puts all her eggs in one basket . . . when that basket fades out on people.”
He nods.
“Also, if I close my Match account now, then I don’t get my free six months.”
“I forgot you’re a newbie at this.”
“And a cheapskate, too.”
“Ha.”
“Sooo . . .”
“Look, like I said. Mine’s down. Yours doesn’t have to be. I can’t tell you where we’ll be in a few months. Or, where you’ll be in a few months.”
“Right, because you don’t like astrology,” I say quietly.
Over brunch later that morning he asks, “So, is there anyone else I should know about from your Match past? Anyone who was noticeably absent last night . . . or is still present in your life?”
“Well, I have a couple of ex-boyfriends still present in my life, but I didn’t meet any of them on Match.”
“Mmmhmm.” He nods.
“I still consider my college ex-boyfriend one of my best friends, though he doesn’t live in New York. And my other ex-boyfriend, Dave, who I think I mentioned before . . .” He nods. “. . . was there last night.”
“Wait.” He looks taken aback. “He was on the boat last night?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
This reaction surprises me. “I don’t know,” I stumble, “I . . . I didn’t think it mattered. He’s a friend, I wasn’t going to introduce you two and say, ‘Ex-boyfriend, meet current . . . man friend.’ What would be the point?”
“Do you still see him?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“Wait—are you serious?”
“I mean, if you’re not . . . why be friends?”
I breathe in, trying to figure out how to explain this sufficiently. “I mean, we like, have dinner together. Or lunch. We share a lot of mutual friends. I love his family. I don’t know. . . . I guess I never really understood how most people can just flip a switch that’s like, ‘Ehh. Done with you. No more.’” I mime clapping dust off my hands.
“But attraction is such a big part of things. You can’t flip a switch on that.”
“I don’t know. With self-restraint you can, or I can. . . . I mean, I know everyone is different, and I can never presume to know what goes on in other peoples’ relationships, but . . . if someone plays such a big role in your life for so long . . . they basically become your best friend by default, right?”
Luke tilts his head from side to side, weighing this.
“You go through stuff. You grow, and you change, and . . . in a large part . . . you do a lot of that growing together. And the same way that you amass friends from that stage of life, because you’ve grown up together, I . . . I don’t know . . . I guess I see them as part of who I am.”
Luke looks mystified, so I follow up, “I mean, I don’t hang on to people I’ve just gone on a few dates with—”
“—Well, except the guys from last night.”
“—Well, right, but that’s not dating. That’s more like . . . meeting someone once for coffee or a drink. But anyway, for the people who’ve been really intertwined in my life . . . they’re great guys! I dated them for a reason. I love having them as friends . . . still.” I pick up my mimosa.
“Yeah, but they’re guys. The attraction can’t die for them,” he counters.
“I don’t know, for me it does . . . though I guess I’m very black-or-white. And I suppose I don’t know what they’re thinking.” I take a sip from my glass. “But if you set really firm boundaries from the start—well in my experience at least—you can transition the friendship into a normal one, talking about people you’re interested in, doling out advice. . . . I think you can crop out the romantic stuff and treat it like any other friendship.”
“But if the breakup is rocky—”
“No, of course. If things end badly, like with lying or infidelity . . . you’d have no reason to want to be friends. Obviously.”
“And have your relationships really all ended well?”
“The important ones, yeah. I guess I’ve been lucky? . . . I don’t know. The point is: I just think that if you love someone, or loved someone, that shouldn’t just vanish,” I gesture a “poof” with both hands, “in a day. You can still value everything about them that you originally liked, just minus the physical-sexual stuff.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Could you imagine if we just . . . broke up with our best friends? Like, all of a sudden, one day, ‘End of friendship. Terminated.’”
“I don’t know. It still just makes me uncomfortable.”
“That I’m still friends with Dave?”
“Well, yeah.”
“But you trust me though, right?”
“Look, I have no claim to you. You’re not my girlfriend.” My heart sinks with these words. “So I can’t tell you what to do, but yeah. It makes me uncomfortable.”
Changing the subject slightly, I ask, “So your serious girlfriend . . . ex-girlfriend . . . before. You don’t talk to her anymore?”
“No.”
I nod, not sure where to take the conversation from here.
“Her name was Mia.” He plays with his coffee stirrer. “I don’t think I ever said her name out loud when we talked about her.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say, gently, “but that’s okay.”
“Yeah. Well, it ended badly, and we wouldn’t have had anything to say to each other after the fact.”
“Do you mind if I asked why it ended ‘badly?’”
“To be honest, I don’t really remember. But she had a flair for the dramatic . . . she was Latin,” he offers up as justification, “so she was always getting riled up, yelling, sometimes throwing things. And so I ended it, and naturally, that went badly.”
He leans back, stretches his arms above his head, and yawns. “Anyway, I think we got off topic,” he says. “The point was: You can see whoever you want to see. I’m not the boss of you.” And then, after a pause, “But I don’t think I could be friends with my exes. And I don’t think I could be friends with you, because even if you have superhuman self-restraint, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.” He leans in and kisses me.
“Ha. Nice salvage, buddy.”
August 4 at 6:59 p.m.
LUKE: WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?
LUKE: SORRY, THAT CAME OUT WRONG. WHAT ARE YOU WEARING TONIGHT? HOT OUT, BUT SUPPOSED TO RAIN.
ALISON: YOU ARE TOO FUNNY - ALWAYS TRYING TO MAKE SURE I DON’T WHIP OUT THE PROM DRESS. BUT SINCE I KNOW WHAT YOU WERE REALLY TRYING TO ASK: WHAT ARE YOU WEARING RIGHT NOW? AND CAN YOU TAKE IT . . .
ALISON: . . . KIDDING.
After dinner at Upland, we walk over to Wine:30, a nearby wine bar. As Luke waits for his credit card to be returned to him, he asks, “So, do you . . . wanna come home with me tonight?”
“I have to get up early. But, yeah, I think that can be arranged.”
He nods, leans in, and kisses me as I remain seated on my bar stool. Whenever I’m with Luke, he somehow manages to get me to abandon all of my previously held misgivings about public displays of affection. When I think about this objectively, even I’m grossed out by our PDA.
For reasons not totally clear to me, Luke suggests we relocate to the bar of the W Hotel in Union Square. As we walk there, I rattle off the history of the structure and its prior incarnation as the Germania Life Insurance Building, which I learned about in grad school.
When we finish our round of martinis, Luke asks, “Do you . . . wanna get another one?”
I look at him quizzically. “Yes, I can drink another drink; but also, I can’t help but wonder why you want to stay out drinking since I already said I’d go home with you?”
“Wait. You did? No, inside Wine:30, you said you wouldn’t.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I said, ‘I have to get up early, but that can be arranged?’”
“Wait. If you said that, then why are we still here?”
“Beats me.” I laugh. He stands up with a start, grabs my hand, and practically yanks me through the revolving doors and into a cab that he immediately hails on Park Avenue South.
We’re seated in the cab. “Did you really say that?”
“Yes.” I nod, giggling. “Not to sound slutty, but we’ve had lots of sleepovers before. To paraphrase my Jewish peoples, ‘Why would this night be different from all other nights?’”
“God, I am getting old. I totally heard something different.”
“I wondered why we were still paying for drinks at high-end places. . . .”
We’re lounging in his bed, our fingers intertwined, our legs overlapping each other’s. He kisses me and pulls his head back.
“So, I don’t want you to feel pressured, but I just want you to know . . . I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?” My stomach forms a knot.
“You know. Ready to . . . become your lover.”
“You make it sound gross when you say it that way.” Then it dawns on me. “Ohhh, this is why you thought tonight was different from all other nights. . . .”
“And?” He kisses me. “What do you think of my proposition?”
“I think . . .”
He leans in and kisses me, deeply. “I mean,” he kisses me again, “don’t you think, we’d have . . .” he rolls on top of me, “just . . . amazing . . . sex?”
My heart skips a beat, a sensation all too familiar lately. I kiss him back. “We would. Undoubtedly. . . . Except we can’t. Not yet, at least.” I can’t relive my James mistakes. If I�
�m falling ten times harder, won’t the fallout be ten times worse?
“You sure?” He kisses me and grabs my arms and pins them down, gently, on either side of my head.
“I’m sure,” I say, willing myself so desperately to keep both my composure and my willpower.
“And why”—kiss —“is that?”—kiss.
“Uhh, because . . . I hope this doesn’t ruin the moment but . . . there are some things that need to happen. Before I’m ready to . . .” I trail off.
“Have sex with me?” He kisses me again.
“Yes, that. Thanks.”
“And they are . . .?”
“Well, for starters, I know I sound like a junior high sex ed teacher, but . . . I would need you to get tested?” I bite my lip and wince with embarrassment. Not that I’ve done it so many times, but I’ve always loathed broaching this subject, especially since I know of only one friend who makes the same request. The impetus is part safety, part self-assessment: If I’m not comfortable enough to ask—and they’re not comfortable enough to oblige—I probably shouldn’t be sleeping with them anyway, right?
“Okay.” He shrugs. “What else?”
“Well, let’s start with that and work from there. . . .”
“Oh. No problem,” he says, upbeat. “I’ll call next week for an appointment.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Obviously.” He kisses me again. “I was worried you were going to say something way more dramatic.”
We’re talking on the phone the following week, and Nicole’s advice is still ringing in my ears. “Push him to have deeper conversations.” While he tells me a story about a deejay class he took years ago, I rack my brain for a way to do this.
“So. Anyway, enough about me and my record-scratching days. Anything new with you?”
I see an entry point here. “No, not really. It’s been a bit of an emotional week around the apartment. Cassie got . . . I don’t know, not dumped because they weren’t really dating, but . . . dismissed by a guy she met on Tinder? She’s really sad. And I’m sad for her, but it’s become one big Leona Lewis concert over here again.”
He laughs, then adds quickly, “Oh, sorry. I was laughing at the idea of a private Leona Lewis concert . . . not at Cassie’s expense.”
Match Made in Manhattan Page 24