“You’ll have another midyear review this winter. Between now and then, we need to see more dedication, more initiative, more creative thinking—the attributes you and I discussed in my office a few months ago.”
“I’m . . . not trying to contradict you, I’m just . . . a little . . .” I breathe in, trying to steady my voice. “Apart from the conversations you and I have had, no one at RA has ever given me anything other than positive feedback.” I swallow, hard. “You keep saying ‘we,’ but . . .” I trail off.
Joanne glares at me sharply. “Your annual review is based on the collective assessment of all the principals here. We’ve made that very clear.”
“Okay. Sorry. Umm . . .” I swallow again.
“I hope you view these next six months as an opportunity,” she intones. “We are giving you nearly half a year to turn your performance around. And I think you’ll agree that I’ve adequately laid out the improvements we hope to see in that time.”
NOBODY WOULD EVER SAY I’M NOT A CREATIVE THINKER! I silently scream at my desktop computer. Impatient, hurried—these are criticisms I would understand. But “not a creative thinker?” It was my idea to tint the new, nonmatching Guastavino tiles, my idea to reverse the copper-paint corrosion at the Armory with household products like white vinegar and raw potatoes, my idea to adjust the pH of tap water and use it to remove overpaints on the murals at Grace Church. I rub my temples and sigh deeply. I’d almost prefer she say I’m not a nice person.
My eyes are fixed on the clock at the lower right hand of my computer screen. How am I going to make it through the remaining three hours of today? How am I going to make it through the next six months?
“Alsy, that was terrible. I can’t believe you made me do that,” Luke complains the following weekend.
“What. Run?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you will find a way to get back at me someday.”
“Sweaty kiss!” he cries out and throws his arms around me as we exit Prospect Park.
“Ahhh! Stop!” I turn my cheek and push his face away teasingly.
“Oh, c’mon. You love it.”
And I do. But I pretend I don’t and roll my eyes, feigning aggravation. It’s much more fun this way. “Maybe after we’re clean. Besides, your hair looks weird and matted. Let me fix it.” I run my hand through his sandy-colored hair to lift it up.
“Make. Me. Pretty!” he exclaims, rubbing his head around in circles in my hands. And for some reason, this goofy gesture makes my heart hiccup.
He exits the shower and enters his bedroom with his towel wrapped around his waist. “You know what I was thinking about in the shower?”
“Is this going to be dirty?” I say from the bed, where I’m reading.
“Well, no. But I was thinking about that, too. But, I was thinking that everyone should have an Alison in their life.”
“Oh?” And again, that melting sensation overwhelms my heart, my body. I swallow hard as my eyes start to well up. Pull yourself together, Alison.
“Yeah. I think everyone should have an Alison in their life,” he repeats. Then he pauses, and I’m not sure what he’s waiting for, so I say “Awwww” and smile, trying not to cry happy tears.
He lies down on the bed next to me and kisses me. “Do you think everyone should have a Luke in their life?”
“Ohh. Hmm.” My eyes search the room as I pretend to ponder this. “That’s a tough question . . . I don’t think that’s necessary, no.” I shake my head teasingly. Then I wink and peck him on the lips before sitting up. “Can we go have that ice cream now?” I climb out of bed expecting him to follow me, but instead he reaches out, clutches my wrist, and pulls me back onto the bed.
Laughing, I spring from the bed, making it two steps farther this time, and he reaches out, grabs onto my leg, and pulls me back onto the bed, sideways this time.
I try this one more time, make it even farther, and he launches himself off the bed and tackles me to the floor, both of us in a shared fit of laughter. When he has my arms pinned on the floor beside my head, he asks, “Are you going to give in this time? Or do I have to do it again?”
When I can finally stop laughing, I nod yes.
“Well, good.” He kisses me deeply again. And again, this is bliss.
August 29 at 8:44 p.m.
LUKE: WHY IS IT THAT EVERY TIME YOU COME OVER I PUT THE ICE CREAM IN THE FRIDGE?
ALISON: WEIRDLY, I TOTALLY SAW YOU DO THAT YESTERDAY AND THOUGHT “I GUESS LUKE WANTS HIS 2ND HELPING TO BE SOUPY” AND THOUGHT BETTER OF POINTING IT OUT. THIS IS THE THIRD TIME, YES?
August 31 at 10:58 p.m.
Hey Luke,
Apologies for my word vomit of last night -- as you’ve learned, I tend not to be super articulate when trying to talk about “feelings.” I lose all my words & do this awkward dance thing. But, now that I’m out of the group dinner, in a room where I can find the light switch, and have had some time to let our conversation marinate, I just wanted to say a few things that, in my confusion, I didn’t think to say (er, at least I don’t think I did? I was flustered). This is not a rant or criticism of you. I’m just sad and confused.
It felt really strange to hear you say we weren’t headed where you wanted to be. . . . For these past months I’d been feeling insecure in our relationship, unsure of how much you liked me, or if you even liked me at all. I did my best to ignore that and go with the flow because - well - smart and interesting dudes who make me laugh and laugh and laugh are extremely hard to come by.
Then you started to perk up - calling more, plan-making more, even coming with me to Tim’s concert when you weren’t sure you should go out that week. In our one previous “relationship” discussion, you asked me to be patient, reassuring me we were moving slowly because you didn’t want to blow something that had such good potential, and saying, “Don’t worry, babe, we’ll get there.” And Monday night you were adorably affectionate (maybe more so than ever before) and cuddly. Our conversations felt deep in a comfortable way - and we weren’t even drunk. Then you said the most romantic thing of all: “Everyone needs an Alison in their life.” Swoon! And then two days later, you cut me out of your life.
I can’t quite figure out what happened between Monday and Wednesday. And I don’t know what I expect from writing this to you. Perhaps I just wanted to be a little clearer about what I’m feeling since I was caught off guard when we spoke on the phone last night. I feel disappointed and sad -- mainly because I think you’re a pretty rad guy, and I’d hoped to see if we could develop a meaningful relationship. Still don’t know how to end this since you mock the Squeak for saying “cheers,”
Alison
September 2 at 8:43 p.m.
I know you’re hurt, and I’m sorry. Thanks for your thoughts. I’ve been kicking around our conversation for days, trying to figure out what to say or what to do. Unfortunately, my thoughts haven’t cleared. I’ll let you know if they do. You’re a cool girl and I meant what I said about wanting to be friends. Let me know if you change your mind.
L
nadatsoca: Douchey Dan
The night Luke stomps on my heart, I go home, walk straight into Cassie’s bedroom, and cry my eyes out to her and Nicole.
“After we got off the phone,” Cassie announces, “I went out and bought something.” She leaves the room and comes back with a giant carton of ice cream and three spoons.
I clap my hands with glee. “Edy’s Slow Churned Cookies & Cream always makes everything better!” I say in my most commercial voice. Most of the time, it does.
“Hang on.” I run into my bedroom and come back donning the EX-BOYFRIEND pajamas. “Never miss an opportunity to show off this hot number,” I say, red-eyed but laughing as I sit back down on the bed.
“What can we do to help?” Cassie asks, rubbing my back.
I perk up. “Can we do that Charlie Kaufman memory-erasure thing and pretend that I never met the tattooed banker? You know, Eternal Sunshine style?” Once the
words have escaped my lips, I realize I’ve inadvertently reminded myself of Luke and the running joke about his Jedi mind-erasing tricks. The tears stream down my cheeks again.
“I so wish we could do that. We can pretend?”
“No,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. “You’re right. I should probably quit living in a fantasy dream world.” I dig my spoon into the quart and shovel more Edy’s into my mouth.
“So, then, no, you can’t do that. . . . But you can do yoga with me?” Cassie offers.
“Maybe. What else?”
“We could focus on the positives?” Cassie says.
“Like . . .? I can’t think of any. You start,” I say, reaching for the Edy’s again.
“Like . . . I guess on the bright side, you never slept with him,” she says, adding quickly, “or did you?”
“No.” I sniffle and look around. Nicole hands me a tissue and I wipe my nose. “Thanks. I wanted to. Ugh, I wanted to so badly. That pheromonal attraction . . .” I tap my elbow twice like a wrestler, and then I wipe my nose again. “. . . Him and his stupid, stupid pheromones.”
“So, can I ask why you didn’t? I was wondering for a few months there,” Nicole says.
I shrug. “Fear? Since our first date, I felt like I was frantically trying to remain in control and keep my emotions in check at all times. Like I might unwittingly let on how much I liked him and scare him off, or accidentally blurt out, ‘I love you!’—not that I loved him, but you know . . .” I wipe away more tears. “Instead of having that ‘slow burn’ . . . with Luke, it felt more like a nosedive, if I’d give in to it. And I guess, some part of me always knew.”
“Knew . . .?”
“Knew that it wasn’t . . . a relationship. I mean . . . my heart ached to be with him. It still does, but we never . . . shared anything. You know? No feelings.”
“No future plans . . .” Cassie adds.
“Oh, GOD no. No plans for even, like, two weeks away.” I look down at the carton of Cookies & Cream and I gasp. “I can see bottom! Guys,” my gasp becomes a wail, “I can see bottom! Take it away from me, this is not going to amount to anything good!” My laughter mixes with tears, and they both hug me from either side.
“Ugh, I’m a mess!”
“No, you really deserve a good cry after this one,” Nicole says.
Cassie frowns. “You really deserve several good cries.”
“Oh, I think I’m getting those in, don’t you worry,” I try to say brightly, through gasps for air.
“So back to my original question: What can we do?” Cassie asks.
“Nothing.” Nothing. There is nothing I want right now . . . except to not feel this way.
She follows up, “Do you want to watch a movie? Go for a walk? We can all get dressed?”
I shake my head slowly. I can’t think of anything that will make me feel better.
“You can sleep in my bed tonight? And then we can run together before work?”
I stare at a knot on the floorboard. Work. Before, with Luke, the soul-sucking plight of work could be . . . not overlooked, but slightly ignored? My professional dissatisfaction somehow didn’t seem quite as pivotal in the scheme of things. The passion of being with him, the thrill of being around him, even the less pleasant jittery nerves, they were a successful distraction from a situation that would normally induce considerable stress. And sadness.
But how can I face work without all that? Just the thought of waking up tomorrow feels onerous. Normal-me would spout, “You just need to put one foot in front of the other!” but I don’t even feel like trying. I’m not sure I know how to try. I didn’t know if Luke was my dream guy or “The One,” but I thought I still had time to figure it out. . . . And now I can’t imagine ever meeting someone who makes me laugh as incessantly, who makes me feel as euphoric.
In the beginning, in January, this new life, this new dating . . . hobby . . . felt so easy. So easy, fun, and carefree. It never mattered to me if, ten minutes into a date, I discovered there was no romantic potential. Meeting new people in and of itself was an exciting event, and it felt good—revivifying in a way—just to be getting outside and meeting anyone. But then I met Luke and that changed. I delighted in being around him, and our dates were heady and fun, but suddenly everything mattered. To me, at least. It mattered what we talked about; it mattered what he thought of me; it mattered whether I would hear from him again. For the first time in my life, I actually tried to make a guy like me.
Over the past eight months, I’ve probably corresponded with a hundred men and gone on fifty or sixty dates with three dozen of them. But now I’m back at square one, with nothing to show for it other than emotional bruises and a depleted stash of ice cream. I wish I could turn back the clock and get back to that time when everything was fun and easy and carefree. . . .
Cassie wordlessly collects my used tissues from my hand as Nicole passes me fresh ones.
“Al?” Cassie prods.
“Sorry, what?”
Later that week, I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Nicole cracks open the door. “Hey. I knocked, but I guess you couldn’t hear me.”
“Oh. Sorry! Come in. Of course, come in.”
“Are you okay?” she asks, giving me a sympathetic frown.
I nod slowly.
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I think you need a new soundtrack.”
“I know. But Coldplay has become my Leona Lewis.”
“Yes, I can see that. But, enough of ‘Yellow.’ You need to at least pick a new song. Preferably from a new album.”
“Can it still be Coldplay?” I look up hopefully.
“Fine.”
“I’m going to make it ‘Life in Technicolor.’” I climb over to my iPod docking station and click through to find it. “I feel like there’s a message in that, and some symmetry. Yellow, now brighter, Technicolor. Also, it’s a happy song.”
“Okay. Well then that’s a good choice,” Nicole says, as if talking to a child.
I laugh. “So I take it you like it when I’m being histrionic?”
“No. Honestly? I hate seeing you this way.”
“But. I mean, it is kind of funny, right?” I smile. “And I promise, it will be over soon. I just need time to . . . mope.”
“Sometimes it helps to feel sorry for yourself. But, only in short bursts. How much longer do you think you have?”
“Oh, I don’t feel sorry for myself. I feel angry with myself for not being able to rein this in.” I gesture to the piles of clothing littering my floor and the wastebasket full of tissues. “But not sorry. As sad as I am for me, there are a lot sadder things out there. I know. Normal-people problems put mine to shame. . . .” I continue to stare at the ceiling.
“So, why can’t you keep telling yourself that?”
“I am. I will. But first I feel like I need to let it all out. I feel like it’s been building inside of me for months, all those jitters, heart palpitations, all the stomach pains . . .” A realization dawns on me so quickly I sit up. “Hey! You know what, though? They’re gone! I feel sad and woe-is-me and everything, but I’m not nervous anymore! I’m not nervous anymore!”
Sunday morning, I sit on Ashley’s rooftop with Cassie and Nicole.
“I didn’t get to hear the story,” Ashley says. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t be offended. But if you do want to talk about it, I can be a new captive audience?” I run through the meeting of his family, the “Everyone needs an Alison in their life,” the Sunday night wrestling in his room, and the dreaded phone call.
She gets out of her chair, walks across to mine, and hugs me tightly without saying a word. Naturally, I start to cry.
“Oh, no. No! No!” she pleads sweetly, fearful of the waterworks she inspired.
“No, I’ll be fine.” I wipe my eyes and laugh at myself.
“How’d you get through work this week?” she asks.
“I was so preoccupied, I sliced my finger open with a
scalpel when collecting paint samples, and then I nearly gave myself a concussion by navigating my boom lift into the Drill Hall rafters. It was a miracle I survived the week at all.” I laugh and then sniffle. And then cry some more.
“You know, hon, you just have to dust yourself off. Get back out there. Go on another date in a few weeks, whenever you’re ready.”
“Oh, no. I know.” I wave at the air. “I actually have one tonight.”
“What?” Cassie and Nicole say in unison.
“How’d you swing that so fast?” Ashley asks.
“Well, as you all know, I felt like I was constantly waiting for something to go disastrously wrong with Luke. And, I know it sounds crazy, but I thought that if I responded to really good messages when they came in on Match, I wouldn’t feel . . . like I was totally giving all of myself over to him.” I sniff, trying to clear my sinuses. “I didn’t actively search or contact anyone on my own, but . . . I guess I thought of it as a life preserver to keep me from drowning?”
“Did it work?” Cassie asks.
“Are you kidding? Look at me! Of course it didn’t work. . . .” I laugh and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “So tonight’s guy . . . Dan . . . contacted me in early August, and, well, you guys know. You can postpone online dates forever. I told him I was busy, traveling, whatever. All true things. And when I got home from work on Thursday, the night after . . . the phone call . . . I emailed him and said my schedule had freed up for Sunday.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Cassie asks gently.
“I mean, clearly if I break down into this tonight,” I gesture to my eyes and face, “it won’t have been a good idea. But . . . I don’t know what else to do.” I’m a firm believer that you can talk yourself into anything. If I don’t start forcing myself to act fine, I may never get there. “I feel like summer’s my happy time, and now Luke stole it. So I need to break out my favorite suede boots, pretend autumn’s arrived a few days early, and declare it a new chapter of life.”
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