Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  “Is he here?” she asks as she takes off her coat.

  “No, he left a while ago. But . . . okay, don’t get mad? I’d told him about how you were having a rough week, with Marvin and everything. I didn’t go into specifics, don’t worry.”

  “Ohhkay,” she says tentatively.

  “And so Marc felt bad for you, so he brought over a box of Beard Papa’s cream puffs. Apparently it’s like a famous Upper West Side thing. . . . Anyway, he said they’re for you to share with me and Nicole. But mostly for you.”

  “Awwwww.” Cassie puts her hand to her heart. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Can I have one now?” she asks as she sits on the couch to unzip her boots.

  “They’re there for your taking.” I break the tape seal on the box and open them.

  “Ooh, so pretty!” She reaches in and plucks out a chocolate-covered cream puff.

  “So how are you?” I ask.

  “I’m okay. Work is a good distracter. But how are you? I feel like in all my drama, I keep neglecting to ask about you.”

  “Don’t be silly. But I’m okay.”

  “So how’s Marc?” she asks through a mouth full of cream puff.

  “I don’t know. Fine. Princely.” I nod my chin toward the cardboard Beard Papa’s box.

  “What’d you do tonight?”

  “I fought with him about a movie.” I bite my lip, ashamed.

  “What movie? And why?”

  “We watched Blue Jasmine. I maintained that it was a takeoff on A Streetcar Named Desire, and he pointed out all the reasons it diverged from it, and that made me defend my points even more strongly. . . . But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t even care about the movie, or my theory. And I haven’t read A Streetcar Named Desire since high school, so I probably got half the facts wrong anyway. Gah!” I run my hands over my head. “Why am I being this way? Why can’t I just be nice and . . . I don’t know, fawning? Like I was with Luke?”

  “Maybe you’re in a rebellious phase.” Cassie takes another bite of her dessert. “You know, thanks to Luke. Are you picking fights with Dan?”

  “No . . . I mean, kind of. We take digs at each other all the time, but it’s, like, jousting in good fun. Besides, I don’t think he has feelings.”

  Cassie laughs at this. “Would you argue with Dan about a movie plot?”

  “No . . . I can’t think of a time I’ve argued about a movie plot with anyone. . . . Debate a plot sure, but . . . not argue.”

  “So why do you think you’re picking on Marc?”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe to get a rise out of him? Have him stop agreeing with everything I say, or inject a little . . . life . . . into the conversation? Banter? I have no idea.”

  “Maybe Nicole was right? Nice is nice, but . . .”

  “How was the black-tie ball last night?” Ben asks over brunch at Hill Country. He and Nicole agreed to keep me company at the five or six most promising open houses I flagged for my apartment hunt this weekend.

  “It wasn’t a ball, but it was fun I guess.”

  “What’d you wind up wearing?” Nicole asks.

  “It had a flapper/roaring twenties theme, so I wore that BCBG feather dress.” I pick up a spoonful of grits smothered with barbecue sauce. “Marc actually gave me a pair of earrings to wear with it.”

  “That’s really nice. Why didn’t you lead with that?” Nicole asks.

  I reach for the corn bread. “I keep telling you he’s really nice, so it’s kind of par for the course with him. They’re not anything extravagant . . . from a craft market he passed while walking his dog. But yes, a really sweet gift. . . . He said the stones match my eyes, or whatever.”

  “So why was it ‘fun I guess?’” Ben asks.

  “It was their business school holiday formal, so I didn’t know anyone there, and Marc had to network and stuff, but . . . it was fun.”

  They nod, their eyes glued to the screens broadcasting football over our heads.

  “Were his friends cool?” Ben asks, eyes still averted.

  “I don’t think they’re really ‘friends,’ per se. He’s a bit older than his classmates, and he seemed a little ill at ease among them . . . but yeah, everyone was nice.” I pause.

  “I hear a ‘but’ coming on,” Nicole says, glancing at me as she forks her hash browns.

  “Why do you always say that?”

  “Well, am I right?”

  “No. Just . . . he introduced me to everyone as his girlfriend.”

  “You kind of are his girlfriend,” Ben says.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’ve been seeing him for, what, three months now?” Ben asks.

  “Like, two and a quarter . . . but!” I add defensively, “We’re not exclusive, and we haven’t spent a night together.”

  “And he’s still dating you why?” Nicole asks.

  “I don’t know. All our dates are on weeknights, and I always have to get up early for work. He’s invited me over, but he hasn’t seemed irked by my saying no. . . . I don’t know, it doesn’t seem weird until you say it out loud.”

  “Ali, if you know, you know.” Ben directs his gaze to me. “Don’t string him along.”

  “I’m not stringing him along!” I protest.

  “You kind of are,” Nicole says.

  “I just . . .” I sigh, frustrated because I know they might be right. “He’s so wonderful. Like, so wonderful. How can you walk away from that?”

  “But if he’s not right for you, let him go be wonderful for someone else,” Nicole says.

  “It’s not that he’s not right for me, I just . . . can’t decide yet.”

  “He’s terrific. You undersold him,” Nicole says as she sidles up next to me at the bar of Employees Only in the West Village.

  “I said he was a prince! How is that underselling?”

  “There were some ‘buts’ in there.”

  “You threw in those ‘buts,’ not me!”

  She sips on her straw and eyes me suspiciously.

  “He’s great!” I say emphatically. “He’s got the whole package, personality-wise and looks-wise, right?”

  “You’re not the only girl who thinks so.” She nods her head sideways toward Marc, who’s holding court among a brunette and two blondes, all of whom are laughing riotously at something he said.

  “Does that make you jealous? Even the tiniest bit?” Nicole asks.

  “No.”

  “Because . . . you know he’s only got eyes for you? Or because . . . you don’t care.”

  “I’m actually kind of happy for him that he has so many people who want to be around him. Is that weird?”

  “Well it’s weird insofar as every girl here is interested in talking to him. Except you.”

  “I’m trying really hard. Why can’t I will myself to fall for him?” I repine.

  “How’d it go?” Cassie asks when I open the front door.

  “I guess as expected.” I put my keys on the living room table.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Same as before: shitty.” I walk into the kitchen and open the freezer. “You want anything?”

  “No, thanks. Don’t you at least feel a little unburdened?”

  “I feel confused.” I grab the carton of Edy’s Mint Chocolate Chip and two spoons. “We can share.” I walk back to the couch and hand Cassie a spoon.

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said he was afraid this was why I asked him to meet up on relatively short notice. So I guess he saw it coming.” I dig my spoon into the carton.

  “Anything else?”

  I frown. “He said he was sad. And that he thought we had a lot of potential.” I suck on my spoon.

  “What’d you say to that?”

  “I said I feel awful. And that I think he’s pretty perfect. But then he asked if there was anything he could have done differently, either in the past or now, to change my feelings. And
. . .” I dig my spoon back in, “my heart hurts. For him. And for me, because I still don’t understand why I couldn’t feel about him . . .”

  “The way he felt about you?”

  “Right. . . . But I didn’t have any answers for him. I probably blathered on like an idiot to avoid awkward pauses.”

  “Huh. . . . I’m sorry.” She pauses. “I think you know this, but you did what you had to do.”

  I nod. “It still just sucks. I feel so bad for him.”

  “Did he say anything else?

  “He asked if we could be friends. If we could get coffee or drinks sometime soon.”

  “That’d be nice. What’d you say?”

  “Of course I said yes, though I kind of doubt hanging out again would be very fun for either of us.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would be . . . imbalanced, right? If he wants to know how to do things differently, seeing him for coffee would just be leading him on all over again. . . .” I shake my head and reach for the Edy’s. “I really wish I could have liked him more. I just hope I don’t regret this later.”

  Throwing in the Trowel: Dan

  December 5 at 5:30 a.m.

  Subject: hello bn3

  From: daniel.acosta@gmail.com

  hello:

  I have good news for you.

  I have Order china 20 Products Apple iPhone X HD 256 GB Unlocked

  I completed bank transfer payments, web: tooaomo.com

  It’s amazing! The item has brand new and high quality, but muc cheaper. I’m pleased to share this good news with you! I believe you will find what you want and have an good experience on shopping from them

  Regards!

  December 5 at 9:41 p.m.

  FW: hello bn3

  What?! You’re giving me a free iPhone as a present? Oh, Daniel, you shouldn’t have . . . ;)

  . . . Thought you’d like the heads-up that you’re inadvertently spamming everyone. Unless you really did go into the luxury knock-off goods industry, in which case, congrats on the new gig! Though you might want to study up on Oxford English grammar one of these days.

  Hope all’s well with you.

  Best,

  Alison

  December 6 at 12:08 p.m.

  Alison Have I got deal for you. Box Yale Suck T-shits from nike good quality double stitch. You need buy school spirit now. Real cheep one dollar.

  Regards,

  Princeton

  much better :)

  December 6 at 10:17 p.m.

  Hey there,

  I have to say, some small part of me is really happy that you spammed me. Because just last week I moved downtown into my very own studio (no need to worry about me suffering separation anxiety; Cassie signed a lease on a 1 BR literally on the same block). And to class up the joint, I am eager to Venetian plaster my new digs(!). Don’t worry, I DID ask permission of my landlord. I think he sees it as free beautification, which of course it is; I see it as a much-needed change to jump-start the coming year. So I’m making good on my promise to get in touch with you now that I’m ready to learn a new skill, and I’m crossing my fingers that you’ll make good on your promise to help me Venetian plaster my apartment?

  Nope. Not kidding.

  I will take food/booze requests and promise to keep you extremely well fed and well imbibed. I might even let you choose which playlist we listen to.

  So. . . . Are you in? I would SUPER appreciate the artistic touch of an expert in the field, and I promise it will not be boring.

  Hope all’s well on your end,

  Alison

  December 7 at 11:02 p.m.

  Hey Alison,

  Congrats on the new place, and on your small achievement of winning your landlord’s approval.

  So I haven’t gotten my hands dirty in a while, but I guess a little manual labor could provide some balance. Assuming I buy into this operation, what are your thoughts on timing? Also, this is just the walls correct? Did you decide whether you want the gloss finish as well?

  December 8 at 6:53 a.m.

  Hooray! Oh, this makes me so happy. So many questions to respond to:

  1.

  <>

  I recognize the absurdity of my request, so far be it for me to call the shots in terms of scheduling. I will happily work around your calendar. When are you free?

  2.

  <>

  Umm. What else would one plaster? The floor? The furniture? . . .

  3.

  <>

  I’m leaning toward yes, but I think I need to pick the color first.

  Yay! I promise this will be fun.

  Looking forward to catching up,

  Alison

  My buzzer rings, and Dan is standing before me in a white V-neck undershirt and Adidas warm-up pants. “I come bearing trowels and sandpaper.” He holds out his offerings. “I didn’t know if you had everything we needed. Better safe than sorry.”

  “Oh, thanks!” I say brightly. “I do—I borrowed heavily from work—but that’s awesome, thanks. Come in, come in!” I usher him into the apartment.

  “So is this what you always wear to work? I could . . . get used to this?”

  I look down at my paint-splattered white tank top and paint-splattered ripped jeans. “I look like a dirty hippie artist. No, I don’t wear this to work. Can you imagine seeing clients like this?”

  “Might get more clients that way,” Dan suggests.

  “Okay, enough, enough. . . . So!” I clap my hands together, “You tell me how to do this. Is there prep work we need to do that requires dry time? Do we just get started? I guess I’m asking if we should eat now or use dinner as a break.”

  “We need to clean the walls first, and also tape off all your moldings.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You know you’re the master, right? I’m just the apprentice. I did all that grunt work last night and moved my furniture into the middle of the room—as you can see—so you could skip to the fun stuff.”

  “Oh, then yeah. Once you get started, it’s probably easiest to keep working straight through since it gets so messy. So, I guess let’s eat first?”

  “Thai, Mexican, sushi, Chinese . . . you pick.”

  “Thai.”

  “Excellent, I’ll go get my phone. Do you want anything to drink?”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “I stocked the bar just for you. Brand new bottle of Captain Morgan—I still can’t believe you like that stuff—and bourbon, gin, and Firefly. Fridge is full of mixers. Help yourself, I’ll be right back.”

  I return with my phone and hand it over to Dan. “You pick. I’ll eat anything.” I take a look at his glass. “Umm, what did you make? That looks gross.”

  Dan looks at his glass and frowns. “I don’t know. Rum and Coke and Firefly with a dash of gin.”

  “You’re like a kid at a Burger King, you know, when they let you fill up your soft drink yourself, so you pull all the levers mixing Coke, root beer, Sprite, Fanta, and Hawaiian Punch.”

  “I figured you got it all for me, I should try it all.”

  “You were right: you need to work on your limits.”

  “That’s . . . actually the opposite of what I said.”

  I smile. “I know. But still, it’s true.”

  Over dinner, Dan catches me up on his latest work-travels through Asia, I fill him in on my newest conservation projects, and we talk about Game of Thrones and the current football season as one would with an old friend.

  We roughly divide the wall surfaces in half: Dan takes the upper walls since he’s got nearly an extra foot of reach beyond mine, and I take the middle and lower walls. We start at opposite corners and work our way around the room. As promised, I keep Dan’s liquor glass full at all times, and I let him control the music. We’ve been plastering for several hours when our conversation seems to
hit a lull. I break the silence: “So, what’s up with your love life these days? . . . You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

  “No, that’s fine. Not much.”

  “‘Not much’ for Dan Acosta? I find that hard to believe.” I smile, and he grunts.

  “I don’t know why you think I’m such a . . . player?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere between booty call/text number one and nineteen, I started to get that idea.” Seated on the floor of the opposite corner, I turn my head to look at him. “But you know I don’t think you’re a bad person, right? I mean if I thought that I wouldn’t—”

  “—Invite me over and force me to do all your manual labor?”

  “Exactly. Oh, good, I’m glad you understand.” I smile again. “So, are you breaking hearts and taking names?”

  “Not really.”

  “Have any funny stories? Anything?” I continue to trowel gray plaster onto the wall and smooth it out.

  “I was seeing one girl for a couple months.”

  “‘Was’ being past tense?”

  “Yeah, she was cool. It was alright, I guess.”

  “Was it serious?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I know she thought so.”

  “Did you meet her on Match?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why no more?”

  “I ended it.” He puts his trowel down on the tray and picks up his glass. “I’m empty. You want a refill?”

  “Sure.”

  He comes back from the kitchen area, hands me a rum and Coke, and picks up his trowel again. “So what about you?”

  “Hmm?” I rub out the ridges in my applied plaster.

  “What’s your dating life like these days? Still full of limits and sidewalk speeches, I assume?”

  I turn and scowl at him, and he flashes a knowing smile then goes back to plastering.

  “Meh. Nothing too exciting.”

  “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

  “No, I actually just ended a . . . mini-relationship, quasi . . . thing? I don’t know what to call it, but yeah. So, just first dates for me right now.”

  “Who was the guy?”

  “Umm.” I dip my trowel back into the bucket. “He was really nice. He went to Columbia Business School, just like you, launched his own tech start-up, lives in Washington Heights. . . .”