I sat down at my desk and took a sip of coffee and a bite of my chocolate chip bagel. Then I logged onto my computer and saw an e-mail from Pierce in my in-box. The “sent” time was 5:02 a.m.
5:02 a.m.?
Then I remembered that he worked market hours, so his 5 a.m. was like another person’s 8 a.m. I could only imagine how exhausted our late night must have left him. I clicked on the message to open it.
To: Waverly Bryson
From: Pierce Jansen
Subject: Lovely lady
Good morning, Waverly!
I just wanted to let you know that I had a fantastic time last night. I can’t stop thinking about you, and I want to know when I can see you again. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this much so fast. I have a feeling this might be everything I’ve been waiting for and more. I look forward to hearing from you.
Love,
Pierce
I blinked slowly three times after reading the e-mail. Then I read it again. Then I closed it without replying and looked nervously around me, as if I had witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to. I have a feeling this might be everything I’ve been waiting for and more? After one date? Wasn’t that more of a twenty-ninth date sort of comment? Or maybe a marriage proposal sort of comment?
I decided to postpone any response until I could discuss the situation with McKenna and Andie over lunch, which we’d scheduled at a deli equidistant from our offices. I scrolled through my other e-mails and saw one from a reporter at Sports Illustrated asking for an interview with the president of JAG for a story she was writing about the credibility of athletes who get paid to endorse products. (I had always wondered the same thing; I mean, think about it!) I picked up my phone to call Davey about it, and the stutter dial tone alerted me to a new voicemail. I punched in my password and listened. The message had been left at 8:25 a.m.:
“Hi, Waverly, it’s me, Pierce. I sent you an e-mail when I got to work, but I wasn’t sure if you got it, so I thought I’d call. Anyhow, I just wanted to say hi and tell you how much fun I had last night. I really want to see you again and was wondering if you’re free tonight? It might sound strange, but I can’t stop thinking about you. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? Anyway, I really had a great time. Call me please. Bye.”
I sat back in my chair.
What the …?
Seriously, what the …? I knew I was just getting used to dating again, but wasn’t this a little bit over the top? I didn’t know what to do, so I closed the message and tried not to think about it. I had a lot of work to do that morning, so I just got on with my day.
After I called Davey, I met with Nicole and Kent in the conference room to review the status of our accounts. After that I spoke to several reporters to arrange interviews with clients, and then I worked on a launch plan for a new line of JAG tennis balls. Your basic PR grind.
Around ten thirty or so, I walked into the kitchen to get a fresh cup of coffee. To my delight, someone had left an unmistakable big pink box on the counter. I was in the mood for something sugary, so I grabbed an old-fashioned glazed donut, filled up my mug, and headed back to my office.
When I sat down at my desk, I saw a new e-mail message from Pierce in my in-box. It wasn’t even lunchtime!
To: Waverly Bryson
From: Pierce Jansen
Subject: Hello again!
Hello Waverly!
I left you a voicemail a couple hours ago. Did you get it? I haven’t heard back from you yet, so you must be having a busy day. Well, I just wanted to say hi and tell you that I had a great time last night and wanted to see if your free tonight. I hope so. Please call me.
Love,
Pierce
p.s. Looking forward to hearing from you!
Okay, this was getting ridiculous. And don’t think I hadn’t noticed that big fat YOUR. As I sat there with my mouth open, I saw that my phone had registered four missed calls, but I didn’t have any voicemails. Then I noticed that all the calls were from the same number.
Could it be?
I pulled Pierce’s card out of my desk drawer and compared it with the number on my caller ID log … bingo.
Holy restraining order. I had won the stalker lottery.
Just then the phone rang again. I looked at the number on the caller ID display.
Was he kidding me?
I looked at my watch. It was only ten forty-five. My lunch with McKenna and Andie couldn’t arrive fast enough.
“You swear he seemed normal last night?” Andie said.
“And he was normal when you met him?” McKenna took a bite of her salad.
I nodded my head vigorously. “Yes! I swear! I had my crazy radar on high both times, and it didn’t pick up anything. I used to be able to spot the red flags faster than this. Have I totally lost it?”
McKenna nodded and took a sip of her Sprite. “Could be, could be. You’re definitely out of practice. Now let’s review the situation. Did previous relationships enter into any of your conversations?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Not at all. But then again, that’s one thing I always try to avoid when I first meet someone. I mean, who needs to hear about Aaron and his love child right away, right?” I said.
She took another sip of her Sprite and set it down on the table.
“Now normally I would agree with you,” she said. “But in this case, a few strategically placed questions might have avoided this whole situation.”
“Like what, Are you a stalker?” I sighed. “What a bummer. He seemed so promising. I can’t believe he turned out to be that guy from Swingers.”
“Yeah, sounds like a classic résumé boyfriend,” Andie said.
I looked at her. “Huh?”
“Perfect on paper, but a total bust in person,” she said.
“Ah,” I said. “Exactly.”
“From everything you told us, he seemed great,” McKenna said.
I nodded. “He did to me, too.”
“So I guess it’s onto the next one?” Andie said.
I sighed. “What do I do now?”
“To avoid bad dating karma, you need to be honest with him,” McKenna said. “Just be firm and let him know you’re not interested.”
I nodded. “Okay, I think I can do that.”
Andie put her hand over mine. “But don’t be a bitch about it, okay? You know you have that unintentional bitchy thing going on sometimes,” she said.
I nodded. “I know, but I swear I’m working on that.” I sipped my iced tea and smiled weakly.
“Pull that Band-Aid off, but with tact,” McKenna said.
“Couldn’t I just not e-mail him back and not return his calls? Isn’t that what everyone else does?” I said.
“That’s what I do,” Andie said.
“You’re not helping here,” McKenna said to her, then looked at me. “Wave, sometimes it sucks being nice, but you are nice. Now get to it and cut that cord.”
“Do I have to?”
They both nodded.
I looked at Andie. “Would you?”
She laughed. “I’m not as nice as you.”
I made a face. “Ugh.”
Late that afternoon, after I was sure he’d be gone for the day, I replied to Pierce’s e-mail saying I was busy that night. I tried to sound uninterested, but apparently I wasn’t firm enough. The next three days he e-mailed me at 4:59 a.m., 5:01 a.m., and 5:03 a.m., all asking me out for that weekend. He literally must have walked into his office and e-mailed me before even turning on the lights, either that or from his BlackBerry even before he got to the office. Did he have zero friends to stop him?
I deleted each e-mail without replying. He also called several times a day, but thanks to my trusty caller ID, I never picked up.
The following Monday, I walked into yet another e-mail, this one sent at 5:02 a.m. This time I finally responded to it.
To: Pierce Jansen
From: Waverly Bryson
Subject: Re: Nice weekend?
>
Hi Pierce,
Thanks for your calls and e-mails. I’m sorry to have taken so long to get back to you, but the truth is that I’ve recently been talking to my ex-boyfriend, and over the weekend we decided to get back together. I’m sorry. You’re a great guy, but it’s just a timing thing.
Good luck,
Waverly
I could only hope he didn’t know my ex-boyfriend, because I was pretty sure we weren’t getting back together.
I never heard from stalker Pierce again, but the Honey Note fodder kept on coming. A week or so later, my old roommate Whitney called. She wanted to set me up with a guy her husband, Bryan, worked with. His name was Ben, and he was an accountant at Bryan’s law firm.
“An accountant?” I said, sighing into the phone. “I don’t want to stereotype, but an accountant?”
“I swear, Waverly, he’s a nice guy. And he’s cute. And he definitely meets your height requirement.”
“But is he boring?”
“No, he’s not boring. Trust me. He’s a nice guy, and he’s our age, and he’s single.”
“He’s not blond is he?” Ever since I’d been covered in slobber by Barry Winters at the eighth grade holiday dance, the thought of locking lips with a blond had triggered my gag reflex.
She sighed. “Seriously, Waverly, stop being so picky. When was the last time you even got some action?”
I cracked up. “Getting action” was classic Whitney. She used to say that all the time when we lived together.
“Okay, okay, have him call me,” I said.
Ben called a day or so later, and we made plans to have a drink the following Tuesday after work. It seemed harmless enough, so I was going with it.
The day of the date, there was a voicemail from Ben waiting for me when I got back to my desk after lunch:
“Hi, Waverly, it’s Ben Herman here. I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to cancel our drink tonight. I’m feeling a bit yucky, so I’m heading home early. I’ll call you tomorrow to reschedule. I’m really sorry, but I just feel too icky to go out.”
I saved the message.
Yucky and icky? Had he just said yucky and icky?
I replayed the message again. Yes, he had said them both.
I’m sorry, but there was no way I was going on a blind date with a grown CHILDLESS man with the words yucky and icky in his daily vocabulary.
I deleted the message and the one he left the next day, too. Whitney was pissed at me for weeks, but whatever. They were getting lower every day, but I still had some standards.
A couple weeks later, I met a guy named Eric. The scene of the crime was Mollie Stone’s, the supermarket around the corner from my apartment. I went in there one Monday night after yoga for a salad. Mollie Stone’s has a fantastic salad bar that is ridiculously overpriced, but I ended up making my dinner there at least three times a week. It was just too easy, too close, and too tasty.
I was trying not to crush the hard-boiled eggs with the tongs when Eric struck up a conversation. I was wearing a tattered Cal Berkeley tank top and black yoga pants, with a sweatshirt wrapped around my waist and my hair pulled up into a sweaty, messy bun. So it was obvious that I’d been involved in some sort of exercise, either that or I was just gross. Anyhow, he asked me what sport I had been doing, and we started chatting. When I finished making my salad, he asked me if he could call me some time, so I said sure and gave him my cell phone number. After stalker Pierce, I’d decided that I couldn’t deal with any more personal calls at work. I was all about the cell phone now.
Physically, Eric wasn’t my type, but he seemed friendly and funny, so I figured why not? His thinning hair was pretty light, and at five foot eleven he didn’t meet my height requirement, but I had decided to get over myself and stop being so picky. What was my problem anyway? Like I was some beauty queen? Please.
Eric called a couple days later and asked me to dinner. We made plans to meet at Godzila Sushi (spelled with one l, though I have no idea why), a popular spot on Divisadero Street about ten blocks from my apartment. The night of the date, I left my place wearing a pair of jeans, a white tank top, and a black shawl. I’d straightened my hair and pinned a few strands to one side with a tiny clip. As I walked toward the restaurant, I suddenly realized that it was March 12, which meant that the next day was March 13.
I stopped in my tracks.
March 13 was the day Aaron and I had gotten engaged.
Back then we’d laughed about how our marriage was doomed because we’d gotten engaged on Friday the thirteenth. Apparently, we had been right.
I looked up into the starry sky and closed my eyes, then told myself to snap out of it and kept walking toward the restaurant. Baby steps, baby steps. I continued down California, and when I turned left onto Divisadero, I saw the Godzila Sushi sign a couple blocks away. There was a handful of people milling about outside, and I wondered how long we’d have to wait for a table. Godzila Sushi was always packed and annoyingly loud. And it didn’t take reservations. Did that make it a good place for a first date? I wasn’t so sure, and I wondered why Eric had picked it. On the one hand, the noise and informality took away the pressure to be romantic, but on the other hand, it was sort of awkward to manage small talk in a loud room.
When I walked up to the restaurant, I didn’t see Eric anywhere in the sidewalk crowd, so I poked my head inside to take a look.
“Waverly, over here!”
I turned my head to the left and saw him waving to me from the bar near the back. I made my way through the crowd and walked up to greet him. He stood up and gave me a tight bear hug, so tight that it was sort of hard to breathe. I broke away from him to smile and say hello, and when I took a step back I noticed that, I swear to God, he was wearing a yellow tank top tucked into a pair of black jorts.
“Hi, Eric.” I swallowed and tried to mask the look of panic that was surely plastered all over my face. Was he kidding me?
He smiled. “I put our name down for a table. It should be just a few more minutes. By the way, you look hot.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said, focusing more on his outfit than his compliment.
Then I noticed that he had a large bottle of beer in front of him, the liter kind that you would normally share with someone else. I also noticed that it was nearly empty.
“Have you been here long?” I said.
“Nah, not long. About thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes? I looked at my watch. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I thought we’d agreed to meet at eight o’clock. Am I late?”
“No, you’re not late at all. I just thought I’d come early and have a brew. Do you want something?”
“Um, okay. A light beer would be nice, thanks.” Hello? Weird vibes everywhere.
He poured what was left of his huge Sapporo into his glass and ordered another. The bartender also brought out a Bud Light and a cold glass for me.
Eric poured me a beer and held his up for a toast. “Here’s to the salad bar and cute girls in yoga pants.” He smiled and patted my thigh.
I lifted my glass and fake smiled back. This was going to be brutal.
Just then I felt a light tap on my shoulder. “Hi, Waverly.”
I looked to my right and saw Mandy Edwards standing there.
Mandy Edwards, witnessing me on a date with a guy wearing a tank top and jorts. Black jorts, no less, perhaps the only sartorial offense more tragic than regular jorts.
She was with a tall, brown-haired, very cute guy who looked vaguely familiar. I stood up and gave them an awkward smile. “Hi, Mandy. How are you doing?” Then I turned to Eric. “Um, Eric, this is Mandy. We work together.”
Mandy held out her hand. “Hi, Eric, it’s nice to meet you. This is my fiancé, Darren.”
Fiancé? Who would marry Mandy Edwards?
I looked at the guy next to her and momentarily stopped breathing.
Holy crap.
It was Right Darren, the cute Darren who had taken my card a few months before but
had never called me while Wrong Darren had. I glanced at the huge rock on Mandy’s finger. At least now I knew why he hadn’t picked up the phone.
Darren shook Eric’s hand and then mine. “You look familiar,” he said. “Have we met?”
I took a sip of my beer and shook my head. “Uh, no, I don’t think so.” Then I looked back at Mandy. “When did you get engaged?”
“A few days ago, when we were wine-tasting up in Napa. We just got back today.” She smiled wide.
“Wow, congratulations,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said. “I can’t wait to start planning the wedding.”
Darren kept looking at me. “Are you sure we haven’t met? I could swear we have.”
Before I could say anything, Mandy grabbed his elbow. “Well, we’ve got to get going. Nice to meet you, Eric. Bye, Waverly.”
They drifted off into the crowd, and I followed her with my eyes. She was marrying cute Darren? Wow. Then I looked over at Eric, ripped from a NASCAR poster, and could only wonder what Mandy was thinking. Had she noticed his outfit? Or was I just a superficial bitch? No—who was I kidding? She had noticed. Any normal person would have noticed. But yes, I was also a superficial bitch.
I turned back to Eric. “So, uh, you were saying that you got here a bit early?”
“Yeah, man, this place rocks for people-watching. Lots of hot chicks come in here on Thursday nights.”
“Uh, okay.”
After that promising start, things only got better. It turned out that Eric was an exercise freak, and since we’d met on one of my rare exercise days and because I worked in sports PR, he assumed that I was one too. And fitness was ALL he wanted to talk about.
“Which gym do you go to? I belong to Gold’s."
“How often do you work out? Do you like spinning?"
“What’s your exercise routine? I like to mix it up a bit, ya know, keep it interesting."
Perfect on Paper: The (Mis)Adventures of Waverly Bryson Page 19