Mr. Nice Guy

by Jennifer Miller

  “It’s fine, Luke,” Carmen said. “Relax.”

  He needed to stop acting like a spaz. Glancing down to regroup, his eyes fell onto Carmen’s dress. It was tied with a knot, just a few inches above her hip. Oh, how he wanted to give that knot a tug.

  “Are you OK, Luke? You’re sweating.”

  “It’s hot in here,” he said. And then, because the alcohol was finally doing its job, he said, “Maybe we could talk someplace with a little more breathing room?”

  Carmen finished off her wine in one large gulp. “I know a place.” She slid off the stool. In her heels, she was taller than him. Mel had barely come up to his shoulder. But forget Mel. This night was not about her. This woman was most certainly not her.

  “Are you ready?” Carmen asked.

  You have no idea, Lucas thought. Only then he remembered the ties. Luckily, half his paycheck hadn’t vanished in the hands of some drunken stranger. “OK,” he said, holding the bag and meeting her at the door. “After you.” Carmen looked back at him and stumbled a little. He realized that she was quite drunk. He took her arm, grateful for the chance to steady her. “Where to?” he asked.

  “Thisaway,” she said, slurring just a little. Then she led him into the street.

  CHAPTER 4

  It had been six years since Lucas woke up beside a woman who was not Mel. In fact, it had been exactly that long since he’d been in a bed with another woman at all. He was, a friend had told him recently, a “fucking virgin.” Not as in that guy’s a fuckin’ virgin! But more like, that guy has had sex, sure, but he hasn’t fucked. He is a virgin at fucking. This analysis made Lucas anxious. Both he and Mel were virgins when they met during freshman year of college and both were equally relieved to dispense with the title. But while Lucas had sex with one person—and then, well, sex, and then sex, and then, as long-term relationships tend to go, less and less of that sex—his friends had moved on to sex with acquaintances and strangers, which was an entirely different skill. Which meant Lucas had a whole new virginity to lose.

  Miraculously, Carmen didn’t seem to notice his inexperience, and everything worked more or less the way it was supposed to. There were a few hiccups, but nothing disastrous. And now he was lying beside a gorgeous woman, on a sunlit Saturday morning, in the West Village, after his very first one-night stand.

  Lucas stretched, feeling his heels glide along the luxurious bedding. He’d always assumed that sheets were just sheets, the phrase “thread count” just a marketing ploy, and so he opted for the cheapest. It turned out that sheets could be magic. And a bed could be as expansive, downy, and white as a puff of cloud. He had to pee, but he didn’t want to move from this spot. Ever.

  But what if there’s more sex? If so, he couldn’t do that on a full bladder. So, reluctantly, he climbed out of bed. The bedroom was impeccably clean, with furniture that had neither been salvaged from the street nor purchased at Ikea. If he ever wanted to bring a woman back to his own bedroom, he’d have to part with the other half of this month’s paycheck and then some.

  Lucas tiptoed into the bathroom. A wicker basket beside the toilet was a schizophrenia of magazines: Elle, the Economist, last week’s Times’ Sunday magazine, and Us Weekly. No Empire. He wondered what kind of writing Carmen did. It seemed strange that they’d had sex and yet he knew nothing about her. But wasn’t total detachment the point of being single in New York? He could pick up another woman tonight and nobody would question him. Nobody even had to know! Never in his life had Lucas enjoyed such anonymity. Back home in Charlotte, privacy was a foreign concept.

  Lucas washed his hands, wondering what came next. Was he supposed to wait until Carmen woke up and then excuse himself? Make coffee? And where should he be—dressed and waiting somewhere, or should he just climb back in bed? Suddenly, the idea of morning sex seemed presumptuous. What would Jays do? Lucas thought about it. Jays, he decided, would get dressed and leave, and then he’d text later that day to thank his lady friend for a great evening. And that would be the end of it. Gracious and confident. But Lucas did not have Carmen’s number. As he debated, he looked himself over in the mirror. When he and Mel had first started dating, she admitted that her friends found him cute. They liked his dark blond hair and big brown eyes, and of course his cheekbones—prep-school cheekbones, Mel called them. And if her friends had also considered his head to be just a little too small for his body, they kept this detail to themselves. Lucas was fairly self-conscious about that particular deficiency and often assessed the head-to-neck-to-torso ratio of the men he encountered. Clearly, Carmen hadn’t minded this flaw. Or she’d been too drunk to notice. It was dark in that bar, after all.

  Lucas dressed quickly. He considered leaving his phone number, but that seemed like a very un-Jays thing to do. Lucas would have been perfectly happy to see Carmen again, but he didn’t want her to think that he expected a call. And who knew? Perhaps they’d meet again, at a party or on the street, like in a Woody Allen movie. That would be so New York. Lucas took a final look at Carmen in her cloud bed and then shut the apartment door behind him.

  Once outside, Lucas entered a small café, where he purchased a New York Times and a black coffee and settled in to read. He couldn’t focus. In his mind’s eye, he was pressing his cheek against Carmen’s sternum. They’d wasted no time upon entering the apartment. She hadn’t even bothered to turn on the lights. He’d kissed her on the mouth, then on the neck, then on both of her breasts over the fabric of her dress and, finally, as though this were the true prize, the bare space between them. Then he’d reached out his arm and tugged at the knot of her dress. The fabric had not dissolved in his fingers, as imagined. He’d struggled a little to get it undone, but eventually the tie loosened and slipped. The dress fell open. Lucas gasped. She stood in her heels. Her bra was see-through, right to the nipples, and her thong was a triangle of so little surface area, it might have been sewn from a shadow. Lucas had briefly flashed back to the porn he’d watched alone in his old apartment, surreptitiously, when Mel was out. There was always some innocent-looking girl, in glasses and maybe a ponytail, going about her innocent day. And this innocent girl would become shocked or incredulous or aghast that somebody made a pass at her. But then her shirt or dress would come off, and she’d have on nothing underneath. Or a slutty tattoo. Or a landing strip. And it always ruined the moment, this lack of narrative consistency. And now here was Carmen, bringing what seemed like a major writing flaw to life. When she got dressed that morning, she’d actually prepared to be undressed.

  So there she stood, beautiful and bare, and Lucas was still fully clothed. He wondered if Carmen didn’t look a little annoyed—am I going to stand here half-naked all night?—but it was dark and Lucas wasn’t worrying anymore. He followed Carmen into her bedroom, where she began to remove his shirt, her practiced fingers navigating the buttons one by one. She loosened his tie, slid her hands down to his belt. He could feel something happening inside of him, something almost religious in its power. Like his afternoon baptism in Jays’ office, this, too, was a kind of conversion. He had met a beautiful woman at a literary bar and she had taken him home to her apartment. By the end of the night he would no longer be a fucking virgin. By the end of the night he would be remade—reborn in the morning sunlight as a New Yorker.

  Lucas returned to the undressing. Carmen had loosened his tie, slid her hands down to his belt … loosened his tie, slid her hands down … loosened his tie …

  “Oh shit!”

  In the coffee shop, people looked up from their newspapers. Lucas buried his face in his hands. He was a fuckup, the greatest fuckup in the history of fuckups. Because right now sitting on the floor in Carmen’s apartment was a hefty portion of his paycheck. Amidst all the indecision of how to make a masterly exit, Lucas had left behind his bag of designer ties.

  CHAPTER 5

  A week later, at a house party in South Slope, Lucas made out with an elementary-school teacher. She was chubbier than the women he usually
liked. Being on the lanky side himself, he sometimes felt dwarfed by athletic types or women whose hips were double the width of his own. But he liked her plastic-framed glasses and full, pouty lips. They’d talked easily; he’d made her laugh. People were dancing in the living room, so they retreated to the bedroom, where they ended up on the bed, tumbling uncomfortably on a heaping pile of purses. This was so easy, he’d thought to himself. And he knew it was because of Carmen. Carmen was older, more attractive and much more sophisticated than the elementary-school teacher. A schoolteacher, to be clear, whom he could fuck! As a college student, he’d lost his virginity to another college student. That was the expected, singular option. But this was a part of adulthood he’d never considered—the buffet of professions, of real people with important functions in the world, who are also feral, sexual creatures. That lawyer he saw on the subway that morning? She fucks! The receptionist at his dentist’s office? She fucks! If Carmen had wanted him, then why not these other women? The idea left him inspired.

  “So, want to…,” he started to ask the schoolteacher, though swiftly he realized he wasn’t sure what should come next. He paused and regrouped. “Um, come back to my place?”

  “You’re sweet,” she said, touching his cheek. “But I don’t think so.”

  Sweet? Lucas flushed. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Did I do something wrong?” Was it the way he kissed? Something about his tone?

  “No…,” the teacher said tentatively, climbing off the bed. “I’m just not interested.” She seemed annoyed, almost affronted. Did she think he was trying to pressure her? That wasn’t it at all. He just wanted some feedback.

  “Wait,” he said, but the teacher scowled and quickly left the room.

  Lucas sat for a moment amidst the purses. Purses of professional women who might not fuck him after all. He imagined dumping the contents onto the covers, scouring the objects for answers. Because a new, troubling thought was sinking in: What if Carmen was a blip? An accident? A trick perpetrated by the universe to make him think that he was reasonably attractive and passably suave? What if he was ugly and awkward? An ugly, awkward, (still mostly) fucking virgin.

  * * *

  Weeks passed and Lucas discovered that picking up one woman did not necessarily lead to picking up another. For nights on end, he found himself with no plans, no place to go. Nor had he heard from Jays. Their one-on-one had felt so promising, and then … nothing. Every day at work felt like an at-bat for the Charlotte Knights, the Triple-A baseball team he loved from home. Maybe today. Maybe today. But none of the scouts was calling.

  Lucas gave himself a pep talk: Wasn’t the challenge of the city what made it so amazing? Wasn’t there dignity—and even romance—in the striving? Wasn’t that why he moved here?

  Because back home, his parents cared only for the winning team and the top league. It was why, when Lucas was little, they’d moved into a neighborhood that they could barely afford; why they constantly worried about money, even while his mother insisted on only doing volunteer work; why they were so eager for Lucas to get a law degree from UNC, marry into the Woodward clan, and then go work for Mel’s father’s firm. Essentially, move from the minor leagues of status and wealth into the Big Show.

  * * *

  And then, one day in late September, the scouts finally picked up the phone. “Jays can’t make it and wants you to fill in for him and show support,” read an email from the Sphinxes.

  Beneath that, they had forwarded an invitation, the entirety of which was: “Jays!!!!!!! Been too long, my friend! Release party for the Casa Madera Black! VIP room at Wilde’s! Would mean the world to see you there! XO, Lori.”

  Lucas stared at the computer screen. Jays could have asked anyone to take his place, but he’d gone right to Lucas. It was tremendously exciting. And terrifying. How could Lucas possibly represent Jays at an exclusive event? Or show the proper amount of support to the Casa Madera Black, whatever that was? Or socialize with the other VIPs, whoever they were? In an excited panic, he forwarded the invite to Alexis. At the top, he wrote: “!!!!!!” It seemed the lingua franca of these exchanges.

  Within seconds, Alexis responded: “Welcome to the publicity event gravy train!” She went on to explain that TV studios, billion-dollar-valuation tech start-ups, liquor conglomerates, and hell, even high-end pen manufacturers all knew that the one surefire way to get a bunch of editors in a room was to rent a swanky event space and distribute free alcohol and hors d’oeuvres. These events happened every night and editors who were lucky enough to receive invites could go for days at a time without having to cook dinner or otherwise pay for groceries, so long as they were willing to make meals out of Kobe beef sliders, tuna tartar crostini, and grilled cheeses stuffed with prosciutto—which, of course, they were. Salt-rimmed glasses of mescal or whiskey would precede and follow.

  “Even after the recession this stuff is happening?” Lucas typed back.

  “I know, right? Can you imagine what it was like before?”

  “But what do these companies expect in return?”

  “In theory, coverage. But they almost never ask. We live in a land of excess. Have you been in the products closet? I haven’t paid for my own body wash since I started here.”

  Lucas had not been in the products closet. Lucas was currently paying for his own body wash. The world was opening up.

  “Honestly, Franklin and I are too low on the totem pole to get these invites, so please write this publicist back immediately and tell her you want ‘a plus-two.’”

  And so Lucas walked back to his desk and emailed Lori the publicist. Five minutes later, she responded: “Lucas!!! So great to meet you. You’re confirmed with a plus-two. Can’t wait to see you at Wilde’s!!”

  How was anything this easy?

  The next afternoon, a $125 bottle of Casa Madera Black arrived for Lucas via messenger. By that evening, Lori had sent Lucas two more invites, one to a vodka party the following week and the other to a new wine bar in Tribeca called September Issue. It was the pet project of some chef Lucas had never heard of, and the small plates were supposed to be inspired by high-end fashion photographers.

  “I’m just a fact-checker,” Lucas told Alexis. “Won’t all these companies be upset if they figure out I have zero editorial control?”

  “You assume they have any idea how magazines work,” Alexis replied.

  “Isn’t that their job?”

  Alexis shrugged. “You’ve got to stop worrying so much.”

  But Lucas could not stop worrying. In advance of the Wilde’s party, he’d spent hours scouring Empire’s recent fashion coverage, trying to assemble some combination from his own closet that passably resembled one of the shoots. He honestly wasn’t sure whether Jays now expected him to wear fashionable ties or not, so he’d gone out and reluctantly spent the other half of his first paycheck on replacements. He prayed that one stylish accessory might compensate for the unremarkable quality of his shirt, pants, and shoes.

  * * *

  After work, Lucas, Alexis, and Franklin took the subway to Grand Central. Crossing Park Avenue, Lucas squinted down the manicured median. The farther you went, the more money per square foot. In his mind’s eye, he imagined single-home town houses with their creamy façades and wrought-iron railings, luxury boutiques, and expensive restaurants.

  Franklin must have noticed Lucas’s wistful expression, because he snorted. “The Upper East Side is disgusting. It’s all stuck-up rich people, entitled tweens snorting cocaine, and dogs that look like rats. Anyway, we’re here.”

  Across the street was a red awning stamped with the Wilde’s logo: a silhouetted dandy wearing a flamboyant cravat. The bar was housed inside a boutique hotel: six stories of pristine red brick. The doors were manned by a pair of high-heeled, airbrushed women, who smiled over their clipboards. One of these girls had hair so dark and liquid, Lucas expected her to be standing in a black puddle. The other had a blond camel-like hump of hair pinned over her forehead.
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  Lucas gave his name. “Ah, you’re VIP,” said the dark-haired publicist. “Present this at the door to The Study at eight thirty.” She handed Lucas a bronze coin engraved with the Wilde’s logo.

  “Don’t we need medallions, too?” Franklin complained.

  “Oh, come on!” Alexis groaned, and pulled Franklin into the party. Red-faced, Lucas followed.

  Inside, the décor was a mix of dark wood and hardcover books. Fireplaces glowed with fires that transmitted neither smoke nor smell. The bartenders fabricated elaborate cocktails, their hands flourishing bottles like skilled magicians. Waiters passed miniature fried-fish sandwiches on brioche buns, small triangles of Welsh rarebit, and gourmet “chips” doused in truffle oil. The trio drank a round of cocktails upstairs and then wandered down to the basement. This was the actual Wilde’s bar, cozy and dim, with paintings of fox hunts and aristocratic women wearing dresses that Franklin immediately identified as belonging not to the Victorian Era, during which Oscar Wilde lived, but the Edwardian period, which officially started after the playwright’s death.

  “So fastidious, you fact-checkers,” Alexis said as she sipped her old fashioned.

  Franklin rolled his eyes. “Luke, it’s almost eight thirty,” he said testily. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  * * *

  Lucas had been nervous about The Study, because he expected Jays’ sort of people: editors and socialites and artists who knew one another from their many exclusive galas and Hamptons time-shares. But Lucas couldn’t imagine Jays among these people in ordinary work clothes, standing alone, their faces bathed in digital light. How many were only pretending to be engaged with emails and texts, fearful of looking uncomfortable and unmoored? Lucas was about to join the crowd in its collective cowardice when his eye fell upon a young man, about his own age. He was distinctive, because he did not have a phone at the ready—and because he was comically overdressed, clad in a tuxedo and accessorized with a walking stick. He was also phenomenally awkward looking—ugly, to be frank—with large eyes beneath a sloping forehead; bullish nostrils; and a couple of distracting Sharpie-black moles on his cheek.