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by Jackie Pilossoph

  “What?”

  “You know, just sex.”

  I must have had a really weird look on my face, because he added, “What’s wrong? You seem surprised.”

  “Actually, I’m just surprised you would share that with me.”

  “Are you judging me? Are you telling me you’ve never had a friend with benefits?”

  “Is that the point?” I asked. I stood up and finished, “Honestly, I think I might go.”

  “You might go or you are going?”

  “I am going,” I said very loud and clear. Then I walked off, thanking God that I had taken my own car.

  On my way out the door I pulled out Den’s photo and asked the hostess if she recognized him. “Sorry, honey,” she answered, “If that hottie had come in here, I’d have remembered him.”

  “Thanks,” I smiled. Then I began to giggle and I laughed the whole way home. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even angry at Matt or the other Matt. Being upset wasn’t worth my energy. I would look back on this as part of the whole dating experience that I was now going through as a middle-aged woman. And I found it very entertaining.

  The very next day, I was at Trader Joe’s and ran into a guy who I’d met years earlier, the very good-looking younger brother of a girl I went to college with. He told me he just moved to the area and confessed that since he was new in town and recently divorced, he didn’t have many friends to go out with. So, when he asked me out, I said yes, even though I remembered him as being extremely arrogant, to the point where he came across like he thought he was God’s gift. Guess what his name was, by the way. Matt.

  Matt was a personal trainer in his late-thirties, and even though he truly was very much in love with himself, I didn’t care. I was on a roll, so why stop now? I figured if I kept going on dates, eventually one of them would cause me to forget about Preston and Luke and Den0507, if in fact I never found him.

  Matt and I ended up having a pretty fun date at a Spanish Tapas restaurant in the area. We drank lots of sangria, and although Matt surpassed his reputation (that came from all the women I knew who knew him) as being one of the most self-loving men in America, he had lots of redeeming qualities, such as a well developed (borderline fanatical) knowledge of body conditioning. It was interesting to hear his stories about some of the clients he trained.

  I found being with him so entertaining that after dinner I suggested we go back to my place for a glass of wine. Matt happily accepted.

  With Isabelle and Laura fast asleep upstairs, I spent the next half hour on my couch kissing my date. Matt was a pretty good kisser. The problem was I had to keep moving his strong trainer hands off of my buttons and zippers. Matt wasn’t really getting the point that kissing was all I wanted to do.

  Finally he whispered, “Don’t you want me, Emma?”

  “Um…”

  Matt pulled away and looked at me in disbelief. “You’re not sure?”

  “Well, I’m just not ready for the whole physical thing, especially with my sister and daughter upstairs. I’m sure you can understand that, right?”

  “They’re heavy sleepers, aren’t they?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “I don’t think I want to risk it,” I answered, really wanting to say, “How would you know since you don’t have kids?” and “You’re hot, but I’m not dying to sleep with you right this second.”

  “Wow,” he replied, “I’m shocked by your will power.”

  This comment left me speechless.

  “This sucks,” he continued, “I mean, I thought for sure we’d be having sex tonight.”

  I think at this moment I gasped.

  “Don’t act so shocked. I can tell you want it.”

  “Want what?”

  “This,” he said, putting his hand on his “package.”

  At this moment, I let out a nervous laugh and then had to put my hand over my mouth. I stood up, walked to the back door and opened it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m showing you out. I’m not in the mood to be date raped right now. Can you please leave?”

  Matt walked out, wine glass in hand and scowl on his face. When I shut the door and locked it, I found myself shaking. The date rape comment was semi-valid, and I realized I had put myself in a very defenseless, precarious position, where it could have happened. I was thankful that Matt didn’t assault me, and I realized no matter how old a person got, the realities of dating stayed the same, and that I had to be careful.

  At this moment, I wanted to call Luke and ask him to come over and rescue me from all the creeps named Matt I’d gone out with lately. Luke would never hurt me, in fact he would protect me and take care of me. He made me feel safer than anyone I’d ever known. He was my rock, my go-to guy, my big brother and my friend. But he was also the guy who was probably going to be a monogamous married man again. At this moment, I wondered if I’d be going out with Matts until I was 80.

  I headed upstairs, still a bit freaked out by Matt, but thankful the situation ended the way it did. I checked on Izzie. God, I loved her. I was so lucky. Why was I so focused on men? Wasn’t my daughter enough? Couldn’t I spend the rest of my life raising and cherishing and enjoying her instead of dating Matts who were going from bad to worse?

  By the time I got into bed, I convinced myself that family love was worlds better than romantic love. My child, my sister, my parents…they were my life, and they were all I needed. I felt like men only seemed to offer chaos, aggravation, disappointment, frustration and tragedy. I decided at that moment, I could easily bid farewell to all the Matts of the world and focus only on my career and my blood relatives.

  But the second I hit the lights and found myself lying all alone in the dark, I realized I was kidding myself. I hugged my pillow and whispered to it softly, “Let me love you, Luke. Let me love you.”

  Unbelievably, the next morning, I got a call from one of the moms in Izzie’s class, asking me if she could give my phone number to a “really nice, cute, single guy.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked her, “Maybe I know him.”

  Her answer was comically astonishing. “Matt…Matt Hart.”

  I sat there unable to speak. Another Matt? I didn’t know if I could take it.

  “Hello, Emma? Are you still there?” the woman asked, “Do you know him?”

  “Um…no, I don’t.”

  “So should I give him your number?”

  “Sure, why not?” I responded.

  Matt Hart and I talked on the phone a couple of hours later. He seemed nice, smart and relatively funny. Also, Matt was a pilot for Southwest Airlines and that was pretty appealing. We set up a dinner date for Saturday night, and strangely enough I was semi-psyched. Finally, a Matt I may actually hit it off with.

  That night when Laura got home from work, I asked, “Do you know a guy named Matt Hart?”

  My sister gasped. “I think so. Is he a pilot?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Yes, I know him.”

  “I’m being set up with him.”

  Another gasp. “Do not go out with that guy!”

  “Why?”

  “Is he divorced now?” she asked.

  “Apparently.”

  “A couple years ago, when he was still married, his wife was a patient of mine.”

  “So?”

  “He hit on me! He asked me if I wanted to have quote ‘a no-strings attached affair.’”

  “Really?”

  “Stay away from that guy!”

  I texted Matt Hart two minutes later and told him I had to cancel the date. After all, why even begin a relationship with someone you already know cheated on their spouse? Matt Hart was a waste of my time and energy, and he wasn’t even worth one evening of my life. Sure, I was ignoring his side of the story, and maybe I was being a little bit closed-minded. That being said, once a cheater, always a cheater. Plus, I had been through enough loser Matts for one lifetime.

  “As little faith as I have in the male spec
ies right now,” I told Alice when she called to say hi from London, “I haven’t lost hope that Mr. Wonderful is out there somewhere.”

  “He is!” she replied, her voice filled with its usual upbeat cheerfulness, “but his name definitely is not Matt!”

  The next night, Tim McMillon arrived in town and Izzie was having a sleepover with her grandparents. As for myself on this particular night, I finally had a chance to catch up on work, a.k.a make salsa, clean up the house, and maybe even watch a movie. I did none of those things, however. Instead, I headed over to Sandy’s Ski Shop’s huge sidewalk sale. Isabelle had been asking me for a North Face fleece since the prior winter, and I felt like if the jacket was on sale, this would be a good opportunity to get it for her.

  I found myself in a long line at the register, not just with one North Face jacket in hand, but with three. One for Izzie, one for Laura, and one for myself. The good news was that they were twenty percent off.

  “Cute coats,” I heard someone say.

  I turned around and a very nice-looking guy was standing behind me with a black Columbia fleece in his hand. He was bald, but had nice eyes and a fit body.

  “Yes,” I responded with a shy smile.

  “I’m buying this for my son,” he said, holding up the fleece, “He’s turning sixteen tomorrow.”

  “That’s nice.” I smiled politely and suddenly it dawned on me that I was being hit on.

  The two of us made small talk for a couple minutes and I found myself intrigued. He seemed pleasant and very harmless. But he was sexy, in a quiet way. Then the bomb dropped. The guy extended his free hand. “My name’s Matt, Matt Millstein.”

  Suddenly I burst out laughing, so hard that the guy began to chuckle nervously.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, “I’m a little crazy.” I shook his hand, “Don’t pay any attention to me.”

  “Have you eaten dinner yet?” he asked, “Would you like to grab a bite?”

  “Right now?”

  “Sure, if you’re free.”

  “It just so happens, I am free, Matt,” I said, semi-playfully, “but I have to be honest with you. I can’t go out with you because your name is Matt, and I have really bad luck with that name.”

  “Now that’s one I haven’t heard before.”

  “I wish I was lying, but I’m not. In the last week, I’ve been out with four Matts, actually only three. I never even made it past the initial phone conversation with the fourth one. All of them have been nightmares!”

  “If that’s the only reason,” Matt replied with a smile, “then you need to give the fifth Matt a chance. I promise I’m a nice guy. You can call my ex-wife. She even likes me.”

  “I don’t know, Matt,” I said playfully, “I’m on the fence with this. Give me one really good reason I should go out with you.”

  “Okay let me think…” he said, pretending to be stressed.

  I was thoroughly entertained and said to him, “Make it good, Matt. Your name is really hurting you and time’s running out.”

  “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed.

  “Shoot.”

  “Have you ever seen The Hangover? People tell me I resemble Bradley Cooper.” Matt pointed to his head and finished, “Especially when I had hair.”

  Within twenty minutes, Matt Millstein and I were seated in a booth at a steakhouse having dinner. As I gazed lovingly at him across the table, I kept trying to figure out how I’d missed the resemblance. Matt M, the best Matt ever, really did resemble Bradley Cooper. It was something in his eyes, his facial expression.

  But aside from my sick fantasy that I was having dinner with my celebrity crush, our date was heading in a good direction. Matt was engaging and funny, in a quirky kind of way. And he was nice. The conversation was going well. I told Matt all about my business and he got a huge kick out of my Hotter than Bradley Cooper salsa.

  Matt then told me about his career. He was a lawyer who specialized in helping victims of insurance company fraud.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, suddenly realizing I had read about him in the papers, and that he’d won dozens of cases over the past few years, “You’re sort of famous.”

  He smiled shyly and nodded, confirming I had the right guy. Matt wasn’t obnoxious about his wealth and success. He was actually very understated and modest. And I liked that.

  The two of us also talked about being single parents and about dating. I found we had had lots in common, and by the end of dinner I realized that even with his major red flag, his name, this was a great, great guy.

  During coffee, I took a deep breath and then I said, “Listen, Matt, I was thinking of asking you to come back to my place, but I recently had kind of a bad experience, so I’m hesitant.”

  “What happened?”

  “Matt number three thought that me asking him over meant that I wanted to sleep with him.”

  “Oh,” said Matt with an assuring smile, “Well, if we go back to your place, I’m good with not fooling around. Maybe just a little kissing.”

  “That sounds fun, Bradley,” I flirted.

  “And maybe a little weed?”

  What? Did I just hear right? I asked myself. Did he just say weed?

  “Are you up for it?” he asked, “I’ve got a couple of doobies in the car.” He smiled, “Good stuff.”

  I sat there frozen for a minute or so, till Matt realized he’d said the wrong thing. “Or not…” he said with a nervous chuckle.

  “Do you smoke pot a lot?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, actually I do. I take it you’re not into getting baked.”

  The room was spinning. Matt, a seemingly great guy, who really did resemble Bradley Cooper was in actuality a stoner. I’m not claiming to be Miss Perfect, and I’m not saying I never smoked pot in my life, however, I had a strong suspicion that Matt wasn’t just an occasional pot user. Therefore, as much of a bummer as it was, I had to immediately end my short-lived relationship with Matt the lawyer, the lawyer in whom dozens of innocent victims put their trust in daily, the lawyer who did good by day and got high by night. Another disappointing Matt experience. When would it end?!

  I handled my exit with class and grace. I grabbed my purse, kissed Matt on the cheek, thanked him for dinner and told him I wasn’t up for getting involved with a smoker of any type of tobacco, regardless of whether it was legal or not.

  He responded by telling me that even though I was a little bit too “goody-two-shoes” for him, he thought I was a great girl.

  “Hope to see you around,” I lied as I parted ways with him and headed to my car.

  “You too, Emma!” he replied, lying as well, I think.

  Good-bye Bradley Cooper! I said to myself. Then I promised myself I would absolutely never ever ever again, in my entire life, go out with another person named Matt.

  And then, just as I was about ten feet away from him, Matt called out my name.

  I cringed. He came running toward me. What could he possibly want? I wondered. Wasn’t he in a hurry to go get stoned?

  “I think this fell out of your purse,” he exclaimed. He then proceeded to hand me my photo of Den0507. “Why are you carrying around a picture of Denny Fitzpatrick?” he asked.

  .

  Chapter 29

  The second I got home I ran upstairs and changed into my PJ’s, giggling as I thought about the look of shock I must have had on my face when I realized Matt, the stoner, knew Den0507, or I should say, Denny Fitzpatrick.

  Fitzpatrick. Obviously not Jewish. Did I care, though? I thought about it. Sam was Jewish, and that was a good thing, but what about Alan? Jewish. Hurt my sister. My father. Jewish. Hurt my mother. And every one of the five Matts were of the Jewish faith, so there you have it. Matt one was boring, Matt two was sleeping with two women and still getting set up on blind dates, Matt three was a borderline rapist (although he was only half-Jewish), Matt four was an adulterer and Matt five was a pothead. To say I was slightly turned off by m
en who’d had Bar Mitzvahs was putting it mildly. If Denny Fitzpatrick was a devout Catholic who received the holy communion three times a day, that was going to work for me at this point.

  I got online, pulled up the white pages, punched in “Willow Ridge” and then “Fitzpatrick, Dennis.”

  “Fitzpatrick…Fitzpatrick…” I whispered to myself as I waited for the address and phone number to pop up. Two seconds later, when I saw Denny’s address, I gasped.

  “437 Butterfly Lane?” I shouted to myself. Den0507, Dennis J. Fitzpatrick was practically my neighbor! He literally lived no more than two miles from my house. How could he and I never have crossed paths except for one time outside of Walgreens?

  I took a deep breath, sat cross-legged on the floor and dialed his number. Boy, I was nervous. What was I going to say? I decided to wing it and not rehearse anything, which was a horrible idea because when I heard him answer, “Hello?” I froze.

  “Hello?” he repeated himself.

  “Hi,” I said slowly, “Is this Denny?”

  “Yeah, it is. Who’s this?” he responded in a very friendly tone.

  I loved his voice instantly. It was a very high, raspy Irish voice that sounded a lot like the voice of Ed Burns.

  “My name is Emma Bloom. I live in your neighborhood and…” Now I started stuttering and semi-giggling like a teen-ager. “Well, this is kind of difficult…and embarrassing…but I saw your picture on Match dot com and I read your profile…and…well…I just…I thought maybe…oh God…this is horrifying. You know what? Let’s just forget it.”

  I was about to hang up when Denny interrupted. “Wait a minute!” he said with a chuckle, “So you want to get together? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  I exhaled for the first time in over thirty seconds. “Yes, thank you.”

  “So you saw me on Match…so why not contact me through that?”

  “Actually, I’m not a member on that site. It’s kind of complicated.” I wasn’t ready to tell Denny that I carried around his picture and showed it to at least three dozen people.

  “It’s okay, don’t worry about it. You’ll tell me another time. So, where do you live?” Denny asked, beginning a conversation that would last for over an hour. We started with our addresses, and then chatted about divorce, my daughter, his kids, my salsa business, his mortgage business, our lives as single parents, and the fact that we’d never seen each other before (I decided not to tell him about Walgreen’s yet).