What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan

by Jill Knapp

  I couldn’t help but agree with her. It was the first contact we had since we hooked up the other night, and it didn’t leave me feeling happy. I started coming up with all types of scenarios as to what Michael was doing at this moment and whether or not he was thinking of me, but then I remembered the promise I had made to myself to leave all of that back in the city.

  After the festivities were over and the rest of the guests had left, Cassandra and I retreated to her bedroom to partake in the second part of our Christmas Eve ritual, the annual sleepover.

  “I had such a blast tonight, Cass. Thank you for always letting me come here.” I pulled a yellow pillowcase over her guest pillow. “I promise I’m going to come to your house for Christmas Eve for the rest of my life.”

  “Really? What if you marry someone who’s Christian and they want to celebrate with you?” she asked, half joking, half serious.

  I pretended to contemplate this dilemma and shrugged. “Well then I’ll just invite him along to your house. The more the merrier, right? Or I’ll spend Christmas Eve with you and Christmas Day with his family.”

  She cocked her head to the side and gently hit me with her pillow. “Amy, what if he wants you two to spend it with your own family?” she asked, raising an eyebrow for emphasis.

  “You are my family.” It sounded cheesy but I honestly meant every word.

  “Oh shut up.” She finished turning down the bed.

  “So, I made this deal with myself,” I said, hugging the pillow tightly. “The deal is that as long as I am in Staten Island that I wouldn’t think about or talk about Michael.”

  “How long did you really expect that to last?”

  I grabbed the blanket and wrapped it tightly around me, like a burrito. As if it was the only thing holding me together.

  “It was going fine until the business-formal text message he sent me earlier,” I muttered, still tightly grasping the linens. “I mean, I understand he has a girlfriend and he’s probably with his family, but we are still friends, aren’t we?”

  “I don’t know, Amalia, are you? Have the two of you even spoken about what happened?” she asked, following my lead and wrapping herself up in the blanket.

  “No,” I said quietly. “That’s the problem, we haven’t spoken about anything. Not about the kiss-attack at the hotel, not about sleeping together the other night. I don’t even know how he did on the final.”

  “Well, what did you write back to his text message?”

  “Crap, nothing!” In all of my dismay I had forgotten to even answer him.

  I feverishly unwrapped myself and reached for my phone, which was currently charging on the bedside table. She reached over and took the phone out of my hands. Before I could say anything, she raised her hand in protest.

  “Write something detached and non-committal,” she said with a yawn, sounding like a professor of Manipulative Dating Techniques 101.

  I pursed my lips and grabbed my phone out of her hand, suddenly exhausted by this conversation.

  “This is ridiculous,” I mumbled as I typed a message back to Michael, and tossed my phone back on the nightstand. “I wrote, Thank you for the warm wishes, my best to you and yours,” I said. “How did that sound? Passive aggressive enough for you?”

  I looked over at Cassandra but she was half asleep and no longer paying attention to my pseudo-crisis. Now I truly was determined to put all of this out of my mind. I turned on the television and lay back in bed to get ready to go to sleep. I even managed to make it through the first twenty minutes of my favorite Christmas movie, Love Actually, before falling asleep.

  The next morning I awoke to the sweet aromas of cinnamon, toast, and fresh coffee. Followed by the all-too-loud barking of one Muffin DeLuca. The chihuahua had made her way into the bedroom and was now eagerly yapping to wake up Cassandra. I figured I would let the two of them be; this would be a perfect time to snatch my overnight bag off the dresser and grab a quick shower.

  Freshly cleaned, I came downstairs to find a delicious buffet-style spread of eggs, muffins, cinnamon bagels, fresh fruit, two different types of toast, real butter (not margarine, this was a holiday after all), and freshly brewed coffee.

  “Merry Christmas, Amalia. Please help yourself!” Marie smiled as she handed me a white porcelain mug.

  Cassandra had already dug in, smearing a healthy amount of butter onto her perfectly toasted bagel.

  “Did you sleep well, darling?” her mother asked as she poured me a rather large cup of coffee.

  “I did, Marie, and thank you so much for having me over,” I said, mixing half and half into my mug.

  Cassandra looked up at me through tired eyes, then appeared to zone out as she redirected her attention to her coffee. Unlike me, she clearly hadn’t slept well through the night. I began to wonder if Bryce had contacted her at all to wish her a Merry Christmas.

  “What time are you staying until?” she asked as she poured herself another cup.

  “I’m probably going to leave after breakfast. I told my parents I would spend some time with them today so they aren’t too lonely on Christmas,” I explained, suddenly feeling guilty for “eating and running.”

  “Where’s your brother?” Cassandra asked. “Still at school?”

  “He’s actually home,” I said, remembering Aaron’s flight had come in yesterday morning and I had yet to contact him.

  “How old is Aaron now?” Marie asked.

  “He’s twenty, a sophomore,” was all I could say through a mouthful of berries.

  Cassandra appeared to be pushing her food on her plate instead of eating it.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered. “Is it Bryce? Have you heard from him?”

  She shook her head no, and I thought it wise to just drop the subject.

  Instead of ignoring me, she put down her utensils and motioned for me to follow her back upstairs. I politely excused myself, thanking her mother for breakfast, and followed her out of the room.

  When we got upstairs, she slammed the bedroom door behind her, whipped out her laptop and opened the browser to her Facebook page. She then angrily clicked on Bryce’s profile and shoved the computer in my face.

  “What exactly am I looking at here?” I carefully combed through his timeline, feeling a little uneasy.

  She stuck out her pointer finger and tapped on the computer screen. “Five new female friends!” she cried. “In one weekend! I mean, I know we aren’t in a relationship, but the guy is screwing half of Manhattan!”

  I scrolled down further and, sure enough, Bryce had acquired five new, very good-looking, very female, friends. In all honestly, this could be one of two things. One, it could be completely harmless; he went to a party or a work function and he was networking, therefore he added the women to keep in touch with them. Or two, he was a slimy Manhattan-ite douche-bag who added every girl whose name he could remember from the night before when he was out getting smashed with his buddies. From what I knew from Bryce, I expected the latter.

  I closed the laptop screen and turned to face Cassandra. “Okay, what are you going to do about this?” I asked softly, trying not to anger her further. “I mean, you have been dating for about four months now and you have no control over what happens? I know what’s going to happen; you’re going to confront him about this and he’s going to manipulate you into thinking you’re crazy.”

  She just looked at me. At first I was expecting her to scream, to tell me I had no idea what I was talking about, and to kick me out of her house. Instead she started to sob and whispered, “I don’t know if he even cares about me.”

  I hesitated to speak, knowing no solace I could offer would make this situation any easier. It happens all of the time in Manhattan, or anywhere for that matter. Guys string girls along for as long as they can. I wondered if in some way that was happening to me.

  “Cass,” I put my hand on her shoulder and gave her my best sympathetic look. “If you don’t think he cares about you, then the truth is, he
probably doesn’t.”

  Again, I thought about my own situation with Michael and began to feel the same logic applied.

  “I don’t want to say anything because I don’t want to come across as weak.” She wiped her face with a tissue.

  “Why would saying something to him make you seem weak?”

  “Because I want to seem strong, as if none of this bothers me,” she shook her head. “If he knows it bothers me then I’ll seem needy, like I need validation that he’s into me.”

  “But don’t you think a strong enough person wouldn’t keep quiet?” I asked as I gathered the last of my belongings. “A strong person should be able to speak up if something is bothering them, not placate the person they’re with because they’re afraid to say the wrong thing. I don’t think you’re coming off as strong.” I paused before finishing my sentence, but ultimately decided she needed to hear it. “You’re coming off as a pushover.”

  I was worried my words were too harsh and they would send Cassandra back into a tearful fit. Instead, she told me she would think about what I said, and decide if this was something she wanted to continue doing. Unfortunately, my instincts told me she wasn’t going to give up on Bryce just yet.

  Chapter 17

  Home Sweet Home

  After our discussion about Bryce – the thought of him still turned my stomach – Cassandra gave me a lift home to my parents’ house.

  “Hello? I’m home!” I shouted as I flung open the front door.

  My parent’s house was a complete contrast to Cassandra’s. There was no winter wonderland, no decorations of any kind.

  I expected to be greeted by my parents and brother, but no one was in sight. I knew they were home because the door was open, and we didn’t live in a town where people made a habit of leaving the house with their doors unlocked.

  After plopping my small suitcase down, I ran up the stairs to see what was going on. My brother was in his bedroom with his headphones on, his back to the door. I took a peek at his computer screen and saw that he was deeply engrossed in his blog. Well that explained it. I slowly crept up behind him and snatched the buds out of his ears.

  “Hey! What the hell!” he said angrily until he turned around and saw I was the perpetrator. “Oh my god, Amalia!”

  Aaron jumped out of his chair, nearly knocking his laptop over in the process. He grabbed me and picked me up, leaving me a little queasy, but I forgave him for it. His excitement was not unmatched; I was very happy to see my brother. Aaron and I hadn’t seen each other since he went back to school in the fall. This was the first time either of us had come home in months. Besides his animated behavior, he appeared to have just woken up, wearing a white undershirt with blue mesh basketball shorts.

  “Dude, did you just get out of bed? It’s almost one o’clock!” I teased, as I fluffed up his sandy blonde hair.

  “Um, kind of,” he answered, his cheeks turning red. “Mom and Dad went out early to go to some sort of Asian farmers’ market, so I’ve been home alone. Can you cook something? I’m starved.”

  “I can make you a grilled cheese and that’s about it,” I said, leading the way to the kitchen. “Did Mom and Dad say what time they would be back?”

  Aaron just shrugged, indicating he, in fact, probably didn’t even ask them what time they were coming home. I found it a little weird that my parents had opted to leave the house so early that day when they knew I would be coming home for the first time in at least three months.

  Thirty minutes and two grilled cheeses later, my parents finally returned home, arms filled with plastic shopping bags from the Asian food market. As I watched them unload the groceries onto the kitchen counter, I suddenly missed the ability to go food shopping without having to lug ten pounds of groceries back to my apartment. It’s the little things in life, like being able to drive a car, that you really start to appreciate as you get older. My sudden moment of clarity was interrupted with a loud crash followed by my mother yelling at my dad to retrieve a new roll of paper towels from the closet.

  “We haven’t got any, Sue!” he shouted from the hallway. “I’ll just grab some toilet paper.”

  I sat quietly at the kitchen table, absentmindedly sipping a bottle of water while this Abbot and Costello routine continued, still invisible to my parents, who had now been home an entire ten minutes. Suddenly, a roll of toilet paper came flying down the hallway, and my brother jumped in the air and caught it, like an NFL superstar.

  “You see what we miss when we’re gone, Amalia?” Aaron said, taking an irrational amount of tissues to clean up the tiny glass cup that had broken.

  “Amalia?” my mother finally said as she spun around, nearly knocking over yet another drinking glass.

  I looked up from the table and gave a small wave to my parents, who were both staring at me with surprised looks on their faces.

  “Hey, kiddo. What are you doing home?” my father asked, seeming flustered by my appearance.

  “What are you talking about? It’s Christmas Day, remember? I told you I was going to Cassandra’s like I do every year on Christmas Eve, and then I was coming home the next day. Does any of this ring a bell?”

  I guess it’s true what they say; you really can’t go home again. Or you can, and your family will look at you like a stranger when you come home for the holidays, as planned. I decided this was going to be a short visit.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie, we just didn’t realize it was December twenty-fifth today,” my father said and he walked over to me and gave me a sympathetic hug. “You know we don’t celebrate Christmas, so sometimes we lose track of these things.”

  “Right,” I said. I glanced back over at the shopping bags on the counter, and then back to my father. “That would make sense, except you obviously knew most of the stores were closed because you went to an Asian market and not Stop and Shop.”

  I grew more annoyed with the lying. Instead of fighting, I shook my head and headed upstairs.

  “I’m going to unpack. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow.”

  “Amalia, wait a minute,” my father called out just as I reached the second floor.

  But it didn’t matter, I didn’t want to talk to either of them. I thought about the difference between my family and Cassandra’s, how they had greeted me with open arms yesterday. It was funny how much good feelings can change in a day.

  As I turned the doorknob to my bedroom, it hit me I hadn’t been home since Nicholas and I broke up. I braced myself for what was undoubtedly going to be an emotional moment.

  Whenever I leave home, even just for a little while, like on vacation, I always expect something to be different on my return. This, however, is never the case, even if I wish it was. My room was still exactly as I had left it, from the perfectly made bed, to the unframed Smashing Pumpkins poster, to the Dior mascara on my dresser that I had sworn was lost or possibly stolen by one of my roommates.

  Still, what was once the best part of my bedroom was now the worst. Memories of Nicholas and I watching late-night movies, him taking care of me when I was sick in bed, Aaron and him arguing over whether or not the Knicks made a good trade that season; all of it came rushing back to me. Memories I didn’t even know I had suddenly invaded my mind with such force I was compelled to lie down on my bed for fear if I continued standing I would surely pass out. I looked to the right of my bed, and there proudly displayed on my bedside table was a photo of us taken on our vacation to Cape Cod merely six months ago. I picked up the frame and studied the picture. I was wearing a long white flowing sundress with bright-coral sandals that I had bought specifically for our summer vacation. I had a deep tan, very rare for my pale complexion, and my curls were platinum from being in the sun. It seemed like a lifetime ago. I thought about how perfect everything felt, lying on the beach, talking about our future together and joking about asking the hotel manager if we could get married right there and then. How did things get so messed up? If Nicholas had these same memories that
I did, how could he have just let everything go? I took the picture of us out of the frame, studied it one more time, and then ripped it up into tiny pieces until it was impossible to rip them anymore.

  I stood up and started to unpack a few things; I was only going to stay here the night but I didn’t want to live out of the suitcase, at least not in my own house.

  “Knock, knock,” Aaron said as he made his way into my now-messy bedroom.

  “How goes it, little brother?” I asked with a small smile. It was all I could muster up at the moment. “Tell me about Syracuse.” My brother was now a junior at the state university of Syracuse, and I honestly still couldn’t believe how old he had gotten. He sat down next to me and took the shirt I was folding out of my hand.

  “Forget school,” he said. “What’s going on with you? You seem, I don’t know, a little lost.”

  He nailed it; that’s exactly what I was, lost.

  “Well, Nicholas and I broke up,” I offered.

  “I know,” he said. “Facebook told me.”

  “Oh good, that site did my dirty work for me,” I said sarcastically.

  “So, have you been seeing someone new?”

  Even though Aaron was twenty years old, a grown-up for all intents and purposes, I still pictured him as my baby brother, and would probably always have trouble talking to him about relationships. Regardless, I honestly didn’t know how to answer the question presented to me.

  “It’s complicated,” I said retrieving my shirt from his hands.

  “Well, sis, whoever this guy is, you make sure he treats you right.” He made his way to the door. “If he doesn’t, you tell him your brother’s gonna come to the big city and kick his ass. Okay?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You can shut the door behind you.”

  A few minutes later, unpacked and room cleared of Nicholas mementos, I found myself wondering what Michael was up to. I reached for the cell phone and then hesitated. What was I afraid of? Weren’t we still friends? Just a quick hello, I decided. My heart pounded harder with each letter I typed into my phone, until I finally hit send. I took a deep breath and glanced in the mirror. I could always feel the physical effect Michael had on me, but this was the first time I had seen it. My face was beet-red and my pupils were dilated to the point where I just looked like I had just had an eye exam. I felt a wave of embarrassment roll over me as I realized this was how I must look to him all the time. A red-faced, black-eyed lunatic.