What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan

by Jill Knapp

  “Michael,” I started, voice steady and strong. “Are you happy?”

  I expected him to question me, to give me one-sided back talk. To say something like “Happy with what?” which would make me angrier and eventually cause me to drop the subject with nothing resolved. But for once, he didn’t. For once he actually looked me in the eyes and gave me a straight answer. Unfortunately, the answer was yes.

  “I am,” he answered softly.

  He had a new expression in his eyes, one I had never seen before. A look of pity. That’s when I realized, he felt sorry for me.

  I stood up, grabbed my purse and coffee cup, and waited the obligatory three seconds for him to try to stop me from walking away. I waited for him to grab me and say, “Don’t leave, I need you. I’m only happy when I’m with you, and everything else is facade. I love you!”

  He didn’t, which made me realize he probably never would.

  Fueled by anger and self-loathing, I slowly backed away from him, my eyes still locked on his. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  I walked all the way home.

  Chapter 26

  What happens to men when they move to Manhattan?

  “So that’s it?” Cassandra mumbled through a full mouth of mint-chocolate ice cream.

  Through all my fury and depression, I still couldn’t help but wonder how she ate so much and stayed so thin.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Would you stick this out? No, I can’t. I feel guilty, anxious, pathetic, and to be frank a little slutty. I can’t chase him anymore.”

  I grabbed the tub of Ben and Jerry’s out of her hand, and bogarted the rest.

  “It’s just that… never mind,” she said, magically needing to use the restroom at that moment.

  “Oh no you don’t.” I got up to follow her. “What were you going to say, missy?”

  Cassandra spun around in the hallway and performed her customary act of crossing her arms and pouting her lips. I stood there, awaiting a lecture.

  “I’m just saying, I thought the two of you were going to end up together,” she said.

  There are things people will say to you in life to make you feel better. This was not one of those things. I knew she was just trying to help, but it sounding condescending.

  “I’m sorry, Amy! I don’t want you to get hurt, but I didn’t think you would give up this easily.”

  I felt a sudden surge of anger and an overwhelming need to defend myself. “Give up easily?” I said, slowly walking toward her. “Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to say those words to him? All I want is to be with him!”

  Cassandra at this point was flattened against the wall, wide-eyed and panicked. I didn’t understand why until I realized I was inches away from her face.

  I backed off. “I’m sorry! I’m an asshole.”

  I put my hands on my face and returned to the living room, where I reluctantly resumed my comfortable position as couch potato. Cassandra rolled her eyes and proceeded to the amenities. As I flipped through the channels, I wondered how I let things get to this point. What were my intentions with all of this? Did I honestly think he would leave his girlfriend for me? The sad truth was, I didn’t even know. I stopped on a repeat of Sex and The City. It was the episode where all of her friends accidentally missed her birthday dinner and Mr. Big showed up in the end with balloons.

  I thought back to my birthday two years ago with Nicholas, and how wonderful my life used to be. I could still smell the melting wax from when it leaked onto the cake because I took too long to make a wish. I could still hear his voice.

  “Would you wish for something already!” Nicholas said, hysterically laughing at this point. The candles had been lit for about five minutes, and the wax was starting to hit the frosting. “I don’t want to eat birthday candle-flavoured cake!” he joked.

  “I can’t,” I said, not caring about the goofy smile I must have been wearing. “I can’t make a wish, because, my love, I have everything I could ever want.”

  That conversation was one of the best I had ever had. I meant every word. At the time, I didn’t think I could ever want or need anything more.

  I was slapped back to reality by the sound of Cassandra clunking something heavy down on my coffee table.

  “That better be a bottle of vodka,” I said without looking up.

  “What time is your class tomorrow?” she said, ignoring me and opening a second gallon of ice cream.

  “It’s at eleven,” I uttered mournfully as I remembered the fact that even when you’re depressed, life carries on.

  “Make sure you look hot,” she said.

  “Yeah, priorities,” I muttered.

  “Oh, also, I gave Hayden your phone number.”

  “I am seriously going to murder you one of these days,” I said, too irritated to fight with her.

  I reached for my phone, which simultaneously started to vibrate. I scrolled through the list of unread emails and stopped at the most recent one. I read the details; it was dated today, March 7th, and it was from Nicholas.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I said, barely moving in my seat.

  “What’s the problem, dear?”

  I couldn’t answer her. Instead I sat eerily still and read the three-line email.

  Amalia,

  Hi, Hope all is well. My sister gave me a sweater of yours she had borrowed, and asked me to get it back to you. What is your mailing address?

  -N

  Cassandra waved her hand in front of my face and said, “You want to tell me what’s going on over there? Or is this a silent stewing sort of thing?”

  I couldn’t even speak. I was stunned at the amount of nerve Nicholas had, contacting me so bluntly after all this time. I tossed my phone at her, and waited for her to read the email.

  I wondered what had happened to Nicholas. He used to be such a sweet guy. What happens to men when they move to Manhattan? It’s as if their soul is surgically removed and replaced with dark, hollowed-out indignation the minute the ink dries on their new Upper East Side lease. They forget who they were, and what they used to want, and suddenly only focus on one-night stands and all-night benders in garish hotel bars. This is not what I signed up for when I moved here.

  “What the fuck?” Cassie said, giving me a look nothing short of bewilderment. “Why wouldn’t his sister just send the sweater back to you herself?”

  “I don’t know,” I shook my head. “But I don’t care either. I don’t want it back and that’s what I’m going to say.” I got up and started collecting the dishes. “But I’ll say it tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to sleep.”

  Chapter 27

  Last Meal

  “If I knew the T.A. was going to be teaching the class today, I would have skipped it,” I said to Olivia, who was frantically taking notes.

  Although there were still two months left in the semester, people were starting to crack over the thought of finals.

  “Have you heard anything from Michael?” Olivia whispered.

  “No, not since The Highline. I am doing my best to avoid him. Besides, I have the Nicholas drama to worry about now.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

  Olivia was wearing a long string of pearls and a brown sweater dress with lace embroidery on the collar. She looked like one of those American Girl Dolls I would get catalogues for as a child, and way overdressed for class.

  “Are you going somewhere after this?” I asked, scanning her outfit.

  “Don’t change the subject,” she shot back, frowning.

  “You are, aren’t you?” I smiled. “Do you have plans with someone?”

  Olivia just looked at me, clearly not amused or willing to back down.

  “Fine,” I conceded. “Nicholas sent me an email yesterday, claiming to have something of mine, and asked for my mailing address.”

  “Doesn’t he know your address? You dated for a few years.”

 
“I don’t know,” I said. “The thought had crossed my mind. But I wrote back telling him to keep it.”

  “Good,” she said. I looked up and realized people were leaving; class was over.

  “Thank God that’s over,” I rubbed my temples.

  School was becoming an increasingly low priority on my list. I just wanted to get out the moment any class began.

  “Are you coming?” I asked, halfway out the door.

  “You go ahead. I just have to ask John something,” Olivia said, flattening out her dress.

  “You call our T.A. John?”

  “What do you call him?” she asked innocently.

  “Okay fine, just call me later,” I said over my shoulder.

  The classroom we were in was large, but not exactly auditorium-sized. For some reason, our class was always taught in the dark. An old projector was still set up in the front from when our professor showed us a film on amnesia last week, and the seats were a rustic wood that looked as if it had been exposed to corrosive elements for the past fifty years. It reminded me of a dingy movie theatre I came across once on a family vacation to Danville, Pennsylvania. I had demanded my money back after a loose screw in the chair poked my leg so hard it drew blood. I breathed a sigh of relief that I was done for the day, and opened the heaviest door in academic history. As soon as I turned out of the austere classroom, I spotted Michael and Alex talking. Even across the hallway, his eyes drew my gaze, and immediately my heart sank into my stomach.

  Tears began to well up behind my eyes, the kind that burned my throat and made me question whether I’d ever be truly content again. Despite my melancholy, up until his point I hadn’t done much crying over Michael. The pain was deeper than that, deeper than simple tears. As if something important had been cut out of me. Befuddled and depressed, I walked back into the classroom, unaware if either of them had seen me.

  I slowly made my way to the front of the now-empty classroom, looking for Olivia. I needed someone to calm me down before I walked back outside and was forever known as the chick who cried in grad school. I wiped my eyes, so she wouldn’t know I was crying. As much as I needed a friend, I did not relish the thought of anyone seeing me cry. I got closer to where she stood by the podium. I opened my mouth to call out her name, but then I realized she wasn’t alone. I couldn’t quite make out who she was standing with. I covertly moved closer, being careful not to let my shoes clank on the ceramic tiles. Finally, the figure came into focus. It was our T.A., John. Then I remembered she had told me she needed to ask him a question. They were standing face to face, only a few inches apart. Suddenly, John reached for Olivia, and pulled her in for a hug. I clasped my hand over my mouth in an effort not to gasp. All of a sudden, it became clear; Olivia was sleeping with our T.A.! I slowly backed away, trying my best not to draw attention to myself, and made my way back outside. I darted down the stairs, out onto the street, and made my way to Washington Square Park, where I firmly planted myself on a cold stone bench. I put my head in my hands and rubbed my eyes. Had I really just seen that? If the school knew about this, Olivia could get put on probation. Exasperated, I shook my head and reached in my purse for my copy of Emily Giffin’s latest novel. I had to get my mind off this calamity.

  While searching for the book, I looked up at the arch. The giant, beautiful white arch at the Fifth Avenue entrance of the park always looked like it was glowing at this time of day. I made a mental note never to stop being in awe at the beauty of New York; at least it was one thing about the city that was consistent.

  When I arrived home two hours later, I made a beeline for my bedroom, completely bypassing Christina, who was in the kitchen cooking something that smelled very ethnic. I face-planted onto my bed and took several deep breaths. Compelled to be unconscious and not have to think about Michael or Olivia, I was annoyed when a few moments later I heard a knock on my door.

  “Hey,” Christina whispered, slowly turning the doorknob.

  “Come in,” I said, muffled through my pillow.

  “Amalia? Are you all right?” She walked closer to my bed. “We’re kind of having a roommates’ dinner, you in?”

  I lifted my head off the pillow just high enough to comply. “Can you just wake me when it’s ready please?”

  “Sure,” she said, quietly closing the door behind her.

  The last thing I wanted was to sit through dinner with Liz, who would without question further my bad mood, but I’d promised Christina I would make an effort and I didn’t want to rock the boat.

  The room was dark, my bed was warm, and just as I was drifting into my nap, my phone began to vibrate. I lifted my face off the pillow to see who it was, but all it said was “Unavailable.” My exhaustion beat out curiosity and I let my voicemail pick it up. Thirty seconds later, my phone vibrated again, this time indicating a voice message. Before I could dial to check it, Christina called my name through the door, summoning me to dinner.

  Half asleep, I stumbled into the living room, where Christina and Liz were already gathered around the coffee table, pouring themselves each a glass of white wine. Without looking up from her glass, Liz asked me to sit down and make myself comfortable. I looked over at Christina to see if she knew what Liz was going to tell us, but she seemed as unaware as I did.

  “I have something to say to the both of you,” she said tightly as she topped my glass off.

  I reached for the wine, grateful to have a cushion of alcohol for this undoubtedly irritating news.

  Liz put down her wine glass and announced, “I’m going to be moving out. I found a place in Astoria with my cousin and next week I’m going to be moving in with her.”

  Now this was the best news I’d heard all week.

  “Next week!” Christina said, genuinely surprised. “Why so soon? I mean, can’t you stay a little longer?”

  I coughed up a little of my wine, which went down the wrong pipe as a reaction to Christina’s attempt to persuade Liz into staying longer. In fact, if it would get Liz out the door sooner, I would gladly help her pack and pay for a cab!

  “No, it isn’t possible.” Liz, let out an exasperated sigh. “I already paid the first month’s rent and security deposit, so I’d like to move in there as soon as I can. I’m sorry for the short notice, ladies, but it’s just something I have to do, for me.”

  I sat back on the couch and wondered if Liz ever did anything that wasn’t “for her,” and then happily thought about how I wouldn’t have to ever deal with her again. In an effort to appear supportive, I raised my wine glass and proposed a toast.

  “To Liz,” I said smiling. “May your new home bring you peace and happiness.”

  The three of us clinked our glasses together and then we each took a sip. I cut into the baked eggplant Christina had prepared, unknowingly for Liz’s last meal, and took a big bite. Things were looking up.

  Two pieces of eggplant and four glasses of wine later, I re-stumbled back into my now pitch-dark bedroom and returned to my bed. The activity light was blinking on my phone and I remembered I had a voice message that needed to be checked. Bleary-eyed, I selected the option to listen to my messages and impatiently waited to find out who was yet again disrupting my sleep.

  “Amalia, it’s Nicholas. I know I am most likely the last person on earth you want to be talking to, but I really need to speak to you. I miss you.”

  Click.

  I looked at my phone, as if it were solely responsible for delivering this message to me, and dropped it onto my rug. I was too tired to feel any sort of urgency, and too tipsy to feel any sort of emotion. I did the only thing I could do. I closed my eyes and immediately fell asleep.

  Chapter 28

  A David Lynch Movie

  The streets of the village had transformed into a scene out of a David Lynch movie. People looked way too happy. The happiness was undoubtedly due to the copious amounts of alcohol people were consuming all day.

  To the Irish, this particular holiday commemorates the patron saint o
f Ireland, Saint Patrick and the arrival of Christianity in Ireland. To New Yorkers, it commemorates green beer, shots of Jameson, and scantily dressed girls wearing what can only be described as sequined cocktail napkins designed to make them resemble sexy leprechauns (if there ever was such a thing).

  As I walked out of Red Bamboo, with my takeaway tofu parmigiana in tow, I noticed Alex walking toward me. I tried my best to keep my eyes looking straight ahead, convinced that if I didn’t make eye contact with him, he wouldn’t see me. No such luck.

  “Hastings!” he shouted, darting over toward me.

  I lifted my eyes from the pavement and gave him a nod. He was dressed casually, something he hardly ever did. He had on a dark-brown leather jacket, his usual skinny jeans, and oversized, gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses to pull the look together. I looked down and noticed he was carrying a shopping bag from La Perla. Probably for his flavor of the week.

  “Whoa, La Perla? Who is that for?” I reached for the bag.

  Alex pulled the bag out of my reach and laughed.

  “Now come on, Amalia, a gentlemen will never kiss and tell,” he said with a small smile.

  “Perhaps,” I shot back. “I didn’t realize I was talking to one.”

  “Well as much as I love our banter, I wanted to ask you something. I am actually happy I ran into you,” he said, placing the shopping bag on the ground. “I’m having a get together at my apartment tonight for St. Patrick’s Day and I wanted to invite you.”

  “Where do you live again?” I asked teasingly. “The South Bronx?”

  “Very funny, Hastings. I live on Roosevelt Island. Take the F train from Union Square, and you can’t miss it.”

  I took a step back, glancing once more at his outfit.

  “What’s with the look?” he asked, suddenly seeming self-conscious.

  “Is it by any chance a costume party?” I asked sarcastically.

  I was really pushing it with Alex, considering he was friends with Michael and could very easily run back to him and tell him just how nasty I was. I considered this, and then justified that the enjoyment I got out of mocking him was worth the risk.