How to Meet Cute Boys

by Deanna Kizis

  “Max?” He ignored me. “Are you going to look at me or what?”

  He rolled onto his back. His eyes flicked over in my direction. Then he looked at the bag. Then he looked away.

  “So …” I said. “I haven’t seen you around much lately.”

  Long pause.

  Then he said, “I’ve been busy.”

  “Okay, but I think when you really want to be with somebody you kind of make the time, right?”

  No response.

  “What’s going on, Max?”

  The question hung in the air, until he said, “I don’t know, Ben. You tell me.”

  “Well.” I took a deep breath. “Look, I really want things to be okay. Okay? But that’s kind of hard when I never see you, right?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I just feel like I’m in this totally alone. Like you’re not even with me anymore.”

  Nothing.

  “Is it something I did?”

  Still nothing.

  “Max? Isn’t there anything you want to say?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  I wanted to scream, I want you to say that you can’t live without me! That you’re sorry! That you’re making a mistake! But all I could say was, “I just want you to say something.”

  He said, “Something.”

  And this was when I lost it.

  “Okay, fine,” I snapped. “You know what? I can’t take it anymore. Seriously. If this is how you’re going to act, then I’m out of here.”

  I stood up. My hands were on my hips and I knew how it looked and I didn’t care.

  But then I gave him one more chance.

  “Max, please. Say something besides ‘something.’ Talk to me.”

  “Jesus Christ, Ben—” He sat up, and looked at me. His eyes were red, but not from crying. He was mad. I was surprised. I had no idea I was making him angry. He said, “What do you want from me?”

  “What do I want from you?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, I already told you, I don’t want a girlfriend.”

  It was like being punched in the stomach. “You do,” I said.

  “I don’t.”

  “But …”

  His eyes said, But what?

  “What about us, about all the presents—” I stammered. “What about everything. I mean, I thought we both felt the same thing. I thought this was … you know … going somewhere.”

  He shook his head. “I like hanging out with you,” he said. “But it’s not going anywhere. And I was happy with that. You’re not.”

  “But I am happy,” I heard myself say. “I am. And if you’ve been happy, too, then maybe we’re not as far apart on this as you think—”

  He interrupted. “The fact that we’re having this conversation at all means we’re far apart,” he said. I stood there dumbly. Then he said, “I don’t want to do this.” And he lay back down on the bed.

  “Max,” I said. “We can work this out. Talk to me.”

  “.”

  “Don’t act like this, come on.”

  “.”

  “This is how you want it to end?”

  “.”

  “Fine, Have it your way.”

  I threw the bag down on the floor and was out the door so fast I didn’t even have time to cry.

  The first tear hit the pavement outside. Like rain, but smaller. Then a flood. He never even saw how destroyed I am, I thought. I couldn’t decide if this was good or bad.

  CHAPTER

  12

  For the next several weeks I lurked around the neighborhood looking for him. In coffee shops. At parties. The grocery store, even though he rarely cooked. The bookstore, even though he didn’t like to read. I got dressed up to go to the gas station. I felt self-conscious leaving the house if I had a pimple, or if my hair didn’t seem right. On a good hair, blemish-free day, I’d manufacture reasons to go out. Maybe we’d bump into each other. He’d say he was sorry. He’d have answers.

  I never ran into him.

  I thought I saw him everywhere, though. I’d see his expression on an actor’s face on TV. His haircut walking away from me on the street. His back at the prescription counter at the drugstore. I’d do a double take—usually it was someone who didn’t even remotely resemble him. Those were the absolute worst. The ones that made me feel like the biggest fool.

  My friends were getting sick of me.

  “Do you think I broke up with him, or did he break up with me?” I asked Kiki at least once a day.

  “You broke up with him,” she’d say. “He was just torturing you, so you walked out. It was the right thing to do—you had to get out of that house.”

  “But I didn’t want to break up with him. So then didn’t he, in fact, break up with me?”

  “No,” she’d say. “Because even though you didn’t say it exactly, his terms were not acceptable to you, and you made that clear. And you did want to break up with him, you just don’t know it yet.”

  Then I’d ask her, “Do you think he’s cooler than me?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she’d say.

  “But he knows all those cool musicians … He owns a clothing company … Entertains Japanese hipsters …”

  She’d tell me that in the end it wasn’t about who was cooler. That deep down nobody ever felt like they were cooler than anybody else anyway, and I was just feeling insecure. Then she’d reassure me, again, that I wouldn’t regret leaving the way I did. I tried to make myself believe her.

  But as the holidays loomed, I started to miss Max more and more. I tried calling Ashton a couple of times, but he didn’t call back. There was nothing much to do but sit around my apartment and brood, envisioning other scenarios, with different outcomes. In one alternate universe, just after I walked out Max came to his senses, grabbed the bitter bag of presents, raced out of the house, and shouted, “Ben! Wait!” He put the bag down on the pavement, stood before me, and said, “I can’t lose you, B,” and kissed me. It was a kiss that said everything he couldn’t, and I forgave him instantly. In another, I walked into his room without the bag, acted like everything was fine, and, after a brief moment where everyone knew everything and all was understood, Max stood up, put a record on the turntable, lit a cigarette, and asked me what kind of food I wanted to order in. I smiled, and the tension between us evaporated like morning fog.

  There were bad scenarios, too. The worst was when I imagined running into Max with another girl. Someone adorable. Someone his age. Maybe that girl Kaitlyn from Collin’s birthday party. What if they ran into each other, and he asked her out, and she was able to date him the right way, and ended up being his girlfriend for real? This thought was so excruciating, I’d have to push it out of my mind with violent force.

  “I want Max back,” I finally declared to Kiki at the Filly Christmas party. We were at the Chateau Marmont, standing off to the side of the hotel’s wide patio, which was peppered with heat lamps. People clustered around them like mosquitoes around those zapper things, because despite the fantasy that it never gets cold in California, tonight’s temperature was hovering just above forty. The olive trees were decorated with little white lights, and you could sneak peaks through their branches and into guest rooms above. For a moment I saw a figure standing at a window, looking down on us, and I wondered who she was, where she was from. Another figure appeared, circling her waist with his arms. She turned toward him, said something, and drew the shades.

  “You don’t want him back,” Kiki said, smacking my hand away from what would have been my tenth caviar beggar’s purse.

  “I do.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I really fucking do.” I grabbed a chicken satay skewer off the platter of a passing waiter and crammed it into my mouth. “Maxth back now.”

  Kiki took an anxious look around the room—it seemed Curtis, who was standing at the other side of the courtyard, was getting his ear talked off. Even from that distance, I could hear Steph telling him
something about how “EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT ANGIE GETS HER TATTOOS DONE AT THE SAME PLACE AS PAMELA BUT THE THING THAT NOBODY KNOWS IS THAT THEY BOTH HAD THE SAME PLASTIC—” Kiki rolled her eyes. “Look, I have to go check and make sure Curtis is okay, okay?” she said. “I’ll be right back and we can talk about Max some more. I promise.”

  You really can’t blame her.

  Meanwhile, on Christmas Eve, just after I asked the Mother if she thought the fact that Max had never called to say happy holidays meant he was devastated to have lost me or, conversely, over me completely, she snapped, “Oh my God Ben, you have to stop.” The Mother was serving mugs of very strong eggnog, and the table was decorated with a bouquet of “glitter-dipped” pinecones Audrey made with instructions courtesy of Martha. The house reeked of pine needles. My allergies were going nuts.

  “She’s right,” Audrey said, handing me a napkin with a somewhat revolted look so I could blow my nose. “It doesn’t matter how he feels; it matters how you feel.”

  I muttered something about feeling like I wanted to know how he felt, and the Mother shot Audrey a look like, See what I have to deal with?

  And lucky me, Jamie was spending Christmas Eve with us. “I have two brothers,” he said, leaning over so Aud could brush some cookie crumbs from the side of his mouth. “Maybe you can marry one of them.”

  At least I was keeping busy. Nina and I hit the day-after-Christmas sales, and I got a lecture that lasted from the Barneys Stila counter all the way to the rooftop deli, where we stopped for brunch.

  “I could have told you that full-life thing wouldn’t work,” Nina said, carefully dissecting her tofu scramble. “If a guy is tracking toward you, you can goad him by playing off his insecurities. But if he’s tracking away, well, it’s best to accept his mental place and just let him go.”

  I took a big bite of my bagel, smiled with my mouth closed, and made a gesture like, Hold that thought; mouth full. Nina took this as permission to continue, saying, “Your neediness probably stems from childhood, when you competed for affection with Audrey and lost.”

  My eyes widened.

  “Oh, don’t be so defensive—I’m not saying it’s your fault. Focus on next steps. You need to get back out there. Saddle …” Nina held up a bagel in one hand; then she held up a knife smeared with cream cheese in the other. “Horse. And remember”—she rested her elbows back on the table—“there’s a fine line between mourning and self-indulgence.”

  And finally, the ultimate humiliation: I spent New Year’s Eve alone. Kiki offered to do something, but I let her (and Curtis) off the hook, insisting that all I really wanted to do was watch movies with predictable story lines—Boy Meets Girl and They Get Together by the Holidays—and cuddle with my cat, if he’d have me.

  I probably would have made it through the Cruelest Evening on Earth with nothing but Meg Ryan to keep me company, too, if only I’d stayed away from the cheap bottle of champagne I’d bought at the liquor store. The first glass went down okay, the second I drank without really thinking about it, but by the third or fourth the pathos started to wash over me in waves. The twinkle lights I’d put around my front door took on a depressing air, while the Christmas presents I still hadn’t put away gave me incriminating glares from the kitchen table. Empty pizza boxes stacked by the door screamed at me, Can’t you see how pathetic you are?

  For reprieve, I turned on the news. They were showing a report about a huge snowstorm in Cleveland. B-roll showed people shoveling snow outside cute little brick houses, trucks sliding down the street. So that’s where Max is from, I thought. I pictured him in a heavy parka, drinking cocoa and making snowballs, throwing them at some girl he met at a Christmas party who would probably kiss him when the ball dropped in Times Square. Suddenly I realized I was never going to meet Max’s mother. Or his father. I used to fantasize about the day he’d bring me home to meet them. It was never going to happen.

  I don’t want to say I ended up lying facedown in my bathrobe, bawling into the floorboards and moaning, “Why, Max, why?” But I don’t want to say that didn’t happen either.

  They manipulated me. Kiki. Nina. My mom. My sister. They manipulated me by acting like I had to get on with my life. But if they had asked me, I didn’t think I had to get on with my life. I had to get my life back. I had to get Max back.

  Of course, it wasn’t Finlay’s fault. I mean, he didn’t even know me. But it was so irritating. All evening he’d been opening doors. Summoning waiters. Filling glasses. Asking thoughtful questions. And I drank, smoked, scowled, and generally ignored him. Talk about not getting the hint.

  Finlay was best friends with Curtis. Kiki called me one day in the middle of my Max depression, ecstatic about how Curtis’s friend, who produced MTV’s Rock the Vote, Spring Break, and other painfully enthusiastic special-event programming, was moving here from New York. I could tell from her cloying tone that a setup was imminent. At the time I was playing Grand Theft Auto on my PlayStation 2, so the words came through as though she were on a staticky cell phone: “Great job … Black hair … Glasses! … You have to … The thing is …”

  “Just give him my number,” I said, and made excuses about needing to go to bed.

  So now there I was. On a date with a total stranger. And I was supremely annoyed.

  “Do you come to this restaurant often then?” Finlay asked.

  It sounded like, D’yew come to this rest-ront off-ten then? His accent seemed vaguely hostile to my ears. Maybe it’s because he’d gone to Cambridge, a late-breaking factoid that gave Kiki vicarious orgasms.

  “Never,” I said.

  I took a look around. It was a grown-up place. Tablecloths. Wineglasses. A wood-fired oven that made gourmet pizzas, just like in Rome. Crusty bread, just like in Tuscany. Apparently Robert De Niro was a silent partner. Max and I didn’t go to places like this. We liked to order in.

  “I think it’s quite nice, really.” Finlay swirled his olive ciabatta around in a light green dish of oil. Suddenly, it dawned on me that with his glasses, floppy hair, and red scarf, he looked like Harry Potter.

  But I figured I should at least make some small talk. That way I could tell Kiki I tried, he sucked, and that would be that.

  “So, Finn,” I asked, taking a big gulp of wine. “Where you from?”

  “Oh.” He stopped fidgeting with the bread and leaned forward like he was surprised I’d actually spoken to him without being asked a direct question. “I’m from Liverpool. Dad owns a small business. Mum keeps the house nice. Two sisters, which I guess makes me the sensitive sort. Never freak out about the tampons, heh, heh—”

  I looked at him blankly.

  He cleared his throat. “Have you been?”

  “Where?”

  “To Liverpool.”

  Just then Max walked into the restaurant. Oh my God. My heart flew up into my mouth, and for a second I panicked—what should I say, what should I do? But when he stopped to say something to the hostess, I realized it wasn’t actually him. It was some other guy. Finlay was still waiting for me to elaborate. So I said, “Oh, yeah. I saw that clock. You know, whatsitcalled.”

  “Big Ben?”

  Wait—was it definitely not him? I snuck another peek. No, not. But it looked like him—a lot like him. “Yeah, Big Ben.”

  “In Liverpool?”

  “Right.”

  Max had better style, I observed. This guy was cute, too, though.

  “You are aware that you weren’t in Liverpool, then, you were in London?”

  Hello, I thought. I think I’m making an ass of myself.

  “What?”

  “Big Ben. It’s in London. I’m from Liverpool, which, as anyone who was listening to our conversation could tell you, is where the Beatles are from. Of course, that’s all any American knows about the place where I grew up. But it’s more than I can say for you.”

  I was shocked. Was this any way to talk to someone you hardly knew? I wasn’t sure what I should do. Leave the table? Throw a g
lass of water in his face? Say something cutting? If so, then what?

  “Ah,” he said, “seems I’ve finally got your attention.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t really been on a date in …”

  “Quite a while. Yes, I can see that. And you’re so charming, too. Not to worry.” Finlay reached over and refilled my glass to the brim, then his own. “I love nothing more than a woman who drinks heavily on a first date, as you’ve been doing all evening, so let’s both have a bit more of this lovely Pinot Grigio and you can keep me entertained with your interesting take on European geography.”

  My face was burning. I think I was actually blushing. I said, “Are you serious?”

  “No,” he said with a little smile. “But I think you’re very beautiful. So I’m willing to put up with this inexcusable behavior for at least a few hours longer, if not for, let’s say six, no, eight, weeks. After that I can’t make any guarantees.”

  What an asshole.

  Kiki called the next day to grill me for details and pronounced Finlay—despite my protestations that he was dull and not even remotely my type—“Marriage Material.”

  “Are you going out with him again?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know.”

  “You will.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you have nothing better to do.”

  She had a point.

  Next, Kiki wanted to know what I would contribute to filly’s “Sex vs. Love” issue. I didn’t have the faintest idea. Last night’s date had ended better than it began (I’d felt guilty so I’d let Finn kiss me when he walked me to my door), but it wasn’t sex and it definitely wasn’t love. Kiki said that was okay, because whatever I wrote, it didn’t have to be “up.” It could be “true.” But “funny true.” Not “down true” or “icky true.”

  “If you’re suggesting I write about He Who Cannot Be Named, I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I said. “I’ve lost my sense of humor when it comes to him.”

  “Write about the breakup, then,” she said. “An honest, heart-wrenching account. Ohhh, brainstorm: Write about the age difference!”