How to Be Single

by Liz Tuccillo

  Alice and I just looked at her, confused. “Were you not going to tell us about him?” I asked, amused.

  Fiona just shrugged, laughing. “Don’t you hate those women who think they know everything just because they managed to meet a nice guy? I’d rather die than have you think I was her!”

  I looked at Fiona, impressed. She had the ultimate weapon in her arsenal, and she didn’t use it. She purposely chose not to play the “well, look how well it worked for me” card. She wanted to make sure I didn’t feel that my point of view was any less valid than hers just because she had a boyfriend and I didn’t. This truly made her a goddess, and taught me another important rule: When you finally do fall in love, don’t you dare be smug about it.

  In our taxi back to the Hobart airport, I couldn’t stop thinking about Fiona. It would be dishonest if I didn’t admit that she had been right, in a sense. She shone her light so brightly that a man did actually appear out of the woodwork of Hobart for her. Did that mean I believed that that would happen to everyone who behaved like her? No. Did I suddenly think everyone is guaranteed love in this life? No. Did it make me think that you should ignore the statistics and just make sure you’re absolutely adorable? No.

  But here’s what I did learn from Fiona and Australia about statistics and being single: One hundred percent of all human beings need hope to get by. And if any statistic takes that away from you, then it’s not worth knowing.

  And take trips as often as possible to places where you know there will be lots of men.

  Hey, there’s nothing wrong with trying to help your odds.

  It was time for Alice to get back to New York. In our hotel room in Sydney, as I watched Alice pack, I became filled with homesickness. I missed my bed, my friends, my city. Also, Sydney had rattled me. The farther I got from Fiona and her glow, the less hopeful and optimistic I became. I made a decision.

  “I’m going home. I’m going to go home and back to my job and work off my advance and be done with this. I can’t do this anymore.”

  Alice sat on the bed, deciding what she should say.

  “I’m sorry you’re feeling this way. But I think this has been good for you. You’ve always been so responsible, you’ve always had a desk job. It’s good for you to not know what’s going to happen next.”

  To me, it was excruciating. I felt unbearably lonely.

  “I feel just so…frightened.”

  Alice nodded. “Me, too. But I don’t think it’s time for you to go home. I just don’t.”

  As I walked Alice to her cab, she asked, “Why don’t you go to India? Everyone seems to have some kind of spiritual awakening there.”

  “Serena said the same thing. I’ll think about it.”

  As the cab pulled away, Alice called out, “Keep going, Julie! You’re not done yet!”

  I watched her drive away, and was again filled with an unbearable loneliness. Why was I putting myself through this? And why hadn’t Thomas ever called me? Now this wasn’t a new thought; I had thought it every day since Italy, because as I might have mentioned before, I am a pathetic creature and when we women have a connection with someone, geez, it’s hard to let it go. The good news is, I never called him. Thank God. Thank God. Because here’s a rule I’ve learned about how to be single, a rule I learned the hard way and didn’t have to travel around the world to find: Don’t call him, don’t call him, don’t call him. And then, just when you think you have the perfect excuse to call him, don’t call him. Right now, I was seriously considering calling him.

  Just then, the phone rang. I answered it and a man with a French accent was speaking to me.

  “Is this Julie?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is,” I said, not believing what I thought I was hearing.

  “It is Thomas.” My heart immediately began racing.

  “Oh. Wow. Thomas. Wow. How are you?”

  “I am well. Where are you? Singapore? Timbuktu?”

  “I’m in Sydney.”

  “Australia? That’s perfect. Bali is very close.”

  “Bali?” I repeated, shifting my weight from one foot to the other nervously.

  “Yes. I have some business I need to do there. Why don’t you meet me?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “I don’t know about that…”

  Then Thomas’s voice became much more serious. “Julie. I made a promise to myself. If I could go three days without thinking about you, without wanting to pick up the phone to ask when I could see you again, then I would never call you. I wasn’t able to go one day.”

  It was a shocking thing to hear someone say. Especially in Sydney, where my self-esteem had taken a beating, where my light was on its last watt.

  “Julie. Please don’t make me beg. Meet me in Bali.”

  I looked around Sydney Harbor and thought about statistics. What were the odds that a handsome French man would want to see me in Bali? What were the odds that it would ever happen again? And what about the wife?

  So I asked, “But what about your wife?”

  “She knows I’m going to Bali, but the rest, she doesn’t ask.”

  I said yes. Because on the rare occasion that the odds happen to be in your favor, how can you say no?

  RULE 7

  Admit That Sometimes You Feel Desperate (I Won’t Tell a Soul)

  When Alice arrived back in New York, she was a changed woman. Sydney had done something to her. She was scared. Although she was impressed with Fiona, it didn’t stay with her long. As she thought back on the past six months of dating and Australia and the man who didn’t want to dance with her, she had to admit to herself: it’s hell out there. She had made the best of it, she had given it her Alice-who-can-do-anything all, but the thought of ever having to date again was too much for her to bear. She was so relieved to be with Jim that it almost bordered on delirium. Was she in love with him? No. Was this the man of her dreams? Absolutely not. But she appreciated him to the point that it was almost like being in love, almost like he was the man of her dreams.

  And so Alice, redheaded, Staten Island superhero Alice, was ready to settle. Never in court, not a chance, but now, in her life. She saw a flash of a vision of her future without Jim and it truly scared her.

  She was walking down Prince Street, thinking all these things, as she headed to meet Jim for the first time since she had gotten home from Sydney. She turned the corner and there he was, in the window of a nice little dive bar, the only one still left in Soho. He was on time, of course. He saw Alice through the window and smiled and waved. She smiled and waved back, picking up her pace so that by the time she was inside she was at a gallop. She threw her arms around him and kissed him hard on the lips. He laughed, surprised, and wrapped his arms around her.

  When they finally broke apart, Alice looked at him with utmost seriousness. “Let’s get married,” she whispered. Jim pulled away, putting his hands on her hips and looking directly in her eyes.

  “Are you serious?” His voice was slightly breathy from shock and excitement.

  “Absolutely,” Alice said, smiling and laughing. She hugged Jim as if she would never let go. Jim picked her up, right there in the bar, and twirled her around as she laughed and buried her head in his neck.

  So what if it wasn’t exactly how she imagined it would be? Sure, there was no knee and ring and proposal, and she was the one who had asked. But he did scoop her up in his arms and let her know that he felt like the luckiest guy on earth.

  As she laughed and twirled she thought to herself, I really do love Jim. I do.

  On the Way to Bali

  I was on the plane from Tokyo to Denpasar, Bali, when it happened. I had been in a nice, sound Lexomil sleep when I suddenly woke up. I was seated on the aisle. The shade on the window on my row had not been closed, so I was able to look out at the utter blackness. Something about all that blackness, that abyss right when I woke up, started my heart beating. Fast. I started breathing heavy, my chest suddenly heaving up and down. I was gasping for air as thou
gh I was being strangled. My neighbor, a pudgy Asian man in his twenties, was asleep, his little blue blanket tucked around his chin, his head resting against the black window. The poor thing had no idea there was a crazy lady next to him. I looked around. Everyone was pretty much asleep. I assumed it would really freak them out to wake up to the sound of an American woman screaming at the top of her lungs. I leaned over, propping my elbows on my thighs, and held my head in my hands and tried to breathe. But it felt like there was blackness all around, about to swallow me up whole. Tears formed in my eyes and I desperately tried to hold them back.

  Of course, I didn’t want to cry because I didn’t want to disturb my fellow passengers, alarm the flight attendants, embarrass myself, or otherwise cause a scene. But there was a much more pressing and vainer reason why I didn’t want to start tearing up. When I cry, even if it’s one drop, my eyes puff up like two Jiffy Pop containers and the circles under my eyes become instantaneously jet-black and loop down practically to my chin. My main concern was that I was meeting Thomas at the airport in Denpasar, and I wanted to look pretty. There, I said it.

  I wondered if there was a way to cry without making a sound or producing tears. I tried it for a few seconds, contorting my face in this crazy silent sob while blinking rapidly so as not to let any water well up. I can’t even imagine what I looked like. Of course since I was in the middle of a panic attack and had no control over myself, this didn’t work. I started to cry. I was crying because I was having a panic attack, and I was also crying because I knew I was going to look hideous now. We only had thirty minutes left on the flight and were going to have to belt ourselves in soon for the descent. I decided to go to the bathroom, where at least I could go crazy in private. I managed to gain control of myself enough to walk down the aisle, past all the men, women, teenagers, children, and babies, sleeping. I walked as fast as I could to the bathroom and went in. I sat on the toilet and released an immediate sob and then kept going. I tried to do this as quietly as I could; I had enough self-protection remaining that I didn’t want an international incident. I started rocking back and forth on the toilet seat, my arms wrapped around myself like a disturbed little child. I grabbed at my hair. I crumpled farther in to myself. At some point I looked in the mirror and saw my hundred-year-old turtle face. I cried even harder. I felt lost, suspended in the air, in darkness. I didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing—with Thomas, with love, with my life. I felt catastrophe was imminent.

  I splashed some cold water on my face. It never helps. Ever. Why do people tell you to do that? They announced that we had to get into our seats for landing, so I stood at the sink and willed myself to calm down. I closed my eyes and focused on slowly getting my breathing back to normal. I started to relax. In a minute I was completely fine, as if nothing had happened. I walked to my seat and sat down quietly in my chair. I looked over at the cozily sleeping neighbor and felt victorious. Yes, I had an attack, but this time, no one noticed. I was able to contain it to the bathroom. I knew I looked like hell, and no amount of makeup was going to change that. But for now, this was good enough.

  In situations like this, when you’re seeing someone you haven’t seen in a while, and the stakes are maybe a little high, and there’s a nervousness and a feeling of not knowing what to expect, I think the first second you lay eyes on them is everything. That’s the moment when you realize exactly how you feel about that person, and how your time together is going to go. I was now at baggage claim. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was midnight. There were a lot of tired tourists waiting for their bags, and a lot of drivers milling about, hoping to catch a fare.

  Then I saw him.

  He was standing a little bit away from everyone else. He was wearing a brown t-shirt and jeans, and he was waving at me, his blue eyes sparkling. He was smiling, but not too broadly, just enough for me to know that he was delighted to see me. In a flash I was running up to him and hugging him. He wrapped his arms around me and held me, kissing my head. There we were, holding each other, kissing and smiling. We must have looked like the greatest of lovers.

  He took my face in his hands and looked at me. “Now, tell me. How was your flight?”

  I looked him straight in the eyes and I lied. “It was great. I didn’t have any problems.”

  He examined my face and said, “Really? You look like you’ve been crying.” I broke away from him and just sort of looked down at my feet. I lied again, saying, “No. It was fine, really. I’m just tired.”

  Thomas looked at me closely and smiled. “Okay, I’ll pretend I believe you. Now let’s get out of here!”

  We got to our hotel at around two in the morning. A porter took us down a little stone pathway. When he opened the door to our accommodations, I couldn’t help but gasp.

  Thomas had reserved a huge villa for us, twice the size of my apartment. The walls were all glowing in light brown wood and the bamboo ceiling above seemed to go on forever, coming to a point high above our heads. There were marble floors and a king-size bed, which faced a private balcony. One side of the villa was all windows, looking out over endless rice paddies. Even at night, the view was stupendous.

  “This is…this is so beautiful. I can’t believe it!” I stammered. No one had ever taken me somewhere so beautiful. No one could ever afford to take me somewhere so beautiful. I turned to Thomas and just stared at him in wonder. He took me in his arms and kissed me.

  Now how do I describe what happened next? Okay, let’s just say that sometimes in life, after years of just coasting along, trying to make the best of a bad situation, keeping your chin up, sometimes the heavens give you a reward, a tiny little prize for all your hard work. Life gives you a brief taste of how simply glorious it all can be. You don’t know how long it’s going to last and you don’t really care, because you know at that moment you have stumbled upon a little pond of bliss and you’re not going to take a minute worrying about when you have to get out of the water.

  What I mean to say is that for the next eight days, we didn’t leave the hotel. We barely left the room, but if we did, it was only to have a meal. I can’t even remember the last time that happened to me. The truth is, I don’t have boyfriends that often. I have dates, I have flings, I have “situations.” But I don’t have men, one after the other, whom I cart around as my boyfriend, and then break up with for some reason or another and say later to my friends “What was I thinking?” Unfortunately, I always know what I’m thinking, and they do, too. So no one is really able to kid themselves for too long, and things pretty much end quickly and relatively painlessly. Anyway, all this is my way of saying that it had been a long time since I had spent a lot of time, day in and day out, with one man. It had been a long time since there was anyone with whom I wanted to spend a lot of time and who wanted to spend a lot of time with me. Someone I wanted to wake up with, have sex with, talk with, eat with, have more sex with, etc. It was sad that it felt so unusual. It made me realize how, when you’re single, you really do get used to a lack of that kind of intimacy in your life. Anyway, what I am trying to say is that the week was unbroken happiness for me.

  During that time, Thomas made nine phone calls, six about business, and three to his wife. He would always leave the room when he was talking to her, so I didn’t know if she asked him when he was coming home or how he might have answered her. While he spoke with her, I would sit on the bed feeling a bit ashamed and deeply uncomfortable. I couldn’t help wondering what kind of marriage they had. He was in every way a supremely intelligent man, one who did not suffer bullshit and valued honesty. But when it came to his marriage, was it real? If your spouse can go off with someone else on a whim, how can you think you really have a marriage? Or was I just minimizing his marriage in order not to feel like a dirty slut?

  Eventually, I couldn’t help myself—I asked him if his wife was wondering when he was coming home. He told me that they had an agreement—they could disappear for two weeks in a row, but no longer, no questi
ons asked. Then, it was time to come home.

  It was an interesting little arrangement, and now at least I knew when our time was up. I no longer had to wonder when our little honeymoon was going to be over. Two weeks, then “Selamat tinggal,” as they say in Balinese.

  On one of these days, while Thomas was making his calls, I was on the phone with my mother, just letting her know that I was safe and healthy. As I was getting off the phone with her, I heard my cell phone beep with another call coming in. I took it. The voice on the other end was distinct, superior, cold. It was Candace, my publisher, calling me from New York. A tiny jolt shot through me. I sat up a little straighter.

  “Hello, Julie, this is Candace. I was just checking in to see how the work was going.”

  “Oh. Hi. Hello, Candace. Um. The work is going great. Really. I’m learning so much, it’s amazing.”

  “Well, that’s nice to hear. I was worried that you hadn’t just taken off with some Italian and was spending all our money vacationing in Capistrano,” she said with a perfect Italian accent.

  “No, no, of course not. I’m working very hard. Very hard.” At that moment I looked around and Thomas was in just a towel, heading to the little wading pool just outside our bedroom. I began to perspire a bit.

  “Well, good. I realize the decision was made somewhat impetuously by me, but we did give you a check, and you did sign a contract, so I just want to make clear that we expect you to honor that.”

  “Of course,” I said. Thomas then plunged into the pool, making a huge splashing sound. I put the phone close to my chest to try to muffle the sound. “I am happy to honor that. I’m gathering so much information, it’s going to be an amazing book.”

  I made a few more assurances to her about how hard I was working, how many women I was talking to, and then I got off the phone with her as quickly as I could. I then tried to put the conversation out of my mind just as fast. I mean, I was on vacation, for God’s sake.