As I put down the knife to go to the front door, I see Steve and Mom exchange strained glances.
The party keeps me and Caroline busy and flitting around separately for the rest of the night. Guests trickle in around six, an array of Steve’s relatives and friends who all sport matching pleated khakis, beer bellies, and receding hairlines. They ask over and over for me to explain my new job, and I can’t help but relish the attention. Caroline looks less thrilled; Steve’s elderly aunt Joan has her cornered on the loveseat in the living room and is grilling her about all the cute boys she must be meeting in the big city. I feel guilty about what happened earlier in the kitchen, and I swoop in to divert the conversation.
“Aunt Joan, did Caroline tell you about the TV pilot she’s writing? It’s really impressive. You’d love it.”
Caroline mouths Thank you while Aunt Joan skewers a pig in a blanket with a toothpick.
“Well, it’s only in the early stages right now, but it’s a supernatural romance series, kind of like if The Vampire Diaries met The Bachelor. Magical creatures competing to find love, that sort of thing.”
Aunt Joan chews slowly and nods. One of her penciled-in eyebrows is smudged down toward her left eyelid. She feigns interest for a minute until she totters off to the bathroom. I sink into Aunt Joan’s vacant spot on the loveseat and rest my head on Caroline’s shoulder.
“I’m really sorry about the apartment. I didn’t mean to upset you,” I tell her softly.
“No, it’s my fault. I overreacted. If you want to move in together, that’s fine. It’s just . . .”
“Just what?”
Caroline looks down and fidgets with the hem of her skirt, unable to look me in the eye. “I’m going to miss you. It’s just not fair that you have Jonathan, and now you have Bliss, and soon you’re going to have this cozy apartment. It’s like you’re living this real, adult life, and I’m all alone with a stupid retail job.” She uses the corner of one fingernail to very carefully wipe away a tear, so as not to smudge her winged eyeliner. “I didn’t think life after college would be like this.”
I feel awful. I had never pictured the situation from Caroline’s point of view. After all, she’s always been the one with the fancy summer house and a mom who wears real pearls and hair that dries straight right out of the shower. And now, Caroline’s jealous of . . . me? Me! It’s both very flattering and very sad. Our friendship has always relied on ignoring certain unshakable facts that shape our lives: money, family, looks. She has advantages in all three in ways that I just . . . don’t. It’s easier for both of us when we gloss over those points.
I hug her and kiss her temple and tell her that good things are going to come: a screenwriting job, an agent who likes her pilot, a great guy. But the moment she softens into the hug, an alarm on my phone goes off.
“Oh, shit. Mindy’s date is in ten minutes. I promised I’d call her. I’m so sorry, one sec.”
Caroline slumps back onto the couch. Guiltily, I imagine that’s exactly what I look like whenever Jonathan takes a work call in the middle of a date. I vow to be a little more understanding of the demands of his job. I take the stairs two at a time and head toward my old bedroom.
Bliss calls this date-sitting. I’m technically on call before and during each date, in case the two people can’t find each other, need a pep talk, directions, last-minute wardrobe advice, or anything else. The day I met Georgie, she’d suggested I avoid scheduling dates late on Friday and Saturday nights in case I might be wasted and forget to pick up a call. The phone doesn’t always ring, she said, but if it does, you need to be coherent enough to answer it.
I push open my bedroom door and dial Mindy’s number for a pre-date pep talk. The room is small and decorated in childish pastels, with waist-high piles of books lining one wall and a row of Russian nesting dolls on top of the dresser—a birthday gift from my grandparents, whom I’ve met just twice. Mindy picks up on the first ring.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Everything’s great. I have the box of chocolates for him. I got here a minute ago and sat at the bar stool closest to the door, but then it occurred to me that he might meet me outside the bar? So I went outside again. But now I’m wondering if it’s better to wait inside. But what if he doesn’t see me? Oh god.”
I can hear the click of her heels against concrete. She must be pacing. Penelope says to never give out a client’s or a match’s phone number before a date, in case they don’t want to see each other again. It would be a breach of privacy. But it also leads to problems like these. Imagine finding anyone in public without a phone—it’s like the ’90s all over again. Or what I assume the ’90s must have been like, anyway.
“Mindy, take a breath.” I’m gearing up for a pep talk, but I don’t know where I’m headed with this. I wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like a fraud at this job. “First of all, I’m really proud of you for going on this date. Thank you for putting your trust in me to find a great guy for you. I think you’re going to love him. And he’s going to die when he sees you—you’re beautiful in that dress.”
“Aw, babe. Thank you.”
I pace, gesturing wildly with my free hand, trying to conjure the right words out of thin air. I speak slowly, giving my brain enough time to catch up with my mouth. “Just remember, you’re smart and charming and outgoing and have nothing to worry about tonight. Just be yourself.”
“Right. Be myself. Be myself. Be myself. Ha! God, I don’t know why I’m nervous. It’s only the most expensive date of my life.” She gives a short, harsh laugh.
A $300 match puts a lot of pressure on her, sure, but it puts even more pressure on me. And on Adam, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Please, whatever higher power might be listening, please let them be obsessed with each other.
“Why don’t you go get comfortable at the bar? I’ll text him and let him know you’re inside.”
“All right. Oh, I’m really excited. Thank you, Sasha.”
“Bye, Mindy. Knock him dead.”
I hang up and flop onto my bed in relief. The date is in five minutes.
“Hey! M. is sitting at the bar inside,” I text. “She’s the brunette in the red dress with the box of chocolates. Have a great time!”
“Running five minutes late,” he writes back.
Ugh. I relay the info to Mindy. I’m nervous; I want the date to feel promising. Mindy deserves that much. And considering that Adam gives even me—very committed, very taken me—the fluttery feeling of a crush whenever I see his name light up on my phone screen, I can only imagine how she’ll fall for him. It’ll be perfect. It has to be.
“Headed into the bar now,” Adam texts eventually. “I guess it’s never too late for a first blind date.”
I head downstairs and pour myself a strong vodka soda. Caroline is chatting with Mom. She shoots me a small smile when she sees me coming. The conversation about our living situation isn’t over, but it’s tabled for now. I join their circle. I don’t intend to talk about my work call, because it suddenly feels gauche to flaunt my job in front of her, but Steve’s best friend, Ron, appears by my side and grabs my arm.
“Now, what’s this I hear about you setting people up? You gotta get me a hot date.” His thick mustache bristles against his upper lip as he talks.
I don’t have the heart to tell Ron that he probably couldn’t afford Bliss, nor do I know too many women who are dying to be set up with a twice-divorced middle-aged plumber who could use a nose hair trimmer. So I give him a one-sentence summary and make a vague promise to “email him more information.” I can feel Caroline slouch and start looking around the room for a better conversation—one she hasn’t already heard a dozen times tonight—but I’m her best bet.
After the party, on the train back to the city, we’re mostly quiet. It’s not a comfortable silence. The list of topics we can’t talk about has grown too long: Bliss, Jonathan, Caroline’s string of terrible dates, the apartment, money.
“Mary-Kat
e’s wedding is coming up,” I say finally.
“Yeah, I know,” she says, hardly turning her head from its resting spot against the window.
“I think one of Toby’s friends works in TV. I’ll try to talk you up to him.” It’s the least I can do.
She sighs heavily. “Thanks, you’re the best.”
I can’t tell if she means it anymore.
— Chapter 9 —
“Hi, I’d like an everything bagel, toasted, light on the scallion cream cheese, please, and a large iced coffee, skim, no sugar,” I spit out to the cashier at David’s Bagels.
After reciting this every morning for the past year of living across the street on First Avenue, I have this line down pat. The cashier, a tiny Asian girl with a ponytail threaded through the back of her navy blue David’s Bagels baseball cap, already has my coffee waiting.
The bagel shop is an unpretentious mom-and-pop shop with cool, dim lighting and smudged windows. The customers are mostly neighborhood people who have been coming here for years to read the paper in faded T-shirts and sweats and chew silently by themselves. Sometimes, doctors and nurses clad in light blue scrubs ferry trays of coffee cups back to the hospital next door. When I was in college, I’d come here on the weekends to work when I was too lazy to walk twenty minutes back to the library on campus, and it’s been my home away from home ever since. It feels like an extension of my apartment, which is why I feel perfectly all right strolling in here with messy hair that could use a wash and no bra whatsoever underneath a Columbia sweatshirt I stole from Jonathan.
My usual table by the window is open. I sit down, unroll my bagel from its paper wrapper, and lick up the extra ooze of cream cheese just in time. At 10 a.m., the time we agreed upon yesterday, Mindy calls in.
“Hiiiii, hon,” she singsongs.
“How did it go? I’m dying to hear.”
“Girl, you are a genius.”
I tilt the bottom of my iPhone away from my face and squish my palm to my mouth to muffle a squeal.
I want to say “Really?” Instead, I manage the marginally more professional “Tell me everything.”
“Well, don’t get your hopes up just yet. Long-term, I don’t think we’re right for each other.”
“Oh. Huh.” I take a bite of my bagel, disappointed, and listen.
“But wait, let me fill you in. So, he walked into the bar—great place, by the way. I’ve been meaning to go but never have. And he was a little, like . . . schlubby? Like, his shirt was untucked and he was a little sweaty. He said he almost forgot the rose, which is why he was running late, and why he was sweating, from all the running. I mean, annoying, but whatever. You’re right, he’s really cute.”
“He’s definitely cute,” I agree.
“There wasn’t initially a spark, but we ended up having a good time! I mean, maybe it was all the cocktails. We got three at the bar, then went around the corner to this sushi place I knew for some sashimi, and then he suggested a nightcap. So I guess we drank too much. But he’s totally sweet. A little immature for me—like, I told him that I had hired a decorator to help me choose upholstery for my new couch, and he said he’s had the same couch since college.”
I can tell she means this as a bad thing. “Oy,” I commiserate, even though I have no plans to get rid of my own college couch anytime soon. I don’t tell her this.
“I mean, how old is he?”
I hesitate. If I lied, she would never know the difference. But I can’t do that in good conscience. “Thirty-three.”
“Oh. I mean, two years younger is fine in some cases. But here, it showed. Anyway, I hate to kiss and tell, but . . .”
I can tell she wants me to drag it out of her. This feels exactly like the post-hookup recaps I have with Caroline, except Mindy is more than a decade older and has this manic bubbly quality to her voice.
“But?”
“We made out. I mean, actually, we hooked up a little bit. But no sex! Definitely no sex.” She giggles. “He was such a gentleman, though. After he helped me wave down a cab, and before I got in, he kissed me. The cabbie was honking at me to get in, but he didn’t care and just held me and kissed me.”
“Mindy, that’s adorable. I’m melting.”
Actually, I’m cringing. Why does this feel like hearing about my parents hooking up? It’s gross.
“I know. Thanks so much for introducing us.”
“So, what’s the problem? He has bad taste in furniture?” I feel like there’s a lot about adulthood that I don’t quite get yet.
“No, it’s not that. I just get the sense that he has a lot of growing up to do, and I don’t have the time or the energy to wait around while he does it. Been there, done that. He says he wants to get married and have kids, but I think he just feels like he’s missing out because all of his friends are doing it.”
“So no second date?”
She sighs. “No. I just want to focus on the people who will be in my life long-term right now.”
I’m bummed it won’t work. I suddenly realize what a fluke matchmaking is. I can do all this research to set up the perfect couple—and Mindy and Adam really were perfect, Penelope said so herself—but the only way to know if they’ll really work out is to have them meet in person. This job isn’t easy. Chemistry can’t be controlled.
“All right, then. On to the next one. I’m working to find your second match. I met the worst guy for you the other day, some i-banker douchebag named Mark, so I’m back to square one.”
“Ugh. Well, I trust you. But this is all confidential, right? I don’t want to hurt Adam’s feelings.”
“I won’t tell him what you said.” What I would say, exactly, was totally lost on me, but I could worry about that later.
“Good. Thank you. Hon, I have to run, but I had so much fun last night. You’re brilliant. I know you’ll find me the right guy soon. Kisses, dollface.”
She makes a kissing noise into the phone and clicks off the call. I try to imagine what I could possibly tell Adam without betraying Mindy’s confidence or hurting his feelings. She’s going out of town for the next month? She’s seeing someone else? She’s fresh off a bad breakup and not ready to get seriously involved with anyone yet? None of these sound very believable.
While I finish the rest of my bagel, I swipe through a few different apps and send more messages on Mindy’s behalf, then demolish my overflowing Bliss inbox. There’s no nine-to-five in the matchmaking industry, I’m discovering. Working from home apparently means working all the time—whenever clients need a match or a pep talk or a post-date phone call. My emails right now are mostly automated messages from the database, which are sent whenever any matchmaker adds a note to a client’s profile. I try to read them all to stay up to speed. Among this morning’s crop: Georgie has dibs on Tyler B. for her client Amara after his next date with Katrina; Elizabeth needs a match ASAP for her client Connie, the one who only dates evangelical Christian Republicans (in Manhattan, of all places!); Allison wants to know if anyone has heard if Frank is still dating Eve, that cute yoga instructor in Bushwick? I’m still trying to untangle who’s who. The names and faces all swim together. I had an inexplicable hunch that Frank was still dating Eve. Hadn’t someone mentioned it during a meeting? But, ah, no. Five minutes later, Penelope emails to explain that Frank had never dated Eve, but he’d dated Eva, the nutritionist who worked on the Upper West Side. I’m still learning.
After breakfast, I walk ten minutes to the Strand, the famed bookstore near Union Square. It’s a stately cream building on the corner, the kind that could be mistaken for City Hall. The red-and-white awning that runs the perimeter of the second floor advertises 18 MILES OF BOOKS. I asked one of the employees about that once, and he told me that if you counted every foot of bookshelf in the entire place, it would equal eighteen miles. I still can’t fathom that.
I flock first to the table of new fiction. The covers are all smooth and bright, and I run my hand over them. I read the jacket copy on the prett
iest ones. I can’t really afford to drop twenty-five dollars on a book—they’re a third of the price on the Kindle app, even though choosing to support a giant website over my own local, charming bookstore makes me feel guilty. But I get lost in browsing that table, then the next one, then the back alleys with older fiction and the upstairs table of coffee table books. I wonder, like I always wonder, what it would be like to write a book and see my name on shelves here. I’ve made false starts at a novel before, but the prospect of committing to write a real book has always scared me off writing more than a few amateurish pages.
It’s midday and there aren’t too many tourists. For an hour, I don’t worry about checking JDate or OkCupid notifications or fret about someone else’s date—I just wander through the stacks. When I finally do check my phone, I have an unread text from Jonathan.
“What are you up to tonight?”
“Nothing in particular, why?” I reply.
I don’t expect him to respond right away, but he does. “Let me take you out to dinner. Someplace special. I should be able to get out of work early. Wear something nice. I’ll pick you up at your place.”
I can’t help but grin as I lean against the stacks and type out a yes. When he first got his job at the bank, I was hurt by how little I saw him. I went so far as to Google “how to date an investment banker,” which led me to a hilarious online forum from 2007 where the wives of the men who were busy tanking the economy commiserated over how little they saw their husbands now that they were locked up. As strange as it seemed, I sympathized with these women—the ones who just wanted their husbands home from work before midnight on a Tuesday, the ones who wanted to know without a doubt that they could make weekend plans and not have them canceled at the last minute, the ones who felt invisible whenever their husbands immersed themselves in their BlackBerries, which was always.
I know Jonathan’s hard work is paying off; he earned the highest possible bonus after his first year on the job (it was $35K—slightly more than I can expect to make for the whole year at Bliss). And I want to be supportive of his career, especially if we’re in this together for the long haul. But I wish he could be more like himself, or at least more like he was when we met. He used to spend weekends immersed in giant history books about the Reformation of the Church of England or military strategy in Vietnam, popping his head up from behind the huge covers to read his favorite tidbits aloud. Now he only reads me lines of infuriating work emails. And I’ll admit it: sometimes, his long hours leave me lonely. Days like these, days when he sweeps me off my feet with a surprise, make the disappointment of playing second fiddle to his career worth it.
Playing with Matches Page 9