Playing with Matches

by Hannah Orenstein

  That explains the panic, the feeling like I’m fumbling along in the darkness, making things up as I go along. So I’m not the only one.

  “I totally get that,” I tell Zoe.

  Georgie looks up from swiping through Tinder and rolls her eyes.

  “Don’t undermine your own authority. We work hard at what we do. We know a thing or two. At least I do.”

  Allison and Zoe exchange strained glances.

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll find your groove eventually,” Allison says, leaning forward and putting a reassuring hand on my knee.

  She’s in the middle of telling me about the client she’s working on when Georgie punches the air triumphantly and leaps up from her seat.

  “Yes! Finally, a real catch.” She trots over to the couch to thrust her phone in the girls’ faces.

  Zoe glances at the screen. “He’s another finance bro. So what?”

  Georgie juts out her hip. “No, he’s not just another finance bro. I have five clients that would eat him right up—he’s tall and cute and just sent me a flirty message.”

  I know that in order to be accepted into their circle, I need to put myself out there.

  “Can I see?”

  Georgie turns back to me and hands over her phone.

  The shock doesn’t sink in immediately. It’s not like jumping into a pool of water and feeling the rush of cold hit my skin all at once—it’s more like easing into a deep, frigid ice bath, where the pain creeps up steadily and doesn’t stop. There on Georgie’s phone is a Tinder profile filled out with Jonathan’s name and photos. I see a photo of him lounging on a pool chair at his parents’ house in the Hamptons (didn’t I take that photo last August?). Below is his name, age, and a short bio that reads: “Columbia, Manhattan, Goldman Sachs. I’m 6'2", if that matters.”

  “Not impressed?” Georgie asks.

  “I, um . . .”

  A hard lump forms in the back of my throat. My chest tightens, like I’m about to hyperventilate or explode. If I open my mouth, I’m going to cry. I can’t break down here at work in front of these girls I hardly know.

  “He’s a liar,” I eke out, handing her back her phone. “He’s only six feet, not six foot two.”

  “What? How do you know that?”

  The other matchmakers are very still. I wipe away a tear that slipped out, roughly shove my laptop back into my purse, and rise from the chair.

  “That’s my . . . He’s my . . .”

  “Boyfriend?” Georgie asks, gaping.

  “I have to go.”

  I fly down the marble staircase and out the door. My sandals make loud slapping noises against the sidewalk as I run halfway down the block. When I turn the corner and am safely out of sight from Bliss, the bubble in my chest pops and I finally burst into tears. I slump against the glass wall of Whole Foods and slide down to the ground. In my head, I see Georgie’s childlike delight, followed by Jonathan’s face on her phone, churning in an endless loop. It just doesn’t make sense. Why would he cheat? Or has he even cheated? He was just on Tinder, right? That doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad has happened yet. Right?

  I work through each possibility, but it all seems so hopeless. If anyone could get away with cheating, it would be him—between the late nights at the office and his constant attachment to his phones, I’d never even notice if he was having an affair. It would just look like par for the course.

  Fuck.

  Dinner at Gramercy Tavern was so easy and lovely. Or maybe it was too lovely, like he felt guilty and had to do something extravagant to make up for it? I think about his hand on my waist. The flash of his white smile. The confident swagger of his walk. I want to throw up. A group of teenaged boys skateboards down the sidewalk. The nearest one gives me a long, pitying look as he skates by.

  “Sasha?” Georgie stands five feet away. She looks uncertain. “I thought I should check on you.”

  “Oh, you didn’t have to.” I hastily stand up, brush the dirt off my palms on my thighs, and wipe the tears from my cheeks. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m so sorry you had to find out like that. I had no idea when I showed you, I promise.”

  I can’t help it, but I start to cry again. My face screws up and I cover my mouth to muffle my sobs. It is humiliating to do this in front of her. She closes the distance between us and squeezes me into a hug, then strokes my hair.

  “Shh, shh.”

  I let her hold me for far longer than is probably dignified. Even though I’m a head taller, she coaxes my head onto her shoulder and rubs my back in small circles.

  “I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “You don’t have to pretend to be strong, you know,” she says after a long time. Her voice is low. “I wasn’t when my ex cheated on me.”

  “This happened to you, too?” I sniff.

  “Mhm.” She nudges away a crumpled Diet Coke can on the sidewalk with the toe of her pristine white sneaker. “My first real boyfriend after I moved to New York. He cheated on me for months.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “I was a mess. The Duane Reade cashier started giving me free packs of tissues because he’d seen me buy so many of them. But then I picked myself up and resolved to be better than ever. Smarter than ever. And I haven’t been hurt since. You’ll get there, too.”

  A terrible thought dawns on me. “You don’t think this was happening for months, do you?”

  She shrugs and shoves her hands into the pockets of her kimono. “Who knows?”

  The sun is hot overhead and I feel slightly faint. I haven’t eaten anything today. A manic energy begins to unfurl.

  “I have to go. I have to talk to him. I have to know what I’m dealing with.”

  Georgie high-fives me. “Fuck yeah. Go get him.”

  I stride quickly down the Bowery toward the R train at Prince Street. The sidewalk narrows due to construction, and I’m trapped behind a group of slow-moving morons for half a block before I run around them and into the street. A car stops short and the driver honks, then flips me off. I sprint past him and the remaining three blocks to the subway. I’m out of breath and the skin between my toes feels on fire where my sandals rub the flesh raw, but I can’t slow down. I skip down the stairs two at a time and swipe my MetroCard.

  The train pulls up just as I reach the platform, and I hop on. It’s almost entirely empty at this time of day, so I take a seat. I’m too jittery to sit properly, so I jiggle my feet against the floor at a frenzied pace. The guy across the aisle eyes my flying knees. In my head, I rehearse what to say to Jonathan. I want to sound confident and calm and collected, but I feel scary high on adrenaline. I need to know what he’s done—if anything. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about at all. Why is this train taking so long? I feel like I could vomit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s taking forever.

  Four thousand years later, when I reach the Goldman Sachs building in the shadow of One World Trade Center, I dig in my heels to push the heavy revolving door through to the other side. Jonathan once explained that a man goes through the doors first if he’s with a woman to get it started, but he’ll allow her to take the lead if the door is already spinning. I told him that was bullshit. The lobby boasts sky-high ceilings and what seems like half the world’s granite supply, and like always, is crowded with deliverymen holding plastic bags of Chinese, Indian, and Mexican takeout.

  Whenever I visited in the past, I texted Jonathan and waited in a corner of the lobby for ten minutes for him to come down. Not this time. I saunter into the middle of the grand room and dial his work number, which he always picks up. He answers on the first ring.

  “This is Jonathan Colton.”

  My heart is racing.

  “I’m in your lobby,” I announce evenly. “Come downstairs now. We need to talk.”

  “Wha—Sasha? This really isn’t a good time. You know I can’t leave in the middle of the afternoon and—”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Yes?”

&nb
sp; “We need to talk.”

  “Later, babe? I have a lot of work to do.”

  I pour as much venom into my voice as possible. “Come. Down. Now.”

  “Okay,” he says, lowering his voice. “Give me one minute.”

  — Chapter 11 —

  Jonathan pushes through the security turnstile a minute later, eyes flickering up to mine. His shoulders are hunched, and despite the tailored suit, he looks like a scared child. He kisses me. I forget to refuse; it’s muscle memory.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks with concern, his eyes wide. What a sociopath.

  “I’m fine.” I straighten up to embody every inch of my full five-foot-eight frame and place one hand on my hip. “But we may not be.”

  His brow furrows. He does a very good impression of a worried boyfriend.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jonathan, what do I do for a living?” I say, taking a step back. I wish I’d worn heels so I could look directly at him, eye to eye.

  “You’re a matchmaker . . .” His eyes dart nervously over my shoulder to the line of deliverymen and guys in dark suits pushing through the revolving door on their way back from lunch. I want to scream at him to look at me.

  “Correct. It’s my job,” I say slowly, exaggerating my hand gestures like I’m talking to a five-year-old, “to use dating sites and apps to find matches for my clients.”

  He nods. “I know.”

  “So why the fuck did you think you could flirt with other girls on Tinder and it wouldn’t get back to me?”

  The words are hardly out of my mouth before his hand connects with the small of my back and he steers me out of the lobby.

  “We are not having this conversation here.” His breath is hot on my ear. He shoves us along quickly.

  “Jonathan!”

  “We are leaving,” he hisses.

  I break free of his hand, toss him a nasty look over my shoulder, and stride out of the lobby, throwing my weight at the revolving door. Jonathan follows in the next compartment, then takes my hand and leads me thirty feet down West Street. I yank my hand out of his and stop, dumbfounded. He keeps walking, and I have to hustle to catch up.

  “What? You’re not going to defend yourself?” I ask, incredulous.

  I fold my arms across my chest so he can’t see my hands shaking. This angry, bold version of me feels powerful. I like her. It’s exhilarating to tell Jonathan exactly what’s on my mind without worrying if it’s something a “good” girlfriend would say. Jonathan presses his fingers into his temples and rubs them in small circles.

  “Look, I . . .” He glances around, searching for the right words. I’ve never seen him speechless like this. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way. I was going to tell you about her eventually.”

  Hold on. “Her? I didn’t know there was a her. I just knew you had a Tinder profile.”

  He drops his head. He stops in his tracks to pound his fist against a wall, then crumples his hand by his side and keeps going.

  “All I know—all I knew—was that you were flirting with one of the Bliss matchmakers on Tinder. Georgie? That’s my Georgie. I’ve told you about her.” There’s no flicker of recognition in his expression. Apparently it’s too much to ask him to listen to a single thing I say. “I had come here to talk to you about it, but you, oh, you just dug your own hole even further.”

  I thought I’d cry or scream when he confirmed his infidelity, but I don’t have the energy to do that again. I’d already assumed the worst—I don’t have to wonder anymore. Jonathan turns to me. His eyes are hungry like he’s firing up to turn around a flagging presentation to his boss. He fires off excuses to see which, if any, will stick.

  “It meant nothing. It was just sex. I love you, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  I’m not sure I’m brave enough to know, but I can’t walk away from here with any lingering questions. That would keep me up at night, I’m sure of that. Jonathan looks like he’s about to speak, but his gaze goes above my head. He turns pale.

  “Get in here,” he says suddenly, pulling me into a Dean & DeLuca and leading me toward a display of gourmet nuts. “There’s a guy who works on my floor. Down the street. He can’t see this.”

  “Can I help you?” a young, chubby-cheeked guy in an apron chirps.

  “No,” I say, unable to shake the anger out of my voice.

  “Let me know if you need anything. My name is Tim,” he says sweetly.

  Jonathan gives him an exasperated nod. We both watch in silence as Tim retreats to his station by the cash register.

  “Tell me who she is.”

  He picks up a container of candied cashews and stares at the lid intently, running his finger over the plastic lip. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks.

  “Her name is Cassidy. I met her three months ago.”

  Cassidy. She has a name. I make a mental note of it so I can look her up later.

  “You met her on Tinder?”

  “No, at a bar. I was out with people from work. Really.” He looks at me intently, almost as if to say believe me just this once.

  “Go on.”

  He swallows. “Nothing happened at first. We were just texting. But then you were out with Caroline one night and I was frustrated about work and lonely, and something happened between us.”

  “You slept with her.”

  He hesitates, then nods once, swiftly. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. When I stare back at him, stony-faced, arms crossed, he lowers his voice meekly. He looks like a bad dog about to be punished for shitting on the carpet.

  “And then I got curious about who else was out there. I downloaded Tinder. I meant it as just a game. I talked to girls, but I never did anything with them.”

  “What happened with Cassidy?”

  He clutches the container of cashews tighter. I grip his forearm and repeat the question.

  “I saw her again on Sunday while you were in New Jersey,” he admits quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What about us moving in together?”

  “Huh?”

  “Mary-Kate told me.”

  He looks annoyed. “Sasha, I love you. I want us to be together. I messed up, okay? I really messed everything up.”

  “Clearly.”

  “It meant nothing, all right? Sasha, you have to believe me.” His voice is desperate.

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  His knuckles turn white and the container of cashews he’s holding bursts open, nuts flying everywhere. He chucks the box into the aisle as I step past him, toward the door.

  “You have to pay for those!” Tim calls angrily across the store.

  Jonathan flails, then grabs my arm.

  “Don’t go. You have to give me a second chance.”

  “Hey! You can’t leave without paying for those!” Tim interjects, his voice shooting up an octave.

  Jonathan exhales angrily, releases his grip on my arm, and pulls his wallet out of his suit jacket. He marches over to the counter and slams his credit card down. Tim tells him his purchase will be seven dollars and eighty-nine cents. Jonathan and I will be over the minute I exit Dean & DeLuca, and I’m not quite ready for that yet. I stand by the door and wait for the transaction to finish. I notice I have two bleeding hangnails I don’t remember picking at.

  Jonathan snatches his credit card back from Tim and pushes the door open to the street. I follow. He tries kissing me, but I’m fast enough to pull away this time. His face falls.

  “I’m so sorry,” he insists, his voice wavering. I’ve never seen him cry before. “I’ll stop talking to Cassidy. This won’t ever happen again. Look, I’m deleting Tinder off my phone right now.”

  I see Jonathan in front of me, but it’s not really him. It’s Dad, pleading with Mom, telling her that he’ll never stray again. Jonathan taps hastily at his phone, but I interrupt him with
a soft touch to his elbow.

  “Stop. I don’t care if you delete it. I’m done.”

  His eyes fall and his mouth sets in a defeated line.

  “We’re over,” I say, refusing to let my voice shake. My stomach feels like it’s about to lurch into a dry heave. “Goodbye.”

  I walk toward the curb, suddenly very aware of my frantic heartbeat and the squareness of my shoulders. I spot a taxi and raise my arm. The driver slows to a stop in front of me.

  “First and Eighteenth, please,” I tell him. “Fast.” I can’t look at Jonathan as the cab pulls away.

  — Chapter 12 —

  The magnitude of what I’ve just done hits me all at once. I lean against the window and let the tears come as I think about the first time Jonathan kissed me, the girl in my eighth-grade science class named Cassidy who always smelled like soup, the pair of jeans I left at Jonathan’s last week that I will probably never get back. The countless hours we’d spent lounging in bed together, limbs tangled, his fingers woven through my hair. His skin like a furnace next to mine. The taxi’s TV blares an irritating commercial. I hit the button to turn off the TV, but it doesn’t work right away, and I end up pounding my fist into the screen until it finally flickers to black.

  “Rough day?” the driver asks.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care. “If it’s boy troubles, let me tell you, miss, love is a beautiful thing. Something worth fighting for, eh?”

  I dig my nails into the bare skin of my knees to avoid snapping at him. The backseat of a cab is the one place a New Yorker can feel truly alone, and I hate him for infiltrating my bubble. This is supposed to be my space to wallow and break down and wipe the dripping snot from my tantrum into the underside of the worn-out black pleather. I grimace when I swipe my credit card to pay the cab fare. I wish I hadn’t gotten into the cab at all, even if it did make for a sleek exit.

  Back at my apartment, the lights are off, which means Caroline must be at work. I’m glad to be alone. I don’t have the energy to tell her what happened. I scoop up Orlando and collapse onto the couch. I nuzzle my face into the cat’s furry body, but he wriggles away. I’m exhausted by the betrayal and the anger and the storming up and down the city. Jonathan is gone. Jonathan is really gone. Jonathan is no longer my boyfriend. And I’m the one who cut the cord.