“Sasha? I’m waiting by the park.” I can just barely hear Eddie’s nasal voice over the clatter of tourists and the chimes of Jane’s Carousel at Brooklyn Bridge Park. “You never emailed me with D.’s description. There are so many people here, I don’t know how I can find her.”
Then there’s a nearly identical message from Diane, and a second pair of voicemails a few minutes later.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, panic fluttering in my chest.
“I thought you would tell me how to find him,” Diane said, her tone turning accusatory.
Eddie dialed in a minute later. “I don’t even have her name or phone number,” he complained. “I’ve paid so much money for Bliss and it’s given me nothing.”
I open my calendar to see what I had written. Sure enough, their date was scheduled for eight o’clock. It’s nearly ten. I can just imagine the two of them circling the same stretch of the bustling park, each too shy to approach strangers. I wouldn’t have the balls to ask random strangers if they were my blind date, and I’m not a shut-in or a forty-year-old virgin. I had realized their date would fall on the same night as Mary-Kate and Toby’s wedding; I hadn’t anticipated getting swept up into a scene and forgetting to date-sit.
It’s probably not polite to call so late at night, but Eddie hauled ass all the way from the Bronx. The least I can do is apologize. I call, hoping he won’t answer. But, of course, he answers on the second ring.
“So, there you are,” he snaps, not masking his contempt.
“Eddie, hi! I’m so sorry. I won’t lie, I messed up in a big way. I know Diane was really looking forward to meeting you.”
I can practically hear him shaking his head. “Well, she won’t want to give me a second chance now!”
I bite my lip. I know I shouldn’t promise anything. If I give my word that Diane will meet him and that falls through, he’ll never trust me or Bliss again. But I need to give him faith that this insane process might actually—against all odds—work out in his favor.
“I wouldn’t assume that. She might. And if she doesn’t, I’ll find you someone else. Someone more understanding, more forgiving. You deserve someone amazing.”
Eddie exhales in a wheeze. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know.”
“It’s not a lie!” I protest.
But he’s already hung up.
Two days later, my lungs are on fire as I run down First Avenue. I dart around a nanny pushing a double stroller and nearly knock over a bodega’s flower stand as I zip around the corner. I’m not built for speed. I skid into the brownstone for the weekly matchmaker meeting five minutes late. I can tell from the way Penelope arches one thick eyebrow that this is not acceptable behavior. Yet again.
“Thank you for joining us, Sasha,” she calls from down the table.
Cut me some slack. I’m late because my credit card was declined at Dunkin’ Donuts. Because, you know, this company hardly pays me. Setting up dates at $120 a pop sounded like a surefire way to pay my bills, feed myself, and even take a stab at chipping away at my student loans. Instead, I’m surviving on a diet of iced coffee, bagels, pizza, and cheap wine. I never got paid for Eddie and Diane’s date because it never actually happened. I could quit Bliss and probably make more money working retail or at a restaurant. But those jobs are surprisingly competitive in New York, and anyway, I’m not ready to give up matchmaking just yet. I want to get it right—if not just for my own ego, then for Mindy’s and Eddie’s sakes.
I slink into an open seat near the door. One of the matchmakers, Jane, is frantic because her client Naomi has a date in five hours, but her match just canceled.
“I need to find a petite Buddhist lesbian in Brooklyn, mid-fifties. Must love dogs, must be available tonight. Anyone?”
Crickets.
I can’t focus. It’s been two days since the wedding, six days since my breakup, and I’m a mess. Depending on which minute you catch me, I’m either furious at Jonathan, elated by my independence, devastated by the prospect of ending up alone, or so deep underwater I can’t feel anything at all. The Vampire Diaries, which Caroline sucked me into despite my initial protests, featured a plot line in which vampires could actually turn off their emotions when life got to be too much. (Or, rather, death got to be too much. You know what I mean.) And so those supernatural beings with superior bone structure got to zap out of their heads and walk around as shells, not feeling a thing. I’m jealous.
The room falls silent. I suddenly realize that everyone is looking at me.
“Sasha? We asked how you’re doing,” Georgie says gently, like I have cancer or something.
“I’m great, thanks,” I say, forcing a sunny smile. “All good here. Everything’s just fine.”
“Do you want to tell us about your progress?” Penelope asks.
“Well, Eddie had a date this weekend.” Wait. Shit. That didn’t end up happening. “I mean, he was supposed to. But he, uh, asked to reschedule.”
“I didn’t see a note of that in the database,” Penelope says.
“Yeah, it was a really last-minute thing. That’s why.”
“You need to put any changes into the system in advance,” she reminds me. We covered this during my training. “When is he going out again?”
I drum my fingers on the table and look up to the ceiling, as if I’m trying to remember. “You know, we set a date, but I can’t recall specifically what we decided. . . . Eddie’s just a busy guy. And Diane hasn’t picked up when I’ve tried to call.”
In truth, I haven’t spoken to Eddie at all since our phone call on Saturday night. I’m supposed to reach out to each of my clients three times a week to see how they’re doing, but that’s always felt like far too much contact. Since my personal life imploded, speaking to anyone—especially my clients—has felt impossible.
“All right,” Penelope says, the tone of her voice implying this is very clearly not all right. “Make sure it gets into the database this time. Any other news?”
“Um, yes. I met a potential match for Mindy at my . . . friend’s wedding. He’s British.”
That earns a smattering of applause and cheers. I explain Gordon’s background. Penelope seems pleased, and asks me to set him up with Mindy soon.
“Ugh, can you set me up with him?” Georgie asks. “I love British men. So posh.”
“Georgie, you know the rules. No dating clients or recruits,” Penelope intones.
It sounds like the thousandth time she’s said it. My date with Adam is in five and a half hours. I run a hand through my hair and avoid eye contact with both of them. I know that Adam is technically off-limits, but I don’t see the harm. He and Mindy aren’t interested in seeing each other again. Adam seems genuinely interested in me. And I desperately need a night out to take my mind off Jonathan. What Bliss doesn’t know can’t get me in trouble, right?
After the meeting, I linger at the table while I call Eddie and Diane to reschedule their date for tomorrow night; the guilt from lying to Penelope spurs me to just get it over with. Then I schedule Mindy and Gordon’s date for the same night. Working isn’t exactly the distraction I’d hoped it would be, but I have to keep moving. I slip my laptop into my bag, head out of the brownstone, and wander through the East Village, popping into my favorite independent bookstores. Eventually, I find myself on the edge of Tompkins Square Park. I pick out a bench in a corner of the park shaded by a soaring copper birch tree and sit. I manage to appreciate the park’s leafy trees and the guy playing the guitar for about two and a half whole minutes before I check Cassidy’s Instagram, which has not been updated since I last checked four hours ago.
I pull my laptop out of my bag and open the Word document I’ve used as my makeshift diary since college. I haven’t written in months. I pour out everything: my new job at Bliss, finding Jonathan on Tinder, breaking up with him, the wedding. The words tumble out, and I feel lighter when I’m done. I’ve missed writing like this. If I could actually make a living as a writer, I wo
uld. I’m mostly done dumping out my heart when my phone lights up with a text from Adam.
“Hey there. Just checking that tonight is still cool?”
I count out exactly sixty seconds before replying so I don’t appear too eager.
“Of course.”
He shoots back a text right away, and my heart leaps.
“I figured I’d ask you for a bar recommendation, but you must be sick of that from setting up a million other couples.”
I count out another sixty seconds.
“Only a little. Do you have a place in mind?”
He texts me the address of a dive bar in the East Village. Not exactly Gramercy Tavern, but it’s not like that signified anything great for my love life, anyway.
I’m halfway to the bar when I begin to feel shaky. This is my first date with someone other than Jonathan in more than two years. I catch my reflection in the window of a hookah bar on Avenue A, and for a split second, I don’t recognize myself. I haven’t worn makeup in a week, since I just wind up crying it off. My loafers are sensible and tasseled, the kind of thing I bought when I thought I was going to work in journalism. Now that I’m off my meal plan, I’ve been eating less, and it shows in the sharpness around my shoulders. This is what I look like now, I guess.
The sidewalks aren’t that crowded, but I’m terrified I’ll bump into Jonathan. There are eight million people in this twinkling trash heap called New York City, and I doubt Jonathan’s ever been this deep into the East Village. But still—what if?! It’s weird that I’m going to meet a guy other than him.
Maybe Adam will pay for my drinks. Maybe, if things go well, he’ll kiss me at the end of the night. And maybe, if things go really well, I’ll go home with him three dates from now and see his apartment and what he looks like naked. It’s freaking me out. Didn’t Jonathan feel this ticking, neurotic sense of unease when he met Cassidy? How could he not have? I can hardly think about anything else.
Maybe it isn’t fair to Adam that I’m still so upset about Jonathan. Maybe I should’ve canceled drinks. Shit. I check my phone. It’s four minutes till eight. Is that too close to call off the date? The more I think about meeting someone who isn’t Jonathan, the more the pressure builds up behind my eyeballs. I want to cry. I might like Adam, but he’s not my person, not the way Jonathan is—was. Whatever. And now I have to go pretend to be a normal human being whose insides are not currently going through an FBI-grade paper shredder.
Maybe one day, Adam could be my person. But that’s a far-off possibility, and the prospect of waiting all those weeks or months or years till I have a relationship like that again is too painful to think about.
I’m halfway down East Fifth Street when I see a tall, tan figure leaning against a brick wall by the entrance to the bar. It’s him.
“Hi,” Adam says, leaning down to give me a kiss on the cheek.
My cheeks go warm and the watery pressure behind my eyes starts to fade.
“Hi,” I breathe.
Next, I feel his warm hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the open door. The bar is lined with red pleather booths on one side and a weathered wood bar on the other. A song I vaguely recognize from the ’90s alt rock radio station is playing. The bartender, a redhead in a Grateful Dead T-shirt and faded jeans, calls out Adam’s name, and he waves. We get our drinks—vodka soda for me, a Southern Tier IPA for him—and head to one of the booths. The pleather sticks to the back of my thighs as I try to slide over the seat, and I wish I had worn something longer than cutoffs.
There’s so much that I want to say, but probably shouldn’t: I’m a newly single train wreck; he dated my client; he’s fully off-limits. I cast around for anything to say to break into conversation—unlike my Bliss screenings with men, this interaction isn’t scripted for me. I’m grateful that he launches into an easy conversation and takes the pressure off me.
“I used to be part of a bar sports league, so we played here a lot,” he says, gesturing to the back of the bar, which is lit up with arcade games, a pool table, and darts. “Every Tuesday night.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“My team won second place in the nation for Skee-Ball. We traveled to Tampa for the tournament and everything.”
I guess I involuntarily wrinkle my nose, because he asks me what my problem is with Tampa.
“My dad lives there,” I say, setting my drink down on the table and fidgeting with the rim of the glass. “With his latest girlfriend. I used to spend every summer down there when I was a kid.”
“You didn’t grow up there, then?”
“No. I grew up in Jersey. My parents split up years ago.”
He seems to sense this isn’t my favorite subject and is gracious enough to navigate back to safer waters.
“You know, I’ve been to Jersey just once since moving up north. For a Skee-Ball tournament, actually. The Mid-Atlantic Conference. A bunch of bar sports losers crowded into an old rec center and threw balls around and drank beer. At the end of the day, we walked away with some highly impressive plastic trophies.”
“That’s very impressive,” I say, going along with the joke. “Why’d you stop playing?”
He shrugs. “I was the oldest one on the team. I figured I’d let the kids in their twenties do their thing.”
The kids in their twenties. I take a long sip of my drink to stall. “You know how old I am, don’t you?”
He squints, like he’s trying to remember. There’s a definite crease across his forehead, the kind that guys my age just don’t have. “I think your Tinder said twenty-seven?”
“Twenty-two.”
I run a hand through my hair and try to shake off the potential awkwardness of the moment. I can’t read his expression. Is he amused? Or does he think I’m just a kid?
“That’s fine.” He shrugs. “I think I like you. I swiped right on you, didn’t I? Not Mindy.”
There’s a vulnerable look in his eyes, like he’s searching for me to agree with him. Oh, god, those eyes. I swallow a sip of my drink to prevent myself from breaking into a shit-eating grin. I don’t know how this can happen. Five minutes ago, I was sweating over the feelings for Jonathan I just can’t shake off. I shouldn’t have mental space to devote to liking Adam—but I do.
“Well, I like you, too,” I hear myself say. I can’t quite believe it. The words keep tumbling out. “I’ve liked you since the minute I first saw you. I might have been jealous that Mindy got to go out with you and I didn’t. It’s funny how it’s all worked out, isn’t it?”
That all sounded much more casual in my head. Less so out loud. His eyes are the exact shade of melted chocolate under the glimmering bar lights. Normally, I’d feel naked right about now, spilling my guts to him like that. But after the events of the past week, confessing to maybe, sort of, kind of liking somebody in a secluded bar booth is laughably simple.
“And Mindy told you everything about our date, right? You don’t mind?” he asks.
I figure he’s talking about their makeout by the cab, or maybe the embarrassing number of drinks they downed. “Of course. I didn’t set you up as friends.”
Everything seems so smooth now. I pick up my drink and slide out of the booth. “Come on, show me how to play Skee-Ball.”
He leads me to the back of the bar. The Skee-Ball machine is in the back left corner, and features a low, sloped plank leading up to a series of concentric wooden circles. Each circle has a hole at the bottom with a number painted next to it: 10, 20, 30, 40, 50. Adam flips open his wallet, pulls out a dollar, then squats down and feeds it into the machine. The waistband of his blue plaid boxers peeks above his jeans. The machine whirs to life and lights up pale green, then a series of palm-sized balls rolls down a tube on the side. He turns back to me to explain the game. I like that I have to crane my neck up to meet his gaze—it’s a first.
“So, you roll the ball up the center here and try to get it into the holes. Eight balls, eight tries.”
“That doesn’
t sound so hard.”
“Oh, you think so? Wanna play?”
“Sure, but I’m gonna lose to a world champion.”
“Just a national champion, actually.” He smirks, feeds another dollar into the adjacent machine, and picks up his first ball. “Ready?”
I grab my first ball and center myself in front of the machine. “Ready.”
I fling the ball up the center line, but it swerves off course, slides to the bottom of the board, and settles into the 0-point slot. His ball glides in a graceful arc, dropping right into the 50-point slot. I study the flick of his wrist and try again. This time, I get a 40. I punch the air.
“Beginner’s luck?” he says, flicking his eyes over to my scoreboard.
I score a 30, then another one. The rest is a mix of 0s and 10s. When we’re both finished, my score is less than half of his.
“What do you think?” I ask, picking up my cold highball glass from the floor and dipping the straw coquettishly between my lips.
“Not bad at all.”
I drop into a mock curtsy. He reaches out to playfully punch my arm. His skin feels electric against mine.
“I’m going to get change at the bar so we can keep playing. Can I get you another drink?” he asks.
“Oh, sure. Thanks.” Mine is almost drained.
He approaches the bar. There’s a line now, so it looks like it’ll be a minute. I slip my phone out of my purse and instantly wish I hadn’t. Penelope has sent me a slew of emails. I scan the subject lines: 8:03 p.m. New client! Gretchen Phelps; 8:07 p.m. New client! Chrissy Kodowski; 8:15 p.m. New client! Lily Chang. I want it to all go away. I don’t want to care about Bliss right now.
“Everything okay?” Adam asks, returning with the drinks.
“Oh, yeah. Just work stuff.” I slip my phone back into my bag and accept the vodka soda. “Thank you so much.”
We play another round, and this time, I just narrowly make half his total score. On the other side of the room, I spot a pair of dartboards.
Playing with Matches Page 15