Playing with Matches

by Hannah Orenstein

  Jonathan’s proposal is crazy. We’re not together. I don’t want to be the kind of girl who tolerates cheating, and taking him back sends the message that I can be walked all over. What would happen if I said yes? Would I come home one day ten years from now to find Jonathan in bed with another girl? Only then, it could be worse. We’d be living together. Married. With kids. I couldn’t be like Mrs. Colton. And besides, I’m with Adam now. It’s only been a few weeks, but it feels different—in a good way. Jonathan made me feel like a nuisance, like I had to beg for scraps of his time and attention, but Adam makes me feel special, desired, important—a treat to be savored. I don’t have to mask who I am, messy and modest beginnings and all. That matters. I can see this relationship with Adam—and it definitely will be an official relationship soon, won’t it?—going somewhere.

  But it would be wrong to cast aside more than two years of history with Jonathan because of a few weeks of fun with Adam. Falling in love with Jonathan was the most satisfying experience of my life. He messed up, but he’s trying to make things right. And even while I’m falling for Adam, I miss the familiarity I had with Jonathan: the way I knew which colleague emailed him based on the volume of his groan; the way I could predict when he’d fall asleep watching a movie; the way I could determine what he’d order on the menu at any given restaurant with perfect accuracy. I suppose I could have that with Adam one day. But it wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t be Jonathan.

  When I call my mom, I feel like a little kid reaching for her security blanket. She’s not a fan of Jonathan and she’s always advocated for me to enjoy being young and single, so I don’t expect her to have a real discussion of the pros and cons with me. I only want her to tell me it’ll all work out in the end, no matter what I choose. I want her to lie to me. The phone rings and rings, but ultimately sends me to voicemail. The message tone dings and I panic.

  “Mom, Jonathan proposed, call me back,” I blurt out. Then I hang up.

  I hear the shower turn off, and a minute later, the click of the bathroom door. Caroline’s damp feet slap against the wooden floor as she scrambles down the hall. She’s wrapped in a purple towel and hasn’t yet bothered to scrub the rivers of eyeliner off her cheeks.

  “So, I’ve been thinking, and I realized you can’t tell me this story without a drink,” she announces, reaching on tiptoe for the bottle of vodka on the highest shelf of our liquor cabinet. She hands it to me without a glass or chaser.

  We sit on the couch and I twist open the bottle, taking one quick gulp before explaining what happened.

  “He was waiting for me outside our building and apologized for making me feel neglected, for cheating. Then he got down on one knee and pulled out the ring and asked me to marry him.”

  “Holy shit.” Caroline grabs the bottle from my hand and takes a swig.

  “I was so stunned, I didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t have been down there for more than, I don’t know, ten seconds? It felt like forever. I told him to get up.”

  “So you said no?”

  I take another gulp and shake my head. “No. I told him I needed time to think over what he said.”

  “But you kept the ring.” Caroline reaches over to grab the box and flips the top open. “Fuck, this is gorgeous.”

  I can’t deny that. Engagements are starting to pop up on my newsfeed (already, holy shit). I don’t really know how much engagement rings typically cost, but something this special must not have been cheap.

  “I didn’t want to keep it. I tried to give it back to him, but he literally refused to take it. He shoved his hands in his pockets.”

  “Whoa.”

  “My hands were shaking so hard that I almost dropped it.”

  “Put it on, let me see,” she says, handing the box back to me.

  “Oh, no. I can’t. I didn’t say yes.”

  “So?”

  “Wearing the ring would make it feel too real.”

  “Come on. You’re not even curious what it looks like on?”

  She snatches the box back and pinches the ring out of its velvet case. When she jams it onto my limp finger, a chill rushes down my spine.

  Last year, I found Jonathan’s class ring on the bookshelf in his bedroom. It was a dark, burnished gold covered in black inscriptions. I slipped it onto my thumb, the only finger big enough to keep it from sliding off. He never expressly gave me permission to take it, but I loved wearing it; I relished how heavy it felt on my hand. I liked catching glimpses of it bobbing up and down over my keyboard when I typed notes in class. I felt smug when girls did double takes and asked about it.

  “Oh, it’s just my boyfriend’s class ring,” I’d say, trying to sound a lot more casual about it than I felt.

  Wearing his ring made me feel so fabulously committed and adult. Three weeks after I took it, I blacked out at a party, lost it, and thought it was gone forever. He was probably furious, though he didn’t say so. It turned up under my bed two days later, and I gave it back immediately. Neither of us ever brought it up again. Wearing his jewelry symbolized too much.

  But now, I have this diamond. The ring is a hair too small, requiring an extra twist and tug to remove it. I tuck it in the box.

  “What are you going to do?” Caroline asks.

  I let it all tumble out: how I can’t let myself go back to Jonathan, even though I miss what we had together, and how much I like Adam. It’s hard to process everything. I’d been swimming along, not knowing when I woke up this morning what today would bring.

  Caroline’s lips are pressed together in a thin line.

  “Do you love Jonathan?”

  It’s the same question Mrs. Colton asked me at the wedding. Time hasn’t made it any easier to answer.

  “I did. I really did. Maybe I do. I don’t know, I . . .”

  Judgment creeps into Caroline’s face. When Jonathan neglected me, she always told me I deserved better. The worst of it came last year when Jonathan and I went through a rough patch. He had blown me off yet again, and Caroline called him a “seventy-percent-off boyfriend.” Like I scooped him up from the dregs of the sale rack because no one else wanted him at full price. I’ve never been able to forget that.

  I struggle to explain it to her.

  “I love him in the way you’re always going to care about the first person you fall for.”

  She considers this. “But you don’t love him now, do you?”

  “I’m . . .” Ugh. Why is this so hard? “I’m angry at him.”

  “As you should be.”

  “Oh, trust me, I know he’s a dick. He messed up. But so what? He’s human. He wouldn’t propose if he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with me.”

  Caroline stares. “Are you apologizing for him?”

  I take another swig from the bottle instead of answering. It’s easier.

  “Sasha, he went behind your back and fucked another girl. When you invited him to your parents’ place for the weekend, he lied, avoided it, and fucked her again. How could you even consider marrying a guy like that? You did the right thing by dumping him. I was so proud of you.”

  Oh, god. That day was so brutal. Sometimes, when I’m trying to fall asleep, I see the precise number of degrees his face fell when he realized I was leaving him. The way the fire dwindled out of his eyes. The heavy set of his jaw. The gourmet nuts scattering everywhere. Even today, downstairs, when I didn’t immediately accept his proposal, his face fell like that. Caroline is still ranting about every minor injustice he’s ever committed, ticking them off on her bitten-down fingernails as she goes.

  “Remember that time he swore he’d help you move, but then backed out at the last minute to work? It was a Sunday! Remember that time he fell asleep and forgot to come to our housewarming party? Remember that time he begged you to go all the way downtown to his apartment in the middle of the night because he was horny, even though you had an eight a.m. final the next day?”

  “Caroline! Enough.”

  I c
an tell she has another dozen infractions at the ready, but she stops, and settles back onto the couch, arms crossed.

  “He’s not perfect, okay? I get it. I’m just saying . . . I can’t make a decision here without factoring in all those years that he was really, really great to me.”

  “Two. You spent two years with him. That doesn’t mean you owe him the rest of your life.”

  I hastily wipe away a plump tear before it rolls down my cheek.

  “You’re my best friend, and what I need from you right now is support. Not judgment. I know you have your issues with Jonathan, and that’s fine, but that’s not what I need to hear today. I need someone who’s on my side.”

  She folds me into a long, tight hug.

  “I’m always on your side,” she murmurs.

  My phone screen lights up with a text from Mary-Kate.

  “Soooo . . . sis?!?! WE’RE GONNA BE SISTERS!!!!”

  I read it aloud. Caroline groans.

  “Forget about her. Responding will just stress you out.”

  There’s another notification for a text I missed an hour ago from Adam.

  “Hey! Are we still on for tonight?”

  We had made tentative plans to get dinner, but the prospect of sitting across the table from him tonight makes me sweat.

  “Could I actually take a rain check? Don’t hate me, I’m just not feeling well and should probably stay in tonight.”

  The three gray chat bubbles pop up right away.

  “Do you want me to come over? I could bring you chicken soup if you’re sick.”

  “Thanks, but Caroline’s taking good care of me. Have a good night!”

  “You sure?” he replies.

  “I’m good, but thank you so much for offering.” I don’t have the mental energy to deal with him right now. One man at a time.

  “We could play doctor. ;)”

  “Ha. But I’m actually sick. Another time.”

  It comes down to this: I loved Jonathan. And I might love Adam one day. Right now, I feel lost. But now is when I need to make the biggest decision of my life.

  “I just need time to think,” I tell Caroline. “I hate men. Can we just forget about this for now and drink a lot and snuggle with Orlando and pretend my life isn’t a soap opera?”

  “Of course.”

  While researching date spots recently, I stumbled across Professor Thom’s, a Boston-themed sports bar on Second Avenue that gives any couple on a Tinder date two-for-one drinks. Caroline and I both set our Tinders to match exclusively with girls in a one-mile radius. We play glam-sad Lana Del Rey music videos too loudly and drink vodka tonics out of coffee mugs as we swipe until we find each other. It takes nearly an hour, but it works. I squeal when I find Caroline and swipe right triumphantly. She swipes back and starts up a fake conversation, scripting it so we can make the bartender believe we are perfect strangers. (“Hey, I’m Caroline. How’s it going?”) Five minutes later, we’re out the door. Whatever we were fighting about this morning at Flower Power seems an eternity away.

  This is the difference between a best friend and a boyfriend: a boyfriend isn’t legally family until he puts a ring on it; a best friend won’t ever be legally attached, but she’s been family since day one.

  When Caroline and I float into the bar, it’s not even six. The pub is empty, save for two gray-haired guys in the back. Televisions tuned to the Yankees–Red Sox game line one wall, and the other is decorated with sports jerseys. We take clumsy seats at the bar.

  “We’re on a Tinder date,” I announce unsteadily to the bartender, a slim, bearded guy in a Red Sox shirt. I shove my phone screen toward him so he can read the Tinder conversation. “See? Can we get free drinks?”

  “We just met,” Caroline says, dramatically draping her hand over mine on top of the bar.

  He laughs. “Sure, whatever you want.”

  We probably didn’t need to go to all the trouble of matching.

  Caroline and I settle in and gossip about a couple we know that’s moving to a studio in Bushwick together after just three months of dating. It sounds disastrous. I give it three more months before she’s posting sad quotes on Instagram and he’s writing Facebook statuses asking if anyone needs a roommate. The bartender comes by when our drinks are nearly empty to offer another round.

  “The next one’s on me,” he says, “even though you’re clearly not on a Tinder date.”

  “Excuse me, this is a very romantic first date and we are having a wonderful time,” Caroline insists, grabbing my hand for emphasis.

  “You two have straight girl written all over you. And you know each other too well for this to be a first date.” He squirts tonic water into two glasses.

  “Well, this might not be our very first date,” Caroline concedes.

  I lean forward onto the bar. “Fine. You’re right. We’re straight. That doesn’t disqualify us from another round, does it?” I ask. “We really need it tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He sets the glasses down in front of us and grins. “What’s the occasion?”

  Caroline and I exchange glances.

  “My ex-boyfriend proposed to me today.”

  “She didn’t say yes,” Caroline adds quickly.

  “But I didn’t say no, either.”

  The bartender raises his eyebrows and whistles. Bartenders, I imagine, must hear a lot of shit at work. Just like matchmakers do.

  “That calls for some shots. Hold on, I have just the thing for you.”

  The rest of the night goes by in a giddy blur. Later, I will vaguely remember stumbling out of the bar, needing to pee so badly, and trying to hit up the legendary French fry joint Pommes Frites for drunchies before remembering it burned down in a gas explosion when we were in college. I think we Ubered the nine blocks home, but I can’t really be sure.

  Here’s what I am sure of. When I wake up the next day at noon, I sit up in bed and feel like someone kicked me in the head. I scroll through eight frantic texts and two voicemails from Mom, all variations on “What??? Call me immediately!!!” I’m too worn out to respond with anything other than a short text: “Don’t worry, I didn’t say yes yet. I’ll call you soon.”

  In the shower, when I should be scrubbing the smell of vodka off my skin, I spend fifteen minutes under the stream of hot water replaying Jonathan getting down on one knee. I don’t feel any closer to an answer than I did yesterday; my mind is even more muddled than before. I get dressed and push the ring onto my finger just to see how it feels. My fingers are swollen from the hot shower, and the gold band scrapes painfully past my knuckle on the way down.

  — Chapter 22 —

  As I scarf down my usual order at David’s Bagels, my hangover notches down from an eight to a six. I walk to Bliss for the weekly check-in. I’m finally catching up to the other matchmakers in competence. At last week’s meeting, I reeled off potential matches’ names and recalled which downtown hotel bars took reservations in advance and which were walk-ins only without thinking. Georgie expressed an interest in setting up her client with a guy I screened from JDate last month, and I could recite his list of deal-breakers with perfect clarity: no workaholics, no one who wants children within the next five years, and no one who has a problem with polyamory (good luck, Georgie).

  I enter the brownstone’s dining room and take a seat at the middle of the table. The grandeur of Bliss’s headquarters hasn’t quite worn off on me yet; I try not to gawk too much at the intricate crown moldings and the tall glass vase with white orchids in the middle of the table. We go around the room, updating one another on our progress for the week. When it’s my turn, I mention Mindy’s upcoming date and quote aloud from Wretched Gretchen’s latest email. This week, she sent me a note titled “Helpful suggestions!” with a list of fourteen questions I should be asking men to ascertain the degree to which they are emotionally over their exes.

  Penelope rolls her eyes.

  Allison shakes her head. “I can’t,” she says. “I literally can�
�t with her.”

  I bury my face in my hands, groan, and start explaining where I’m at finding Wretched Gretchen’s ultimate dreamboat, but Georgie flags me down.

  “Oh my god. Sasha. Stop.”

  “What?”

  Oh, no. I drop my hands into my lap.

  “Do you have news for us?”

  Fuuuuck. I had forgotten to take the ring off before leaving the apartment. I decide to play dumb.

  “Yeah, Wretched Gretchen has gone completely insane.”

  “No, come on, you know what I mean.” Her voice is soupy, gossipy, the sonic embodiment of the flirty banter she uses to lure potential matches on Tinder. “What are you wearing on your finger?”

  I don’t want to spill more of my personal life than I already have to my coworkers, but I also can’t think of a convincing way to explain why I’m wearing the bling.

  “Um, it’s a family heirloom? It was my grandma’s?”

  Georgie, who had been slouched down in a chair next to Penelope, springs up from her chair and races over to me. For someone so tiny, she moves frighteningly fast. She grabs my hand out of my lap and examines the ring.

  “Girl. That’s some grandma. Didn’t you break up with your boyfriend a couple of weeks ago?”

  The room goes quiet. No one’s texting or typing anymore—all eyes are, horrifyingly enough, on me.

  “Well . . .”

  She doesn’t give me time to answer. “Is this from him?”

  “Um.”

  Allison squeals first. “Oh my god. It totally is!”

  Georgie looks at me incredulously. “Is it?”

  Even Penelope drops her usual businesslike façade and leans forward on her elbows, eyes glowing. “Is it?”

  I feel like I’m facing a firing squad. Lying seems too complicated, so I pinch my eyes shut and go with the truth.