Playing with Matches

by Hannah Orenstein

  — Chapter 25 —

  Adam is leaning against the doorframe of his apartment, one brown leather loafer crossed over the other, waiting for me. A song by LCD Soundsystem wafts into the hallway.

  “Hey there, beautiful,” he says, kissing me.

  I try to forget that Jonathan had kissed me just an hour ago. It doesn’t matter anymore; he doesn’t matter anymore. There are more important matters at hand, like the scent of garlic sizzling on the stove and Adam’s finger curled around my belt loop.

  I lean down to nudge off my shoes so I don’t have to look him in the eye. It’s too soon for me to tell him about Jonathan. I don’t want to scare him off. I line up my shoes in their usual spot against the exposed brick wall of his living room (porn for New Yorkers like me) and straighten up.

  “So, the interview—talk to me.”

  I can’t help but beam. “It went well! I think. I mean, did Diego say anything?”

  “He thought you were smart and eager. I told him I wouldn’t send him any dummies.”

  “If I got the job, would that mean we’d work together?”

  He hesitates. “I mean, it’s a pretty independent job. I’d work on my pieces, you’d work on yours.”

  “But we’d work for the same company, in the same office.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “Is that weird? That’s weird, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t say it was weird.”

  I sling my arms over his shoulders and tilt my head up for a kiss to shut down the conversation. I’m not completely insane—I know it’s risky to work with someone you date. (Or to date someone you meet through work, for that matter. Obviously.) And maybe this is my naïveté talking, but it feels like the rules don’t apply to me and Adam. I hear all my clients talk about how difficult and awful dating is, but when I’m with him, everything just feels easy. I can’t explain it to someone like Caroline because she’s never felt this way before; you either get it or you don’t.

  “Now, can I put you to work in the kitchen?” he asks.

  “I can microwave a mean frozen pizza, if you happen to have one of those lying around.”

  “Come on, that’s not real food. You can chop vegetables, can’t you?”

  “Vegetables . . . those things that grow out of the ground? Yes, I believe I can do that.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I’ll give you the cheese instead. More your speed.”

  “Thank you.”

  He hands me a hunk of mozzarella, a wood slab cutting board, and a knife. “Bite-sized pieces, please.”

  “Coming right up, chef.”

  He turns back to the stove to stir the garlic with a wooden spoon and drizzle in more olive oil. I like watching him work in the kitchen, especially on nights like tonight, when he’s rolled up his sleeves to show his muscled forearms and sexy, capable hands. I admire him for a second, then get to the cheese.

  “You’re not one of those crazy New Yorkers who uses their oven for storage, are you?” he asks.

  “Adam, I would never. That’s ridiculous.” I make a mental note to transfer my old textbooks from the oven to my closet before I see him next. They would make such a mess if they caught fire.

  I finish slicing the mozzarella, and he approves my work. I graduate to cutting morsels of sweet Italian sausage. And when I’m finished, Adam requests that I perform the one kitchen task I can pull off with ease—uncorking the wine. I pour us each a glass of cabernet sauvignon, hoist myself up onto the counter, and continue to admire his confidence in the kitchen.

  He finishes preparing the meal, two cavernous bowls of pasta tossed with sausage, mushrooms, onions, and gooey cheese. We eat on a pair of bar stools facing the kitchen island, and he recaps the day’s biggest news stories for me—one of the many perks of dating a writer. When he tells stories, he lights up, waving his fork around as he gestures. It’s entertaining to watch someone who actually cares about what they do, rather than keeping track of business deals and the financial markets just to . . . what, make more money? I push away thoughts of Jonathan and tell Adam about my phone call with Vince yesterday, when I tried to suss out what he likes in bed. He bursts out laughing and shakes his head.

  “I can’t believe you actually get paid to do that,” he muses. “Your job is unbelievable. And none of your clients care how old you are?”

  “I mean, it’s not like they know.”

  He pauses, fork midway to his mouth, and makes a face. “Come on. They have to know.”

  I straighten up in my seat. “I could pass for older. You thought I was, what, twenty-seven when we first met?”

  “You didn’t even know what JNCOs were until I told you . . . you learned about the O. J. Simpson trial in history class . . . your mom still pays your phone bill. Sorry, Sasha, but you’re not fooling anybody.” He laughs at all of this, making me feel even worse.

  I hate when he brings up my age. It knocks my confidence. “Okay, fine. But look at the perks of my age: I could stalk you on Instagram right away, I’m cute enough that creepy old dudes swipe right on me all the time, I have the energy to work around the clock. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

  “Whatever you say, kiddo.”

  After dinner, we fall into one of those new-couple dazes on the couch, where he kicks his feet up onto the table and I curl sideways with my head on his chest. He strokes my hair with his left hand and pretends to find something to watch on Netflix with his right, but neither of us really cares what’s on the screen as long as we can stay like this. Eventually, he puts on an indie drama that neither of us feels invested in so we can drift in and out of kissing without missing any of the plot. We’ve spent a dozen nights just like this, cooking and watching movies, and it’s starting to feel like a routine. I love how comfortable this is.

  I check my phone when the movie is over, and there are two texts from Mindy. I’m praying she isn’t going to cancel tomorrow’s date, because that would require rescheduling it.

  “Are you free to meet for coffee tomorrow?” she wrote an hour ago, followed by “???” a half hour later.

  “Sure. What time?” I write back.

  She texts instantly to schedule an 11 a.m. meeting at the Starbucks near her office, dashing off a frenetic “Thank you!!!!”

  “Work?” Adam asks.

  “Yeah. It’s Mindy.”

  “Tell her I say hi.”

  I roll my eyes and wriggle around in his arms to face him. “I’d rather not get fired.”

  “Riiiight, right, right. So, let’s concoct a story. Say we met by chance.”

  “That’s intriguing, but no.”

  “Why not?”

  “We live on opposite sides of the city, we don’t go to any of the same bars, we have zero mutual friends, we don’t work in the same industry . . .” I tick off each reason on my finger.

  “We actually did meet on Tinder, you know.”

  “You know, typically when people lie about how they met, it’s so they don’t have to say they met on Tinder.”

  He shrugs. “Whatever works for us.”

  Us. The word sends a shiver down my spine. I like it.

  Adam has a hungry look in his eyes that I know means just one thing. The conversation about how we fake-met falls by the wayside as he kisses a hot trail down my neck and unbuttons his shirt. I tug off my sweater.

  “Jesus, look at you,” he says, marveling, running his hands down my chest and wrapping them around my waist. “You’re the most gorgeous girl in the world.”

  I make sure there’s enough time between leaving Adam’s place and meeting Mindy for coffee to shower. It seems tacky not to rinse off the mingled scent of sex, sweat, and Adam’s cologne before seeing her. Mindy is early, wiping crumbs off the Starbucks table with a brown paper napkin when I walk in. She vaults out of her seat to hug me.

  “Hi!” She swoops in to perform a double-cheek air kiss, stopping short to avoid smudging her scarlet lipstick across my face.

  “Love the lipstick,” I say,
half because I do, but half because I know the compliment will make her beam. I’m right.

  “Do you want something to drink?” she asks. She looks better than she did the last time I saw her, but only because she’s sitting upright instead of curled around a Bloomingdale’s trash can. The line stretches nearly to the door right now. Even though I could probably get away with expensing my drink to Bliss, I decide to skip it. There’s something about the way Mindy is digging her nails into the sides of her cup that makes her look anxious; I don’t want to make her wait any longer for this conversation than she already has.

  “Nah, I’m fine. I don’t want to wait in line,” I say, pulling out a chair. “How are you feeling? Better?”

  “I’m fine.” She nods, slipping the cardboard sleeve off her cup and twisting it around her fingers. “I asked you to meet me because we need to have a serious conversation.”

  “Sure,” I say cautiously. I have a bad feeling she’s about to request switching to another matchmaker.

  “You know, it’s funny, I came to Bliss because I want to get married and have a family. I mean, I’m not getting any younger here. I’ve had my fun, I’ve built up my career, and I’m just so beyond ready to meet someone great and settle down. That’s the only thing I want, Sasha. That’s it.”

  Shit. I know where this is going. She’s upset because I haven’t found her future husband yet.

  “I was so obsessed with chasing this vision of a boyfriend and a big Manhattan wedding and taking my husband with me to Lamaze classes. So cute, right? He’d coach me through labor and we’d have all these cute little Jewish babies. I thought that’s how my life was supposed to go. But it’s not going to work out quite like that, and weirdly enough, it’s all thanks to you.”

  Her usual breakneck pace of speech comes hurtling to a stop, and suddenly, she’s not fidgeting anymore. She’s sitting very still, beaming. I think I’m being praised, but I’m not sure why. There’s something I’m missing.

  “What do you mean, thanks to me?”

  “Well, I wasn’t fully honest with you earlier. I guess I was embarrassed. I mean, I’d just met you, and I didn’t want you to think I would jump into bed with a guy the first chance I got, you know? I didn’t want that to color your perception of me if you’re working for me. I hardly ever do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Sasha,” she says, leaning across the table and clutching my arm like we’re best friends sharing a juicy secret. “Remember that first guy you set me up with? Adam? We slept together. I just found out I’m pregnant.”

  “Oh my god.” I can’t hide the horror in my voice.

  “Don’t worry! This is all good news. I’m ecstatic,” she reassures me.

  “You slept with Adam?”

  “I know. It’s crazy, huh? It happened just once, after our date.”

  “This is unbelievable,” I croak.

  “Look, honey, no need to freak out,” she says with a laugh. “I know you’re young. When your friends get pregnant, you probably send them a sympathy card and ask them when the abortion is. But this is different. I’m thrilled.”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m so happy you’re happy.” I force a smile. “It’s just . . .”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think back to my first date with Adam, a week after his date with Mindy. What exactly had he said? Mindy told you everything, right? I hadn’t even thought to ask what “everything” meant. I didn’t know I needed to.

  “What?” Her expression sours. “You don’t think I’d be a good mom?”

  “No! Honestly, I’m jealous of your kid. You’re going to be an amazing mom.” I mean that. “It’s just . . . does Adam know?”

  “Not yet,” she admits. “I don’t even have his number. That’s why I asked to see you. You can give me his number, right?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  I pull up his number on my phone and slide it across the table so she can copy it. Starbucks is playing a cloying Ed Sheeran song that’s all wrong for this occasion. It’s been, what, almost two months since their date? They must have gone back to his place, not hers, since she made such a big deal of pointing out that she didn’t like his couch. Which means she’s been in his apartment. Which means I’ve been having sex in the same bed where Mindy and Adam conceived their child. This is all so revolting.

  “I don’t need anything from him emotionally or even financially,” she says, tucking her phone back into her purse. “I mean, he’s what, a writer? Right.”

  “He’s technically an editor.” I don’t mean to say it. It just slips out.

  “What?”

  “At Esquire. That’s his job title. Editor.”

  “Oh, right, whatever. An editor. Anyway, I don’t need anything from him—I just want to tell him for his sake, in case he wants any sort of relationship with the baby.”

  “Right. Mindy, there’s something you need to know,” I say in a strained voice.

  “Yeah?”

  I hate that I have to tell her, but it’s the right thing to do. If she doesn’t hear it from me, she’ll hear it from him. At least this way, the conversation is on my terms. I take a deep breath. This is it.

  “One of the reasons I love working with you so much is because we have such similar taste in men. It makes my job very easy. I liked Adam from the moment I met him, so I figured you would, too.” I swallow and look down. “After you told me you weren’t interested in seeing him again, I called him for feedback on the date—it’s standard matchmaking procedure to hear from both people. He said he’d be up for a second date if you were, but he never said anything about you two hooking up. I didn’t know how, um, involved you two were. I didn’t think you’d ever cross paths with him again, so later, after my boyfriend and I broke up, I asked him out.”

  “On a date?” she asks sharply.

  “You could call it that.”

  “For yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Did you sleep with him?”

  “You’ve got to believe I had no idea that you hooked up with him.”

  “Sasha, did you sleep with him?”

  To my horror, I start to feel tears welling up. “Yes.”

  “More than once?”

  I consider my answer for a brief moment, but it wouldn’t be right to go with anything other than the truth. “Yes. We’ve been dating,” I admit.

  “I can’t believe this,” she says, shaking her head slowly.

  “I know. The odds of the whole situation . . .”

  “I’m not talking about the odds,” she snarls, eyes blazing. “I can’t believe you would throw yourself at your client’s sloppy seconds.”

  Mindy’s anger scares me. I know I’m in the wrong; I know I deserve every reprimand and nasty comment she wants to hurl my way. I never wanted to hurt her.

  “I would never have done anything had I known that you guys had a fling. How was I supposed to know?”

  “It doesn’t matter how much you knew! Do you know how unprofessional that is?”

  I start to retort, but I have no defense. I look down at the table. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

  “I just don’t understand how you could think it would be appropriate to set me up with someone because you have a little crush, then snatch him out from under me the second I say I’m done,” she says, pressing her fingers to her forehead and screwing up her face like she actually cannot comprehend such a thing. She doesn’t call me a slut out loud, but the word is just begging to escape her lips.

  “Mindy, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest, purses her lips, and stares at me. “End it,” she orders.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you’re sorry, you’ll end things with Adam.”

  I feel like I’ve been pummeled repeatedly for months on end, and I’m one heartbreak away from disintegrating into dust. The prospect of losing Adam, who’s brought so much joy into my life when I really
needed it, is too painful to consider.

  “I can’t do that.”

  Two nights ago in New Jersey, I had wondered if I really needed Adam—now that I’m on the verge of losing him, I know I do.

  Mindy exhales heavily. “I’m not dealing with this right now. Cancel my membership.”

  “Of course. I’m so sorry, I just—”

  Mindy pushes her chair back. It scrapes loudly against the floor. People stare as she rises from the table, snatches her purse from the back of the seat, and storms toward the door. She throws me one last nasty look over her shoulder.

  “Oh, and Sasha? I’m calling your boss.”

  — Chapter 26 —

  Mindy’s threat wasn’t empty. I sulk the forty blocks home from Starbucks in hopes of clearing my head, but the walk fills me with even more self-pity and rage. By the time I jiggle open my front door, there’s already an email from Penelope waiting in my inbox. I groan, then trudge to my bedroom and collapse flat on my back on my bed. I hold my phone above my face and tap open the email. Penelope’s tone is even more curt and clipped than usual.

  From: penelope@bliss.com

  Subject: We need to talk.

  Meet me at the brownstone tomorrow. 2 p.m. sharp.

  Shit.

  “Caroline, you home?” I call.

  No answer. Orlando leaps up on the bed with a mrow and sniffs at my face. I scratch the mink-soft spots behind his ears and he purrs loudly. At least I can do right by him, if no one else. I consider explaining to Penelope what really happened over email, but that requires more chutzpah than I can muster right now. I’m worn out.

  From: sasha@bliss.com

  Subject: Re: We need to talk.

  Of course. See you tomorrow.

  I know I have every right to be furious at Adam for not telling me about sleeping with Mindy, but I can’t make myself really feel it. I don’t want to be mad at him. I don’t have the energy to be angry at yet another man for sleeping with another woman. If I call him out for what he did, that means pushing him away. I’m already about to lose my job. I can’t lose him, too.

  I don’t understand why Adam didn’t tell me what happened. And I don’t know if it’s possible to salvage my job. I’m on the verge of tears, but I’m too worn out to cry. Instead, I zone out in front of Netflix until I have to press the “Are you still watching?” button twice. Adam calls in the middle of an old Law & Order: SVU episode, just as Olivia Benson is interrogating the bad guy. He never returned the text I sent on my way over to coffee with Mindy—something mindless about which Thai place we should order takeout from tonight. The phone rings four times, basically for an eternity, before I muster the guts to pick it up.