“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. “It was the wrong thing to do. Please, I hope you’ll still come tomorrow.”
The conversation is awkward and by the end, I wonder if he’ll even show. I don’t see how he wouldn’t. We’ve said “I love you” so many times. He’s not exactly perfect, and neither am I. Relationships are complicated, aren’t they? All this and I’m not even into Lesley. We have a long history, but we both acknowledge that the spark is long gone. I want Sam.
After this conversation, I get angry. If Sam doesn’t show, then he’s a jerk and not worth my time. I made a stupid decision—I will make many in the future—but the lesson is that I’m, occasionally, dumb as rocks and too eager to please. When friends call me asking for things, even less-than-altruistic friends, I tend to get sucked in over and over. That’s probably the worst Sam will encounter, those dumb-ass choices that don’t move me forward. If he’s threatened by a guy I barely had relations with, then it’s not really about me.
I try to calm myself down, rationalize my fears, and sleep. But the truth is, I’m kind of a mess.
“Are you excited?” my friend Melissa asks in the office the next day. She’s all smiles, hugging me. By now, she’s firmly on Team Sam. Sure, she’s seen the Facebook pictures of him, knows every piece of our correspondence.
Overnight, Sam seems to have forgiven me about Lesley. Maybe when he arrives, he’ll be convinced I want him and no one else.
“Yeah.” It’s hard to articulate how I feel. It’s like this happy glow inside. This is what the romance novels show at the end of the book. These books leave readers with that glow. I feel the glow.
It’s the kind of glow that doesn’t feel strange or weird or misguided or red-flaggy. Just a glow. Yes, I’m still nervous as hell, but I know I’m moving in the right direction, no matter what happens. There should be a movie camera on me. Seriously, my poise is commendable. You should always go to work before a big event. The distraction alone is worth it.
I’m not sure how, but I go about my day in a normal manner even though this is not a normal day. I edit part of a book, give my assistant odds and ends, choke down yogurt for lunch (I can barely eat), and go to my editorial meeting.
During the meeting, we discuss books we’ve bought, and publishing and company news. At the end, we go around the room and mention something good that’s happened. I usually try to be funny because otherwise I feel awkward. But this time when it’s my turn, I say, “I’m about to see an old friend after twenty-six years and we’re going to cohabitate.”
I know, crazy to spew like this to my colleagues. Everyone kind of knows the story, and I don’t share that much about my personal life except in bursts at staff lunches or holiday parties or in moments of sheer paranoia. Melissa and my HR friend Sam know just about everything, though. Overall, my colleagues are happy for me, rooting for this to work, even though deep down, they may think I’m insane. It’s like having an office of mama bears secretly pulling for your happiness.
After work, I dash home for my five hours of primping. I’m taking a few days off, and it’s close to the holidays, so no one is around anyway. It’s time for me to meet Sam.
My phone rings. Mom.
“We need a mani/pedi before your big meeting, don’t you think?” Mom says.
She’s the best. Suddenly, she’s so excited for his arrival. We sit in the salon downstairs from my apartment building. I can tell she wants to be a fly on the wall. In some ways she is.
“So, maybe you and Sam would like to come over for a cappuccino tomorrow morning. Would you like that? Think about it,” she says, with the eyebrow raise.
Sure, Mom. Sam and I are going to spend our first night together, then come see you for a cappuccino in the morning. Oddly enough, Sam would enjoy this twisted offer. He’s the type who can walk into a roomful of strangers and convince someone to wrestle him in a pool of mud.
With my nails red as sin, I’m alone for a while. My clothes are laid out: dark jeans, white sweater. I washed and straightened my hair and now have about two hours to kill.
The only thing that could calm me down is a movie. Something appropriate—not Citizen Kane—but something not completely awful, either. I can’t watch a Julia movie because in my quest to be Julia, I’ve memorized every line of her movies.
This time, I need Sandra. I will honor those years I’ve spent in my bathrobe, whimpering about lost love. Also the girl who’s started over a million times with a new person. I’m a bit repressed on the outside, but in my sweet little cave, I’m all emotion. I want to be accessible, that girl who doesn’t need to be perfect. Sam will see the real me since I can only pull off perfection for an hour or two.
I go through my collection of DVDs and pull out The Lake House, a gift from Marie. I remember that I paid actual money to see it in a theater. What did I expect, the fireworks of Speed? No, but Keanu and Sandra are golden together on-screen. So much gorgeous brunette in one frame; they just fit.
I pop in the DVD and the waterworks begin immediately, and thank goodness I have ample mascara and Pond’s cold cream to help apply and reapply my makeup. Sandy (I can call her that, can’t I, since we’re imaginary best friends?) doesn’t smile through most of the movie. For some reason, she and Keanu connect over the bridge of time and write these highly literate letters to each other. They present their best selves on paper while toiling through their mundane real lives. Sandy is a doctor who feels too much. Keanu works construction but is an architect, too. His father, Christopher Plummer, is a block of ice and eventually dies, which makes Keanu sad. Sandy comforts him. They discover, too, that they did meet earlier, though this seems like a contrivance. How would you ever forget kissing Keanu or trying to save his life? If you see Keanu, you remember him for always.
But the Paul McCartney song “This Never Happened Before” and that last kiss have me blubbering like never before. The movie mirrors a lot of what Sam and I have gone through over the past four months, and it captures my mood. By the last scene, I’m a howling mess because Sandy is finally happy. She’s not wearing a bathrobe anymore—just an awesome red coat that stands out in the tall, dry grass. Keanu practically mauls her because he’s waited for her for so long.
This is the big last scene of my movie. I can’t believe it. The moment I’ve waited for my entire life. Not my wedding. Not having babies or owning property but the deep sense that this is it. My heart belongs to Sam. Finally, I get to see my Prince Charming.
I’m on my way, my brother texts me half an hour later once I’ve cleaned myself up. I’d planned on taking a train to JFK, but Patrick, surprisingly, offered to drive me.
Usually when I have a huge event, I am nervous, like sick nervous, want-to-stay-home nervous, sometimes cancel-at-the-last-minute nervous, or I just suffer while trying to remain present. Unlike those other times, I feel great, ready to meet my destiny. It’s easy for me to leave my apartment and rush outside.
Patrick swings by somewhere around nine thirty P.M. He’s smiling, that hesitation in him gone. This feels right, like the father driving his kid to a date, giving me away.
He doesn’t give me fatherly advice. We don’t cry over the fatefulness of this whole experience. He just drives, plays music, and distracts me. Again, the future isn’t here yet. He could be driving me to meet a friend with whom I’ll connect and then go back to my old life.
“Have fun! Let me know what happens!”
“I will! Wish me luck!”
“It’ll be great. And if he hurts you, I’ll cut him,” he says before dropping me off at the terminal and air-kissing me on the cheeks.
My brother is not the type to drive people to the airport in New York City. Public transportation is just too efficient. He’s super busy and doesn’t have time for this. It’s a big deal to me that he would go out of his way for me on this potentially strange night. Patrick has been there thr
ough many important moments, especially the bad relationships. He’s listened patiently to repetitious tirades with me asking, “Do you think he likes me?” He’s met a parade of fools, even sort of liked a few of them. He’s taken me out when I’ve felt poorly. He’s let me off the hook when he shouldn’t have since he has a life, too. He’s told me point-blank when he’s been worried about me. Also, like a parent, he’s trusted me to figure out my own problems and met me at the other end of hell.
My beloved brother—that quiet yet expressive boy who put on plays for the entire neighborhood—grew into a strong man. At the end of my life, I can see us hanging out in our walkers at the same nursing home. I’m lucky in so many ways.
And now it’s my turn to chase a dream.
JFK is a funny place past eleven P.M. There isn’t as much frenetic activity, but people are still traveling, navigating jet lag and the jarring nature of country-hopping. I wait by the walkway, gasping as groups of people exit, searching for loved ones or the bathrooms. Sam could be anywhere. He has to go through customs first, which takes a long time. I brought a book with me, Eat, Pray, Love, but can’t read a single word. Instead, I text my brother over and over again: Not here yet.
I have “This Never Happened Before,” that Paul McCartney song, in my head. This kind of romance hasn’t happened to me before, for sure. I have gone on many, many dates, but rushing to the airport to meet someone who feels this right—never.
Eleven thirty passes. Even eleven forty-five.
The crowd thins even more. Not so many travelers coming through the terminal anymore. He might have missed his connection in London. I’m sure his flight has already arrived. In fact, I know it has. Maybe something happened on the way. He got stopped at customs—one more obstacle for us.
After twenty-six years, it may not happen. I’ve long since forgotten the fact that Sam and I never knew each other in high school. There was one dance and that picture we took together. We discussed those memories, though they feel distant, like amusing artifacts we have in common. What’s happening now is more colorful. The stakes feel high. I should be more nervous since I might be going home alone in my Skyline car.
Suddenly, I see one lone guy in the distance, apart from the other travelers. He’s wearing a striped sweater that I recognize. The short curly hair from the webcam sessions. The olive skin, thin physique. He’s coming closer and I know it’s him.
He sees me, smiles.
There is no rush into my arms. No songs playing in my head or quickening of my heart.
In fact, it’s very strange.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says before we hug. And not that crushing hug one might expect between a couple separated by an ocean for four long, excruciating months. This isn’t the Keanu-Sandra moment at the end of The Lake House. There’s no kiss. Maybe it doesn’t feel natural since, well, we don’t know each other in the flesh.
“Wow,” he says. “You’re three-dimensional.”
I smile appropriately, noticing how dazed he looks. On the webcam, he came alive, smiled, spoke animatedly, and provoked me. JFK-Sam-in-the-flesh is reserved, maybe tired. He just traveled for the past fourteen hours. Perfectly normal.
“Do you need to use the restroom before we go to the car?” I ask. So romantic.
“Yeah.” He goes to the men’s room and I wait on one of the seats. Talk about anticlimactic. But God, I feel so much. I’m a WASP, which means I have forty years of buried feelings. My ulcer will reopen. Or a stroke, right here in JFK.
Sam is so handsome in person. It’s possible that I was just a distraction to get him through those last few months in Switzerland. Or that he just needs a place to stay before he goes to Florida. If I think about it too much, I’ll start crying. Four months of contact, and I’m a basket case. The truth is that he may not feel the same way. The whole Lesley thing messed us up. He’s probably overwhelmed by it all and just wants to go home. This is the problem with believing in romance. Reality is so disappointing. At least I only wasted four months. Now to figure out how to get through the next week with Sam.
I should play it cool, act like a good hostess who just wants to have fun in her old age. It should be high on my radar that he could spill the beans to people at Taft—not that I’m in close touch with anyone, but I don’t want to have a reputation. I’m paranoid. Note to self: Be like Mom, who always makes the best out of uncomfortable situations.
As he emerges from the bathroom, we continue to stare at each other as if we’re both from outer space. He really is better-looking in person. Like I could hug him again. All those hours of talking and talking into the night. Now he’s here. This will be a painful week because he is just that cute.
“Let’s go to the car,” I say. Since he’s barely touched me and definitely didn’t kiss me, it’s obvious he’s not attracted to me. Not everyone is. This was a giant miscalculation but not fatal.
We get into the big car and our driver commands our ship speedily across the streets. It’s wintry and damp, though no snow yet. The weekend is supposed to get a downpour and I already warned Sam to bring a winter coat, as if he wasn’t coming from Switzerland.
The car takes us over the highway on the smoothest ride ever through late-night New York. I wonder what the hell is happening. Who is this stranger with me in the car? I know so much about him, but he seems almost bashful. It’s obvious that he doesn’t like me that way, I just know he doesn’t.
But one gesture can change everything. Sam moves in closer to me, puts his hand on my leg, his head on my shoulder. Now I know he likes me. It’s a slice of webcam Sam. The leg touch is a dead giveaway, and those butterflies are stirring inside me again, along with relief. He likes me. The conversation may be slow to start, but I imagine he’s exhausted so I stay quiet and don’t force it. He’s coming home with me. Hand still on my leg.
The car sets us in front of the building in Chelsea. I help him with his giant suitcases and backpack. We go to the elevator and take it to the sixth floor. We smile at each other, discuss his long trip quietly. It’s close to one in the morning.
He’s not so talkative, very different from Webcam Sam, even Taft Sam.
I take out the key and open the door to the apartment. It’s pitch-black and I’m tempted not to turn on the light, just like in a sexy thriller. But I’m a reasonable person. The cat must be hiding behind the couch now that he hears this strange noise, this new presence.
“You said you had a one-bedroom,” Sam comments, smiling and joking just like he did on the webcam, as he wheels in his luggage. “You lied to me.”
“I did not.”
He’s smiling, fidgeting with himself; he doesn’t know quite what to do. This is my Keanu-Sandra moment, so after four long months of talking to him, never touching him, I go over and kiss him.
A romantic heroine usually doesn’t initiate the kiss, but again, I have nothing to lose. And in personal encounters, I have this sense that my boy is shy. In romance, that first kiss causes fireworks and waves of ecstasy that make the heroine’s womb contract. I don’t experience those exact sensations, but the second I kiss (maul) Sam, I know I want more, to the point where I practically lock him in my apartment from the outside so he can’t leave. What about those dating rules I’m supposed to obey? I’ll admit to a little amnesia. If I have to ruin a relationship, I’ll have as much fun as possible first.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Eat, Pray, Move in on the First Date
Romance novels contain juicy conflict on every page. The hero and heroine take a break from the angst to have sex or eat a meal (usually a “garden salad,” protein, “crusty bread,” and lots of iced tea—who knew? No veganism because that’s too fussy. Sadly, the heroine will go for the apple instead of cake—and sometimes we have to hate her). After these happy commercials, the characters grapple with their mommy or daddy issues, lost love, feelings of inferiorit
y, family trauma—basically, all those humanizing things.
Most of the conflict Sam and I have is the usual stuff, like are we too screwed up, and will this end? I don’t want it to, it doesn’t feel temporary, but, of course, I worry. And because I can’t lose such a divine catch, I vow to look gorgeous at all times—put on my face, wear flattering clothes, and—gasp—straighten my hair, a process that takes hours. This goes out the window fast thanks to my studio apartment. He sees the raccoon eyes when I emerge from the shower. I see a snoring corpse when he sleeps with his mouth wide-open. We can’t hide.
I take a break from reading so much romance and delve into two happy-making books: Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert and The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. I started Gilbert’s book earlier but never got around to finishing. Now I’m devouring every word and feeling inspired. The same with the Rubin. For the most part, they both urge readers to chill out and follow the bliss.
Speaking of bliss, I normally wouldn’t recommend moving in on the first date. My circumstances with Sam are unique, so I let many rules slide. After several days, I’m fairly sure that he’s staying with me indefinitely. Though he has numerous couches where he can crash, I want him on my couch.
Our exit strategy is such that he can disappear at the first sign of trouble. He’s a popular guy, can find friends even in remote areas of the globe. I have no doubt he’s the type who loves being with others. Will he adore living with me, snuggling while watching TV, cooking dinner, doing laundry together, and taking walks around the neighborhood? Sam isn’t a hermit like me and enjoys the company of others. I seem to have the opposite problem of so many—I’m used to being by myself. The adjustment is huge, for both of us.
Romance Is My Day Job Page 20