Available

by Matteson Perry

  Lillie sent me one more message.

  Matteson,

  I wish you’d simply sent this email first. Me being upset is pretty natural I think and I want to talk more about this. Ignoring someone isn’t a good way to communicate. But, you get your wish, I will not contact you anymore. I wish it worked out. I actually liked you.

  I was tempted to write her back and say something like If I’d gotten my wish, you wouldn’t have sent this email. Or I know silence isn’t a good form of communication, that was the point, I didn’t want to communicate with you. Or It would be natural for you to be upset if we’d gone out MORE THAN ONCE. But I didn’t. I let it be over.

  I ran into Emory a couple months later.

  “So, when you set me up with Lillie, you were doing it to try to get her away from you?”

  “No! I hoped you would it hit off. You two seemed like you might be a good match. I thought . . . Yes, I was trying to get her away from me. Sorry.”

  * * *

  Despite all the flings I’d had, my experience with Lillie was my first true one-night stand. Before Lillie, I’d dated everyone at least a couple of times and gotten to know them a little bit. A year and a half after I’d started, I reached the logical extreme of my experiment: dating distilled down to nothing more than sex. I hadn’t enjoyed it. The experience was dehumanizing for her and me. After my sleazy night at the club, I felt like I should change. After Lillie, I wanted to change.

  I had moved on from my heartbreak, ditched the Nice Guy tendencies, and become “good” at dating. It was time for the next phase of The Plan. I was ready to not only have a girlfriend again, but to use what I’d learned to find the PERFECT relationship.

  Part IV

  * * *

  THAT ONLY HAPPENS IN THE MOVIES

  23

  * * *

  THE BEST-LAID PLANS

  I didn’t have to search long to find a girl to date seriously; I was already dating her. I’d gone out with Ella three times before my furtive night with Lillie. A drinks-only first date with the tall blonde had given way to a second date featuring dinner and a car makeout, which led to a third date at my apartment and sex. There weren’t “fireworks,” but we’d climbed the date ladder in an orderly fashion and had fun at every rung. It was nice and easy, and after Lillie, “nice and easy” sounded about right. Ella also met all the requirements of The List, so, after a couple more dates, I decided to ask her to be my girlfriend. I went into the conversation without the dread of The Talk, happy to be telling Ella I wanted to be with her exclusively, rather than the opposite. Ella agreed we made a good match and I had a girlfriend again.

  Until I was free from the whirlwind of dating, I didn’t realize how all-consuming it had been. Between searching for people to take on dates, researching places to take those dates, going on the dates, and thinking of ways to tell the dates I didn’t want to go on another date, I’d used up most of my spare time. It felt great to take the time I’d been wasting on OkCupid and use it on more productive activities (Tumblr pages featuring puppies in hats).

  After months spent complicating my life by dating multiple people at once, my relationship with Ella was straightforward. We ordered in, watched TV, drank scotch, and went out on the weekends. It wasn’t thrilling, but it felt good to just spend time with someone, rather than be “on a date” with them.

  We’d been together for two months when, on New Year’s Eve, with the midnight balloons falling around us, Ella leaned in and said, “I love you.”

  I stared at her, surprised by the declaration.

  “You don’t have to say it back,” she said, “I just wanted you to know.”

  I hugged her close, hoping the physical affection would make up for my lack of verbal affirmation. I didn’t know if I loved her back. We had fun together, lots of laughs, and didn’t fight, but I hadn’t felt the powerful euphoria and excitement that usually accompany love.

  But, wasn’t the purpose of my mission to find a relationship not driven by infatuation? Instead of love sprung from passion, we could grow ours from a base of compatibility, friendship, and respect. No, I wasn’t in love with Ella, but I could see a future where I would be, so I decided to round up my feelings. At the end of the song I whispered back, “I’m falling in love with you too.”

  Shortly after the New Year, Ella got an apartment down the street from mine, so we saw each other almost every day. We fell into the routine of a nice companionable relationship and for the first time in a long time, I felt content. I’d reset emotionally, reevaluated what I wanted in a partner, and found a sensible significant other with whom I could build a stable long-term relationship.

  In February, I went on vacation to Thailand with Kurt and Grant. When we’d booked our tickets months earlier, the trip had been an extension of my experiment, a chance for vacation hookups, but being with Ella meant that was off the table. I didn’t mind. My relationship with her was the culmination of my plan, what I’d set out to do eighteen months earlier, so missing out on some action while I traveled didn’t seem like a big sacrifice.

  After a few days in Bangkok and a trip to the Angkor Wat temples in Cambodia, Kurt, Grant, and I flew to the island of Ko Phangan. We booked a small hotel on a white sand beach where we each rented our own little bungalow, complete with a hammock on the front porch, for $15 per night.

  Ko Phangan is known primarily for its epic full moon parties, which happen, you guessed it, every full moon. The pictures online made it look like a mini Burning Man, which of course had intrigued. Unfortunately, our travel didn’t coincide with a full moon, but this turned out not to be a problem—we could go to the half-moon party instead. At some point the locals figured out tourists would pay to get drunk during any phase of the moon, so the roster expanded to four parties per month.

  We rode to the half-moon party in the back of a pickup truck—what passed for a cab on the island—with about ten other people. (Not a lot of safety regulations in Thailand.) Everyone else in the truck was at least five years younger.

  The party venue was somewhere deep in the jungle and consisted of several bars, at different levels, circling a dance floor situated between two hills. Hundreds of bodies, all in glowing neon shirts and body paint, lit up the basin, making a giant bowl of radioactive Lucky Charms.

  We wandered onto the dance floor (or “dance ground”—there was no floor, only dirt) and quickly lost each other. A shirtless, muscular Brit grabbed me around the shoulders. His sweat, colored by body paint, dripped on my neck. He smelled of Red Bull and spray cologne.

  “What are you drinking, mate?” he yelled.

  “Nothing right now, just dancing.”

  He shook his head, offended by my answer.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked.

  He held up a Thai Bucket, the specialty drink of the island, and took a sip. Thai Buckets are a mixture of local rum, Red Bull, and Sprite served in an actual plastic bucket. It is the kind of drink that turns an “evening” into a “night.”

  “EVERYTHING!” the young Brit said. “I’m drinking everything, mate.”

  As I watched him stumble off, I believed him. And he didn’t seem to be the only one drinking “everything.” The party was full of people who were very young and very drunk. Many looked like they might be getting drunk for the first time in their life. The parties at Burning Man were wild, but the average age was around thirty-five, so it felt more responsible. The vibe at the half-moon party was less free-spirited-people-having-a-good-time and more Cancún-spring-break-Girls-Gone-Wild-frat-party.

  I was wandering through the dance floor, observing the bad decisions being made around me and feeling old, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a beautiful girl looking down at me from an elevated platform.

  “I know you,” she said with a slight accent. “You’re the dancer.”

  My stomach fluttered with recognition. The night before, Kurt, Grant, and I had shared a bottle of Thai whiskey before wandering to a
beach bar. Toward the end of the night we’d met two girls, Nellie and Astrid. They were Swedish, though neither fit the typical blond-haired, blue-eyed Nordic stereotype, both being brunettes. When Grant had introduced me, Nellie had declared, “You’re friends with HIM? The dancer!”

  Now, while I do love dancing, I am not a good dancer. But I think I stood out because I was one of the few people at the party who was actually dancing. Every other guy was more interested in rubbing his crotch against someone. How disgusting, right? I would never do that, at least not since I had stopped being a Sleazy Guy, all the way back four months earlier.

  Grant and I had chatted with the duo for only a few minutes, but long enough to learn they too would be at the half-moon party the next night. It was Nellie who tapped me on the shoulder. Astrid wasn’t around.

  “You want to join me up here to dance?” she asked.

  “Sure!”

  The small platform, about three feet off the ground, had a dozen other people on it, but there was plenty of room to dance. After a few minutes, Nellie stopped, looked at me, and laughed.

  “I amuse you?” I asked.

  “Yes. You really love dancing. You are a true dancing queen,” she said with a smile that indicated it was a compliment.

  From our elevated perch we were visible to much of the party. All eyes were on Nellie. She was energetic, sexy, and mesmerizing. Her hips moved precisely and in perfect rhythm, as if they’d been designed by NASA.

  Guys buzzed around Nellie like mosquitoes circling a bug zapper, but, like the doomed insects, every one got zapped. Most only required a shake of her head; one she had to slap. A few times I offered my hand and pulled her to “safety,” putting myself between her and a particularly persistent fellow. I was back on the right side of the sleazy divide.

  “Where’s your friend Astrid?” I asked.

  “Hopefully off having fun with an American boy of her own.”

  American boy of her own. This implied I was Nellie’s American boy and she was currently having fun with me. I’d never considered a European might have a thing for American boys, that foreign intrigue could work in the other direction. For the first time in my life I, an average-looking white boy from the middle of the country, felt exotic. I could wow her with my knowledge of casseroles and lack of knowledge about world geography.

  “It’s so hot,” Nellie said as she looped the hem of her shirt through the collar, making a sort-of bikini top that showed off her flat stomach and sharp hip bones. I felt desire and lust like I hadn’t felt for Ella, at least not like this. I put my hands on Nellie’s waist. Surges of animalistic compulsion flashed through my mind: making out with Nellie in a dark corner; taking her back to my hotel; making love on a beach; abandoning Kurt and Grant and going with Nellie to her next destination; starting a new life in Sweden.

  I wish I could say I resisted kissing Nellie. Wouldn’t that be a nice moment for this story, real proof I’d changed and made progress? But I didn’t. I kissed Nellie. It wasn’t a full-on makeout, only a light peck with no tongue, prudish even by junior high standards, but it was still a betrayal.

  Not long after the kiss, feeling guilty, I went to find Grant and Kurt. They were sipping beers at a table and watching a group of hulking Aussies sucking down balloons of nitrous and falling over. (There aren’t a lot of safety regulations in Thailand.) As sunrise approached the crowd began to thin and those remaining were sweat-slicked and sloppy. We decided to leave.

  Grant had danced with Astrid for a bit that evening and both of us wanted to say goodbye to the Swedes, but they were nowhere to be seen, probably on their way to catch the early-morning ferry, off to the next island, the next party, the next American boys. I didn’t know Nellie’s email, phone number, or even last name, which was probably for the best—there’d be no temptation to get in touch with her. She’d forever remain my flawless Swedish goddess, I her American dancing queen.

  * * *

  Back at our hotel I wasn’t ready for bed.

  “Beer on the porch?” I asked.

  “Beer on the porch,” Grant confirmed.

  The sun had not yet risen, but it was close enough to the horizon to give us a preview. In the distance a long-tail boat, piled high with nets, cruised toward a fishing spot, kicking up a rooster tail wake in the flat turquoise water. After sipping our beers in silence for twenty minutes, I spoke.

  “So, shall we pack up and follow the Swedes to Ko Phi Phi?”

  Grant laughed and nodded. I was only half joking, though. I could feel disappointment in my stomach, the tug of the Grand Romantic Narrative. Part of me wanted to be impulsive, to chase after Nellie, going from bar to bar on the next island until I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard her say, “I know you.” Following a girl across Thailand because you shared a moment on a dance floor—THAT’S the start to an epic love story. It would make a much better story than the one I had with Ella, which saw us meet online and date because it was sensible. No one wants to see that movie.

  Being in your thirties is strange. You’re not “young,” but you’re young enough to still desire the pleasures of youth. You’re not “old,” but you’re old enough to understand you will one day be “old.” I worried that I’d just squandered some of my dwindling supply of Youth out of loyalty to a woman I might not even love. Ella was a good choice for a partner, but was I ready to make good choices? Would I ever be?

  A little sleep and a burger had me feeling better that afternoon and I was no longer considering hopping a ferry to find Nellie. She was back to being just a pretty girl, rather than a referendum on my life choices and a reminder of my mortality, and I was back to feeling optimistic about my relationship with Ella. True, I hadn’t exactly aced the temptation test, but I figured sticking to a single small kiss got me at least a C–, a passing grade. I felt relieved I hadn’t gone further and resolved not to put myself in a similar situation again. My brush with infidelity had galvanized my views on the relationship—I didn’t want to lose Ella. I felt excited to see what our adult relationship could become.

  So of course Ella dumped me two weeks later.

  24

  * * *

  THE LETTER

  “You couldn’t have broken up with me BEFORE I went to Thailand?”

  “Sorry,” Ella said with a shrug, not knowing her poor timing had cost me a life full of Nordic sweaters and Swedish meatballs.

  I’d been back ten days when Ella texted me she was coming over because we “needed to talk.” This wasn’t a total surprise. Since my return, she had been going out with friends more and answering my calls less. Her behavior wasn’t as extreme as Kelly’s had been, but it was a familiar scenario. Kissing Nellie had nothing to do with it, either, because I hadn’t told Ella (or written it in an email).

  That evening after work, there was a knock on my door. Ella had keys to my place, but wasn’t using them. I guess she believed it proper to knock when visiting to dump someone. She started with general pleasantries about how great I was and then explained that while I was in Thailand, she didn’t miss me as much as she thought she should, which had made her reconsider our relationship.

  “You’re such a good boyfriend on paper, but we’re too similar. I don’t feel challenged by you, by this relationship. I don’t think we’re the right match.”

  I didn’t really understand what “not challenging” her meant, but I couldn’t contradict the basic gist of what Ella was saying. Since our first date I’d known there wasn’t magic between us, that ours was a relationship of the head, not the heart, but for me that’s what made it appealing. For Ella it was a deal breaker.

  “There’s just something missing between us,” she said. “I’ve rushed into a thing with a nice guy before and I didn’t want to get too far down the road, no matter how pleasant it’s been. That wouldn’t be fair to you.”

  As my effort to save my relationship with Kelly had failed so miserably, I didn’t put up much of a fight this time. After a short talk, we hugg
ed goodbye, she walked out of my apartment, and I was single again.

  I went to bed immediately. Well, after a quick Facebook search for Nellie, which yielded no results—it turns out there are a LOT of people named Nellie in Sweden. I lay in bed, unable to fall asleep, and with each flip of the pillow my anger grew.

  I was angry Ella left me because I was too nice (isn’t that what “not challenging” means?). Angry that she’d told me she loved me and changed her mind just three months later. Angry that the declaration of love had made me take our relationship more seriously. Angry she’d said, “I’ve rushed into a thing with a nice guy before,” like I was just a generic step in her relationship pattern.

  Maybe most of all, I was angry Ella had ruined my plan and made me a failure. Nineteen months after I’d begun, I was right back where I’d started—dumped. Didn’t she understand I’d reached the redemptive-adult-relationship phase of my personal growth?

  When I’m overwhelmed, I don’t drink or punch things or get a hooker; I write. After a few hours of trying to sleep, I decided to compose a letter to Ella. I pounded at the keyboard, typing faster than I had since my speed test in eighth-grade typing class.

  I’d never been good at expressing anger. In conversations with girlfriends or others I’d rarely even say “angry,” instead opting for words like frustrated or bothered, no matter how egregious the offense. If I were to confront a carjacker I’d probably say, I’m frustrated that you stole my car and it bothers me you used it as a toilet.

  In my eagerness to avoid feeling angry, I would delude myself into thinking I hadn’t been wronged, that things were fine, which is what I’d done with both Kelly and Ella. I preferred blaming myself over getting mad at someone else because anger felt like weakness to me. It meant someone had affected me and I was no longer in control.