As she scrolled through a website about something called “breath feelings,” Good Guys ads began appearing in the margins. She stared at the first one: a dark and empty city, a capeless superhero in jeans and an oxford shirt gliding fist-first between skyscrapers. Far below him, a lone man stood at his hot dog cart, beneath a yellow-and-red umbrella, pointing up at the flying man, who pointed back at him.
She tried to focus on the content of the website she was supposed to be reading. Assign your breath a color on the inhale, the website instructed her. But she kept getting distracted by the Good Guys ads. A new one had appeared on her screen, featuring a crowded Coney Island: all the sunbathers on their towels except for one man in bright yellow swimming trunks, who stood among them. With one hand he shaded his eyes, and with the other he pointed at a plainclothes superhero gliding above, who pointed right back at him. Ava pictured Mat as the flying man, and then she pictured Mat as the beachgoer, and then she clicked on the ad.
The home page had a bright, clean aesthetic, and she paused the sunset-themed welcome video before it was able to autoplay. A drop-down menu offered numerous options:
Dare to hope
Dare to succeed
Dare to change
Dare to dream
Dare to love
Dare to forgive
Ava clicked on Dare to forgive, which took her to a blank white page. Thank you for daring to forgive appeared in a heavy black font. The text was soon replaced by a photograph of a handsome bald man sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat in the middle of the woods. Ava waited for something more, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Forgiveness,” the man said, opening his eyes, “doesn’t happen suddenly.” He snapped his fingers. Ava’s heart raced as she fumbled to mute the video.
Jaime glanced up. “Find something helpful?” he said. “I think you forgot to plug in your headphones.”
“Oh,” Ava said. “I don’t know.”
Jaime leaned in to get a look. “Ava, are you kidding me?”
“What?” Ava said.
“Good Guys?”
“What?” Ava repeated, exasperated. “They’re known for their philosophy on forgiveness! I’m just curious!”
“Good Guys is for sad, weird men, Ava!”
“I know!” Ava said. She felt defensive and humiliated.
“If you become a Good Guys apologist,” Jaime said, “I’m going to be so annoyed.”
“I’m not,” Ava said. “I’m not.”
“Nothing that calls itself good is ever actually good.”
“Then what do you suggest I do? Go to church? Become a Hare Krishna?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes,” Ava said.
“Honestly, I suggest you go on a date. I don’t think any website is going to help you with this.”
“Wouldn’t that just be a distraction?”
“You have a SHRNK, right?”
“Yes.”
“So then you’re already doing everything you need to do. Talk to your therapist, then go find someone who is genuinely good. Who lifts you up enough that you question whether your anger and sadness are required parts of your identity.”
“Now you sound like Good Guys.”
“Ava Simon is going on a date?” It was Sofia. She held an Enlightened Tray from the cafeteria.
“No,” Ava said.
“Hi, Ava,” Sofia said, sitting down.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Jaime said.
“The worst that could happen?” Ava said. “Let’s see. I meet a serial killer and die, completing the last of a series of unfortunate events that have made up my adult life.”
“Doubtful,” Jaime said.
“I can’t believe that you of all people are not more concerned about this,” Ava said. “What, suddenly Jaime Rojas sees no threat to our safety?”
“I find the insinuation insulting and baseless,” Jaime said.
Sofia laughed. “Okay, Mr. the Vision Tower Is Going to Kill Us All.”
Jaime raised a hand in defense. “Listen, we don’t know what’s in that cloud of so-called steam. The air quality in the city is bad enough as it is. The last thing we need is STÄDA-funded carcinogens.”
“I didn’t realize the city’s air quality was on your list,” Sofia said.
“There’s a reason I keep sending you links to upstate Float-Homes. The mountain air is exceptional. Plus,” he said, “do I need to remind you that I called that vaping was bad news? I was right. I didn’t ask for this gift of incredible foresight, but here we are. You’re going to thank me someday.”
“You’re paranoid,” Sofia said, “but Ava, Jaime’s right: you desperately need to go on a date. Go fill your mind with someone who’s not Mat and not dead.” She began mixing a packet of dressing into her salad.
“Sofia . . .” Jaime said.
“No, she’s right,” Ava said. She waited to feel offended by Sofia’s bluntness but instead felt refreshed.
“I’m just telling it like it is,” Sofia said, piercing a piece of lettuce. “Ava, can I ask you a personal question?”
“No,” Ava said.
Sofia rolled her eyes. “You dated women before Mat, right? Was he, like, super into that?”
Jaime raised an eyebrow and stirred a piece of wasabi into a Modest Container of soy sauce.
“What do you mean?” Ava said.
“I mean that men are obsessed with women together,” Sofia said matter-of-factly. “I can’t tell you how many guys have tried to get me to have three-ways with them.” She gestured to suggest a brain explosion.
Ava looked at Jaime, hoping he might throw her a life raft, but he just looked entertained.
“He was interested in my history with women, yes,” Ava said, choosing her words carefully. “But I wouldn’t say he was into it.”
She remembered that early on Mat always looked as if he were untangling a difficult knot when the topic of Ava’s sexuality came up. So what percent gay are you? He seemed desperate to quantify it. How could I ever compete with a woman if you already know exactly what to do with each other? Ava had taken care to show him how good he made her feel. Over the course of their relationship she had become skilled at simplifying her feelings on his behalf, but it was true that she sometimes missed being with a woman.
“I think it’s possible he was sort of threatened,” Ava said.
“Men are horrible,” Jaime said.
“I actually agree,” Sofia said. She stuck a straw into her Thoughtful Glass of Wellness Water. “And I think it’s really unfair that I have to be married to one.”
The conversation evaporated when Helen Gross entered the room. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” Helen said. “Sofia, I must have misplaced the sales figures you sent me for the Entrancing Ottoman.”
“I haven’t sent those yet,” Sofia said.
“At your earliest convenience, then,” Helen said, forcing a smile.
Sofia stood to leave, squeezing Jaime’s shoulder on her way out. “Do it,” she whispered to Ava. “Go on a date. Your sadness is stressful to be around.”
* * *
At home that night, Ava googled “least bad dating app.” The first hit was an app boasting that women got to send the first message, to keep out predatory men. It was a decent concept, Ava thought, but it seemed designed exclusively for straight people, and in practice it meant that women were required to do all the hard work, only to be rejected half the time.
She searched for “dating after loss” and found an app called The Way for people who had lost spouses. The age-appropriate options were limited and, Ava suspected, Christian. At first glance the men on this app appeared hip. They had Andy Warhol glasses and tattoos, but their photos felt sanitized in a way that made it seem like they loved God as much as they loved pour-over coffee and taking good care of their cast-iron pans.
Finally she downloaded Kinder, an app that touted a zero-tolerance policy for harassment. The first photo she uploaded was one that Jaim
e had taken of her assembling a prototype of the Very Nice Box, in which she had her sleeves rolled up and looked useful and intelligent. She added a candid shot, which captured her profile just as she was about to laugh. It was one of her favorite photos of herself, one that Andie had taken at a dinner party. It felt wrong, slightly, to use the photo. But she pushed past the feeling and uploaded it. The last photo was her STÄDA employee headshot, in which she wore a button-down and looked squarely at the camera with a warm smile.
She adjusted her settings, lingering briefly on distance, sliding a red dot all the way to the right to see just how close to Gambier she could get. But the app stopped her at 100 miles. She also paused on the gender settings, first checking only women, then checking both men and women, then unchecking men, then rechecking men.
Immediately a message appeared from a man named Jason, whose single photo was a faraway shot of him on the beach, topless and wearing sunglasses, his arms straight down by his sides. Hello sexy this is my modesty, he wrote.
Ava reread the message, trying to decipher it before swiping him away. A shimmering ad dropped down featuring a man standing outside a camping tent, pointing up at a night sky. The stars formed the words Good Guys Stand Tall. She swiped it away.
After sorting through messages ranging from syntactically nonsensical to sexually harrowing, she arranged to go on a date with a thirty-two-year-old journalist named Amir C., whose photo showed him wearing a large backpack and standing on top of a mountain. His bio said, “Ask me what I’m reading,” and so Ava did, feeling grateful for the clear instructions.
Derrida, he responded.
Oh, god, she thought, staring at his message. But then, that’s what she’d thought upon meeting Mat Putnam.
29
Ava tried to calm her nerves as she approached Amir’s apartment building, a five-story walkup with ornate, decaying trim. This is a low-stakes activity, she reminded herself. Your only task is not to think about Mat the whole time.
A few men sat on the stoop with beers. If she were being completely honest, Ava would admit that part of the appeal of Amir was that, according to his Kinder bio, he had graduated from Wharton the same year as Mat. Maybe he’d remember Mat. Maybe somehow Mat would hear about the date through the Wharton alumni grapevine. She didn’t allow the fantasy to continue.
“Need to get in? Here ya go,” one of the men said, standing up, holding the door open for her. She saw he was wearing a Curious Collar around his neck.
“No,” Ava said. “I mean, thanks. But I’m just waiting for someone.” She felt compelled to explain further but stopped herself and stood with them awkwardly for a few minutes, waiting for Amir to emerge. She resisted looking at her Precise Wristwatch, and although she fantasized about turning around and walking home, she stood rooted in place and turned her focus to two Vivacious Planters on either side of the steps until the door swung open.
She recognized Amir from his photos. He had a narrow jaw and dark, curly hair that he pushed out of his face with a cotton headband. He was shorter than Ava had imagined. He smiled at her as he descended his stoop, and she waved, immediately regretting it. They exchanged something mortifyingly in between a hug and a handshake, and she was aware of the gazes of the men on the stoop. He smelled like laundry detergent. She thought about commenting on this but changed her mind and said nothing at all, her mind painfully blank.
They took the subway to a modern dance show, which wasn’t something Ava would have chosen to do on her own, but she was determined to have an open mind. “I have never been disappointed by this company,” Amir said as they waited in line for tickets. Next to them a bus shelter advertised the Very Nice Box. This one featured a Very Nice Box full of wooden clogs.
“Company?” Ava said.
“Dance company,” Amir said.
“Oh, right,” Ava said. “Of course.” It was only going to last three units, she reminded herself as they inched forward in line. She felt ambivalent about dance but good about the idea of consuming art, and it felt like a smart setting for a first date, because they wouldn’t have to carry the torch of conversation all evening. Of all the promises online dating offered, this was the worst. She wasn’t sure how she was expected to establish a rapport with a complete stranger in a matter of minutes.
The show opened with a glaring yellow light that moved slowly across the stage at eye level. By the time it reached the other side, a dancer had emerged. He was tall and broad, wearing track pants and no shirt. There was no accompaniment. The audience shifted in their seats, waiting for the dance to begin, and slowly it became clear that it already had. The dancer was making small convulsing movements with his stomach. The movement traveled to different parts of his body as other performers entered and exited the stage, walking quickly past him in all directions with their heads bowed. Ava could hear the dancer’s breath echo, and the flat patting sound of his feet on the stage. The silence was broken by a steady drone of bagpipes. The dancer continued, now alone on the stage, making his way to the ground. He reminded Ava of an insect dying slowly. She tried to read the program in the dark but couldn’t. It was too late for context.
She looked over at Amir, whose wide, unblinking gaze was fixed on the stage. He looked like he was falling in love for the first time, and Ava dreaded the idea that she would be expected to discuss the show afterward. When it ended, the bagpipes stopped, returning the audience to a taut silence. The lights clicked on. The dancer, dripping with sweat, bowed and waved proudly.
“Wow! That was just—wow.” Amir had started the sentence with vigor and ended it with quiet, sober introspection. He stood and shouted “Bravo!” with a tone of pure gratitude. “What did you think?” he said as they made their way onto the street.
Ava wasn’t sure what to say, or even what part of speech to use. “It was . . . intense,” she said.
Amir glowed. “Wasn’t it?”
He spent the subway ride and subsequent walk home recapping the performance as Ava listened politely, her mind like a dog on a long leash, wandering to Mat. She tried to reel herself back to the present moment but couldn’t focus. Mat would have embarrassed her at this show. He wouldn’t have been able to control his laughter. She pictured him sinking down low in his seat and hiding his face behind the program, his long legs barely fitting in the space in front of him. She could even hear his voice in the Swyft on the way back to her apartment: Am I nuts or did that dude look like he was having a medical emergency?
Amir saw her smiling and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. They walked like this for a block. Ava tried to put her arm around his waist, but it felt uncomfortable—surely the worst way to walk—and she took her arm back. She considered bringing up Mat and the Wharton connection, but what could she say? Hey, you might know this guy I’m attempting to forget.
When she tuned back in to what Amir was saying, she realized he was creating something of an opening for her to bring up Mat. “Basically, I’m trying to counteract two years of Wharton by supporting the arts,” he said. “Kind of unfortunate I didn’t go to a single show my whole time in Philly.”
Should she take the bait? Ava opened her mouth but couldn’t bring herself to mention Mat. “I get that,” she said instead.
“This was really fun,” Amir said, pivoting to face her. They stood outside his apartment building, and she worried that he would invite her up. He looked her in the eyes with an intensity that felt like a test. She wished she could evaporate. He leaned in to kiss her, and she let him. His small mouth rested dryly on hers. She pulled back, and he smiled at her again.
“Thanks so much for the ticket,” she said.
“Let’s do this again sometime,” he said, pushing his headband back.
“Yes, you have my number!” If there was a reply that was both honest and graceful, it eluded Ava. She felt bad for allowing him to experience an entirely different version of the evening, but the alternative—to be cold, or disparaging, or ungrateful—felt untenable. She would hav
e to simply go home and ignore him forever.
She lay in bed that night, exhausted but unable to sleep. She turned the performance ticket over in her hands. Row M. Seat 14. Thank you for supporting the Same But Different Dance Company. Her thoughts swarmed around the problem of how to gracefully cancel her next Kinder date, which she had arranged for the following evening with a woman named Rebecca P. She drafted several explanations, including “family emergency,” an excuse that was so ridiculous that she shut off her phone, willing herself to go through with it.
30
Rebecca was running five minutes late, according to a chaotic series of texts. She had suggested an old neighborhood bar near the Simple Tower that reminded Ava of the early days at STÄDA, when the team would unwind for happy hour every week. When she arrived she slid into the booth, dropping her bag on the table with a thud. It was overflowing. Something heavy and oddly shaped at the bottom of the bag prevented it from standing upright, so she leaned it against the wall before removing her earbuds and dropping them in. Ava imagined the earbuds making their way to the bottom of the bag, where they would almost certainly be crushed by the heavy, irregular object.
Rebecca had a wide, pale face and long brown hair that had been straightened. A few small hairs lining her part gave away their natural frizziness. “Hi!” she said, catching her breath. “I wasn’t sure it was you, because . . .” She hesitated for what felt like an eternity. “Well, I guess you just look a little more three-dimensional than your photos.” She laughed.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Ava said.
Rebecca sprang back, realizing the implication. “No, no!” she said, shaking her head. “Not disappointed—at all! It’s just so weird meeting up with strangers from the Internet. Like ninety-nine percent of what you have is your imagination, and it’s all going to be slightly wrong no matter what.”
The Very Nice Box Page 18