Love at First Like

by Hannah Orenstein

“Tell me about him?” I ask. “I mean, if you want? If that’s okay?”

  Luckily, Blake opens up. He describes his dad so vividly, I can see him: his skin tanned and creased from summers laying out on the beach down the Cape; his dorky habit of monogramming all his cable-knit sweaters; the way he pronounced his favorite hometown delicacy as “clam chowdah,” never “chowder.” Blake says his dad was never sick; he was fine up until the afternoon of his heart attack. I can’t help but think of my own dad. He calls it “chowdah,” too—in a Maine accent, not a Boston one, but similar enough.

  Blake tilts his head to peer out at the skyline, which is closer than ever. I can’t see his face. When he turns back toward me, his eyes lock with mine.

  “Thanks for listening,” he says. “Really.”

  He changes the subject smoothly, and by the time our feet hit concrete in Manhattan, we’ve covered everything from how supremely superior New England clam chowder is to Manhattan clam chowder, to the way Helen inspired my business, somewhat similar to the way Blake’s dad inspired his.

  And then, surrounded by zooming yellow taxis and the wafting scent of halal carts, he pulls me into a kiss. I like the way we fit together; the sturdy pressure of his hand against the small of my back unspools the pressure in my chest. I feel like melting. The awkwardness I felt the other morning in his apartment has disappeared.

  “Come back to my place?” he asks.

  I’m glad he asked. I’d rather not have him in my apartment, where there’s too much potential for him to stumble across something incriminating. He hails a cab and we pile in.

  I like that this time around, I enter Blake’s apartment building alongside him. The doorman smiles at me. It’s just a tiny shred of approval—but it makes me happy.

  There’s something oddly intimate about watching a person go through their daily routine. I watch as Blake slips his keys out of his pocket, finds the right one, and unlocks his door. Inside, he hangs his suit jacket on a hook by the door, drops his key ring onto a smaller hook, and sits on a dark wooden bench while he removes his shoes. I know from past relationships and situationships that eventually—if all goes well—I’ll learn to place my shoes and purse in a certain spot here, too. Maybe I’ll even have my own key someday. For now, I awkwardly tuck my shoes and purse next to his under the bench.

  “You hungry?” he asks.

  “Always.”

  He tugs open his refrigerator door and fishes around inside. When he finds what he’s looking for, he holds it behind his back and gives me a coy smile.

  “I may have one more surprise for you.”

  I step toward him, but he wrestles away from me. I reach for his hip to keep him in place and tilt my head up to kiss him. He softens, and when the kiss ends, he shows me what he’s been hiding: fistfuls of Babybel cheeses. I can’t help but laugh.

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “I mean, you basically told me that cheese was the way to your heart,” he says, peeling the wrapper off one and handing it to me. “So . . . I had to get you some cheese.”

  I plant another kiss on him, then another and another. It turns out there is plenty more where the Babybel came from. He has an array of fancier cheeses, too—a Wisconsin cheddar, a soft brie, an impressively smelly bleu—plus a spread of jam, grapes, prosciutto, mustard, and a sliced French baguette. He opens a fresh bottle of red wine, pours two glasses, and places them extra-gingerly down on the coffee table in front of the couch.

  “You won’t knock this one over, will you?” I tease.

  “I promise I won’t, as long as you behave.”

  “I don’t make promises I can’t keep!” I pop a grape into my mouth.

  Once he’s finished setting out our feast, he reaches for the remote. “Netflix?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m in the middle of rewatching Mad Men. I dressed up as Don Draper for Halloween basically every year of college. Or we could watch something else,” he offers.

  Of course Blake’s rewatching Mad Men. It’s not exactly a surprise that Blake is drawn to the story of an ambitious guy making a name for himself in Manhattan.

  “Let’s do it,” I say. “I always loved Joan and Peggy.”

  I think we’re both more comfortable settling in on his couch this time around. As he queues up the show, he slings his arm confidently over my shoulders and I rest my head on his chest. I feel more at ease around Blake than I have in the past. Maybe it’s because we’ve begun to share vulnerable pieces of ourselves, or maybe every fledgling couple takes a while to find their groove. Maybe the myth of love at first sight puts too much pressure on people; even if there’s an instant spark, comfort needs to develop over time.

  Halfway through the opening scene, Blake gently worms his shoulder out from under my head and gets up. “Forgot the cheese knife,” he says.

  “Do you want me to pause it?”

  “Nah, I’ve it seen it before.”

  The kitchen is a classic New York one—not a separate, closed-off room, but a collection of appliances pushed up against the far wall of the living room. He could see me any time from the kitchen. But he’s taking far too long to rummage in a drawer—wait, no, he’s trying another drawer—he’s trying a cabinet now. I slip out my phone, stand to hover over the coffee table, and snap a photo of the impressive spread. The noise from the TV covers my movements.

  He turns around sooner than I expected and catches me pressing my hair to my shoulder so it doesn’t dangle in front of my bird’s-eye-view shot. I freeze, flush, and press my phone to my chest. He just laughs.

  “Go ahead,” he encourages, in a slightly teasing voice. “So, you’re one of those girls who takes photos of all her food for Instagram.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I say, trying to laugh. It’s way better to cop to a lesser offense.

  “I don’t get it, but whatever makes you happy,” he says, setting down the cheese knife he found and joining me on the couch again.

  This time, I do hit Pause. I want to hear what he has to say. “So, you’re, like, really not on Instagram?” I ask.

  He shrugs and turns to look at the TV. “I mean, look at these guys. Don doesn’t need to tell anyone about his beautiful wife or expensive apartment or great job. He just . . . exudes confidence.”

  “I’m confident,” I say automatically.

  “You’re telling me that every like and comment and follow isn’t another little confidence booster?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. “And that you’d feel exactly the same about yourself without Instagram in your back pocket?”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Then what is it?”

  It’s miraculous that I can hold my own in front of an Elle reporter or a radio show host broadcasting to a million people, but when it’s just me and Blake in his apartment, I don’t know how to defend myself. It’s like all the right words have been sucked away and I’m only left with the wrong ones. I don’t usually feel this dumb.

  “I use it mostly for work anyway,” I explain. “It’s good for customers to see that I’m a real person who eats cheese and drinks wine, too. It helps them feel like, you know, they know me. And that translates directly to sales, I swear.”

  That’s true, but the full truth is more complicated than that. Back when I only had a few hundred followers, life had a different filter than it does now. I used Instagram to “like” photos my friends posted from parties and to gawk at celebrities sunbathing on yachts, just like everyone else. But now, my chest twinges when I miss a photo opp, or when I see a rival jeweler get a better one. I feel like I know thousands of people I’ve never met in real life, simply because of the ways in which they interact with my posts—there’s the Starbucks barista in Cleveland fantasizing about her dream wedding; the Real Housewife of New York, who wears so many diamonds every day they seem as much a part of her as her actual skin does; the gay teen boy from the Philippines who writes “iconic” on every single photo.

  And all of this, of course, change
s how I see myself. It’s hard not to feel as if you’re important when a hundred thousand people say that you are. I’m not, of course. I’m not important. I’m just a girl who’s figured out the trick, the formula: post shiny photos of this many carats (three or more) at this time (8 a.m. or 6 p.m. EST) with this kind of caption (cheery and loaded with hashtags), and presto. But sometimes, I forget that.

  I don’t want to explain all of this to Blake. It feels too dangerous—like it could help him unlock my real purpose here with him. The thought makes me feel heavy and sad; I don’t want to dwell on whether or not this is fair to Blake, especially when I might actually be developing real feelings for him. So instead, I slide my phone back into my jeans and curl into him.

  “Let’s watch,” I say, hitting play on the remote.

  • Chapter 11 •

  “Are you Eliza Roth?”

  A woman’s voice jars me to attention. I left Blake’s apartment three minutes ago; I’m in line at the coffee shop on his corner now, absentmindedly picking at a knot in my hair that definitely wasn’t there when he pulled me into his bedroom last night. Prying myself from his arms felt impossible this morning. I always feel the same way about getting up from the sand on the last beach day of summer—you know you should move, but the thought of it actually hurts.

  I spin around and take the woman in. She’s about my age, clad in blue high-waisted leggings and a matching sports bra, and carrying a yoga mat. A flat, round gold pendant embossed with what’s probably her first initial dangles from her neck; if I had a dollar for every necklace I’ve seen like that this year, Brooklyn Jewels wouldn’t be in financial trouble. Her face looks expectant.

  “Yes. Hi,” I say.

  If this were a year ago, my reaction would’ve been different. I might have tried to place her—did we cross paths in college? did we meet at that party at Carmen’s friend’s boyfriend’s place?—but not anymore. Her demeanor reminds me of that shy girl who asked for a selfie in the shop: tightly coiled, like she has something to ask me.

  Sure enough, she cracks into a smile. “I thought that was you. I’m so sorry, I saw you leaving my building and I just had to say hi.”

  “You live in that building?” I ask, slightly alarmed.

  “I just love your Instagram,” she says, as if she didn’t hear my question. “I’m kind of a fan.”

  “Oh, thank you! That’s so sweet.”

  She hitches up her yoga mat and I steal a quick glance at her hand. Her left ring finger is bare, which makes sense; most of our followers are either in research mode before they make a big purchase, or they’re single girls who save our photos for their secret wedding-themed Pinterest boards.

  “So you live next door, too?” she asks.

  “Oh, I . . .”

  “I thought you lived in Williamsburg, no?” she jumps in.

  “Um, I do.”

  “Then your fiancé lives there?”

  Her brow begins to furrow. I wish I had brainstormed a cover story ahead of time.

  “I was visiting a friend,” I blurt out.

  “Early visit,” she notes.

  “Um . . .”

  Her gaze falls to my hand. “Where’s your ring?” she asks plainly.

  We both look at my finger. I look back up at her. My mind goes blank under pressure.

  I hear a voice behind me. “Next? Next!”

  The barista. Thank god. I turn toward him and order the fastest, easiest drink possible, just so I can get out of there.

  “Small black coffee to go, please.”

  When I finish paying and collect my drink, I turn back to the woman.

  “So lovely to meet you, thanks for saying hi! Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  I toss her a huge smile that makes my cheeks ache and head for the door. I hurtle toward the subway, walking so fast that my toes smack into a fissure in the sidewalk and I trip spectacularly, arms flailing. I drop my cup and coffee splatters across the sidewalk. I steady myself and take a deep breath. It’s one thing for a random, faraway person on Instagram to leave a comment questioning who I’m engaged to. It’s another to have to confront that question in the flesh on Blake’s block. I replay the interaction in my head. It could’ve gone wrong in so many ways: she could’ve kept asking questions. If the morning had gone differently, Blake could’ve been there with me. It could’ve been disastrous.

  I get an email just as I’m heading down the grimy stairs into the subway. A publicist named Vivian Presley-Jones says she’s reaching out on behalf of Adora, a wedding gown designer, to offer a complimentary gown for my big day if I promise to tag the brand on Instagram. These kinds of emails used to shock me; now, while I still feel lucky, the surprise factor has worn off. I look up Adora’s designs. They’re not entirely my taste—everything is sexy, sheer, plunging, encrusted in crystals, like something Kylie Jenner would’ve worn to prom if she had bothered to go to prom—but it’s the style I see popping up all over Instagram. People seem to like that, even if I don’t. I don’t let myself second-guess this decision. I can’t lose my nerve anymore. I write back immediately to say thank you, yes, and ask if I can visit the atelier on Monday.

  I’ve seen enough episodes of Say Yes to the Dress to know how this works: you chant “sweetheart neckline” three times into a mirror while holding a champagne flute and wearing a white silk robe, and Pnina Tornai appears to swath you in tulle. I asked Sophie and Carmen to join me at the atelier to pick out my wedding dress. (That’s still so weird to say. My wedding dress.) I’m the first to arrive at the salon, which is decorated in soothing tones of gray and cream that make the two racks of bright white gowns stand out. Soft pop music filters through the sound system. Of course, a sales assistant named Marcy pushes a champagne flute into my hand immediately and encourages me to wait on a Mongolian lamb bench. Vivian, the publicist I had been emailing with, makes small talk with me: she coos over my engagement ring and asks to hear all about how I met my fiancé.

  I hesitate. I can make up a story that doesn’t involve revealing an identity, can’t I?

  “Believe it or not, we met at a bar,” I say, exhaling heavily.

  “No way, which one?” she asks.

  “Dorrian’s? On the Upper East Side?” I feel like I’m taking a test I’ve barely studied for.

  “No way,” she repeats. “I’m there all the time, no fair. So sweet.”

  Before Vivian can ask too many more questions, my sister arrives in the most quintessentially Sophie way possible, bearing a spiral-bound notebook and a fistful of colorful highlighters to take notes on our favorites. Carmen slinks in a minute later with a gray cashmere hoodie pulled up over her hair and dark, bug-eyed sunglasses that cover her from brows to cheekbones. When she gets closer, I gasp. Her face is covered in bright red blotches and peeling in an eerily reptilian way. Sophie politely declines a champagne flute while Carmen lunges desperately for hers.

  “Oh my god, what happened?” Sophie demands, recoiling.

  Carmen grimaces and removes her sunglasses. “I’m testing out a new retinol before I include it in my business plan. It’s, uh, not going well.”

  “Uh, yeah. That clears up, right?” I ask.

  “In about a month, yeah,” she says glumly.

  “Well, that should give you plenty of time to heal up for wedding photos!” Marcy says in her brash Long Island accent, clapping her hands for emphasis. Her dark ponytail swings behind her.

  Sophie laughs; Carmen adjusts her hoodie to cover another half inch of her lobster-red forehead.

  Vivian ushers us toward a larger seating area in the back of the room. When we sit, she passes out binders for each of us. I flip through the laminated pages; they’re the full set of the designer’s current collection. As expected, none of the looks are what you could call subtle. Every dress has a thigh-baring slit, a Swarovski crystal belt, a bosom-boosting corset, or all three. If my mom were here, she’d make a snarky comment about shopping for wedding night lingerie instead of an actual we
dding gown. With a pang, I think back to Sophie’s beautifully simple wedding dress, with its chic boatneck and clean lines. At the time, I thought her dress was kind of boring. But now, under the harsh light of Swarovski-crystal reflections, it’s clear—she was stunning. A minimalist’s dream. Meghan Markle had nothing on her.

  “Do any of these stand out to you?” Marcy asks, peering over my binder.

  I swallow and sweep my arm around the room of glittering gowns. “I mean, all of them are so gorgeous.”

  Marcy blinks her long, tarantula-style, clearly fake eyelashes and waits for an actual answer. In my daily life, sure, I dress to stand out. But for me, that’s always translated into bright colors and trendy silhouettes—not glitz and glam and a mile of cleavage. These dresses look like the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show Fantasy Bra with skirts attached.

  “But sure, I guess I can pick a few to start,” I add hastily.

  Before I know it, I’m wrapped in a white silk robe in a dressing room, waiting for Marcy to bring the first of three gowns. I chose two and Sophie picked out one. Carmen had just laughed, sat back smugly on the couch, and said she couldn’t wait to see me dressed.

  Marcy raps once against the dressing room door.

  “Come in!” I call, pulling the two halves of the skimpy robe over my exposed thighs.

  She enters hoisting three garment bags over her head and sets each one on the metallic dressing room rack with a satisfying clack. As she unzips the first bag and pulls out the miles of fabric inside, it suddenly occurs to me that she’s about to see me naked. I’ve worn the correct undergarments, per Sophie’s instructions: a nude strapless bra with a nude seamless thong. And it’s not that I dislike my body. I feel comfortable in my skin on most days, even if I don’t love the dimpling cellulite along my thighs or the way my stomach presses into the waistband of my jeans after a big dinner. I feel lucky in that regard, that I’ve escaped the debilitating body image issues that plague most of my friends. But that doesn’t mean I want to necessarily strip down in front of this saleswoman who sees dozens of brides every week who are #sheddingforthewedding. I don’t even have a real wedding to shed for; pasta is my largest food group.