Love at First Like

by Hannah Orenstein

  She chuckles. “Go. I’ll stay and get the check. Just tell me how it goes.”

  • Chapter 26 •

  I’ve speed-walked two blocks toward Golden Years before it occurs to me to text Raj and see if he’s even there. I pause on the sidewalk to write to him. “Hey,” I type, pressing send before I lose my nerve. I add, “Can we talk in person? Where are you?” I’m too wound up to wait for his reply.

  I zoom through my neighborhood, past the bodega with one too many cats and the new smoothie shop that has the nerve to charge twelve dollars a pop. I can’t believe I wasted almost two weeks worrying if Blake would come around and say yes to my proposition. I never thought I’d be the girl who waits for a guy who doesn’t want her.

  Golden Years’s bright neon sign is like a lighthouse. It casts a warm glow on the sidewalk, and I race toward it. Just outside the bar, I check my phone. No response from Raj. I scroll down through my inbox to find Blake’s name. It’s way farther down than I expected it to be. Our conversation looks pathetically one-sided: it’s a string of desperate pleas from me and silence from him.

  “Blake, I’m sorry,” I write. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I shouldn’t have asked you to show up at the wedding. You shouldn’t come. I don’t think it’s the right move for either of us.”

  I read over what I’ve written once, then twice, and then I press send. I get a chill of satisfaction. It’s strange to feel free of wanting someone I once wanted so badly.

  When I push through the door, I overestimate how much power I need to use and it bangs loudly against the wall. Raj, thank god, is working tonight, drying glasses behind the bar. He glances up when he sees me and flinches in a double take. There’s just one available seat, smack-dab in the middle of the row of bar stools. In an ideal world, Golden Years would be empty so we could have this conversation privately, with dignity. But this is New York—always packed, especially when you wish it wasn’t—and so I’m just going to have to say what’s on my mind with three inches of elbow room on each side.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  There’s no edge to his voice. He sounds purely confused.

  “I’m here to apologize,” I say plainly. “I’m here to tell you that I like you. I’m here to say that I should’ve acknowledged that we could be more than just friends a long time ago. I didn’t—that was wrong. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to make it up to you.”

  He puts down the glass and the dishrag. “How?” he asks.

  “I’m here if you want me,” I say. “I’m choosing you. For real. You’re not just my fallback guy for when I’m sad.”

  I can feel the people on either side of me turning away to give us more space. Raj’s face is frozen solid with anxious anticipation. I barrel on.

  “You’re special, you know that, right? You’re my favorite person to talk to. You’re ridiculously thoughtful. You’re genuine and funny and supportive, and I’d be so lucky if we could be a part of each other’s lives.”

  He exhales. For a moment, I can’t read his expression. The soaring sense of adrenaline I’ve been running on starts to wear thin. I wish there weren’t this thick wooden bar blocking the space between us.

  “What are you saying?” he asks slowly.

  “I want to give us a shot,” I say. “I want us to go out on dates to real restaurants that serve more than just mozzarella sticks. I want us to curl up on my couch to watch Netflix together. I want to kiss you for real and have you kiss me back. I understand if this is all too little, too late. But if I don’t tell you now, I know I’ll regret it.”

  Wordlessly, he walks along the length of the bar, away from me. Panic creeps into my chest. I can sense that people are eavesdropping on us and I wish they’d stop. I watch him turn the corner so he’s no longer on the service side of the bar and stride toward me. I slide off my bar stool so I can stand and face him. I search his face for clues about what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t meet my eyes until he’s directly in front of me. Then, he gently tilts my chin up with his finger so we’re looking eye to eye. My heart pounds hard against my chest.

  “Let’s give this a shot,” he says finally. His expression cracks into a grin.

  He cups my cheek with one hand and kisses me deeply. I feel a rush of electricity, like my skin is sparkling with sheer joy. Across the bar, I hear a whooping shout that seems intended to cheer us on. In response, Raj’s other hand slips around my waist to bring me closer as he kisses me again, and again, and again. In his arms, I feel confident, comfortable, and genuinely excited. I don’t have to fake anything around him.

  When we finally lean apart, he gazes at me with warm, vibrant eyes. He tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear; it’s an intimate gesture, but he does it with ease.

  “I’m really glad you came back,” he says softly.

  “Me, too,” I say.

  “And you’re not just here for the free drinks and snacks?” he teases.

  “Not opposed, but nope, definitely just here for you,” I say.

  He shakes his head slightly like he can’t quite believe that this is really happening.

  “I hope you don’t think that you’re the only one who messed up,” he says seriously. “I mean, yeah, the kiss caught me off guard, but I’ve liked you from the start. I should’ve told you how I felt sooner. I just . . . I assumed that girls like you didn’t go for guys like me.”

  My cheeks flush. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re this badass who runs her own company and is kind of semi-famous, and, well, I’m currently covered in beer. A customer knocked over a whole pitcher earlier,” he explains. “You could date anyone, and you were dating someone else—engaged to someone else, even—and yet you’re here. You see how that’s weird for me, right?”

  “But I don’t want to date just anyone,” I say. “Raj, I want to date you. When I’m with you, I can be myself. Stress melts away. I genuinely have fun. Do you know how special it is to find a connection like that?”

  I can actually see that thought sink in as he processes it; his self-conscious lip bite is replaced by a self-satisfied smile. He runs a hand through his hair.

  There’s a blob in my peripheral vision. I turn to realize a customer is awkwardly hovering a few feet away from us, clutching two empty beer bottles.

  “Uh, can I get the check?” he asks, swiveling his glance from Raj to me and back again.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry, dude,” Raj says, grabbing the empty bottles and scrambling around the side of the bar. “Remind me of the name on your tab?”

  I slide back onto the stool and spin around to lean my elbows on the bar. I feel loose and light and buzzing with good vibes. Since my breakup, I’ve felt like I was wading through molasses: sad, sluggish, stuck. Tonight, all of that has changed. I thrive on making shit happen.

  Raj returns eventually. He has to work for another hour and asks if I’ll hang out with him. I say yes, of course, and he automatically pours me a drink. He’s not really supposed to drink on the job, but he pours himself one, too.

  “What? We’re celebrating,” he says, clinking his glass toward mine.

  In between him serving customers, we catch up on everything we’ve missed. He tells me about scaling down his shifts at Golden Years while taking on new clients. He’s coding two small projects in addition to Carmen’s now: a sleek calendar app and the fundraising site for a woman running for state senator next year. Thanks to the influx of cash, he’s considering taking some time off for a vacation soon—he’s thinking maybe Berlin, if he can get a group of friends together. I’m less psyched to fill him in on my life, considering it’s nothing but stories about wedding planning and impending professional and financial doom.

  “Can I ask what happened with Blake?” he says, squinting like he’s not fully sure he wants to hear the answer.

  “We’re over,” I say. “We weren’t ever right for each other. It was a mistake.”

  “And the wedding? You called that off?” he ask
s.

  I hesitate. “Not exactly,” I admit.

  I can see the question forming on his lips. “Isn’t your wedding . . . soon?” he asks.

  “Next Saturday,” I say.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Is that, like . . .” He pauses to count. “Nine days away?”

  “Yep.”

  After another pause, he asks, “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m out of ideas,” I say, shaking my head sadly. “I don’t know.”

  He screws up his mouth and looks at me strangely. His eyes twinkle.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I have an idea,” he says.

  “Yeah?”

  “I could pretend to marry you,” he says.

  I laugh. He doesn’t.

  “Dude, that is way too much,” I insist.

  “I mean, as long as the ceremony isn’t legally binding and it’s just for show, I could help you out,” he says. “I know how important this wedding is for your company. You’ve worked too hard to see it disappear. Let me help you out.”

  I understand what Raj is saying, but I have a hard time believing he’s serious.

  “You’re saying you’d pretend to get married?” I clarify. “Like, put on a suit, say ‘I do,’ that kind of thing?”

  “I mean, this sounds like a fancy wedding. I’d rent a tux, but yeah,” he says.

  I stare at him over the bar. I swear I can feel my intestines sweating.

  “Isn’t that too . . .” I search for the right word. “Nice? Grand? Insane?”

  He straightens up and runs his hand through his hair again. His eyes lock with mine while he considers how to respond.

  “How’s this,” he suggests finally. “I already have plans when I get off work in an hour, but how about you come with me? We’ll give this a try for real. It’ll be a date. If all goes well, then we can consider what comes next.”

  “And here I was thinking the surprise party was the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me,” I say.

  I don’t dare assume that anything good will come from our date tonight—for all I know, I could ruin this, too. And I don’t take Raj’s gesture lightly. The fact that he’d even offer his help to me after what’s happened between us is enormous. I want to make sure he truly feels comfortable going through with the wedding, if it comes to that. But for the first time in weeks, I have a plan that could potentially save Brooklyn Jewels. That’s enormously comforting. I lean across the bar to hug him, then pull back to give him another kiss. I stand up and collect my purse and jacket.

  “What, where are you going?” he asks, looking confused.

  “Heading home to get dressed,” I say, walking backward toward the door. “I have a date tonight.”

  • Chapter 27 •

  I scurry across the street and up the stairs to my apartment. In my bathroom mirror, it’s clear that the past few weeks have been tough on me: my hair is greasy, my skin looks lifeless, and the bags under my eyes are a sad shade of blue. I jump into the fastest shower of my life so I can shampoo myself into something resembling a human again. When it’s time to towel off and start getting ready, it hits me: I have no idea what I’m getting ready for. Ninety percent of my time spent with Raj thus far has involved distracting him from bartending at Golden Years. I couldn’t even tell you if his go-to first date spot is a cocktail lounge, a dive bar, or a coffee shop—or if he even has a go-to first date spot.

  “You said you had plans in mind?” I text Raj, clutching a towel to my chest and shivering. “What are they?”

  He texts me a link and I open it. It’s an event at the House of Yes, the legendarily outrageous club in Bushwick, Brooklyn. I’ve been there for a few events before: the bar, performance space, and dance floor look like what would happen if Studio 54 had a baby with a circus. It appears that tonight’s event is something called the Poetry Brothel: a mash-up of poetry performance; burlesque; and campy, gothic theater. It’s a far cry from the American Heart Association Gala.

  “. . . too much?” he texts.

  “It’s perfect,” I write back.

  This is my cue to go overboard: the next half hour is a blur of sea salt spray, purple eyeliner, and the perfume Carmen gave me for my birthday last year. I pause before selecting an outfit. What screams “I’m sorry, I’m glad we made up, thanks for offering to pretend to marry me?” I consider a few outfits before selecting something that feels simple and sexy: an off-the-shoulder black dress that’s understated enough that I can load up on fun costume jewelry. I put on color-blocked Lucite hoops and a rainbow channel-set band. I leave the engagement ring on my dresser; it feels off, somehow, to wave it in his face right now. I’m about to leave when the rumpled sheets and duvet on my bed catch my eye. I can’t say for sure what will happen with Raj tonight, but I’d feel better not leaving this one particular element up to chance. I take a minute to carefully make my bed. Then I grab my leather jacket from the hook by the door and head back to Golden Years. Adrenaline rushes through my body again. After years of forgettably mediocre dates, tonight could be the outing that changes everything. It could be monumental. If tonight goes well, our lives won’t ever be the same again. But, like, no pressure or anything.

  When I reenter Golden Years, it strikes me how everything has changed in the past two hours. Raj meets my eyes when I walk in and my heart does a backflip. I lean against the bar; he leans over it to kiss me.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he says.

  It’s the first time he’s ever complimented me like that, and my cheeks go hot. “Thank you,” I mumble. “You look great always.”

  You look great always. Do I sound like some sort of AI robot reciting fragments of human speech? I hope that didn’t sound too awkward.

  “I’ll be done here in one minute, cool?”

  “Yeah!” I take a seat on a bar stool to wait for him.

  He disappears into the back room. I send Carmen a text.

  “You’ll never guess what’s happening right now,” I say, baiting her into a response.

  Her reply is instant. “???”

  I see another text from her bubbling up. A minute later, it appears: “Won’t lie, I def used Find My Friends to lightly spy on you, and I KNOW YOU’RE AT GOLDEN YEARS!”

  I laugh and dash off a quick text to fill her in on what’s gone down since I saw her earlier tonight.

  She shoots back a GIF of Kris Jenner cooing, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

  Raj emerges from the back. “Ready to go?” he asks.

  We walk to the subway. I try to focus on anything other than his hand dangling inches from mine.

  “I didn’t know you were into poetry,” I blurt out.

  “It’s not really my thing, but my friend is performing tonight,” he explains. “Plus, House of Yes is always fun.”

  “It took me two weeks to wash the glitter out of my hair last time I went,” I say.

  “See? Fun.”

  And then, as if he can read my mind, he slips his hand into mine. It’s warm and comforting. He squeezes my hand, turns to me, and raises an eyebrow as if to say, “Is this okay?” I squeeze his back. From there, it’s easier to relax. The more affectionate Raj is, the calmer I feel. The compliments and the hand-holding make me feel like this is for real. Carmen’s words from happy hour echo in my head: I just have to take this one step at a time and focus on our chemistry—not necessarily our entire future together.

  Ten minutes later, once we’re off the train, we walk to the venue. House of Yes is hard to miss, partly because it’s a massive aqua warehouse painted with the word “YES” on the side, but mostly due to the line of people dressed in irritatingly hip outfits and outrageous costumes that stretches halfway down the block. The men wear more interesting makeup than the women. The first room inside features a bar decorated with multicolored strips of wood fanning out like rays of sunshine, a cluster of disco balls, and a life-sized statue of a polar bear. We’re waiting in line for drinks when Raj, apropos of nothing,
kisses me.

  “I just wanted to do that again,” he says, shrugging.

  We each order beers. Raj tries to pay, but I gently touch his hand.

  “Please, let me get this round,” I say. “You’ve been giving me free drinks forever.”

  He hesitates for a moment, but doesn’t protest when I give my credit card to the bartender.

  “Next time’s on me, then,” he says.

  I try not to dwell on the implication of his words.

  We move into the main room, an airy performance space. The red velvet curtain over the stage reminds me of a school play, but the vaguely sexual cage hanging from the ceiling does not. We wedge into the crowd, past a very tall man wearing nothing but a tiny pair of metallic briefs and matching suspenders. It’s louder here. We curve toward each other, our shoulders and elbows and hips bumping as we talk.

  Soon, a host glides onto the stage. She looks like an Old Hollywood starlet in a floor-length, gauzy, magenta robe trimmed with marabou over a matching corset and ruffled panties. She welcomes the crowd, which erupts in cheers. The host outlines how the event works: a few poets will read their work onstage, and then the rest will offer private poetry readings for a fee. The curtain sweeps up to reveal a dozen poets lounging on or draped around a brocade fainting couch. Everyone is dressed in riffs on the same theatrical Old Hollywood style. The host introduces them by their stage names: Penelope Strangelight, Cora Chaos, Beatrix Hotter, and so on. Each gives a coquettish wave or a tip of their top hat and stands to recite a line of original poetry.

  “That’s my friend,” Raj says, nudging me when Penelope Strangelight stands. She’s dressed in a sheer black tunic floating over black fishnet tights. A crown of black roses perches atop her blond hair. The effect is like a seductive Morticia Addams on her night off.

  The last time I read poetry was the day I let my Tumblr account go, but tonight’s performance is enjoyable. Once the introductions are complete, every poet files offstage except for one, who recites a poem about a little girl in the woods in a throaty, melodic voice. When she’s finished, the spotlight swings up to illuminate the cage. Another poet, clad in old-fashioned-looking tweed trousers and a leather studded collar over a bare chest, recites a poem with vivid lines about the trouble he used to get into while performing in a punk band. It’s an oddball event for sure, but it lights up my brain in places that haven’t stirred in a long time. Tonight reminds me of my first few years in New York, back in college, when I had nearly limitless time to seek out adventure instead of holing up in my office to work.