It was four years ago. I remember the exact time and the exact place.
I walked into Halliday’s on Fourth like I owned the damn place. I sidled up next to a hot brunette at the bar, offered to buy her a drink, and started chatting with her. Her name was Sarah.
After three drinks bought and paid on my dime, I offered to take her home. She said no. It was a little after ten at night.
I tried a different approach, but the answer was the same.
I went home and jerked myself off while I watched porn. The women on my screen looked nothing like Sarah. They were blonde, and that’s when I decided I would only date blondes. I had far better luck with them than I did with brunettes.
Maybe it’s stupid, but the last time I was rejected by a woman was four years ago at almost this exact same time of night. She was brunette, and her name started with an S.
I’m beginning to think it’s some sort of curse—the curse of the S-named brunettes who reject me around ten o’clock at night after I’ve paid for their entertainment for a couple of hours.
I walk back to the office. There’s more to do—I never reviewed the packet of resumes Lauren left on my desk, never signed off on the sponsorships after my meeting with Harold.
I just don’t care.
I don’t give a fuck about what I do. I’m not bettering the world. I’m charging people insane amounts of money to allow them to access the internet. I’m providing entertainment, I guess, and news.
I’m in a shitty mood after being rejected. I thought opening myself up might be my way in, but Sylvie was stubborn. I can’t blame her for wanting to be faithful to her loser lawyer boyfriend. If she loves him, that’s great, but I got the sense that she felt something for me tonight.
It was just a couple of hours, but they were the most memorable hours I’ve had in a while.
People come and go from our lives all the time. Why is it that some make a bigger impact than others?
I can’t remember the name of the woman I slept with last Monday. Maybe that makes me a horrible person. She was unremarkable, like all the others, but I vividly remember the old man—a complete stranger—at Denny’s when Carter and I were kids. I was maybe seven, and Carter was probably six. He walked up to my parents after he’d finished his meal. He was alone, and he had a walker. “Those are two good boys you’ve got there. Well-behaved. You keep doing whatever you’re doing.”
That quote is burned into my memory. I think of that man often. What prompted him to come to our table and make that comment? Does he have kids of his own—grandkids, or great-grandkids even? Is he doing well? Is he still alive?
I remember my mom’s eyes filling with tears at a stranger’s comment. I wonder if he’d still say the same thing if he saw me today—if he saw me trying to hit on a woman who told me no because she has a boyfriend. If he knew how badly I wanted her in my bed, in my arms. If he knew I’m going to buy enough shares of her family’s company so it can become part of my family’s company.
The old man who came and went from my life in the blink of an eye has been a beacon of my moral compass for nearly my entire life, and I know I’ve let him down on more than one occasion. My moral compass doesn’t always point north as it should. It might be broken, and I might not care enough to get it fixed.
My point is that some people come into our lives and leave an impression. I knew nothing about that man apart from the few words he spoke to my parents, yet he still impacts me to this day. After just a couple of hours with Sylvie, I already know she’s another one who will affect my life for a long time to come. I size people up for a living, and I could read her right away. She’s someone I want to share more than one meal with. More than one bottle of wine. More than one walk to and from a hotel room.
More than one night.
I sign off on the sponsorships. I flip through resumes. Everything is tinged with regret tonight.
What would’ve happened if she wasn’t taken by another man?
I’ll never know.
I need to clear my head, and there’s only one thing I can think of that will do just that. I text Miller.
Me: What’s on for tonight?
Miller: Your dinner is over already?
Me: She’s got a boyfriend.
Miller: Hasn’t stopped you in the past.
Me: Stopped her. Not me.
Miller: I’ve got a couple yoga instructors over showing me a thing or two.
Fuck. Yes.
I feel a sense of boyish glee, despite my sour mood from the way tonight didn’t pan out for me. The last yoga instructor I was with was one of the best lays I’ve had in a long time. Surely she’ll take my mind off Sylvie.
Me: Are you taking on both? Or is there room for me?
Miller: Come on over. I can’t handle both.
Me: Tell me one of them is blonde.
Miller: One of them is blonde.
Me: Be there in twenty.
I text Geoffrey next. I own several cars, but I never drive anywhere. Finding parking in Manhattan is like winning the lottery, anyway. My driver, Geoffrey, gets paid well to take me wherever I want, whenever I want. He pulls up outside the King building a few minutes later, and I slide into the back. “Miller’s place.”
He nods once. Typically while I ride in the back of a car, I’m busy scrolling email or taking care of business. Tonight, though, I stare out the window as we pass by the familiar streets. I wonder what this city looks like to someone like Sylvie. Was this her first time in New York? Or has she been here before? San Diego and New York aren’t just separated by physical distance; their differences couldn’t be more pointed for two major cities in the same country.
I take a deep breath and shake my head. This isn’t me—this reflective bullshit as I stare blankly out the window. I don’t even know this girl, and she’s got me all fucked up in the head.
Yoga instructor.
That’ll knock some sense back into me.
Geoffrey pulls up to the curb outside Miller’s Tribeca apartment. He’s lived in the area for years. It’s not far from the financial district where he works, and he just moved into a sweet new two-bedroom apartment—perfect for a night like tonight. I’ve spent the night here more than once after drinking too much and because it’s just an easy place to go with a woman. His guest bedroom is practically my second home.
His doorman knows I’m coming, and he lets me in. When I get up to his eighth floor apartment, the yoga girls are demonstrating some of their yoga poses for Miller. In what I can only describe as doggie style, both girls are bent forward at the waist with their hands flat on the ground and their feet behind them. I walk in to two dress-clad asses up in the air, and I grin over at Miller. From this angle, it looks as though both are wearing thongs. One is wearing a hot pink one for sure, and the other has a little bit of a shadow marring my ability to get a good look at the color.
You’re welcome, he mouths in my direction.
I chuckle.
“Oh, hi!” Pink thong has noticed my arrival, and, lucky me, it’s the blonde Miller promised me. She straightens.
“Hi. Don’t let me stop you,” I say.
She giggles. “Miller asked us to help him with his downward dog, so we’re just demonstrating.”
“I could use a little help myself,” I say, and I move toward her as she bends at the waist again.
Sometimes this shit is just too goddamn easy.