Chapter Seventeen
Diana
Voicemail message one: Hello, Amanda, my dearest, oldest friend.
I hope everything is okay with you and yours.
If you were a normal person, I would be very worried that you haven’t responded to my voice messages from over a week ago, but thankfully I understand that you are not a normal person. I realize that you’re as stubborn as a dog sniffing a fence post covered in other dogs’ urine, determined to pinpoint exactly who sprayed the post when and whether they were in heat at the time, and that you are also probably suffering from telephonophobia.
Which is a real thing, in case you didn’t know.
I’ve been doing some research on phobias. They’re a lot more widespread than you might think.
Voicemail cut off, message sent…
Voicemail message two: So, you see, I understand that you likely suffer from this phobia and are also maybe trying to teach me to text instead of call by stubbornly refusing to engage with me until I contact you via your approved method of communication. But what you don’t understand, my dearest, sweetest friend, is that I cannot text you right now because I am terrified to put the things I’m thinking about saying into writing.
I’m not even sure I can speak them, let alone write them down where I will be forced to look at them in word form and potentially come across them later when I’m scrolling through our text messages trying to find your address because I can never remember where you live when I’m trying to send you weird things I think—
Voicemail cut off, message sent…
Voicemail message three: Remember that time I sent you the merman ornaments with the glittery tails for your Christmas tree? The cowboy merman and the fireman merman and the random, scary-fabulous merman holding a skull and carrying a sparkly pink purse?
Remember how happy you were when you unwrapped them, and how they are now your very favorite ornaments and you save them to put on the tree last every year? Not to brag, but that’s something only a good friend who understands your weirdness like no one else does would do, Amanda.
You know another thing a good friend would do?
Pick up the phone before—
Voicemail cut off, message sent…
Voicemail message four: Just please call me back, okay? I promise I’ll keep it short and not waste any of your valuable time. Please? Please, please, please?
Or at least text that you’re okay? If I don’t hear back from you in a day or two, I’m going to call your mom, and you know that never ends well.
For you.
I, on the other hand, will be sent homemade monkey bread as a reward for being concerned about my oldest friend and listening to your mother talk about bird watching and debate for an hour about which brand of hiking boots she should buy. Which I am happy to do because I haven’t started my new job yet and my own mother also hates to talk on the phone.
Love you. Call me?
From the texts of Amanda Esposito
and Diana Daniels
Amanda: DO NOT CALL MY MOTHER!
DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!
Diana: Well, hello to you, too. How’s life down there in Eugene where you are apparently so busy you can’t spare five seconds to call your very best friend?
Amanda: I worked two doubles last week, Dee. And my allergies have been acting up. By the time I had a spare second to call you, I barely had a voice left, and right now I sound like a goblin that lives under a damp, drafty, pollen-coated bridge. It hurts to talk, but I’m happy to text you through whatever crisis has you so upset.
Diana: I can’t text it. I seriously can’t.
The thought of writing it down makes me sick to my stomach.
I know I left silly messages, but I don’t feel silly.
I feel scared…
Amanda: What are you scared of, pumpkin?
Is someone being mean to you?
Diana: No. The opposite.
Someone is being very nice and good to me.
Someone with a penis…
Amanda: Oh boy…
Diana: Exactly.
Amanda: Well, we figured this would happen sooner or later, right?
Diana: No, we didn’t. I swore off men, Mandy.
And I meant it!
I still mean it!
I don’t want to have warm, fuzzy, more-than-friends feelings for anyone with a penis ever again. I hate myself for letting this happen!
I’m such a pathetic weakling loser.
Amanda: You are not any of those things.
You’re a wonderful person with a good heart who needs and deserves to be loved. It isn’t your fault you’ve dated the worst men ever. I met most of them, you’ll remember, and they truly did seem like lovely, interesting, cute-as-a-button people until they turned out to be assholes who cheated and lied and ruined your credit.
You’ve just gotten unlucky, girlfriend.
Maybe you were born under a bad star or something.
Diana: Maybe. Or maybe there’s something deeply wrong with me.
Maybe I have a personality flaw you can’t see because we grew up together and you’re blind to it. The way people with too many cats in their house become blind to the terrible smell of too many cats.
Amanda: I have very good eyes and, when I’m not suffering from allergies, a keen nose, as well. I am not blind to your personality flaws. I see them quite clearly.
Diana: Thanks?
I guess?
Amanda: You are impulsive and opinionated, and you like to have your way more than most people I know, but none of those qualities interfere with your lovableness. You’re also funny and sweet and entertaining and loyal and a sexy little minx any guy would be lucky to have on his arm.
And maybe you’ve finally met a guy who’s smart enough to see all those things.
I mean, there has to be a break in the bad luck sooner or later, right?
Even Seattle has a sunny day now and then.
Diana: I had a break in the bad luck once.
And I screwed it up.
Which reminds me, I ran into The One I Screwed It Up With, the other day.
Amanda: OMG NO! You didn’t?! When? Where?
Diana: On the street, right after my job interview.
He and his fiancée were coming out of a fancy plate shop a few doors down. I mean, I knew he lived in Portland, but what are the freaking odds?
Amanda: Ugh. I’m so sorry.
But at least you looked adorable, right?
Since you’d just come from an interview?
So it could have been worse?
Diana: It definitely could have been worse.
And my new friend showed up a minute later and kissed me hello like he was dying to get me home and jump my bones. So that was nice, too.
Amanda: Oh, that’s very nice! I like new guy already.
When do I get to meet him?
Diana: Never!
Probably never…
You’re supposed to be telling me to slow down and take it easy and remember how messing with men has made me miserable for a decade, not telling me to jump back into the plague pit and roll around until I’m coughing up blood and have oozing boils all over my body.
Amanda: You have a knack for repulsive metaphors.
Diana: Thank you. Plague is still a thing you can catch, by the way. In case you were wondering. It’s carried by rodents in rural areas and is still nearly one hundred percent fatal if not immediately treated by antibiotics.
Amanda: Another reason never to engage with nature.
Diana: No, just a reason to go to the doctor if you feel sick instead of thinking you can cure everything with Echinacea and Vitamin C.
Amanda: Preaching to the choir, babe. We almost lost a woman the other day because she’d waited too long to come in for a thyroid problem.
Diana: I like that you’re smart and agree with me about most things.
Amanda: I like this, too. But as far as love is concerned…
Well, Sam was a wonderful guy. No arguments there.
But he’s not the only wonderful guy in the world.
Maybe losing him is what you needed to teach you to hold on tight the next time someone perfect for you comes along. And maybe it’s time to think about holding on to someone again.
Diana: God…
I seriously almost threw up, Mandy.
Thinking about holding on tight makes me physically ill with terror.
Amanda: Then you should talk to someone other than me, sweet pea.
I get through life with telephonophobia okay now that most decent human beings understand that texting is better than interrupting someone’s perfectly calm existence with a bunch of noisy, stressful ringing. But love-a-phobia is a different animal.
It’s like oxygen-a-phobia.
Or cheese-a-phobia.
Diana: Cake-o-phobia.
Amanda: Wine-o-phobia.
Diana: Hike-o-phobia.
Amanda: You lost me there. Why walk in a circle in the middle of a bunch of trees, where you could be eaten by bears or contract the plague, when you could be walking around an art gallery or museum? Or just window shopping?
Diana: But what if it’s not love-a-phobia, Mandy?
What if I’m a love-a-holic? And instead of giving this thing with New Penis a shot, I should be taking it one day at a time, talking to an anti-love sponsor and counting how many days I’ve been sober?
Amanda: Do you seriously think that’s true?
Diana: I don’t know! But this feels like falling off the wagon.
I mean, I’ve never been on the wagon, but this about-to-lose-control-in-the-bad-way feeling is probably what it feels like, right?
Amanda: I hear you.
Hmmmm…
Okay, so how about this…
Ask yourself—and answer honestly—
Are you falling in love with love? Or are you loving being with this particular guy and his particular penis?
Diana: I AM NOT IN LOVE WITH ANYONE OR ANYTHING!
I SAID I WAS TEMPTED TO HAVE FEELINGS NOT THAT I ALREADY HAVE THEM! YOU’RE TAKING THIS WAY TOO FAR WAY TOO FAST! JESUS CONSTIPATED CHRIST, AMANDA, SLOW YOUR DAMN ROLL!
Amanda: STOP ALL CAPS YELLING AT ME, OR I WILL NEVER PICK UP THE PHONE WHEN YOU CALL EVER AGAIN! YOU’RE MAKING MY EYES HURT!
Diana: FINE! IT’S NOT LIKE YOU’RE GOING TO PICK UP ANYWAY!
Amanda: Let’s have a time out and text more later.
Diana; No! We don’t need a time out! Don’t leave me! I’m sorry…
The L-word made my mouth fill with terrible-tasting spit.
Stress spit.
It’s awful.
And it made me shouty.
Are you still there?
Amanda: I’m still here.
So which is it?
The general feeling…
Or the particular person?
Diana: I…
I don’t know…
I was feeling pretty low and lonely when I met this guy…
And it’s nice not to feel low or lonely anymore.
Maybe it’s the absence of loneliness that’s got me feeling soft and squishy, and not this person at all?
Amanda: So he has no adorable qualities?
Diana: Well, of course he has adorable qualities.
He’s sweet and generous and funny and supportive. And a fucking pleasure to look at in clothing and without clothing and in all the stages in between.
And he called the women who were mean to me at my first interview bitches and took my side when his pig bit me and pulled some strings with a friend to help me land my new job, so…
Amanda: And the sex isn’t gross?
Diana: *eggplant emoji* *sparkling star emoji* *unicorn emoji* *cartwheel emoji*
Amanda: Well, that looks promising!
Diana: He’s a dick sorcerer.
A sorcerer of dick.
Amanda: And he’s not homeless or jobless or secretly a serial killer?
Diana: As one of the recently underemployed, I take offense to the insinuation that jobless people are unlovable. But no, he’s not any of those things. Though he is of above average intelligence, so if he were a secret serial killer, he would probably be clever enough to make sure I didn’t find out about it.
Amanda: So does that make it okay? If he’s a serial killer, but you don’t know?
Diana: Well, of course not, but I can’t know what I don’t know. You know?
Amanda: And you’ve just solved your own problem.
Diana: What? How?
Amanda: You can’t know the unknown. Which means you can’t know if New Guy is a keeper unless you give him a chance.
Diana: Even though every other guy I’ve given a chance has been awful except one?
Amanda: He’s not every other guy.
He’s New Guy.
He’s the funny, clever, supportive Dick Sorcerer.
Diana: God…
Amanda: No, I’m Amanda.
But I will accept tithing in the form of sex toys. I think it’s time to buy a vibrator, but I’m too embarrassed to even order it online. The government is spying on our search histories, you know, and I don’t want creepy FBI agents knowing what I’m doing with my vagina in my spare time.
So will you send me one?
One that’s good at making a girl not miss her ex?
Diana: Yes, I will. Because I love you, and I’m so glad you’re not getting back together with Wonderdick.
Amanda: Thanks. I love you, and I’m glad you’re going to give love another shot. I firmly believe that someday you’re going to make a tolerant man who can stomach talking on the phone very happy.
Diana: You will talk to me the next time I call.
Third time’s a charm…
Amanda: Keep dreaming, crazy.
And good luck.
I’m rooting for you.