Waking up around midday, the only thing I can think of is how off-base I was with Bobby last night. Sometimes I have these emotions that conquer and control me to a point I can’t do anything about them. I want to, I want to keep my mouth shut, but sometimes I just can’t. It’s a terrible little habit I have and probably a good reason why I have such a limited group of friends these days. I don’t mean to shut people out, but it feels so often like other people just can’t understand what I’ve been through… or what I’m going through. Of course, some of them can. Of course, relatively speaking, I’m a lucky motherfucker. I am a white man from the United States after all. But it’s hard when you’re so caught up in your own little world. When your life and past is so overwhelming you can hardly make sense of it, it’s hard to realize there are other people out there suffering too. And people who care.
I don’t want to go on my date today. It’s actually the last thing in the world I want to do, but I don’t believe in standing people up, and I don’t believe in not living up to my end of a bet. If I’m going to win my twenty-five thousand… it’s going to be legitimate.
Buttoning up my pea coat and lumbering out into the New York cold, I make my way down the street to hail a cab. Today is the museum, which is not a choice of mine, nor would it ever be. I don’t hate museums per se, there’s just about a hundred other things I’d rather do. A natural history museum is one thing. The MET is a whole other beast entirely. It’s not that I hate art, or the MET, or anything like that. I don’t. I’ve been there many times, and enjoyed the times I have gone. As an artist myself, I can appreciate the differences in taste. But this day and age, something can be considered art without regard to how much work is put into it. As an author striving through first, second, and third round drafts, and through editing nightmares, it’s hard to see an “artist” pull something from the dump and call it art. I live in New York. I’ve seen it. And I’ve seen those pieces go for millions.
As the cab pulls up to the curb, I pay him and climb out to see, though I’m late, there’s no sign of her outside the MET. I take a seat at the bottom of the massive staircase where she asked me to meet her. I sit for a while, my ass growing cold from the stone, and I fuck around with the app, which feels a bit odd as I wait for Sami, 24, from Brooklyn to show. She told me she’d be wearing a red shirt with blue jeans and dark brown, almost black hair held up by a hair tie.
I sit for a few minutes, my foot bobbing relentlessly from nervousness. My gaze drifts from the cars barreling down the road to the thick clouds choking out the sky and signifying an oncoming storm. Just as I’m about to leave, I notice someone who resembles Sami, wearing what she had said she would, hurriedly walking down the sidewalk, having just exited a cab. She shakes her head, putting a palm to her forehead.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, as she approaches.
“Completely okay,” I reply, still seated as she makes her approach. She’s got free-flowing charcoal black hair that reaches past her shoulder blades, a mesmerizing blue to her eyes that catches the little bit of sunlight, and an infectious smile that beams as I stand from the bench, so much that it catches me off guard.
“I can’t even tell you,” she says, shaking her head and collecting her hair up into a ponytail with a hair tie. “It’s been a crazy day.”
“Well, I hope we can maybe make it a little better for you,” I respond with a smile, greeting her with a hug and noticing instantly the incredible smell permeating from her. I pull away and wait for her to continue up the steps. “You ready?”
“Yes, of course.”
We continue up the lengthy steps to the front door, and she nods politely as I hold it open for her.
“Thanks for agreeing to this. I’ve always wanted to go, but haven’t had the chance yet,” she says, removing her long red scarf and jacket. I reach my hands out to take it from her and she tilts her head. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
She hands them over and nods. “Such a gentleman. Thank you.”
“I certainly try,” I say with a smirk, removing my own coat and folding both of them over my arm. “So, you haven’t been here yet? You must not be local,” I say, grinning, as we work our way through the massive main corridor.
“Nope! Is anyone local here anymore?” she asks with a soft smile. “I was born and raised in Oneonta. I went to school up there and moved down here for my Master’s.”
“Oh nice. Where did you go?”
“NYU. It was amazing. I really fell in love with the city after that,” she says, a lovely little smirk taking up her naturally beautiful face.
I look to her, wide-eyed, with an approving nod. “I went to NYU too… for writing. Your profile said you’re a teacher, right?”
“Yeah, special education at P.S. 122 in the South Bronx. This is actually my first year on the job. Two months in…” Her voice trails and she seems lost in thought. She laughs it off and slowly shakes her head. “It’s been interesting.”
“I can only imagine. You must have the patience of a saint. And in the South Bronx?” I look at her skeptically, knowing full well only the most competent and determined of educators can make it out of there in one piece.
“I thought I could handle it all. I really did,” she says, hesitating for a moment before she continues. “Looking back, I may have been a bit naïve.” Her bottom lip slips between her teeth.
“In regards to the career field, or the location?”
“A little of both,” she replies with a bit of guilt in her eyes. “I took the job there because I thought it’s where I could do the most good. I’m just not sure I have what it takes to get through to them… to really make a difference.”
“Oh, you’re just being hard on yourself, I’m sure. Two months in isn’t long… and you seem like a strong woman.”
“I am. Or I like to think so, at least.” She giggles lightly and shrugs. “But it’s just more than I ever thought it would be. We’ll see how it all goes,” she adds as we cross over into modern and contemporary art, which I’m more than happy to talk my way through.
“How do you like the city otherwise? I mean, I know you said you fell in love with it. What made you fall in love?”
“Being a small-town girl, this is just so unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. My parents aren’t too well off, so we didn’t ever do vacations or travel much. Coming to school down here was my first big world experience and I… I don’t know… I just loved every bit of it. The sights. The sounds. The history. It’s just so diverse. I wish I had more time to see it all.”
“Do you ever miss it back home?”
“I do miss the country living from time to time, but it’s close enough to visit, and I’m home pretty much every other weekend. My parents are my solace. Sleeping in my old bed again and eating Mom’s incredible cooking… it’s perfect,” she says with a big nod and adorable grin planted on her face. She passes me a nervous look. “I think the toughest part has just been meeting people.”
“Which explains the SwipeDate thing, I take it?”
“Exactly.”
As we continue forward, and she takes a moment to peruse the art lining the walls, I can’t help but check her out. Like Megan, she’s got a body that drives me crazy. Her round, supple ass pushes the limits of her skinny jeans. She has curves in all the right places, and a lovely face with just a touch of make-up.
“I’ve been on a handful of dates so far, and I don’t know what in the hell to think,” I say, following close behind her as she leads us into Greek and Roman art, with dicks aplenty. “People just seem to be so superficial these days.”
She shoots her head back, eyes wide, and nodding. “Yes! I’ve been saying that forever. It’s crazy how different people can be online than they are in person.”
“In a way, it’s not really any surprise… people do that in general… wear a façade, I mean. It seems only logical when they have the added ambiguity of the internet, the façade will thicken. It’s sad really. I try my best to put the true me out there always.”
“What’s the point in not being your true self?” she adds, smiling and turning back to the artwork.
“Who knows? Maybe people are just so desperate to be in a relationship they’re willing to do just about anything.”
“That’s just sad,” she says, shaking her head. “Are you not a relationship guy?”
My thoughts immediately roam to Joanne, the girl of my dreams, the one that got away, and I’m overcome with an intense feeling of anxiety in the center of my chest.
“It’s not that I’m against them,” I manage to say as her curious eyes land on mine. “I’m just a bit wary. I’ve been hurt and stuff in the past.”
“That’s understandable,” she says, nodding, and motioning toward a bench. “You want to sit for a few?”
“Sure.” She takes a seat and I follow suit, setting our jackets between us.
“Haven’t we all been there?” she asks with a little smile and a warmth in her eyes. “My last boyfriend was quite the gem. But I know I can’t compare every other guy to him. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“I don’t think it’s that I compare everyone to her…” I say, my voice trailing as the lie crosses my mind. “It’s just that I’m careful. You never really know the true side to someone.”
She shakes her head slowly. “I sure hope that’s not true. We’d be a world of liars.” She giggles and I flash a weak smile.
“No, you’re right. Forgive me if I’m being morose. I’m not trying to be. I’m just bad with my words.”
She laughs, cupping a hand to her mouth. “Aren’t you a writer?” she asks, dropping her hand but a wide smile remains.
“Let me rephrase that,” I say, smiling back. “When I’m speaking, my words come out all wrong. Writing is actually about fifty percent editing. I’d die if anyone ever got their hands on my first drafts,” I laugh, thinking about the often confusing and clunky prose in my first compositions. My editor just loves me.
“It can’t be that bad,” she says, her eyes catching a passing older couple, hand in hand, and she nods toward them with a beaming smile. They return the nod as they pass through to the next corridor.
“You’d be surprised,” I mutter, drawing her eyes back to me.
“I want to read your book. Where can I find it?” she asks, her eyes lighting up a bit.
“Well, you can find both in most Barnes and Nobles.”
“You’ll have to text me the names of them after this.”
“Will do. Do you like romance? That’s what I write,” I say, and I catch a look of doubt.
“Romance, huh?”
“No, really,” I insist, my skin getting hot and my pulse picking up; I hate talking about my work. I’m proud of it… I am. I just don’t even know if a writer is what I am anymore. “The second one is a bit darker… more suspenseful… which is probably why it bombed,” I add, followed by a nervous laugh.
“That’s impressive. I do like romance, actually. Harper Sloan, Renee Carlino, and Felicia Lynn are my favorites, but I’m into Stephen King and stuff like that too. I grew up a reader,” she says, and I’m at ease a bit. Regardless of what she thinks of my book, she’s a reader, a true reader, so she’ll be able to at least see I had a story to tell. They aren’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but they have heart. That, I know beyond anything else in this world.
“I’ve heard of those three. They’re huge in my industry. I’ve loved what I’ve read so far. As for Stephen King…” I scoff and shake my head with a grin. “Let’s just say, if I met him, I’m not so sure I’d be able to speak. And he’s literally the only one I can say that about. On Writing is like my Bible. ”
“Oh my God, that book is incredible! One of my all-time favorites. The story about how he got the call from his agent telling him Carrie sold for four hundred thousand dollars before the time of cellphones, and he had to wait to tell his wife… who just so happened to pull the rough manuscript out of the trash bin.” She clutches at her heart, her head shaking slowly and I’m just soaking it all in as she describes my favorite scene from On Writing. “Ugh, it just hit me right here. Yet another thing we have in common, I guess,” she says with a smile. “I noticed you mentioned 80’s movies on your profile as well…” She lets her words linger for a moment and I can’t help but be impressed that she took the time to read my profile. Many don’t. “John Hughes is pretty much a national hero in my eyes.”
I laugh, nodding my head in eager approval. “I can second that completely. The Breakfast Club was my angsty, teenage escape. They’re not Hughes films, but Heathers and True Romance are two of my other favorites.”
“Ah, Christian Slater fan, I take it? Ever seen Pump Up the Volume?”
“Of course… Pretty much anything anti-authority, public unrest based and I’m in,” I say, grinning.
She nods her head slowly, her lips pursed and brows lifted. “Oh, so you’re one of those mischievous guys… the rule breaker type.”
I think back to elementary school, middle school, shit, even high school, and all I can remember is trying my best to disrupt the monotony of the day. I’m not proud of it, but class disruption was at the top of that list. Putting my pointer and thumb up with little space between them, and an eye closed, I say, “Maybe just a little.” I return my hand to my side and laugh. “Yeah, total degenerate. I can’t help it. It’s fun to go against the grain.”
“I genuinely wouldn’t know anything about that,” she says with a timid giggle. “Small-town girl, remember? I was definitely the straight edge type growing up. I guess I never really grew out of it.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Where’s the fun in all of us being the same? I do have to ask, though…” I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I’ll be crossing the line with this, but I continue anyway. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done.”
Her eyes fall to her feet, a nervous smile on her face. “I don’t even know,” she responds, shaking her head and looking back up at me. “I haven’t done much in the way of that.”
I draw back, passing her a look of doubt. “Come on now. There has to be something.”
She hesitates for a moment, her gaze drifting out to nothing, as if she’s thinking and then she shrugs. “I went cow tipping with my high school boyfriend once… I mean, I didn’t actually partake, but I watched him and his friends do it. I felt terrible afterward,” she says, a slight red taking up her porcelain cheeks.
“No way. That’s not the craziest,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t buy it.”
“I swear,” she says, her face getting redder. “I just… I don’t know… I’ve always been school-oriented. And I didn’t want to ever disappoint my parents. And now, with the job…” Her voice trails and eyes wander to the passing people.
“Hey…” I put my hands up in retreat. “No judgment here at all. I haven’t really done a whole lot in mine either. Outside of some fistfights and maybe a bit of property damage,” I mutter with a grin and she shoots me a curious look.
“Well then, I guess it’d be time for me to ask what your craziest experience has been,” she says and I abruptly laugh.
“What did I get myself into?” I ask, and she just shrugs with a cute little smirk on her face.
“Yeah, how does it feel being on the other end?” she asks, leaning in a bit.
“I mean, I think my experience may out-crazy yours just a little.” I laugh, my focus shifting to the marble silhouette before us. “When I was in high school… senior year… I was dating this girl. First real girlfriend I ever had. She was a super miserable person, but I was blinded by those first love feelings. All that usual high school nonsense.” I roll my eyes and shrug. “You know what I mean?”
“Oh yeah. I think it happens to the best of us,” she replies, a look of intrigue on her face. “And…”
“And so, she used to get completely fucked… I mean, belligerent drunk… without me, and most of the time, beyond a few bruises the next morning and tangents the night of, she’d wind up in bed without much consequence. That wasn’t the case this particular night. She called me up while I was still working—some shit fast food job—and she’s bawling her eyes out. I can barely make out what she’s saying. She hangs up on me and I call her back, and we go through this cycle a few times before I’m able to get out of her that she had been assaulted.” I pause, and she’s leaning in completely now. “I guess she was at her friend’s trailer, whose boyfriend was hanging with them. They all got shit-canned and he followed her into the bathroom… forced himself on her… touched her, but luckily her yelling scared him and got him off her before anything else could happen.” I stop for a moment, feeling a rush of paranoia washing over me. “I’m probably sharing too much, huh?” I ask, followed by a nervous laugh.
She immediately shakes her head. “Not one bit. I’m intrigued. Now you have to finish,” she says with a sweet little giggle I admire for a moment.
“Well, remember, I got all this information over about five phone calls and having to decipher it from drunk speak. All while I’m trying to finish up my shift at work. So, I’m frustrated as all hell. I end up leaving work early and driving to her house, where her friend had dropped her off. Once I got there, she was sprawled out on her bed, shoes still on, and snoring.” I chuckle, shaking my head as I remember the complete pile of shit that night really was. “I manage to wake her up, and she’s at least sobered up enough to give me the gist of the story and the address.” I hesitate, clearing my throat and knowing full well the rest of the story should probably not be shared. Fuck it. We’re already this far. “I called up some of my harder friends and we brought bats with us to the trailer, hidden in our pants. He answers the door, and I talk our way in. The three of us pretty much sat him down and questioned him for a while. Bats in our hands at that point…” My voice trails as I notice her eyes have widened and her mouth gapes a bit.
“And…” she says.
“Impatient, much?” I ask, and she just shrugs.
“You started it, remember?”
I smile, nodding with acceptance, and say, “I just beat him up real good. We didn’t use the bats for anything other than intimidation purposes, nor did I have any intention to. The other guys, I’m not so sure. I didn’t let them jump in though, even with them raring to go, but I gave him something to remember me by.”
“How bad?” she asks, hardly hiding her morbid curiosity.
I chuckle, shaking my head slowly before continuing. “At one point, we made him do push-ups. He got a few of them done before anger took over. I could only think of her, backed into the bathroom counter, drunk and fighting off his advances… it consumed me. So… I—I ended up kind of soccer-kicking him in the face.”
She puts her hands to her mouth, pulling back a bit. “Holy crap! Did you kill him?” she questions, her hands still blocking her mouth.
The hot trail of anxiety sweeps over my shoulders again, and a tightness sits in my gut. “No… No… Nothing like that. She didn’t really talk to her friend much after that, but I guess he was just pretty, um, unrecognizable for a couple weeks, but nothing lasting. I’m not proud of it. But I’m not so sure I’d take it back either.”
She drops her hands and some of the shock leaves her face. “No, I mean, I can’t say he didn’t deserve it. Rape…” Her voice trails and she makes a look of disgust. “Just reprehensible… I just can’t believe that’s a real story and not from some movie,” she adds.
“No movie. Very real. And very nerve-rattling waiting to see if there would be any repercussions, either out of vengeance or law enforcement intervention. Nothing ever came of it though. And she and I didn’t last much longer after that. We graduated and thankfully drifted apart.”
There’s a momentary stillness between us that stirs the anxiety inside me more. I motion toward the next gallery. “You want to keep exploring?”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling, and standing slowly. “I swear I’m not judging.”
I stand too and we walk through to the next corridor. “It’s okay, really. I told you… I try to be transparent with people. And I did walk myself right into that,” I say, grinning, and she laughs. I admire the length of her neck as she does, the way it moves as she laughs, the smooth, flawless complexion of her face.
“That you did, sir,” she says. “So, I was obviously right about the bad boy vibes.”
“No way,” I respond, shaking my head. “I was a nerd growing up. The 80’s movies, rock music, reading… that was my life. I just grew up not putting up with shit and it carried over a bit into adulthood. Hasn’t been like that in ages though. I avoid the crowd and shoot for low key, hole in the wall type spots these days.”
“I don’t think I’ve been to a bar in at least two months. And that was for maybe about forty-five minutes for a family event. I mostly do stuff like this with the little bit of free time I do have,” she says, motioning to the Ancient Egyptian pieces that now surround us.
“We are so incredibly different,” I blurt out, shaking my head. “You know that?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not bad, just… funny.”
“Being carbon copies of each other in a relationship isn’t always ideal. You need to have a little spice.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa… talking relationships already,” I say with my hands up, and dramatically taking a few steps back.
She darts her eyes to me, a furrow in her brow and she scoffs. “Oh please. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Hemingway. I’m generally speaking.”
“Of course. It is funny seeing the different couples, the interactions… I’m a people watcher, so I pick up on a lot.”
“In my time outside the classroom, I’m the same way, but inside, I’m dealing with a combination of arrogance, organized disruption, and a ridiculous lack of discipline. So, I try and keep all that out of my headspace while I’m there.”
“Sounds like I would’ve fit right in,” I jest with a sly smile.
“If you’re anywhere close to their level, we may need to cut this date short,” she says, chuckling.
“Don’t worry… I’m a reformed delinquent,” I reply and her laugh that follows echoes throughout the Great Hall as we pass back through on our way to the elevators.
Stepping off the lift on the second floor, we walk together into the early European painting corridor lined with Monets, Van Goghs, and Rembrandts.
“Oooo, my favorite,” she exclaims, bringing her hands together. “What’s yours?”
“I’m actually not really an art guy.”
She shoots me a judgmental look and rolls her eyes. “How can an author not appreciate art?” she asks, continuing along the outside wall. “Aren’t they kind of in the same category?”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it,” I say defensively. “It’s just… a lot of things people consider art, I consider shit.”
“Couldn’t the same be said about the book world?”
“Certainly. There’s plenty of shit in the book world too.”
“And you don’t think any of your readers may have thought the same about your own books?” she asks, her face warm and innocent, but her words sting like sweat in the eyes.
“Well shit, I guess so… Though that’s not really on the same level. This stuff…” I motion to the walls. “And a lot of what we’ve seen today, I would certainly consider to be art. I’m talking more this new era of ‘art.’ I’m talking the beat to shit couch somebody pulled out of the dumpster, titled it, and sold it as art.”
“That’s not a thing. No way.” She shakes her head.
“Oh, it most certainly is. Read an article about it. That’s just the beginning. It’s happening like crazy now. The term art is generously used at this point.”
“Come on. You don’t want someone’s old couch hanging on your wall?” she asks with a giggle.
“I’d prefer a loveseat, but I guess a couch will do. I just don’t know how I’ll fit it with all the other couches in there.”
“Ohhh, a couch collector, are we? I’ve heard about you guys. What’s your most prized one? The one you just can’t live without?”
“You know. I was at this auction in Hoboken and they had this beautiful lime green piece that Marlon Brando once shit on. I couldn’t resist.”
She laughs, putting her hands to her mouth to catch herself, as it’s loud enough for most of the second floor to hear.
“Was that a snort?” I ask. She shakes her head with a wide smile as she drops her hands back to her sides.
“No sir, you must be hearing things,” she says, poking her tongue out at me.
“And here I was thinking the doctors got rid of the voices,” I muse and she laughs out loud again.
She raises her wrist as if she has a watch on, and says, “Will you look at the time… I better be going.” She drops her hand and smiles as we cross over into the American Wing. The brilliant historical portraits catch my eye, and I can feel her approach me from the side.
“So, you don’t hate all art, then?” she asks and I look over at her.
“I’m a history nerd,” I respond, looking back toward the painting of George Washington set in a flaked gold frame.
“Favorite era?” she asks. “I’m kind of a history nerd myself. More specifically, women’s role in the Civil War.”
Looking from the painting to her while continuing to walk, I say, “Civil War is definitely up there on my list. American history in general, really. Of course, I was the kid who studied American history textbooks during my summers.” I laugh and she flashes that gorgeous smile I wouldn’t mind seeing more of. “But I think World War II is my number one. The thing those guys went through. The fear they must have felt charging into some of those situations… it just baffles me. I’ve always had a lot of respect for that era. And my grandparents were in the heat of it, so I’m sure that’s a big part of it.”
“That’s amazing,” she says, her tone genuine. She looks off as if in thought and then continues, “I thought about becoming a high school history teacher. Before I chose special education, I mean.”
“Do you wish you had?” I ask as she looks back toward me.
“Sometimes,” she mutters.
“I always wanted to be a soldier… like my grandpa. It’s all I ever wanted to be. I thought it would make him proud. That, and I didn’t have a whole lot going for me back in Chicago.”
She stops, turning to me with a wrinkle in her brow. “Why didn’t you?”
“I had some bad leg injuries that kept me out,” I reply, shrugging. “Sometimes greater things are on the horizon waiting to be discovered. Though I often doubt it these days, in my heart, I know I was meant to be a writer. If I had become a soldier, and deployed… who knows if I would’ve ever had the chance to.”
“Very true,” she says, nodding, and beginning to walk again, now back toward the elevators.
“What you’re doing is great, you know? Not many people could do it,” I say, and a look of doubt passes over her face.
She forces a slight smile and shrugs as she presses the elevator’s down button and sets her back against the wall.
“I guess so. It’s just hard right now. I think they know I’m in over my head. And they take advantage of it.”
The elevator doors open and I put a hand out for her to go first. She nods before entering the elevator and I follow in after.
“I can only imagine every single experienced special ed teacher in the world has felt exactly what you’re feeling right now at some point or another.”
“Yeah, probably,” she says with a weak smile.
A vibration in my pocket pulls my attention as the doors open for the first floor. I retrieve my phone as we pass through the Great Hall.
Bobby: I’m heading to your house with a six-pack. Not a request.
I pocket my phone and lengthen my stride a bit to catch Sami before she reaches the door.
“Hey, you might want your jacket,” I say, holding it out for her, and she accepts it with gratitude.
“Yeah, I would’ve lasted maybe five seconds out there.” She giggles, slipping her jacket on and circling the scarf around her neck. I throw my own coat on and then walk outside, holding the door open for her. As she walks out, a gust of wind whips past the entryway, blowing her ponytail into wild spins. “See what I mean?” she asks, trapping her thick hair under the scarf.
“I know. And winter’s coming soon,” I groan, my face wrinkling in disgust.
She clears her throat and flashes a nervous smile as we slowly scale the massive set of stairs.
“I know it’s been a bit already, but what do you think about grabbing a drink or something somewhere?” she asks, her voice lower than it has been all day. It’s fucking adorable.
“Shit! I actually just got a text from my best friend and he’s unexpectedly stopping by my place. Long story, but I kinda have to meet up with him, otherwise I would love to,” I say as genuinely as I can, but I can tell by her face she thinks it’s an excuse. A slight look of embarrassment crosses her face, and I put a hand up as we reach the last step.
“No, seriously. How about a rain check?” I ask as we stand in the middle of the sidewalk, her arms crossed and eyes flitting everywhere but on me.
“Yeah, for sure,” she says, her eyes still away from mine.
“Hey, trust me. I’m the worst liar ever.” She looks back toward me and I pass her a warm smile. “You would tell instantly. And though it sounds like a shitty excuse, I really do gotta meet up with him. We had a little argument last night I need to apologize for,” I say, rolling my eyes.
She smiles, and her expression softens. “Uh oh. What did you do? And sorry, by the way, I didn’t mean to come off like some crazy person. You just never know with people on these apps. What their intentions are. Or where their interest lies.”
“No, I one hundred percent understand. My last few dates have been pretty brutal. Definitely not what their profiles led me to believe. As for Bobby…” My voice trails and I shrug. “I’m just a stubborn shit sometimes.”
“Let me guess, you’re a Scorpio?” she asks, a cute little grin taking up her face, now shades of pink from the cold.
“October 31st, actually. How’d you guess?”
“Halloween?” she asks, her eyes wide with excitement. “You lucky dog. That must make for a good time. And my last boyfriend was a Scorpio… I know how hard-headed you guys can be.” She smiles and shrugs, her eyes trailing down the sidewalk. “Well, Mr. Myers, I guess I’d be willing to see you again, though you may have to keep that stubborn business stifled.”
I grin, though a new nervousness takes hold. My mind flashes back to yesterday’s date with Megan—she and I standing in this same position, having this same conversation—when just a day before, my biggest concern was making it out of this challenge with my head still above the water; without thirty different stalkers hounding my ass. As I look into Sami’s smoky eyes—with the little flecks of gold that glint with the sun’s rays—I find myself not just wanting to see this woman again… but almost needing to.
“I’d love to see you again,” I say with a smile, and I put my arms up for her to come in for a hug. She does so and I catch that fresh jasmine scent of hers again that sets my senses ablaze. “Thanks for today. I had fun,” I add, as I let her go and take a few steps back.
“The pleasure was all mine, Gavin,” she says, lifting her petite hand and passing a quiet wave before turning on her heel and walking away. I watch her for a moment, knowing full well I’m in trouble here, but appreciating something new… something different… something invigorating for once. It’s been so long.
I head back to my loft, and as I come up on my brownstone, I see Bobby seated on my front steps. His big torso is hunched over his knees, headphones in, and there’s a six-pack of Rebel pale ale at his feet—my favorite. He’s adjusting his cabbie hat and doesn’t notice as I stop just before him. His head turns slowly, and as he spots me, he lets out a little yell and jumps back, his hand coming to his chest.
“Fucker,” he says, catching his breath. “How long have you been standing there?”
“About two seconds… How long have you been sitting there?”
“About thirty minutes,” he says, pulling the phone from his pocket and his gaze falling to the sidewalk in front of him. “Babe,” he says, as if talking to the concrete. “Can I call you back. Gavin just showed up… Yeah, of course. Love you, too.”
He swipes the buds from his ears, wrapping them around his phone and he tucks both into his coat pocket. He stands with the six pack in hand, narrowing his eyes on me with a lifted brow, but a grin tugging at his lips. “You motherfucker,” he says, laughing and taking me in for a bro hug. “It’s cold as fuck out here. Let me the hell in.” He lets me go and jabs a thumb toward the door. “Move your ass.”
“Fucking A, man. You keep rushing me, I’ll make you sit outside with me while I smoke a joint.”
His face tightens and he shakes his head. “No, please. I need to warm up, man,” he says with a chuckle.
I let out a maniacal little laugh as I riffle the keys from my pocket and open the front door, snagging the six-pack from him with my other hand.
The loft is toasty, which pleases my body as I strip the coat off and flip on the lights. Instantly, I hear a small gasp from behind me. I turn and see Bobby paused in the middle of taking his coat off, his eyes trailing back and forth across the loft.
“Holy hell, when the fuck did you clean, man?” he asks, tossing his jacket onto the coat rack and taking a few more steps in, still engrossed in seeing my place clean for the first time since Joanne moved out.
“I’d like to take credit, but I ended up paying for a maid company to come out a couple days ago. I’ve just been trying my best to maintain it since then, which you’d think would be easy. I’m quickly realizing how much of a slob I really am.”
“It looks great,” he says, nodding his head and taking a seat on the sofa. “Just like back when… well, you know.”
“Yeah, I’ve missed it. I’m glad I finally pulled the trigger. It’s good to actually be able to see all the wood in here.” I head to the kitchen and toss the six-pack in the refrigerator, minus two beers.
“You mean other than an exorbitant amount of clothes, books, and weed paraphernalia laying everywhere?” he asks, laughing.
I make my way to the living room and hand Bobby his beer before plopping into my recliner. “Just don’t open that closet,” I jest, pointing to my utility closet and passing him a wink.
“Well, it’s good to see,” he says as I turn on some music, setting the volume low.
“You know, all that stuff last night…” my voice trails, my eyes scanning the hardwood floor.
“You’re okay, Gavin. Really. It’s no big thing. We’ve been boys for a long time.”
“Which is exactly my point. You should be the last person I shit all over.”
“Or the first…” He shrugs. “Sometimes that’s how it goes.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“I didn’t say it did. But it’s realistic.”
“I know you’ve been around for a lot of my struggles. You’ve heard a lot of what I’ve been through, and how I’ve felt at times going through this rollercoaster life.” I take a deep breath, my conscious weighing heavy on me, knowing I haven’t been truthful with my best friend in this world… and realizing it’s only been for selfish reasons. I’m afraid of what he’ll think of me. “You know that reality show I told you I was on… the one I had to pretty much vanish off the face of the earth for. The one that didn’t end up making it on TV anyway?” I ask, my voice low and hands fidgeting in my lap. Bobby puts his thick hand up and it draws my eyes to him. His lips tight, he passes an understanding nod.
“I know, Gavin,” he says softly, but the words come heavy. A hot wave of shame washes over me. My mouth is open, but I can’t quite find the words to say. “Gavin, bro, it’s okay.”
“How do you know?” I manage to ask through the tightness in my throat and gritted teeth.
“Javon…” he says, and he must notice the anger rising in me because he quickly continues. “Listen, your story, bro, no offense… it was shit.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Like, epically bad.”
“It could happen.”
“Bad.”
“I looked into it. You can’t have any outside communication on reality shows—”
“Just. Bad,” he says, cutting me off.
I nearly start talking again before realizing my story—the only one I could come up with that would explain my month in inpatient, outside of the truth, of course—is, in fact, a massive, steaming pile of excrement.
“How long have you known?” I finally ask, a nerve-spiking wave of shame cloaking me.
“I don’t know. Four, maybe five months. Javon finally broke down and told me. He thought I should know. Shit, I think I deserved to know. I’m your best friend, for Christ’s sake. And don’t even think about being pissed at him.”
“Okay, okay… I get it. But you don’t. You just don’t get how our relationship has gone since elementary school, bro.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, his brows scrunched in confusion.
“You were the cool kid growing up, Bobby. The kid every other guy wanted to hang out with and emulate, and the girls all wanted to date. The football player. The class president. The valedictorian—”
“Gavin, what are we doing here?” he asks, cutting me off.
“No, let me finish… Then I find a little success in this thing, this one thing I’ve always been good at, and what happens? You come in, no damn writing degree, no experience, and you literally blow me right out of the water.”
“You think I’d be where I am now if it weren’t for you?” he asks, leaning forward with an intent look on his face. “You think I would’ve had the guts to even start putting words to paper if it weren’t for having you show me the way?”
“It doesn’t change the fact that you’ve beaten me… crushed me at my own damn game,” I say in a stale tone before chugging my now lukewarm beer. I was so immersed in the conversation, I forgot I was even holding it.
“Gavin, I know a lot about your past. I’ve been there for you through all of it. I get that you have a lot of inner turmoil, but you can’t live like that. You can’t let it control you. And you most certainly can’t even think about doing something like that again,” he says, his tone stern.
“I wouldn’t. That was a different me,” I say quietly, my head down and fingers nervously picking at the beer label.
“Gavin,” he barks, drawing my eyes and he passes a fatherly look at me over his black frames. “I’m dead serious here.”
“I am too,” I say, louder now and my eyes remaining on his. “I don’t know who that guy was. I think about that night, how I felt, and it’s almost unrecognizable. I’m not saying I don’t feel shitty most of the time now, but never like that. Never again.”
“Good,” he says with a look of resolve. “That’s how it has to stay. And if that is truly how you feel, and your lungs are still taking in air… and your veins are still pumping blood… well, then you still have the ability to write. So instead of talking about how I blew you out of the water, why don’t you come right back at me swinging?”
“Bobby, to be frank, disregarding how doubtful I was when you told me you were quitting your job to write a book, you have become an incredible storyteller.”
“Thank you—”
I put a hand up and flash a wry smile. “I’m not finished… In saying that, you know just as well as I do what writer’s block is like. I don’t have to remind you about that first book you wrote, and how many late-night phone calls I had to answer.”
“No, you don’t.” He shakes his head slowly, letting out a heavy breath.
“So, then you know how hard it is to come back swinging when your arms have been hacked off.”
“Interesting way to put it. You should save that for a book,” he says with a smirk.
I roll my eyes, setting my beer to the side table and leaning in. “Stay with me now, Bobby boy. You’ve spent plenty of nights in front of a blank screen toiling away, and lubricating the imagination with whiskey. That’s been me for nearly two years. Two fucking years, Bobby. I sit there, I try to type, and my fingers don’t fucking move. And when they do move, the shit that pops up in Times New Roman is junk I wouldn’t even put in a high school term paper.”
“Could I maybe read some of it? I do know how writer’s block can be, but I also know how self-critical we writers can be too. Especially you.”
“No, I have nothing. Nothing I’ve cared to save, never mind share with another human being.”
“Ughhhh,” Bobby groans, taking a long swig of his beer until it’s empty.
“Huh uh, don’t make that sound you make when you’re annoyed. You know I hate it.”
“Why do you think I do it so much?” he says, flashing a grin. He motions to the empty bottle on the coffee table and asks, “Can I get you another one?”
“Yeah, I’ll take one. Thanks.”
He stands and makes his way to the kitchen. “So, how goes the challenge?” he asks from over his shoulder as he pulls two beers from the fridge. He returns, intrigue in his expression. “Well?” he adds, handing a beer over and taking a seat.
“Surprisingly, I just had two great dates in a row. My only good ones really.”
He pulls his head back, the beer bottle in his hand and hanging in the air. “No fucking way.”
“Yeah, I’m about as surprised as you are. This experience otherwise has been pretty daunting.”
“Well, cheers,” he says, tilting his bottle neck. “That’s good news.”
“Yes and no…” my voice trails, my eyes drifting and a smirk growing on my face.
“Indulge me,” he says, leaning back into the couch, and propping one leg over the other.
“Think about it, man. I’ve only been on five dates so far. Two of them I dig. The others, not so much.”
“What is it about these two?”
“I mean, shit… I don’t have a whole lot to compare it to. I always kind of go back to the wedding, and then that next day with Joanne. How I felt, and how perfectly it all seemed to unfold. Not saying that’s what this is… but that’s my baseline.”
“If that’s not what it is with these two… what is it?”
I pause for a moment, running each date through my mind—the fluidity of them, the instant, obvious chemistry, the intense desire to not end the date—and I try and make sense of it.
“I don’t really know,” I say, shrugging. “They made me feel something different. They made me feel something, period. Intrigue is the best word I can use. I’m intrigued as fuck.”
“Well shit, man,” he says with a broad, genuine smile. “That is really good to hear.”
“I’m sure glad you’re so optimistic.”
“If I’m not, who the hell’s gonna be? Just sit back and see how it all plays out. Don’t overthink it.”
“I’m going to remind you, Bobby, I’m coming up on day six… I’ve only been on five dates and two of them I ended up liking. I have twenty-five dates left. Can you do the math for me here, you fucking nerd?”
He laughs, nodding his head in agreement. “You’ve got me there. It’s not looking good. But I still don’t think it’s all that bad.”
I grab my phone from the side table and hold it up for him to see, shaking it a bit before setting it back down. “You’re not the one getting hourly fucking texts from Maria!”
“Oh shit, that’s still going on?” he asks through a stifled laugh.
“Yep! I told her I just wasn’t in a place to date right now. That I’m a mess from my last relationship and still… it actually made her text me more. Like she wants to save my ass or something.”
“Your ass needs saving. Besides, what’s so wrong with her? Did the date really go that bad?”
“What, two girls taking up my damn thoughts isn’t enough? You want to keep piling them on?” I joke, taking a swig of beer and setting it on the table. “It’s not that the date was bad. It just wasn’t right. There wasn’t any chemistry, and I thought she felt the same way… obviously not.”
“Are you going to see these other two again? What are their names?”
“Megan and Sami… I told them both I would, and I want to, but on top of the dates I already gotta do? Fuck me.”
He lets out a maniacal little laugh, his lips against the mouth of the bottle.
“I’m going to make you choke on that beer if you keep enjoying this as much as you have been.”
“Hey, if I’m losing out on twenty-five grand here, you bet your weed-loving ass I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”
“Speaking of weed…” My eyes trail to the back door that leads to my private garden and he lets out a heavy sigh.
“Why the fuck did I have to say something?”
“Come on. Stop being a bitch. You’ve had time to warm up and you’ve got insulation,” I say, standing from my recliner and motioning to his beer gut.
“Hey, chicks dig the dad bod now, my friend. Get with the fucking program.” He stands, grabbing his beer, and pinching my stomach fat with his other hand. “Looks like you’re well on your way, young Jedi.” He lets go just as I bat his hand away, and he heads to the coat rack.
“I’ve learned from the best. And ‘dad bod,’ Bobby? That’s not a real thing. Don’t feed into the lies, amigo,” I say, laughing as he shoves his bulky arms into the coat sleeves.
“Hey, who’s the single one here?” he asks, narrowing his eyes on me. “I got my shit, Schnoz. You do you.”
“Just get outside, Bitch Tits,” I say through a laugh and motion toward the back door.
After catching a good high and bullshitting with Bobby about this garbage election day coming up, the Cubs winning the World Series (bastards), and the depressing world of first draft composition, I’m horizontal in bed, with the tube playing some terrible sitcom that probably wouldn’t be funny if I hadn’t just burned some green. Being high for me isn’t quite what many experience, not anything like when I was a teen. I don’t get utterly incompetent. My brain isn’t foggy. Emotions aren’t repressed. I enjoy the time spent with my thoughts as they pass more freely throughout my mind. I’m better able to analyze them, to understand them, and to accept them.
I can’t help but think of Megan and Sami and the time spent with each. Regardless of how I feel about relationships, it doesn’t mean I don’t have the desire to get close to another human being. It doesn’t mean I don’t want someone to just lay with, watch movies, and laugh. It’s not so out of the ordinary, is it? And for God’s sake, I’m a man after all. And though I’ve had the ability to go a year and a half without sex, it doesn’t mean it’s been easy, or that I don’t ache to feel that passion, heat, desire, and intensity again. I do. It just has to be right. It has to make sense. But damn, how my dick hates me these days.