Love Hacked

I sensed he felt conflicted. I was certain I hadn’t imagined his enthusiasm, or the fact that the physical contact thus far had been mutually appreciated. Therefore, I was surprised when he decisively announced, “You should go. I’ll get you a taxi.”

“Oh. Okay.” I allowed my face to show my surprise, but I didn’t let it betray the disorienting prickling of confusion and hurt I felt.

Yes, I reminded myself since it had been so long, it is possible to be hurt by someone who’s practically a stranger.

I wasn’t a terrible person. I was actually pretty funny and clever, and I was fairly certain I didn’t look like an ogre or smell like one, either. Yet, Alex—after a few fantastic kisses—was sending me on my way. No girl wants to think she’s anything other than irresistible, especially after being kissed like Alex had just kissed me.

Maybe he’d just remembered our age difference. I tried not to be bothered by the thought, and fought against another subtle sting of melancholy.

“Actually, don’t worry about it.” I pushed away from the wall and tried my legs. They worked, mostly. “I live pretty close. I’ll just walk.”

“I’ll walk you home.”

I watched him as he pointedly looked everywhere but at me.

We’d just shared, at least from my perspective, a series of incredible kisses. And now I would go home to a cold shower and fluffy towels, and Alex would do whatever sexy-voiced early twenty-somethings did at eleven o’clock on a Friday night.

But more than being just a series of incredible kisses, it was a reminder that I shouldn’t allow myself to go without physical affection for such an extended period of time. My brain was addled, kiss-atrophied. I was fuzzyheaded and confused, susceptible to hurt, and more prone to melancholy than usual.

Rejection is like dressing up in a Wookie costume for a party when everyone else shows up in regular clothes. A Wookie costume is epic, amazing, something to get excited about—but not if everyone else is wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and you’re the only one who didn’t get the memo.

The accompanying feelings of embarrassment, bitterness, and frustration can be disorienting. The worst thing to do is to pretend like the costume is what you usually wear, pretend like nothing is wrong, or pretend like everyone else is a moron for wearing jeans.

The best thing to do is to own the mistake, laugh at yourself, and move on.

In life, I’d perfected the art of laughing at myself.

I pulled my attention from his delectable form and glanced at my dress. “Nah. No need to walk me home. I live only two blocks away.” I smoothed my dress and adjusted the hem as I walked past him to the main dining room.

The heels of my borrowed zebra print stilettos clicked on the hard floor as I crossed to the booth where my purse and coat lay abandoned. I dug through the small clutch—bright red to match the dress—and pulled out my credit card. I heard his footsteps approach from behind me, slow and hesitant.

I smiled. Poor kid. He probably thought I was going to fly into old lady hysterics. As fun as that sounded, I was actually pretty tired. A girl could only take but so much man crying, thorough kissing, rejection, and assorted wacky man-antics before collapsing in exhaustion.

I turned to him with my arm extended to hand him my credit card, and offered him a genuine, placid, non-threatening smile. “Here you go, for dinner.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He waved off my attempt to pay; once again, his expression was guarded, watchful.

I studied him for a minute, then shrugged and turned away. “Okay, thanks for dinner.”

I wasn’t about to argue myself out of a free dinner.

I tugged on my coat and crossed to him, stuck out my hand, and issued another practiced, friendly, well-meaning smile. “Well, Alex, always a pleasure.”

He glared at me, then shifted his eyes to my proffered hand. He took it, his jaw clenching, and moved his eyes back to mine.

“This is me owning my Wookie costume. Next time I’ll wear jeans and a T-shirt like a normal person.”

His expression clouded and he blinked at me. “Wookie costume?”

Goodness, I loved his voice.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” I tilted my head toward the back of the restaurant. “Back there, I mean. But you are quite an accomplished kisser. I appreciate you lending me your lips for a bit.” I pulled my hand out of his.

He blinked at me, and I noted that his hostile, guarded expression had been replaced with a stunned incredulousness. “You’re unbelievable.” He whispered the words, as though he’d meant to think them rather than say them, and they didn’t sound complimentary.

“Ah, flattery.” My grin widened, less practiced but still measured. “See you in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

“Yep. I have another date two weeks from now, on Friday, as usual. Let’s hope he lasts past the appetizer.” Even as I said the words my attention strayed, my mind already shifting gears, planning my Saturday, making a mental note to add Parmesan cheese and asparagus to my grocery list.

He huffed a subversive, disbelieving laugh. “You’re a machine.”

“Something like that. Anyway, see you later.”

I winked at him, then made for the exit, pushed through the door and into the icy Chicago air. It smelled of stale beer and snow, and the wind stole my breath. Or maybe my breath was stolen by Alex’s kisses, I mused passively, neither swooning nor forlorn.

I tucked my chin into the high, furry neck of my winter coat and pushed him from my mind.

CHAPTER 3

Saturday’s Horoscope: You’ll be feeling scatterbrained today. Stay focused, and do what comes naturally.

My Saturday afternoon lunch with Thomas took place at a quiet restaurant in the lobby of Hotel Blake. We met at one o’clock, and as usual, he arrived first. He was just finishing the weekend edition of the New York Times when I strolled to the table where he was seated.

His lips always moved when he read. He had to stop reading if he wanted a sip of coffee, but he never looked away from the paper. Nothing made him angrier than losing his place in an article; it could ruin his mood for the rest of the day.

He had many of these inborn, weird mannerisms and eccentricities.

I was a little jealous of his quirks. All of mine were acquired, carefully cultivated, like my obsession for amassing a collection of T-shirts for every occasion. This obsession of mine has actually gotten to the point where friends buy me T-shirts for every occasion. In particular, my knitting group enjoys giving me T-shirts for my theoretical future husband.

I plopped into the club chair across from him and smiled at his half glasses pulled low on his nose. Thomas was good looking in a very polished, non-threatening, academic kind of way—like a Lands’ End or Dockers khaki pants model.

I could easily see him wearing a sweater with elbow patches, smoking a pipe, and looking every inch a well-heeled man of leisure.

His brown hair was short and carefully coiffed, his thick eyebrows were manicured and shaped, his fingernails were perfect rectangles; he even had a dimple in his chin.

Thomas and I dated once. It was a blind date early in my current two-year and ten-month losing streak. On paper, we were a perfect match: both psychiatrists, close to the same age, ready to settle down and start a family. He was one of the few who didn’t leave the restaurant in tears. In fact, we got along famously—as one does with a colleague or an intellectual collaborator.

That night we decided to part as friends.

After I started referring my dates to him with some frequency, he offered to take me out for a thank you for referring all your crazy castoffs lunch. We went out one Saturday and had continued the tradition ever since.

He didn’t look up when I sat, as I knew he wouldn’t, so he didn’t know I was wearing my new Saturday Lunch with Thomas T-shirt.

I would wait. I’d designed the shirt some weeks ago—a picture of his floating head in front of a Metropolis-style rendering of Hotel Blake. It had a very Ayn Rand vibe.

Under the graphic were the words PROLETARIAT LUNCHES WITH THOMAS in block letters. I’d kinneared him—surreptitiously taken his picture with my smartphone— while he was reading to capture the perfect rendering of his face for the shirt design. Therefore, his lips were awkwardly firmed, mid-movement. He looked quite severe.

I watched him lift his coffee cup, his eyes still on the newspaper, his lips still moving silently and furiously. When the cup reached his lips, everything about him stilled; he sipped, swallowed, replaced the cup, took a breath, and then the rapid lip movement began again.

The waitress approached our table and I ordered for both of us. She, at least, noticed my T-shirt and gave me a small smile.

Finally, Thomas cleared his throat—which meant he was finished—and his eyes met mine. “Diagnosis?”

I knew he was referring to my Friday night dating debacle. Saturday lunch always began with Thomas asking me for a diagnosis. “Mild depression.”

“Prognosis?”

“Good.”

“And…?” This was the point at which he prompted me to provide some characteristic of my date that was unusual: it could be the man’s voice, the volume of his cries, a nervous twitch, a chronic sniffle.

“He looks like a honeydew.”

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