Authors: Liza Palmer
I’m not the girl men choose.
“Wait here. Be right back,” Sam says, kissing me once more. As he goes back into Pizza Joe’s, I feel my smile slowly wane. My brow furrows as Sam’s absence yields a far more heightened emptiness than I’ve ever felt before. An emptiness that quickly begets questions: Was I too wanton? Was I pawing at him? Was he as invested as I was? Did I just make a prize idiot of myself? For those fleeting moments there was no inner monologue. I wasn’t even cognizant enough to be proud that I was “in the moment.” It was just Sam and me. Sam is watching me from inside Pizza Joe’s. He looks distracted as he takes the remainder of the pizzas. He lifts them easily and makes his way out to the car once more. I stand next to the open trunk, the smell of fresh pizza wafting, and watch Sam as he shuffles the pizzas around in the shrinking Ferrari trunk like a real-life version of Pizza Tetris. Sam finally gets the pizzas set and slams the trunk.
He pauses. It takes me a second to realize as I focus back in on him. He looks . . . torn.
“What is it?” I ask, my heart thumping out of my body, my own mythology screaming inside my brain.
“Nothing . . . nothing, darlin’. We’d better get these pizzas back,” Sam says, smiling. He leans in for another kiss and it’s already different. No longer wild and swirling, the kiss is measured and . . . considered. Something has already changed. I hate that my knee-jerk reaction is to think it’s something I’ve done.
Sam takes my hand and leads me around to the passenger side, opens my door and deposits me safely inside. The door slams behind me. In the span of fifteen minutes my entire life has been altered in a way that is so . . . cruel.
There is more.
That middling life I thought I was destined to live—with its all-balls love and half-assed requests for classic rock mixes—is a crock of shit.
There is more.
There are people out there who have X-ray vision. They can see through my walls, armor and scrims and filters right down to the Real Me. And the saddest thing in the world? I haven’t forgotten who that person is. She’s in there and waiting. Like Sleeping Beauty locked high in a tower, she’s been patient and aware of the coma I’ve been in all these years. As Sam folds into the Ferrari and starts the beautiful hum of the car once more, I realize the one hitch in someone having X-ray glasses is that I’m utterly exposed to him. It’s one thing to want someone to keep looking, to swim over moats and dodge flaming arrows to find you. It’s quite another when you ask yourself, really ask yourself, if you’re finally ready to come out into the open. No matter what.
Sam and I drive down Lake Avenue in silence that stretches itself over us like a fog. And then a poisonous gas. Sitting in the passenger seat, my brain is in overdrive. The sad reality is I really don’t know Sam, and I certainly don’t know how to ask what exactly happened back there. As we turn left on New York Drive, I decide it’s because I acted outside of the norm. I went outside of my comfort zone. If I want to know what’s going on, why don’t I just. . .
“Sooooo, this isn’t awkward or anything,” I say, looking over at Sam. He smiles. Immediately.
“No, not at all,” Sam says, his voice gravelly and low.
“Is it . . . is it, uh . . . hot in here?” I ask, tugging cartoonishly at my collar.
“Ha!” Sam laughs, cranking the steering wheel left on Hill Avenue and continuing on to Jill and Martin’s house.
“You wanted me to get specific,” I say, smiling.
“That I did, darlin’. That I did,” Sam says.
“The wafting smell of pizza really does make it that much more dramatic,” I say, my hands in tight fists. Breathe.
“It certainly adds an upmarket air.”
We are silent. Both smiling to ourselves. Not sharing what exactly we find funny. It could be very different things. I might have to go back to a life without Sam. He might just have gas. How can I know at this point?
Sam continues. “I finally felt like Sonny Crockett.”
“What?” I blurt, laughing.
“That was very
Miami Vice
of us,” Sam says, pulling into Jill and Martin’s driveway.
“I swear I heard the opening chords of ‘In the Air Tonight.’ ”
“You’ve finally fulfilled my schoolboy fantasy.” Sam turns off the car, pulls the key from the ignition and rests it on his lap.
“Ha . . . I’m glad to have been of service,” I say, smiling. Sam opens his door and climbs out; he bends back in just as I’m about to open my door.
“Nope. Wait. Hold on,” Sam says, slamming his door. He jogs around the front of the car and back toward my door. I watch him. And watch him. And watch him. And wait for any of this to feel real at all. Maybe I should stop questioning and start enjoying myself. Not that I could wipe the smile off my face if I tried, or the look of terror that takes its place when I fear I’ve gotten in way too deep way too fast. Sam creaks open my door and extends his hand.
“Thank you, good sir,” I say, taking his hand and marveling once again at how quickly and smoothly Sam extricates me from the car with just one swift motion. This time, though, he doesn’t move as I stand. He holds on to my hand. So tall. Looming and focused. The world falls away once more. My breath quickens, puffs of chilled air nearly fogging the space between us. Sam wets his lips.
“Fiiinallllly!” Jill says from the porch. Sam turns to look, the muscle in his neck tightening and stretching down below his collared shirt, tucking warmly underneath that gray sweater. I look from Sam to Jill. We’re too close for her not to suspect something.
“Martin, honey? Come help bring the pizzas in!” Jill says, trotting down the front steps. She approaches us quickly as we’ve both taken a step away from each other. Sam slams the passenger door and opens up the trunk. The pizzas are full to bursting and the smell immediately drifts out into the ether.
“We’ll talk later,” Jill rasps as she passes me on the way to Sam with a quick wink and pat on the ass.
“I—”
“Don’t even try to deny it,” she whispers.
I am quiet.
Martin hops down the front steps and approaches quickly. Lisa and Grady are just behind him.
“These smell amazing. Thanks for picking them up, man,” Martin says, lifting out another stack and handing them to Grady. Grady passes his beer to Lisa and takes the pizzas. Sam and Grady head inside, pizzas in hand.
I stand next to the Ferrari. Jill and Lisa are quiet. I feel like I’m out behind the handball courts with the tough girls and they’re about to shake me down for my algebra homework.
“You’d better start talking,” Jill says, stepping closer.
“We were loading the pizzas into the trunk and he wanted to apologize for how he left things the other night. Then he reached out to me and I just . . . it all came down on me. Everything we talked about. And then he stepped up onto the curb. He was so tall and . . . I—” I’m reliving it. My heart begins to race once more.
Jill interrupts. “Oh my god . . . did you grab his crank?” She skips slightly, as a little kid would upon hearing she was going to Disneyland.
“No, I didn’t grab his crank, for crissakes,” I say, flushing.
“Let her finish, perv,” Lisa says, shoving Jill slightly. She giggles, giddy and happy. Jill cranes her neck to see inside her full house. Martin is announcing there is pizza; there are cheers and clapping. She rolls her eyes.
“I can’t believe we had to order pizza,” Jill says with a sigh.
“Go on,” Lisa says.
“And it was like I couldn’t speak anymore, couldn’t stop touching him. So, I just gave over,” I say.
“Are you kidding me?” Jill says.
“I know!” I say, letting my voice drop.
“Good for you,” Lisa says, smiling.
“We should get in there before he knows exactly what’s happening out here,” I say, starting to walk into the house.
“I’m so proud of you,” Jill says, draping an arm around me.
“It’s scary though, you know?”
“Yeah . . . ,” Jill and Lisa say in unison.
“What am I supposed to do . . . what am I supposed to do with this? With the knowledge that someone like him exists?” I plead.
“You let that shit ride,” Lisa says. Repeats, really, from the Lucky Baldwin’s bathroom.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say as we climb the steps into Jill’s house. Jill stops and turns to me. Serious.
“You choose. You know?
You
choose where this goes,” Jill says, looking me in the eye. She looks from me to Lisa. Lisa nods. And nods.
“I choose,” I repeat.
“Where this goes is your choice,” Lisa says.
“I want him to go everywhere,” I say.
“Damn right, you do,” Lisa says, and we walk inside.
“Just don’t blow him on your first date,” Jill says, and closes the door behind us.
The night wears on. We eat our pizza, the conversation moves quickly and we’re all laughing and having a good time. Lisa and Grady join in, Grady ribbing Martin for the earlier barbecue faux pas. Martin is a good sport. It’s the six of us. A utopian sextet of happy couples. Martin and Jill: married and settled. Lisa and Grady: constantly touching, smiling from ear to ear, excited about what the future holds.
Then there’s me and Sam: veterans of myriad matchmaking schemes. And with age comes the knowledge that
everyone
has baggage, but you can hope that when you encounter someone else’s, it’ll match your own. The complicated algorithms of the pre-relationship: 1 mix tape + 2(accidental run-ins in the hallways – serious ex-girlfriends/possible fiancée(?)) + 1 set of in-laws + X(number of sexual partners – one night stands) will = eternal bliss.
But the truth is that when it’s right—when it’s
really
right—that algorithm fades away and the equation simply becomes 1 + 1 = 2.
“I think I’m going to head home,” I say as the party winds down. The simplicity of just doing what I want is freeing yet completely terrifying at the same time.
I’ve tried the other way. I’ve been the girl who waited around until the end of the party in hopes of being chosen. And as most economists will attest, if there’s too much supply, the demand dwindles.
“I’ll walk you out,” Sam says, putting his glass in the sink. Jill relaxes a bit. This is acceptable, not the best-case scenario (i.e., a spontaneous backyard wedding), but this
will
do.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I say, gathering my purse.
“So, see you guys tomorrow then,” Jill says, quickly lumping Sam and me together. This is her way. Being friends with Jill is sometimes similar to being a victim of Stockholm syndrome.
“Thank you for the dinner,” Sam says, shaking hands with Martin and then giving Jill a quick hug. She gets flushed and giddy as he pulls away.
“So gentlemanly,” Jill trills. I roll my eyes and can’t help but smile.
“Ready?” Sam asks, and I nod.
“Byeeeee,” Jill says as we finally leave.
The door closes behind us. As I walk down the stone steps, I’m aware of Sam every inch of the way. His Ferrari still sits just behind my car. What happens now? Do we go back to his place? Do people still say that? Even if there’s no hot tub and Asti Spumante? I can’t breathe.
I beep my car unlocked and open the driver’s-side door. Somewhere in all my newfangled thinking, I’ve decided not to try to manipulate this entire night. I want—no, need—to find out what it’s like to just be me and have someone like and choose that. Choose the Real Me. Respond to that. I morphed into a whole other person for Ryan and he cheated on and chucked me for Jessica, the vacant-eyed vet’s assistant.
And that wasn’t the first time.
Every relationship I’ve had has involved some form of dismantling: the midwesterner who I put down California with, the Beatles fan I listened to hidden piano-bench creaks in “A Day in the Life” with, the beat poet I went on the road with. Just as I shouldn’t blame Jessica for Ryan’s indiscretion, I can’t blame these men for what I allowed to happen to me. I was never my own champion. I never sat a man down and talked about how much I love Jane Austen or why a good drive up the coast is as good as therapy sometimes (especially if you don’t insist on talking) and why it’s always okay to cry during the Olympics when someone gets a gold medal. It’s time to try something different. You know, in theory. In practice? We’ll see.
“Thanks for walking me out, I hear this neighborhood gets really rough past ten
P.M.
,” I say, throwing my purse on the passenger seat and turning back around to face Sam. He’s stepped in closer. There’s something he’s not telling me. Girlfriend back home? Wants to tell me that I’ve clearly gotten the wrong idea? Wrongfully accused of murder and searching for a one-armed man?
“Thank you,” Sam finally says, pulling just inches back. Inches . . . miles . . . same difference.
“For what?” I ask, my voice instantly icy and cold.
“A great night,” Sam says, his brow furrowed, his smile tight and layered.
“My pleasure,” I say, clearing my throat and looking at my car.
“Okay, so . . . ,” Sam says, hand on my driver’s-side door.
“See you later, then,” I say, shutting down completely. Sam’s body reacts like he wants to pounce, but then . . . stops. He swallows and looks away. I nod. I understand. Tonight was a mistake. Over and out. I smile, as much as one can while on the brink of sobbing, and get into my car. I reach over my shoulder for the seat belt, thankful that my arm is acting as some kind of barrier between us. Maybe he won’t be able to see the tears welling up in my eyes. The frustration builds in my shoulders. I’m thankful I’m a titleholder in the blood sport of “I’m going to reject you before you reject me.”
“See you later,” Sam says, watching as I latch my seat belt. He gives a small nod when it clicks. Sam is unmoving, buzzing and muted. I put my key in the ignition and start up my car.
“I’d better get going,” I say, my hand on the gearshift. I put the car in reverse, my foot on the brake pedal.
“Sure,” Sam says, stepping back and looking at the white lights reflect off the hood of his Ferrari just behind mine.
He continues. “Oh, right. I have to move my car.”
I nod and attempt a smile. Sam pulls his keys from his jeans pocket, steps back again and takes one final second. Motionless and muted. I lock eyes with him. The spoked, cinnamon-brown eyes that were so passionate earlier are now darting and urgent. As he finally slams my door and walks to his car, I let my entire body deflate. Feel the weight of what I’ve lost. Try not to feel ridiculous for being overly dramatic. It was one kiss, for crissakes. One night. Why do I feel so . . . altered?