“Hmph,” I grunted again, trying to project coldness in his general direction rather than the
I love you, I love you! Take me now!
vibes that I was fairly sure I was sending out instead.
Just then, my office phone rang. I stood there awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to do. Should I answer it? Or pretend that I didn’t hear it or didn’t care? Finally, realizing it might be Jill, I reached for the receiver.
“Harper?” It was Meg, her voice sounding urgent. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re in a meeting, but I asked Molly to put me through. You talked to Jill this morning?” Her voice was urgent, but I wanted to tell her that I’d talk to her later, that I was busy now. Matt had apparently appeared in my office to beg my forgiveness. (And perhaps, if I was lucky, also to fling my papers from my desk, throw me onto it, and make passionate love to me on the spot. Okay, maybe not. Maybe I needed to cut back on the number of times I watched
The Rich and the Damned.
)
“Yes,” I said carefully, glancing at Matt. I suddenly had an idea. Immature as it was, it would be nice to make Matt feel at least a little bit of the insecurity I’d been feeling in his absence for the last five days. Fight fire with fire, so to speak. So, realizing that of course I would confuse Meg terribly, I said into the receiver, “Dinner tonight? Yes, I’d love to. I’ll call you back in a little while.” I hung up, ignoring Meg’s surprised protests.
“Who was that?” Matt asked. I knew it wasn’t my imagination that he looked a little jealous.
“My ex-boyfriend Peter,” I lied with a cavalier shrug that belied the way my heart was thudding inside my chest. “I’m having dinner with him tonight,” I added, as casually as I could. “He’s interested in getting back together.”
“Oh,” Matt said, seemingly at a temporary loss for words. He drew a deep breath. “Okay then. I was actually coming over to see if you’d have dinner with
me
tonight. But I guess you’ve made other plans.”
I suddenly wanted to leap over my desk, throw myself at him, and beg his forgiveness. I wanted to tell him that Peter didn’t mean anything to me, that it hadn’t been him on the phone after all, that I’d only been trying to make him jealous, as immature as that was. But I couldn’t. Not after Matt had let five days go by without talking to me. Not after I had spent the last five days pining away for him.
“Yes, I have other plans,” I said instead, my voice stiff. “Maybe some other time.”
“Yeah,” Matt said sadly, backing toward the door. “Maybe another time.”
I watched him back away, wondering if this was it. Maybe I had been stupid to think that he actually liked me. Maybe he was about to back right out of my life. But I didn’t want to let him go that easily.
“Why didn’t you call me, Matt?” I blurted out suddenly, surprising myself with my frankness.
He looked surprised, too. “I did call,” he said. “On Sunday.”
“But you didn’t call for three days. And then when you did, you didn’t leave a number.” The words were tumbling out of my mouth of their own accord. But the hurt that I’d been trying to ignore was suddenly bubbling to the surface. “It’s like you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“Oh, Harper, that’s not true at all,” Matt said, looking ashamed. I felt a bit sorry for him, despite myself. “I’m so sorry. The other night meant a lot to me. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. Sometimes I just get so caught up in my own life that whole days pass by without me noticing. But I should never have done that to you. I shouldn’t have made you feel that way.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure what to say. His apology seemed genuine, his eyes looked concerned, and his shoulders were slumped in what appeared to be defeat. He took another step closer to my office door and looked up to meet my eye again.
“I
am
really sorry, Harper,” Matt said, his hand on the knob. “Honestly. I should have called. I really like you. I hope you know that. I hope that your, um, dinner goes well tonight.”
Then he was gone, leaving me staring after him helplessly, not quite sure what I’d just done.
I
spent the rest of the day wishing that I hadn’t spontaneously lied to Matt about my fictional date with Peter, who, of course, hadn’t actually bothered to call me in the past three years. I wondered for a moment why, of all the names that could have come to mind, his was the one I chose to wound Matt with. It seemed sort of pathetic. Why was I still holding on to Peter, three years after he had summarily dumped me? It wasn’t that I had any desire to get back together with him. It was just that I hadn’t had any closure with him. It had been smooth sailing one day, and the next, the entire boat on which our relationship happily coasted had capsized.
For three years, I had let thoughts of him rule my mind. I had let the insecurities that he had planted when he left fester. I had let his weaknesses and fears rule and ruin my dating life. I was so terrified that every man would turn out to be as threatened by me as Peter was that I pushed away any chance of happiness. Matt had come to me today with an apology and a dinner invitation, and I had thrown it back in his face, like an immature child, simply because his behavior had left me terrified that he, too, would turn out like Peter. It was as if I was waiting for every man on the planet to flee in terror once he got to know the real me.
But this time, I had actively driven Matt away. He hadn’t been about to bolt. But I had self-defensively lied, and in doing so, I had pushed away the only man who had been willing and ready to see and love me for who I really was.
As I sat home alone that night, staring blankly and miserably at the wall, I knew suddenly what I had to do.
I had to get to Matt. I was thoroughly confused, my insides a storm of conflicting feelings. But one thing was clear: I had to get to Matt and apologize before I permanently screwed up the one good thing that had come out of this whole Blonde Theory.
I called Emmie, who answered after the first ring.
“What’s wrong, are you okay?” she asked immediately, her word tumbling out quickly on top of each other. “Meg said you were really weird on the phone today.”
“No,” I said, laughing, despite myself, at her blind concern. “It’s fine. I promise, I’ll tell you all about it later. But right now, I really need you to help me find Matt’s number.”
“Matt James?” she asked incredulously.
“I promise I’ll explain later, Emmie,” I said urgently. “This is just something I need to do now. Please?”
Emmie agreed and asked me to hold while she rifled through her address book, her Palm Pilot, and her file of paperwork from the show. A few minutes later, she was back on the phone.
“I can’t find his number,” she said. “But I have his address. Will that work?”
“Yes,” I said urgently. “Can you give it to me now?”
“Just be careful,” Emmie said with concern.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “I’m finally doing the right thing. I know it.”
I quickly hailed a cab outside and gave the driver Matt’s address, which I had hastily scribbled on a Post-it note. While the cab sped downtown, darting in and out of traffic on Fifth, my heart thudded in my chest and I tried to think of what I would say. I knew I needed to apologize. I’d acted immaturely, and I had risked blowing a really good thing. Yes, he had left me hanging for several days, but he had come to my office today with an honest apology. And instead of accepting it, I had lied and blown him off, just to make him jealous. I was ashamed of my behavior.
Twenty long minutes later, we pulled up across the street from Matt’s building, a canopied doorman building on the west side of Park Avenue between 20th and 21st. I was just about to give the driver a ten and hurry out of the cab to make amends when a familiar figure inside the building’s lobby across the street caught my eye. I froze and peered inside the glass entryway to Matt’s building, my insides suddenly cold and twisted, my mouth dry. I recognized him immediately. It was Matt, with his dark hair spiked in that sexy skater way, a button-up shirt untucked over distressed, faded jeans...and his arms around a woman who looked familiar, too.
I stared. It was Lisa, the woman who had been with Matt when he showed up to crash my date with Jack, the political analyst. The woman he had dismissed as “just a friend,” making me feel ridiculous for being jealous.
Through the glass, Matt was saying something to Lisa, bending close to whisper in her ear. She was giggling. I couldn’t help but notice, with a rising feeling of nausea, that he still had both arms around her, wrapping her in a loose hug that looked almost romantic.
I shook my head at myself and blinked. I was being stupid. There was nothing going on. She was just a friend, as he had told me the other day. They had probably just grabbed a cup of coffee or a quick, friendly dinner together and were saying good-bye. Maybe he had even asked her advice about me. I was just on edge. Thoughts of Peter, his lasting legacy apparently, had soured me to such an extent that I was suspicious of everyone, even the people who I should be trusting most.
“Are you staying or going?” the cabbie barked, staring at me in the rearview mirror and snapping me back to the present. I met his eye in the mirror and smiled ruefully.
“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “I’m going.”
I started to reach over the seat with the ten-dollar bill clenched in my fist, and as I did so, I glanced back at Matt’s building, just to make sure he and Lisa were still in the lobby. It would be easier if I didn’t have to ask the doorman to call up to his apartment and announce an unexpected guest.
But as I glanced back into the glass-encased lobby, I froze, clenching the ten-dollar bill so tightly that the cabdriver had to practically rip it from my hand.
“Lady, I don’t got all day here,” he growled as he stuffed the ten into his pocket ungratefully. “This ain’t a sightseeing bus.”
But I couldn’t move. I could only stare, glued to my seat, eyes wide, face pressed up against the cab window, as I watched Matt kissing Lisa. It wasn’t the kind of kiss anyone would give to “just a friend.” This was the kind of kiss Matt had given me just the other day.
The world seemed frozen as I watched, horrified, the man who had only hours earlier proclaimed his feelings for me passionately making out with another woman—a beautiful, glamorous, stick-thin woman.
“Go,” I finally choked out to the driver, unable to tear my eyes away from the sight. “Go, go!” I barked, suddenly terrified that Matt would look out and see me. I’d look like I was skulking in the shadows, spying on him.
“Are you crazy, lady?” the cabbie asked, staring at me angrily in the rearview. “Now you
don’t
want to get out? Make up your mind!”
“Just take me home!” I said, quickly telling him the address. “I’ll tip you extra. Please, just go.”
He rolled his eyes pointedly at me one last time in the rearview then inched back into the northbound traffic, muttering to himself.
As we pulled out of sight of Matt’s lobby, I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes, breathing hard. I didn’t know what to think.
I knew one thing, though. This was my fault. I was sure of it. If I hadn’t pretended to be going out with Peter just to hurt Matt, this never would have happened. Sure, there was no excuse for him kissing Lisa, and to be honest I couldn’t understand it. But I knew it had to have something to do with the awful way I had treated him. Clearly, this was some kind of rebound coping mechanism on his part. After all, what had happened between us last week hadn’t been a figment of my imagination. He liked me. I knew he really liked me—for who I was. And I had gone and screwed it all up. I had hurt him, and this was how he had reacted.
I opened my eyes and gazed out at the city inching by outside the cab windows. We were just east of the big, touristy area of Times Square now, and all around us couples seemed to be walking hand in hand. Sure, there were people by themselves, too, but in my current state I seemed only to notice the happy pairs—old, young, and everywhere in between—hand in hand, arm in arm, and side by side. Why couldn’t I have that, too? Why wasn’t I half of one of those happy couples, strolling through the streets of New York without a care in the world, knowing I had found the person I loved? How did I manage to screw it up, every single time? I pounded a fist into the beaten leather of the cab’s backseat in frustration and ignored the driver’s sharp glance in the rearview mirror.
If I had just followed my heart and forgiven Matt this afternoon, rather than trying to make some stupid point, this wouldn’t be happening right now. For that matter, if I had just allowed my stupid career to take a backseat to my social life—even occasionally—I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. What was wrong with me that I felt like I needed to be the best patent lawyer in the city? Maybe Peter had been right all along, and I
had
treated him badly,
had
put my stupid, meaningless professional needs ahead of him. Granted, he had behaved abominably, but maybe I was to blame, too. The blame was certainly on my shoulders in this situation with Matt.
Why couldn’t I get it right?
Maybe my lack of success in dating had nothing to do with my job. Maybe it had to do with
me
. Maybe I was too demanding. Maybe I expected too much of people. Maybe I was too disappointed in them when they did things that I perceived as wrong. Maybe I held people—including myself—to standards that were too high. After all, I had done that with Jill, hadn’t I? I’d been so judgmental about her situation. Maybe I did that with guys, too. Maybe I didn’t even give them the chance to love me. Maybe it was
me
who pushed them away, not my job and my success.
Regardless, I had somehow managed to screw up the only chance I’d had in three years to be with a guy who actually liked me for me.
As the cabbie pulled up in front of my building, I heard him audibly mumbling something about how he always wound up with “the crazies.” Maybe he was right. I dragged myself out of the cab, sniffing back my tears as I shut the door behind me. Maybe I really was crazy. That would explain a lot.
An hour later, I had changed into an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt, but I hadn’t bothered to clean up my tear-stained face. Why should I? I was destined to be alone forever, apparently. So who cared how I looked?
I settled back into my plush leather sofa, hating it for the first time, because it was the fruit of me working too hard. I frowned at my wide-screen TV as I snapped it on with the remote control, because it, too, was one of the perks that came from making a mid-six-figure income instead of actually being able to date like a normal human being. I sighed and glanced at the omnipresent mound of manila folders on the coffee table in front of me. Then, as an afterthought, I kicked them off the table with one swift shot of my right foot, sending them flying all over the room. In that moment, I hated them, hated this apartment, hated everything I had built for myself, because it meant I had neglected one whole area of my life—love—as if it meant nothing. And now it was too late to make things right.
I bit my nails as I flipped through the channels, a nervous, self-destructive habit that I often took to when things in my life seemed to be going south. Finally, I settled on a
Seinfeld
rerun and settled back to watch George and Jerry discuss whether the Yankees should be wearing cotton or polyester uniforms. I intently nibbled on the nail on my index finger, trying to forget that today had even happened. I longed to go back to two weeks ago, before I had started The Blonde Theory, before Matt had told me he was attracted to me, before Peter had “reappeared” in my life, and before the annoying Irish handyman had called me out and tried to force me to admit that
I
was the problem.
Fine, I admitted it. I
was
the problem. I had completely screwed everything up. And I apparently continued to do so.
I had just settled into a second episode of
Seinfeld,
the one where Elaine dates the close-talker, when there was a knock on the door.
“If that’s that damned handyman again,” I muttered as I heaved myself off my couch, glancing around for stray towels I might have somehow missed, “I’m going to kill him.”
I opened the door, harshly, fully prepared to snap at whoever was on my doorstep, interrupting my sulking. But my eyes widened as I realized that it was Matt James standing there, a puppy-dog expression on his face, looking sad. His shoulders were slumped, and he was wearing the same untucked shirt and distressed Diesel jeans that I’d seen through the windows of the cab just an hour before.
“Matt,” I breathed, a whole tidal wave of emotions flooding through me. I felt angry and hurt after seeing him with Lisa. But more than that, I felt sad, hopeless, and very, very guilty. I had put this whole chain of events into motion. This was my fault.
“Hey, Harper,” he said softly, hanging his head. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” I breathed, stepping aside so that he could cross the threshold. He looked glum, and I longed to reach over and pull him into a hug, but I was on edge after seeing him with Lisa and didn’t know quite how to address it. Plus, I didn’t understand what he was doing here.
“How was your date?” he asked softly after I had shut the door behind him. My eyes welled up, and I quickly blinked back the tears.
“Matt, I’m so sorry,” I said, the words spilling out on top of each other. He turned to face me, and I looked him right in the eye even though I wanted to look away in shame. “I should never have said that to you. Peter never called. I don’t know what I was doing. I don’t know why I said that.”
He just stood there for a moment, staring at me, before he reached out and wrapped me tightly in his strong arms, pulling me close. My body felt weak as he pressed me into his muscular chest. I breathed in the intoxicating scent of his cologne, loving the protective feel of being nestled against him.
“It’s okay,” Matt said finally, his words slow and soothing. “I forgive you. I understand. I really like you, and I don’t want this to get in our way.”
“I really like you, too,” I said softly.