Why I Love Singlehood: (13 page)

Of course, Jay and Minerva got matched. Norman matched with me (we had agreed to check off each other’s box just in case no one else did) and a girl named Samara. He was clearly excited about that and rushed to the other side of the bar to talk to her. She had long, dark hair and a sassy little pink dress with a skirt length that made mine look straight out of Amish country.

My turn: Norman, of course, and…Please let it be the Tom Cruise-guy!
Please let it be the Tom Cruise-guy! It has to be—we had all that chemistry
…

Just Norman.

Suddenly, Norman’s and my idea to match each other up felt even more pathetic than if we hadn’t.

Before we left the bar (we were waiting for Norman), I went over to the Tom Cruise–guy, who was chatting it up with a blond.

Me
: Excuse me, may I just ask why you didn’t check my box?

As the words lingered in my ear, I realized that something sounded very off-color about them.

He held up his hands as if I was about to make a scene.

Tom
: Listen, no offense. You were just a little too know-it-all for me, that’s all. Like you had it all figured out or were above it all or something. I mean, it’s all good clean fun, ya know?

I shrank to the size of a stain on the floor.

Me
: Thanks. Sorry to interrupt you.

Norman drove and talked incessantly about Samara. Minerva fell asleep on Jay’s shoulder, while he kissed her head and closed his eyes. I sat up front and stared out the window, feeling like the world had gone and hooked up without me.

I thought I was so content not to be in a relationship. And then it occurred to me: I wasn’t. What I mean is, I actually was not content to be with anyone who wasn’t Shaun.

It’s about him, isn’t it. It’s always been about him.

I shut down my laptop and stood up, trying to catch my balance. Without even washing the makeup off my face, I slipped out of my clothes, left them in a pile on the floor, threw on a T-shirt, and fell into bed.

And the Tom Cruise-guy thought I had it all figured out.

11

Aftermath

FOLLOWING THE SPEED-DATING
night, I had given myself my first weekend off in God knew how long, and spent most of it in bed. Not accustomed to drinking so much, I nursed a hangover using one of Minerva’s home remedies consisting of alternating glasses of V-8 juice and Gatorade with a double dose of vitamins. I had also decided to give myself a much-needed sabbatical from my laptop. When I returned to The Grounds on Monday, however, I was barraged with questions about my WILS post and about the speed dating night. It turned out that I should’ve titled it “Never Post Anything When You’re Drunk.”

“I don’t know,” said Dara, sitting with Minerva and two other Regulars, “it sounded kinda fun.”

“Wow, that’s quite a turnaround for you,” I said. “Whose post did you read—mine or Minerva’s lab report?”

Not surprisingly, Minerva had taken the social experiment to heart and wrote a conventional lab report—she even used APA documentation when she quoted Jay’s account of the evening as “snazzy.”

Minerva rolled her eyes at me. “It wasn’t
that
bad.”

“Please. You could’ve submitted that thing to the
Journal of Behavioral Psychology
and they’d have wound up studying
you
.”

Dara leaned in to Minerva, as if we were discussing a scandal. “So, did you take any cards at the end? Who was your favorite?”

“My favorite mini-date?” Minerva asked. “I’d have to say Norman.”

Norman?

Jay shot Minerva a look.
Norman??

She glanced around at our faces, all emanating confusion. “Yeah. I had a really nice time,” she insisted.

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Norman—as in, you-once-threatened-to-castrate-him-for-calling-you-Minnie, Norman?” I said.

Behind her, Norman blanched at the mere memory.

“I never threatened to castrate him,” she corrected. “And yeah. He’s a funny guy.” She called over her shoulder, “You hear that, Norman? I think you’re a peach!”

“You’re married!” he shot back from behind the counter. “What good does that do me?”

“I dunno. References?”

“Do I look like the kind of guy that needs references?” he asked.

“Do I look like the kind of girl you want to answer that?” she retorted, turning back to the rest of us and continued nonchalantly to her husband. “Who was your favorite, Jay?”

He looked at her as if the answer was obvious. “You.”

She scoffed, “Oh, please. You eat dinner with me every night! There must have been someone more interesting there. Come on, tell us! I promise, I’m not going to get upset.”

“You’re my favorite,” he said, sounding like a boy defending his favorite teddy bear.

One side of Minerva’s mouth tipped up in the rare, soft smile she reserved only for Jay. It was one of the things I admired about their relationship—they were never very affectionate in public—handholding was as obvious as it got, but the
love
…without kisses and cooing and gooey eyes, Minerva and Jay shared an almost tangible air of affection between them. I think that is what separates couples that look “natural” together from the rest of the love-struck, eHarmony world. Most couples demonstrate—hell,
prove
to each other how in love they are with favors and manners and declarations on Valentine’s Day. Minerva and Jay never had to show each other; rather, it was an unspoken, unyielding fact. A covenant. Sometimes it was apparent in a look or a smile, or the way they finished each other’s thoughts and sentences, but most of the time it was a presence that pulled everyone under its warm blanket.

Why didn’t Shaun and I have that?
I wondered.
And is it too late to get him back to find it?

“Well, we all know Eva’s and Norman’s favorites,” said Dara.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“You wrote it all down, silly! Yours was that Tom guy who turned out to be not that into you, and Norman’s was the girl with the dress.”

“Her name is
Samara
,” said Norman.

Actually, I had forgotten a lot of what I had written that night. I momentarily covered my eyes with my hand, as if everyone would disappear when I took it away.

“Are you going out with her again?” Scott asked Norman.

“Tomorrow night, in fact,” said Norman. “But if you want to know the truth, it wasn’t my favorite date. And sorry, Minerva, but neither were you. It was Eva.”

I felt my face get hot.
Me?

“Well, that’s not hard to believe, given the way she looked that night,” said Scott.

I flipped around so fast I pulled a muscle in my back. “How do
you
know what I looked like?”

“Geez, where’ve you been this weekend, Eva?” asked Scott.

“Hiding under my covers. Now answer my question.”

“Minerva posted it on her blog along with her report.”

In mid-cookie chew, Minerva sheepishly smiled without opening her mouth and shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a support document.”

I then went over to Scott’s laptop, surfed to Minerva’s LiveJournal blog, and sure enough, there I was: the cell phone photo of me in the café before the event. It wasn’t a half-bad picture, actually, but still. I looked at her again—she’d finished chewing by now, followed by the rest of her vanilla chai in one final gulp.

“It’s a good picture, Eva. It needed to be seen,” said Minerva.

“It’s an
awesome
picture,” corrected Scott. “Let’s do a quick poll: who here agrees that Eva looked hot on Friday night?”

All the Regulars but Neil raised their hands. “Sorry,” said Neil, “I didn’t see it.”

“Well come here, dude,” said Scott.

Mortified, I looked at them all and announced, “I’ve got work to do in the kitchen,” and headed in that direction as Neil peeked at Scott’s laptop.

Later that day, Car Talk Kenny walked into the reading room where I was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the bookcase, sorting through a box of books that a customer had donated earlier that day.

“Hey, Eva.”

I looked up at him.

“Hey, Kenny.”

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Come sit with me,” I instructed, patting the floor. He obediently squatted to his knees.

“How was your weekend?” he asked.

“You see Minerva’s LiveJournal?”

He paused for a beat while I handed him a pile of books that he gently placed next to him. “Yeah. Nice picture. I liked your WILS post better, though. Hers was a little too clinical.”

“It was a rip-roarin’ time. You should have been there with us.”

“I had other plans, unfortunately,” he said.

“Are you seeing anyone, Kenny?”

The question surprised both him and me.

He inspected the spine of one of the books. “Not right now,” he answered. “Why?”

“Do you want to be? I mean, do you mind not being in a relationship?”

“Yes and no.”

“How yes and how no?” I asked.

“No, I don’t mind because life is good and I’m on track and ready for the right woman that comes along. Yes, I mind because she hasn’t come along. Or she’s not ready yet.”

“You’re just waiting for her to show up?”

“Something like that.”

How does one get to that point, to be so satisfied or willing to wait? My very first WILS post was about that very satisfaction: but since then, I’d lost it. In fact, I suddenly couldn’t remember ever feeling it.

“Why don’t you go find her? How do you know she’s not waiting for you?” I handed him another stack of books.

“You’ve got a point there,” he said.

“I’m giving it all up—dating, I mean. It’s an endless cycle. Friday night was just one more reminder of why I love singlehood.”

“Well, OK then. If it makes you happy. But I think you’re lying.”

I stopped what I was doing and stared at him in shock. He smiled at me—a wide, bright smile. A Kenny smile.

Kenny didn’t have Spencer’s square chin and high cheekbones, or Dean’s silky brown hair, or Norman’s puppy-dog eyes. He didn’t have Chris Noth’s million-dollar Mr. Big finesse or Hugh Jackman’s
everything
. He was six feet tall and gangly, with sandpaper hair that was cut unevenly and hazel eyes that were witness to the world around him. He was good-looking, but an awkward dresser. No, Kenny was someone you couldn’t appreciate unless you sat close, stopped talking, and waited for him to smile. His smile was infectious, the kind that lit up his whole face. You couldn’t forget Kenny’s smile. It just wasn’t possible.

Sitting on the floor with him at that moment, I really
looked
at him, and smiled back.

“You think I’m lying?” I asked.

He nodded. “Through your teeth.”

“About what?”

“All of it,” he said. “Here’s the thing, Eva. Why don’t you stop proving to yourself and the world that you’re happier being single and just be happy for happy’s sake? Date, don’t date; get married, don’t get married; have kids, don’t have kids; do it because it’s really right for you and not because a whole bunch of blog-people with too much time on their hands—present company excluded,” he said, gesturing between the two of us, “are gonna lace into you for changing your mind or making a decision that doesn’t warrant pithy prose.”

It took a full five seconds for me to realize that my mouth was open and nothing was coming out.

“And I’ll tell you something else. The Tom Cruise guy was likely a tool,” he said.

I laughed out loud, the first time all day long. All weekend, come to think of it.

“And I would’ve checked your box had I been there, and not just because I know you. Pictures don’t lie.”

“Bullshit,” I said in a hushed voice. “They lie all the time.”

“That one didn’t.” He smiled again, and again I couldn’t avert my eyes quickly enough.

I stood up, and he followed. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee, Sailor,” I said, turning him around in the direction of the café tables, pushing him gently all the way.

That evening, when I got home from The Grounds, I reread the speed dating post in mortification. It was so blunt, so revealing. How could I have been such a yutz? Jay and Minerva and Norman didn’t mind that I used their names, but I should have changed the others and kept Shaun out of it, for my sake and especially for his. Seventeen comments followed, all of which I perused until my eyes set on the last one, posted anonymously: