Liar's Guide to True Love (22 page)

The feel of him is completely new, and yet feels exactly like I imagined he would feel if I had permitted myself to imagine this far. I imagined this happening, sure, in theory. I never imagined it would feel this—right.

Some hours later we lie in his bed, exhausted, both still catching our breath a bit. I’ve had a moment to collect my wits again and I realize I haven’t been here in a long time. Not here, in Nick’s apartment,
in his bed,
I mean here, as in, I’ve just had mind-blowing,
out of this world
sex with someone and I don’t know what to do next. With Kevin, every time was predictable, comfortable in the knowledge that staying or going meant the same thing—absolutely nothing. With other guys, well, there was never a reason to stay. I make a move to find my clothes at least, I don’t want Nick to think I am getting too comfortable, first planning our wedding, then assuming he’ll spoon me to sleep until the morning? I am so not that girl, and I’m going to show him I’m not.

I give him a kiss on the lips and a smile, then slip out from under the weight of his arm. He watches me, saying nothing as I slip into my clothes. There is no real sexy way to do this, but then I suppose the seduction I planned is over anyway, right? He gets up a little as I start to put on my pants, then finally moves to get dressed himself. Well, he gets partly dressed anyway, slipping on his boxers. He still hasn’t said anything, nor is he putting on any more clothing. I can’t help but compare him to Kevin, who either slept nude in bed or got fully dressed. There was never any lounging in one’s unmentionables with Kevin. He never even walked around shirtless in the summer, in his own apartment.

Nick sits on the edge of his bed, watching me straighten my top and run my fingers through my hair. It’s still too early for it to be a true walk of shame when I get to my apartment, but there’s no reason to be
obvious
about what I’ve been doing all night, is there? I swallow hard, realizing that I’m fidgeting because I’m nervous, not because of what the doorman will think. “Are you going to say anything?” I ask.

Nick chuckles and leans back on his elbows. He doesn’t have a six pack, he has an eight pack. “You seem to be in a rush.”

I feel the heat rise to my face, and I turn away to smooth an imaginary crease in my shirt. “Early day tomorrow.” Oh God, that sounded so wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Now I’m That Girl. “For both of us.”

Nick chuckles again and swings his legs a little. “Sure.” He looks at me, making no move to get up, just watches me, a little quizzically. I don’t know how to react, except to look for my shoes, which I remember are by the couch. I look back at him and he is still watching me, staring at me.

I can’t help but laugh a little. “What is it? Am I growing spinach between my teeth?”

He leans forward to grab my waist, and pulls me toward him so suddenly that I lose my balance just a little bit and fall into him. I’m lying on top of him now, fully clothed, against his (mostly) nakedness. He pulls me into a long, tender, take-your-time kiss that makes me wish my clothes would melt off. I’m barely done thinking this when he pulls away and says softly, “That was a lot better than watching
The Dark Knight
on Pay-Per-View, don’t you think?”

“We are so not just friends” I say, still in the post-kiss haze.

“What?”

I snap out of my dream-like state. “Well, you know, we’re not just friends after…that.”

He chuckles again. What is it about me that is so funny to him? “No, we are not just friends.”

I smile and get up (again). His hand stays on my hip, and I realize how much I like it there. “Good. Now I really should get going.” I’m dressed aren’t I? I felt like I should say that.

“I guess you really should.” He raises a brow and still makes no move to get up, or to let go of me.

“Am I seeing myself out?”

“No, I’m just stalling.”

I smile. But I keep my self control. I won’t turn into that girl who decides to stay even though she hasn’t been asked.

He finally gets up and takes my hand as he sees me out. I slip on my shoes and open the door into the hallway. He pulls me back into a kiss. A lingering kiss, even though the door is wide open and he is still only in his boxers. There’s just something so attractive about a man who is clearly confident in his own skin. I sigh contentedly against his chin. “Good night,” I say reluctantly.

I wake up completely refreshed the next morning despite the late night, and possibly because I didn’t set my alarm and am up an hour later than usual. I receive a text message before I’m even out of bed, and I’m already grinning from ear to ear. Nick is such a gentleman to text so early the morning after.

Only it’s not Nick. It’s Emma: Been having a brainstorm. So many great invite ideas.

I don’t reply. Discussing her tactic of latching on to my business out of avoidance of her marital issues is something that cannot be done by text message. My lovely morning of languishing in bed is ruined all the same, so I get up to face the day. I check my email inbox and it is all business. Nothing super critical, thankfully—one message is from a maid of honor who wonders if a Chanel-themed bridal shower cake seems too gauche in these lean economic times, even though the bride in honor is known for her love of luxury logos. There seems to be dissent among the bridesmaids and I’ve been called upon to be the decision-maker.

I begin tapping out my reply, that if it is what the bride would really enjoy, then it’s not gauche. The shower is for her closest friends and family who know her and (hopefully) don’t judge her for her tastes. And after all, a Chanel-themed cake probably costs about the same to make as another cake they would get. But how about keeping it to classic Chanel in black and white, rather than trendy Chanel with metallics and pinks?

A message comes in as I type—from Nick! When was the last time I felt a tingle go through me from an email?

I hit reply right away (it’s pointless to play hard to get now, right?):

He must be really busy and doesn’t have time to write. I can’t help but keep grinning. I must be smitten. I even think it’s cute that he doesn’t emoticon.

I turn to the rest of my email to get some work done. One thing about my business is that I never know when a crisis—real, imagined, or just emotional—is going to strike, and I want to make sure I have time to get to “our” Starbucks later.

I go back to my email and see a message from Emma. She’s attached pdf documents—apparently she was struck by inspiration last night and stayed up until 2 a.m. brushing up on her Adobe skills to design wedding invitations. She thinks they are good designs; she writes—“traditional without being stuffy, contemporary without being edgy.” I’m sure they are good designs—she was always talented. But I still don’t open them. How could I push a particular designer on to my clients, when that particular designer is my little sister? There’s something too nepotistic about the idea, and I am too used to working alone. Besides, she is still on the baby track, and the last thing I need is for a designer I recommended to flake out on a client because she suddenly has more important things to do like set up a nursery.

I don’t get a call from Nick this morning, but it’s okay. We crossed the threshold of “more than friends” and I shouldn’t need to analyze every moment of silence. He did email me first thing this morning, right?

At around 11:00 I start getting antsy about hearing from Nick, since it is getting late for a “morning” coffee. I keep checking my BlackBerry to see if I missed a call somehow, and it is during one of these checks that my mother calls. Without even a greeting, she says, “Where were you last night darling? I called you at the apartment.” She never calls my apartment “home” because she still likes to think of her house in New Jersey as my home.

“Oh, just out late, and then I wasn’t answering the phone because I was tired,” I reply. It’s a funny thing, this game that adult daughters play with their mothers. I’ve planned many weddings where at least one set of the bride and groom’s parents didn’t know they had been living together. Or at least they pretended not to know.

“Well I just wanted to be sure you got back safe. You know, since you live alone and everything.”

I get off the phone quickly, not wanting to entertain this line of conversation while I’m waiting for Nick to call.

I finally get a text from him at 11:34:

Of course I am disappointed, but at least I’m relieved of my duty of checking for his call.

He does call later that night after he’s home from work. We talk for a little while, but then his sister calls on the other line and I let him go speak to his niece.

The next day I go through my morning routine and a couple of meetings with clients. The hours pass so much more quickly when I don’t check my phone every five seconds waiting for Nick to call. In fact, he described himself as being so busy that I’m surprised to get a call around noon, as I’m sitting in front of my laptop responding to email. “Have you eaten?” he asks.

“No, not yet,” I respond, giddily. I start packing my Prada.

“Want to grab noodles at that place around the corner from you?”

“Umm, sure. I need a few minutes, you know, to finish up a few things.”

“Okay, 12:30 then? It’s only take out, so do you want to eat at your office?”

I swallow hard, and am glad he can’t see me flushing as I’m sure I am. “My office?” I try not to stammer. “How about we eat at your office, you know, since you’re so busy.”

“Yeah I guess you’re right,” he responds, and I exhale. “In case someone needs something, I’ll be around.”

By the time we hang up I am running out of my lobby. Of course at lunch hour it takes me longer to get a cab than I want it to. I get out in front of “my” office building, and then realize that I have no idea what noodle shop Nick was talking about. If I really worked here, I would know all the places to get lunch from, wouldn’t I? I feel the heat rise to my face in anxiety again. It’s 12:20 and I have no time to waste, so I pick “left” and turn the corner. I walk half a block before I decide to turn around. To my relief, I see Nick walking toward me. When I reach him, he seems puzzled. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, I um, wasn’t sure which noodle place you meant.”

“Didn’t realize there was more than one on this block.” We continue to walk together, and I’m thankful that he lets this drop. Better for him to think I am directions-challenged than to not know the neighborhood I work in.

We pick up our lunch and then walk back to his office building. We don’t hold hands or anything, and my disappointment seems petty. It’s not like we’re in high school or anything, but can I help it if I crave some physical connection?

We go up to one of the casual, open meeting spaces, where any one of his colleagues could happen by us. As I dig into my roast pork ramen, I try to eat delicately, eager to see how he’ll introduce me when a curious coworker happens by and wants to be introduced. I am certain Nick is one of the eligible bachelors in his workplace, and this is exactly what office gossip is made of right? I try not to show my disappointment when a half hour goes by, Nick starts to check his watch and email, and I have no public affirmation of our togetherness. When we are done with lunch he walks me out to the elevators and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. I guess this is what dating during business hours is like.

Over the next few days we continue to talk on the phone, send a few flirtatious texts and emails, but our schedules never seem to mesh enough to see each other in person again. Unfortunately I end up having a few evening client meetings in order to meet couples after their regular work hours, which means having to turn down Nick more than once when
he
finally gets off work.

About a week after my Fourth of July party, there is another bouquet of peach roses waiting for me in my lobby when I get home from running errands. This bouquet is about twice as large as the first. The note is computer generated, as if purchased online:

“I think I pissed you off. I’m sorry for whatever I did. Friends? —K”

To my surprise, I feel almost nothing. And it’s not just because he hasn’t even addressed me in the note, or because it’s a generic, vague apology for a reason unbeknownst to him, or because he knows fully well that “friends” doesn’t begin to describe the complex mess that is our relationship, or because he has the arrogance to presume that I’ll immediately know that “K” is him. Okay, maybe it is all those things that stir up all those old emotions and memories of his treatment of me that I’d like to forget.

During the party I felt like Kevin and I still had a possibility of being together. He obviously fit in seamlessly with my friends, could slide back into my life barely missing a beat. And there was always that undeniable physical chemistry—my body couldn’t forget him if I tried. I know exactly what he intended by sending these flowers, as if forgiveness for an undefined/unknown transgression can be invoked by extravagance. As if any anger would melt away as soon as I remembered the peach roses from our better times, and I’d be back on the path of being his sure thing whenever he got around to calling.

Have I suddenly matured enough to see through Kevin’s thin veils of acting like he genuinely cares about my feelings? Or am I just looking for a reason to avoid dealing with a complicated history (Kevin) to pursue the relatively simple new romance (Nick)? I email the girls to tell them about this latest gift, because a huge flower arrangement is always news, no matter who they are from.

From Mia: