Liar's Guide to True Love (7 page)

I am worth every penny, aren’t I?

I walk down toward Union Square where the florist is, and check my BlackBerry while I walk. Suzanne has written me back in reference to Kevin’s latest email:

And a message from Kate:

Call me old fashioned, but there is just something a little bit wrong about planning sex with one person in the same email as planning a date with another. And of course there is no consensus among them, and I am way too busy to think about this now.

I take a drink of water, and then refresh my lipstick, all without breaking my brisk pace or looking in a mirror. You can’t survive in New York without figuring out how to manage to do everything—eat, drink, talk while walking at a naturally quick pace.

I hail a cab to the Upper West Side and check the rest of my messages. This time I am just cc’d on the correspondence:

The next message:

From Kate:

The Reply All button can be an annoying thing.

Thursday night

Wedding Planning Tip: It is fine to be one of many couples who, for one reason or another, decide to abstain from sex for a while before their wedding night. But never underestimate the power of an orgasm as a great stress reliever.

I only have forty minutes to prepare for dinner with Seth, brother and best man to one of my favorite grooms, but I have learned that being in a rush took the pressure off, and once the pressure was off I could make it through most or all of a date without telling tall tales. I jump out of the shower and into a standard first-dinner-date outfit—a little black dress, jet bead necklace, just a little bit of makeup, midheel slingbacks. I don’t know where we are going, and this outfit shows that I cared enough to get dressed up, but I won’t be overly dressy even if he is wearing jeans. Matching bra and panties because you just never know. And of course, I would grab my Prada on the way out. As safe of a choice as I thought I was wearing, I still wasn’t prepared for how Seth greeted me in the lobby.

Now I know the ’80s have made a comeback and are somehow considered classic. I even picked up a Lacoste polo dress the other day, and last week I wore a neon turquoise belt. But I still would not have guessed that Seth would wear a pink polo shirt under a sports jacket, sleeves rolled up, plaid shorts, and Wayfarer sunglasses. And yes, he had the collars popped up, straight out of a John Hughes movie, RIP. As it turned out, he had gotten last-minute tickets to see an ’80s cover band, ahem, “tribute band” and “what girl doesn’t like the ’80s?”

As we went out to hail a cab, it did strike me as a bit odd that he hadn’t called to tell me our evening would have a theme—I would have gladly stuck a scrunchy in my hair and pulled on some fishnets and a mini skirt. As luck (or preparedness) would have it, I had a few chunky acrylic bangle bracelets in my bag, and was also able to swap out the jet beads for early Madonna-esque pearls that were long enough to wrap around my neck a few times. “Don’t go showing me up now,” Seth comments at my mini-makeover in the backseat of a yellow cab.

The band is called The Legwarmers, a name I think is cute and get a kick out of. Seth proceeds to tell me “how hot chicks in legwarmers and stirrup pants” were when he was in high school. But the way he talks about it, the glint in his eye, how animated he is—how does he even remember what stirrup pants were called?—makes me wonder if he still has a poster of Jennifer Beals in his room—I mean—apartment. When we arrive at the bar, they are showing videos from VH1 classics, and when Billy Idol comes on, I have a sudden flashback of dancing in my pink bedroom with two of my friends and my little sister. I vow to call Emma in the morning. Noticing that I am enjoying the music, Seth begins to umm, dance, to the music. Now, lots of people around us have started to move to the music, no doubt with some of the same nostalgia for their youth as I had experienced. But when I say Seth begins to dance, I mean, he really starts to rock out in true feet-together-feet-apart, shuffle side to side, jerking your head around ’80s style. Thinking he’s kidding around, I start to do the same, and only realize he’s dead serious when he says, “Wow, you can really move!”

By the time they are playing the video for A-ha’s “Take on Me” and a few other one-hit wonders, Seth and I have exhausted our conversation on favorite ’80s fashions and “Where were you when the Challenger exploded?” line of questions. Of course it wasn’t that long of a conversation since I barely remember anything before the age of five! The bar has gotten packed, which is not unexpected for a Lower East Side dive. Seth is glad we arrived early enough to secure standing room front and center. I say that I’m just happy to hear the favorite songs I listened to as a kid, to which Seth responds how much he loves live music. I start to say something about how we are here to see a
cover band,
but the din of the bar and Seth’s move to put his sunglasses on even though we are indoors make it easier for me to keep my mouth shut.

Seth dangles a cigarette in his lips for the next ten minutes or so, and I start wondering if he is ever going to smoke it or just slobber on it. “Do you want to go outside? I wouldn’t mind getting some air myself,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah, I do. But I don’t want to lose our space.”

I briefly consider what is worse—watching him drool on that innocent stick of tobacco all night, or people-watching for a few minutes on my own. “Well, I could just stay here—”

“Oh would you, doll? That would be
awesome.
I’ll get you another drink on my way back.” He pushes his way out through the crowd, and I am left to stand there trying to save standing space at a bar. The only thing worse is trying to save multiple seats at a movie theater. After a few minutes, a bridge-and-tunnel couple standing nearby sees another couple they know and wave them over. So much for saving space, I think, as I shift over a few steps. But when Seth returns he is determined to remain in exactly the same spot that he left. He hands me his beer to hold, and taps one of the guys on the shoulder and shakes his hand. “Hey, bro, my girl and I were standing here, okay, dude? Thanks, bro.” The guy looks at me and I shrug my shoulders. The couples clearly think Seth is a bit nuts, and I can’t disagree. They move away, and I suddenly feel guilty of being a stereotypically pushy New Yorker. And still I apologize to Seth for not looking large enough to keep others from encroaching. He is not as chipper as before, apparently because that was not my only failure. The couples had placed their beer bottles and cups on the rail in front of us. Seth shakes his head as he moves them to the side, so that the rail directly in
his space
only has
his
empties.

And he didn’t get me another drink like he said he would, either. Apparently the bar was too crowded, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t miss the opener of “Mickey.” How would he know what the band opens with? Was he a
groupie?

At the end of the concert I made my usual excuse of having an early morning appointment the next day to finalize some rehearsal plans. But still I had to endure a cab ride of Seth humming “Karma Chameleon” since my apartment was on his way home. Outside my building Seth leaned in to kiss me good-night. At least he had the sense to take off the sunglasses.

Once inside I realize that I am not the least bit tired and decide to check email. Among a few junk messages that made it through my spam filter, there is a message from Kate:

I hit reply and type:

I start to get undressed and the message notification goes off again. Thinking it an odd coincidence that Kate would be on email, I check it. From Kevin:

I dial and he picks up on the first ring.

It’s not like he has a girlfriend or anything, and I
certainly
don’t have a boyfriend.

In twenty minutes I am outside Kevin’s apartment on the Upper West Side, wearing the same outfit as when my original date started this evening—sans ’80s accessories, or any jewelry at all actually. He answers the door with a “Hi, gorgeous” and a glass of wine for me, and one sip reminds me of some of our best times.

“Remember that tiny Italian place around the corner from your apartment in Boston? This wine reminds me of that place,” I say to him as I settle on to the sofa. Nostalgia is sometimes the best seduction with Kevin, and I know this. But then I notice that the lights are low and he has turned on some music. The bed will have been made and the bathroom tidied up.

The last time I saw Kevin he was living in a walk up with a roommate. This new apartment is classic Kevin. Contemporary furniture—all clean lines and dark mahogany finish. A large painting dominates one wall—some abstract piece of reds, oranges, yellows. I’m sure it is by an up-and-coming famous somebody. His laptop, a few of those fat law books and some manila folders are stacked on the kitchen counter. A few framed family photos hang on the walls—Kevin as best man posing with a happy couple that I recognize from his law school days. A picture of the yellow lab his family had growing up. I decide not to think about whether the other women who have been here realize how well Kevin has staged the place. Anyone, a colleague, a family member, or someone he was trying to get in bed with would have the same impression of Kevin as a successful, responsible, fun-loving gentleman. “So how do you like my new place?” he asks.

“I guess you decided not to work in non-profit, after all.”

“They pay me too much at Dewey.” He sits down next to me with his arm along the back of the couch. He is giving me the cocky act, forgetting that I am not one of the stylish young things who is impressed by his money. This side of him annoys me so I change the subject.

“What are you doing up so late, emailing, anyway?”

“Decided to take a break from work. I’ve been working on this case pretty late the past few weeks. We finally got done tonight, so I thought I’d celebrate with a bottle of wine. I was so sick of seeing people from work I thought I’d hang out by myself tonight.” He starts playing with a strand of my hair, and I honestly can’t tell if it is deliberate or if he just fell back into an old habit. “It’s actually one of the pro-bono cases that the firm does. Illegal immigrant case. Gosh, it’s amazing what people will go through to get here.” He stares at the space over my shoulder and I’m reminded of the twenty-year-old boy he was when we were together. When he was going to save the world with his wit. I lean in to his hand a little, to touch my cheek to his fingers.

“I’m glad you called,” he says softly. “I wasn’t sure you would when I didn’t hear from you after running into Suzanne.” He leans in further and I can smell the wine on his breath and the cologne he has always worn—Polo—and I can almost imagine that we are sitting in my dorm room, on my twin bed, taking a study break. “I’ve missed you.”

He kisses me softly at first, and then harder right away, reminding me that we both know why I called him at 1 a.m. I hadn’t seen him in over a year, and every caress from his fingers and feel of his breath was as exciting as a new romance and yet completely familiar all at once. We fell into a natural rhythm, where I didn’t need to think or speak. He knew exactly where to touch and hold me, and all I needed to do was feel.

We eventually made it to the bedroom as I knew we would, and after dozing off for a little while I begin to gather my clothing from various parts of the apartment. He grabs my wrist and opens one blue eye with his face still in his pillow. “Stay,” he says. “We’ll grab a coffee before I go to the office.” I lie next to him for a moment, staring at his bed-rumpled hair—how could he be a serious attorney with that adorable, spikey bedhead? I think about what a coffee run would be like—he would be in his work clothes, cufflinks and all, and would get a double espresso. By the time he was halfway through, he would start tapping his foot, silently urging me to finish my chai so that he could get a roaring start on the day. He wouldn’t kiss me good-bye or anything, because that would be too public, and I am not his girlfriend. It would be so easy to slip into an old habit. But I am proud of myself as I finish getting dressed. He kisses my hand as I leave, but I don’t kiss him good-bye either.