by Nella Tyler
“She was hot as hell,” Jason said, looking slightly above my head as his eyes went all dreamy the way they did whenever he was appreciating the memory of a fine-looking woman, a nice car, or a killer meal he’d just had. “Dark hair, green eyes, the kind of girl that works out plenty in her free time. She was in great shape.”
“Do you think you’ll see her again?” I asked. If left to his own devices, Jason would go on and on about what a woman looked like without getting into anything else.
Not that I didn’t care about looks, but if she didn’t have a good personality, it didn’t really matter how drop-dead gorgeous she was. I’d dated a good looking, but humorless girl in college. That hadn’t gone much further than date two. It just wasn’t worth putting time into a relationship with a person I didn’t feel any chemistry with at all. That seemed to be the case with a lot of the women I’d dated, even in high school. I wasn’t sure how to avoid getting into that situation again. Jason would probably know, but bringing it up would make me sound like an inexperienced idiot.
He shook his head, his handsome face pressing into an expression like he’d just bitten into something he didn’t care for. “Nah. She didn’t seem too into me and there wasn’t much more to her than how pretty she was.” He shook his head. “Girls are friendlier down south. I should have never left Columbia.”
His dad had settled in South Carolina after retirement, and Jason had gone to all four years of high school there, followed by four years at the University of South Carolina, but the job with Addotec had dragged him to the other coast. “Girls seem real stuck up over here in the Bay area. You noticed that?”
I shrugged noncommittally. I hadn’t dated at all since moving here, hadn’t even really attempted to speak to women outside of my professional responsibilities. The shock of the new environment hadn’t yet worn off. Adding dating to the uneasy mix would be too much sensory overload for my poor Midwestern brain to handle. It was enough to just look at the array of women in a town where everyone seemed to have walked right out of a fashion magazine.
I wasn’t quite ready to talk to anyone that I wasn’t working on a team with yet. Meanwhile, sturdy, adaptable Army brat that he was, Jason had jumped in with both feet, tasting as much of the local cuisine as he could — his words, not mine.
“I haven’t really gone out with anyone since I moved here,” I admitted, when it became clear Jason wasn’t going to move on without hearing an answer to his question. He was an odd duck, as my dad would say. Sometimes he could go on for hours just talking about whatever he wanted, but when he decided he wanted me to chime in, he’d wait me out until I finally answered, the silence forcing the words out, no matter how embarrassing they proved to be.
“I’ve been more focused on just getting used to living in San Francisco and settling into the job.” And there was plenty to get used to after more than twenty years spent in my hometown of Madison, Wisconsin. California was almost another country s far as I was concerned.
Jason laughed, full throated and abrasive, drawing eyes from all over the office. There were quite a few of us arranged in cubicles, tapping away at our computers. Those who’d looked over were smiling because Jason was already well liked after only a few short months on the job. Me, too, but only by association. Everyone just thought of us as a team, which I was fine with.
“You aren’t settled in yet?” he asked. “That took me about a week, max.”
I didn’t answer that. Not all of us had learned the art of resiliency at the same time we learned to talk.
“You dating someone from college or something?” he probed.
I sat back in my seat, ordering myself to relax, which only guaranteed I wouldn’t be able to do it. “No,” I replied and meant to leave it at that. But, of course, Jason kept up the pressure, never letting talk about anything to do with girls die so easily.
“Are you still hung up on someone from school, then? Is that why you’re in no hurry to move on?”
I shook my head. “I dated a few girls in college, but nothing stuck. I was more concerned with getting through school and finding a job that would pay decent money.”
“I hear that,” he said. “I went through my fair share in school and broke off my last relationship because she was staying in Columbia, but I was coming here. I wanted to be able to truly experience the new environment, you know?”
I didn’t, but nodded anyway. “Relationships seem outside of my realm of understanding. Women just speak a different language.” I wasn’t explaining it the way I wanted, but it drew a laugh from Jason, so I counted that as a win. Most of the time I was being serious, he thought I was telling a joke. It actually worked out. Instead of being awkward, I was the funny guy. I liked that.
“Women don’t understand us, either,” he said, dropping his voice like he was sharing a precious secret that he didn’t want to go any further than the two of us. I completed the overall effect by leaning closer to hear him better over the clacking keyboards and light discussion going on around us. “They pretend they know all about men, but they don’t. We’re just two different breeds of the same animal. The key is to just stop trying to understand them. Life’s too fucking short. I realized that in high school, and I’ve had plenty of dates since then. Plenty.”
I scratched the back of my head. “I’m not really trying to understand them. I gave up on that.” I laughed, nervously. “And, I can talk to them just fine, but that usually gets me friend zoned.”
“You’re the nice guy, eh?” he asked and laughed again at my miserable nod.
My dating life really was an embarrassment. I could never seem to get beyond a date or two before things fell apart. The truth was, I was more comfortable in the friend zone than I was with a girl who wanted things to take a more serious turn.
I’d backed away from one relationship in college that could have been something more if only I leaned into it. She’d been funny, intelligent, kind, and cute. Most importantly, she’d been into me. But I just couldn’t keep the internal fire going despite how great she was. I couldn’t help but think that all of my relationship issues and penchant for sabotaging myself whenever I got too close to someone could be laid at Sophia’s feet.
No matter the woman, the instant I started getting interested in her, thoughts of Sophia flooded my head, and all I could see was her bright smile and sparkling brown eyes. That turned me right off of whoever I was interacting with, as quickly as a switch being flipped. Dating became no longer an option after that.
Even now, I was wondering what Sophia was up to — it was a nonstop string of questions that bounced off the inside of my skull all day if I let them. Was she still in New York? Would she ever come back to Madison? Did she think about me often, the way I thought about her? Did she regret what had happened between us? Would I ever see or speak to her again? In order to stop this current of nonstop questions, I had to remind myself that Sophia didn’t give a shit about me and it was best that I returned the favor.
“I’m not looking for anything serious,” Jason said. “Just someone to hang out with now and then.” He lifted his thick eyebrows, and I laughed quietly, knowing that, for him, hang out with was a euphemism for sleep with. That was the real reason he burned through women, razing the earth and leaving nothing but smoke behind. “We’re too damned young to be tied down in such an exciting city. The possibilities here are limitless.”
I wasn’t technically tied down to anyone, but I still didn’t feel free. I needed to shrug off the lingering influence of Sophia on my heart and mind. I hadn’t heard from her in years. She’d made it pretty clear that she didn’t want me in her life. I needed to stop standing in one place, looking over my shoulder at what was behind me. I was young, in a bustling city, and making great money for the first time in my life. If I couldn’t leverage all of that into a successful relationship, I was worse off than I thought.
“You should come on a double date with me, man,” Jason said. Sometimes I could hear the influence
of his eight years in the south — a slight drawl on certain words, especially when he got excited, and he was liable to throw around a y’all at the drop of a hat. “One of the girls I met at the gym wants to go out tonight, but has a cousin in town that she refuses to leave at home alone. I’ve been trying to get with this girl for weeks, so I’m not about to blow this opportunity. You’re the only single guy I know in this town. I can’t vouch for how hot the cousin is, but if smoking looks run in the family, you’ll be all set. What do you say?” He lifted his thick eyebrows, darker than the hair on his head.
I answered before giving myself the time to really think about it. My plans for the evening had been to try the deli I ran by most mornings, taking home a sandwich and curling up with a book in the armchair I’d just purchased for my living room the weekend before. I hadn’t paid for cable or internet yet — I spent enough damned time on the computer at work and my phone could always be used as a mobile hotspot for my tablet — so my home time was moderately quiet. But, suddenly, I was tired of that same tired routine and uncharacteristically ready to take a chance.
“Yeah, I’ll go,” I said, not allowing myself to think better of it.
Jason grinned. “Alright. I’ll let Andrea know and get back to you on the time.” He turned and started tapping out a message on his phone, presumably to Andrea from the gym.
I turned back to my computer, my stomach in knots at the impending double date. I was going…no matter how much I didn’t want to. Moving to San Francisco was like pressing a reset button on my life. No one knew me here. I could start over and be whoever I wanted. I needed to leave the past behind me — especially all the parts that involved the howling ghost of Sophia Ray — and move into the future. Doing that meant moving out of my comfort zone. This date was step one.
Sophia
Late Morning, Early December.
I’d managed to score a lush, paid internship at the Museum of Fine Arts in New York City right out of college. I got the acceptance email only a few days before graduation, making the day extra sweet. It was one part skill to three parts luck. I dove in headfirst, working diligently beside the curator — a literal genius named Willem Andresen — throughout the summer.
The result of all those early mornings and late nights? I turned what was supposed to be a short term learning experience into a fulltime job as a junior curator.
The Museum of Fine Arts was one of the city’s finest modern art museums, despite its small size. I knew how inordinately fortunate I was to land a position here, especially without a graduate degree. It even paid enough for me to rent a small studio apartment without a roommate, virtually unheard of for a new college grad. I didn’t plan to do anything to mess up this opportunity, no matter how daunting and busy I still found the city all these months later.
“Here you’ll find our largest gallery space, which is being converted to show an exhibition of art from various Italian masters of romanticism,” I said, ushering the small group of mostly middle aged, extremely well dressed, extremely wealthy potential donors into the open, generously lit space.
Willem had been overseas for the last week, scouting potential art for an exhibit on impressionism we were planning to put on late into the following year. After that, he’d headed to the Bahamas with his wife to celebrate their anniversary. That left me in charge of schmoozing and showing around these very important guests.
The first part was an in-depth tour of every inch of the museum itself, including everything that went on behind the scenes. The guests had been particularly enthralled with the detailed discussion of our impressive security system given by our head of security, a clean shaven, no-nonsense ex-Navy officer named Leo.
After the tour, I planned to direct the VIPs out to the sunny, flower-filled courtyard that we covered in the winter for a catered lunch served in multiple courses, buttressed by ample glasses of wine, while we discussed the current and future objectives and needs of the museum without coming right out and mentioning anything as distasteful as money. I’d watched Willem do it literally dozens of times during my months at the museum and was always impressed by how smooth he was and how easily he could get rich folks to crack open their wallets and send cash raining down on our little slice of artistic heaven.
But with Willem out of town, I was the one who had to handle all the wining and dining. I was scared out of my mind by the prospect of fucking up this tour to such a degree that it garnered no donations at all, booting me out of my boss’s good graces and getting me fired, which would then lead to an eviction from my cozy little apartment, leaving me penniless and on the streets in the dead of winter. When I voiced a toned down version of those concerns to Willem right before he took off on his trip, he smiled, clapped me on the back, and told me I’d seen him do it enough times that I should be able to do it in my sleep. He had every confidence in me. No pressure, right? I thought.
“What a gorgeous space,” Ms. Eller said, craning her neck to appreciate the gallery’s high ceilings. By far, she’d been the most engaged in the tour I was conducting, always asking questions, smiling, joking, and making eye contact. She’d been a real life saver, soothing the worst of my panicky energy with the dryness of her wit so I could conduct myself like a person who actually knew what the hell she was doing and talking about. Focusing on answering her questions centered me, and I’d loosened up the longer I spent with these folks.
The other two couples — the Lennoxes from upstate New York and the Jotkoffs from right here in little old Manhattan — were polite but reserved, only asking for clarification a few times, but mostly murmuring amongst themselves. It was hard to match Ms. Eller’s enthusiasm, even for me, and I was bubbly by nature, though I’d learned to put a lid on that at work. I just kept a professional smile pasted on my face and kept chugging along, reminding myself often that I could do this.
“Most of the paintings have been installed in their places for this exhibit,” I said, leading my miniature tour group down the rectangular space. “The doors will open to the general public on the second week of January.” As we walked — slowly, letting the VIPs set the pace, always — I pointed out paintings of note, all flown in from museums around the world that we partnered with.
“By far, the jewel of this exhibit is Il Bacio.” I lifted a graceful hand to the wall at the end of the long room, which we were gradually approaching. Ms. Eller stepped around me to get to the painting before the rest of us, extremely spry for a woman her age. I stopped slightly behind her and waited to continue until the silent Lennoxes and urgently whispering Jotkoffs joined us.
“Il Bacio, known as The Kiss in English, is a painting that beautifully encapsulates the revitalized spirit of Italian romanticism. Painted by Francisco Hayez, this piece represents the single most passionate example of the act of kissing in the long history of western art.”
I paused, flashing another small, professional smile as the group’s five pairs of eyes traveled over every inch of the painting in question. It was absolutely stunning, in my opinion. I couldn’t believe Willem had managed to get it here. I visited it a few times a day since its installation, just to drink up how lovely it was. My eye was always drawn right to the woman’s dress as the man bent her slightly backwards to kiss her, obscuring both of their faces. Hayez had chosen a vibrant blue for the garment and painted it with such skillful care that it appeared silky to the eye. There was a lot to love about the picture, but this was my favorite detail.
“By placing the couple at the center of the canvas but completely concealing their faces, Hayez meant for the kiss to be the true focus of this painting. It sizzles off the canvas, igniting the passion of all those who see it.” My smile was more genuine now. This was the part of the job I loved best: focusing completely on the enduring beauty of the art…not playing glorified tour guide in the hopes that one of the rich people following me around would decide to donate to allow us to continue our important work here at the museum.
I’d mentioned exa
ctly that to Willem once, ranting passionately for several minutes without interruption. At the end of all that, he only smiled and said that without rich benefactors, no great works of art would ever have been created for us to talk about. I had to admit, he had a point.
Ms. Eller nudged me a little with her bony elbow. Her perfume smelled flowery and expensive, but she was dressed somewhat casually, in a knee-length skirt and silky top that reminded me of the blue dress in the Hayez painting.
“I haven’t had someone lean me over and kiss me like that since my husband passed away three years ago,” she said, but conversationally, not like she was looking for condolences. “He was a bear of a man.” She gave a dramatic shiver. The other couples laughed politely, and I joined them, covering my mouth to hide it until I could get my wide smile under control.
“What about you, young lady?” she asked, suddenly fixing me with her sharp eyes, the blue in them clear as the crisp, cloudless winter sky outside. “Do you have some handsome young man who kisses you like that?”
The color raced to my cheeks as everyone turned to stare at me, polite grins still on their faces — all except Ms. Eller, whose grin was much slyer. I had to swallow the sudden lump in my throat to answer, but I managed to do so with a smile.
“Not many kisses could measure up to the one in the painting!” I said, forcing a laugh as strained as the smile painted on my lips.
But Ms. Eller wasn’t about to be deterred that easily. Her smile got even slyer around the edges. “My Andy knew how to kiss, that’s for damned sure! Are you trying to tell me that men nowadays don’t know how to lay one on a woman anymore?”
Under the sustained pressure of five pairs of inquisitive eyes, I blurted out, “I don’t have a man, and so couldn’t really tell you one way or the other.” A flush rocketed up from underneath the starched collar of my dress shirt. Now my entire face was hot and felt bright red. At the sight of Ms. Eller’s mildly shocked, disappointed, and pitying expression, I jumped into some damage control. “What I mean to say is that I haven’t found the time to have a boyfriend in the last several years.”
