The Blonde Theory

by Kristin Harmel

  We talked for a few more minutes about Jill and how sad we felt. Meg repeated that she thought we needed to give Jill her space for a bit and let her come to her own realizations in her own time. Then I told Meg I needed to get back to work.

  “Listen,” she said before I left. “I have another article on file that I can fill the August ‘Dating Files’ slot with. Why don’t you take another month with the Blonde Theory article instead of trying to turn it around for me next week?”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “Why?” I asked. “I’m done with the experiment. I can have the article written for you by the end of next week.”

  Meg shrugged. “I’d prefer you take some time to think about things before you start writing,” she said simply. “At least do that for me. Okay?”

  I paused and nodded, not understanding at all where she was coming from but realizing that I owed her at least that if I was going to bail early on The Blonde Theory. We both stood up and she walked me back to the lobby, where we hugged good-bye.

  “Give me a call if you want to talk,” she said as I turned to leave. I looked at her in confusion. What would I want to talk about? Jill was having marital problems; Emmie was worried about an upcoming audition. For once, I was the happiest and sanest in our group. I shrugged and nodded.

  “Thanks,” I said simply, surprised at how short I sounded. Then, waving good-bye to Gina the receptionist, I took the elevator down to street level, grabbed a cup of coffee in the lobby, and took the R train from 49th Street back to my office downtown.

  IT WAS EIGHT o’clock before I had finished my paperwork at the office. Like an insecure teenager, I had called home four times that evening to check my answering machine. I was growing increasingly insecure by my fifth call home.

  No calls.

  No messages.

  No Matt.

  That was okay, I reminded myself. After all, it wasn’t like he had said he’d call me at a certain time. Or even that night, for that matter. It was just that I had assumed he would. I had been hoping that after I finished my long day of work, I could unwind with Matt somewhere, maybe a romantic little bistro where we could talk about our days as we sipped French Bordeaux or something. Meg was right; we hadn’t even technically had a first date yet. It clearly didn’t count that he had crashed my date with someone else. I supposed I wanted to have one with him. But that was stupid. Obviously he had things to do. I couldn’t very well expect him to just drop everything for me, now, could I?

  I called Jill to check on her before I left the office, and she thanked me stiffly for my concern but reiterated that I didn’t need to worry. I sighed, made small talk for a few minutes, and then we said our good-byes. Then I called Emmie to talk for a bit, but she was on the way out for a date with a guy she’d met at the grocery store. I smiled and shook my head; she could always be counted on to bring home a new man from a random location.

  Finally, I wound up home alone with a stack of paperwork I’d been putting off these last two weeks. As I yawned and dived into patent applications for a new chlorine substitute, a new pain reliever in powder form, and a new artificial sweetener, I felt suspiciously like I had two weeks ago, before The Blonde Theory had started. But that was ridiculous; two weeks ago, I’d had no luck with dating and no prospects in sight. Now I had Matt.

  Even if he didn’t technically appear to be calling me at the moment.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There was no call from Matt that night. There was no call from Matt the next night, which I also spent home alone. And there was no call from Matt on Sunday, which threw me into a full-scale panic. Nearly three days had passed, three days since we had slept together, three days since I had become convinced that he was the answer to my prayers (or at least The Blonde Theory), three days since he had said, “I’ll call you.” And I even knew for a fact that his absence wasn’t because of something logical like, for example, he’d been hit by a train on his way to work and had amnesia. No, Emmie had seen him at work every day. And he hadn’t said a word about me to her. Furthermore, she said he didn’t appear to have been hit by a train or otherwise mangled or maimed.

  It also occurred to me around Saturday afternoon that he had my number and my address...but I didn’t have his. I hated the lack of control that gave me. And I was starting to hate him for not calling. Okay, that was a lie. I don’t think it would have been possible to hate him. I just felt like I was going quietly insane while I wondered where he was.

  Emmie had offered to say something to him, to ask him why he hadn’t called. I thought about it for a moment, but then asked her not to. All I needed was for Matt James to feel like I was chasing him.

  On Sunday afternoon, after two long nights, two packs of Marlboro Lights, a bottle of Bacardi Limón, two bags of frozen Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and approximately four additional pounds on my waistline, I finally decided to leave my apartment—and thus the Matt-hopeful security of waiting by my phone “just in case”—to go for a jog in Central Park, where I sweated in the early-June heat and felt downright disgusting. Flavored rum, Reese’s, and little else weren’t exactly the perfect pre-workout meal. But I needed to clear my mind.

  An hour and a half later, my mind wasn’t any clearer, but my stomach sure hurt a lot more. I huffed and puffed my way back to my apartment, trying to keep my mind off the Reese’s and liquor sloshing around inside. Note to self: No more candy--alcohol-cigarette binges followed by jogs in the park. Bad idea. Very bad idea.

  At least I could now take a long hot shower, wash away the day’s aggravations, and settle into a long evening of legal work, just like usual, while I waited for Matt to call. I knew he would call. He had to call. And I knew there was a logical explanation for why he hadn’t already. In the meantime, I would distract myself by finding comfort in routine. I had never looked forward more to my stack of legal briefs and manila folders full of patent application paperwork.

  As I rounded the corner to my apartment after emerging from the elevator (what, was I supposed to walk up several flights of stairs after an hour-long jog on an upset stomach?), my heart skipped a beat for a split second as I saw a man standing on my doorstep. For an instant, I knew that it was Matt, finally Matt. Then he turned and grinned at me and I resisted the urge to groan.

  “Hiya,” said Sean the handyman, who was most decidedly not Matt James. He straightened up. “I thought you’d never get home, then, and I’d be stuck on your doorstep all evenin’ while you were out on a hot date.”

  “No chance of that,” I muttered, warily regarding the stack of towels that sat next to him on the ground, which were clearly the reason for his visit. He saw me looking at them and gestured their way.

  “Seems you gave me the wrong towels,” he said sheepishly. “I’m beginnin’ to think you’re just tryin’ to lure me back here, Miss Harper Roberts.”

  I laughed, despite myself, as I squeezed past him to unlock my door.

  “I’d be a lot slicker than that if that’s what I was trying to do,” I said, gesturing for him to come into my apartment. He bent to pick up the stack of towels, his sandy hair flipping into his face as he did so, then straightened up. “Come in,” I said.

  “Sure thing.” Sean followed me into the apartment, and turned to close the door behind him. In the living room, he set the towels down on the large glass coffee table filled, unfortunately, not with magazines but with stacks upon stacks of legal briefs. “I see you had a really wild and crazy weekend,” Sean said, his eyes twinkling as he gestured to my mounds of manila folders and legal pads.

  “At least I’m getting back into a routine,” I said defensively, immediately aware that Sean would have absolutely no idea what I was talking about. After all, he didn’t know that for two weeks, I had been masquerading around the city as a dumb blonde with no taste in men. He didn’t know that I had such an immense stack of work because I’d been procrastinating for the last two weeks in favor of ditzy dating.

  I looked at th
e stack, feeling discouraged. What a waste of time it had been, the whole stupid Blonde Theory. I had gotten so behind at work, and what had I gained? The knowledge that 95 percent of the men in bars and on dating sites would prefer a ditz to a smart girl? I has already known that; the experiment had just driven the hurtful, unhelpful point home. What I had acquired, I supposed, was simply a cementing of the knowledge that I’d gleaned when Peter left three years ago—the fact that making partner in my firm had effectively killed my chances of having an actual relationship with anyone. Well, anyone but Matt, who obviously valued me for who I really was. Now I was almost worse off than when I’d started this whole stupid experiment. I was way behind in my work. And I couldn’t keep my mind on anything anyhow, because I was worrying desperately about the fact that there had still been no word from Matt.

  I glanced over at the answering machine on my desk as an afterthought and almost fell over when I saw it blinking. I practically knocked Sean over as I dashed across the room to push play.

  “Harper? Hi, it’s Matt,” said the familiar deep baritone from the tinny tape of my answering machine. I grinned from ear to ear and only managed to restrain myself from doing a happy dance because there was a virtual stranger in my living room watching me. “I’m sorry I missed you. I was just calling to say hello and to apologize for not being in touch. Things have just been crazy at work, and I’ve had a lot going on that I had to deal with outside of work. I’ll try you again later, but I just wanted to tell you what a great time I had with you the other night. I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Harper. Talk to you soon.”

  The machine clicked off and I just stood there, smiling at it. I wanted to play the tape again (and again and again) but refrained, because I knew that would appear a bit obsessive to Sean.

  “Is that your boyfriend, then?” Sean asked after a moment, curious, no doubt, about why a seemingly intelligent woman was standing stock-still in her living room, grinning like a fool.

  “Oh no,” I said immediately. Then I reconsidered, tilting my head to the side and trying on the sound of it for size. My boyfriend. My boyfriend, Matt. I liked it. “I mean, not exactly,” I clarified. “He’s a guy I’m sort of seeing.”

  “Lucky bloke,” Sean said. I whirled around to look at him, but he was just grinning devilishly, which I knew meant that he was teasing me. What, he didn’t think I could land a boyfriend?

  “Look, he’s a really nice guy,” I said defensively. “We have a great time together. He actually likes me for who I am, you know.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Sean said, still looking amused. “I didn’t mean any offense. I really meant it. He’s a lucky bloke. You seem like a very nice girl.”

  “Oh,” I said. I paused, still not sure if he was serious. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Thanks.”

  I went into the bathroom to get the towels and returned to find that Sean had made himself at home, settling into one of my plush couches like he owned the place. I resisted the urge to get annoyed at him; after all, I had sort of created this awkward situation by mixing up the towels in the first place, and he had been nice enough to trek over here, yet again, to sort things out. But I didn’t feel like socializing with the handyman at the moment. I wanted to shower, dry off with my own towels, change, and pretend to myself that I was attacking my legal briefs with enthusiasm while really I’d just be biding time while I waited for Matt to call back. I wondered briefly why he hadn’t left his number on my machine but dismissed it as an oversight. He would call back, of course. He’d said he would.

  Still, I felt bad that Sean had gone to all this effort. I needed to make some kind of polite gesture, just to let him know I appreciated it.

  “Do you, uh, want a drink or something?” I asked as I plunked down his roommate’s towels on the coffee table, on top of my legal briefs.

  “I don’t suppose you have Murphy’s on tap in your kitchen there,” he said, nodding toward my open kitchen, which I was actually very proud of due to the large kitchen island I’d had installed and the top-of-the-line smooth-top stove I’d bought last year.

  I laughed and shook my head.

  “Just some bottles of Newcastle,” I said, knowing that he would say no. After all, he’d described my favorite beer as shite just a week ago.

  “That’ll have to do, then, won’t it?” I just stared at him. He was saying yes? He settled comfortably back into my sofa as if he intended to stay for quite a while.

  “You mean you want a Newcastle?” I asked. “Even though you hate it?”

  “Well, hate is an awfully harsh word,” Sean clarified. “I could never hate a beer. Well, maybe some of your cheaper American beers. But one Newcastle won’t kill me.”

  “Oh,” I said, dejected. It looked like Sean would be staying, at least long enough to down one of my apparently distasteful beers. “Okay then. I’ll get you one.”

  I returned a moment later with two freshly opened Newcastles, one for him and one for me. Then, on second thought, I went back into the kitchen and got myself a bottle of water instead. There were only so many things my stomach could take today.

  “No offense,” I began, as brusquely as possible as I came back into the room, “but I don’t have much time to chat. I have to get cleaned up and get to work on all these briefs.” I gestured to the impressive display of work in front of us, thankful that it was giving me the excuse that I was looking for to hurry Sean through his Newcastle. Why did he want to stay and talk with me anyhow? He was nice and all, but he was just the handyman who had helped me with my toilet problem and had been nice enough to stay and lend me some towels.

  “Point taken,” Sean said with a smile. “I’ll finish my beer and be on my way.”

  I felt instantly bad. I hadn’t meant to be so rude.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it to sound that way. It’s just that, well, I do have a lot of work to do.”

  “And you’ll be waitin’ around for your boyfriend to call back, I suspect,” he added.

  “Well...yes,” I conceded, blushing and not even bothering to correct Sean by telling him again that Matt wasn’t my boyfriend—at least not yet.

  “Ah, dating,” Sean said, shaking his head in a way that made him look wise beyond his years—and as if the weight of the world were currently on his shoulders. “It’s a roller-coaster ride, that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, nodding and sinking into the love seat that faced the couch Sean was sitting on.

  He took a long sip of his beer and held up the bottle for me to see. “I’m goin’ as fast as I can,” he said with a wink.

  I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so rude,” I said. “Take your time. Honestly.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended over us for a moment as Sean sipped his Newcastle and I sipped my water, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the way I looked, which was sweat-drenched, makeup-free, and probably completely haggard.

  “So, uh, do you have a girlfriend back home in Ireland?” I asked, finally breaking the silence with the only question I could think of to make conversation.

  “No,” Sean said, shaking his head. His seemingly ever-present smile slipped a bit. “I did. I was dating the same girl for a long time. We broke up about a year ago. There hasn’t been anyone serious since.”

  “Oh,” I said, not sure how to respond. “I’m sorry,” I added finally.

  Sean shrugged. “Nah, it was for the best,” he said. “Kara was a nice girl, really. But we just grew apart over time. We still talk on occasion. She’s doing really well, now, and I’m happy for her.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to conceive of a situation in which I’d be happy to hear that Peter was doing well. I came up empty. Most of my fantasies about Peter ended with severe bodily harm. I admired Sean for having the ability to split up amicably.

  “What does this Kara do?” I asked finally, just to make conversation.

  “She’s a doctor,” he
said dismissively. “A pediatric oncologist.”

  I almost choked on my water.

  “You were dating a doctor?” I sputtered, immediately regretting that once again, I’d managed to sound both rude and classist.

  Sean looked a little offended.

  “Well...yeah,” he said finally, setting down his beer on the coffee table and looking at me closely. “It really didn’t matter what she did for a living, although I admired her dedication to the kids. Relationships aren’t about what two people do for a living. Relationships are about how two people connect with each other.”

  I involuntarily snorted.

  “Yeah, right,” I muttered. Sean was staring at me, which made me start to squirm uncomfortably. I felt compelled to explain. “Look, you don’t understand. Guys are scared to death of me because I’m a lawyer. I mean, not this guy Matt who I’m seeing now. He likes that I’m smart. But pretty much every other guy I’ve been on a date with gets really freaked out that I’m an attorney. How can you say that people’s jobs don’t matter?”

  “Because they don’t,” Sean said slowly, looking at me doubtfully. “I would have dated Kara whether she was a chambermaid or the prime minister of Ireland. Who cares, as long as two people are compatible?”

  “But how can two people be compatible when one has a better job than the other?” I asked in desperation. I knew I sounded rude, but I didn’t care. What he was saying was ludicrous. “Or when one of them makes more money than the other? Inevitably, one of them is going to feel overshadowed.”

  “Why?” Sean asked. “Why would anyone feel that way if they were satisfied with their own life?”

  I looked at him in exasperation. Why didn’t he understand? Why couldn’t he see how hard it was to be me?

  “You don’t understand,” I finally muttered.

  He gazed at me long and hard for a moment. “No, I guess I don’t,” he said finally, shaking his head. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Look, I know I have no place saying this. I know I’m just the guy who’s come to fix your toilet and who you can’t seem to get rid of. But I’m going to go ahead and say it anyway: Maybe you’re part of the problem, too.”