by Lila James
So as we headed down the street, moving past the other Singles navigating the various bars cluttered along Bleecker Street, I was a tad nervous. It had been two years, after all, and I was rather rusty at the whole pickup scene. I felt as if I were a visitor to a country I hadn’t been to in years, and I was unaware of any newly developed rules or customs.
“I haven’t worn this top in ages. Do you think it’s too tight?” Liz asked, tugging at her black halter top as we approached the bar. Liz was as uncomfortable about going to a bar as I was, especially considering she was part of one of the revered Couples.
“You look great. And please don’t make that face, you’ll scare the guys away,” I said, eyeing Liz’s scrunched-up face as she continued to adjust her top. “Here we are.”
“O’Reilly’s?” Liz asked, horrified. “Anywhere but here, Adrian. You do remember that time I fell off the barstool? And you almost got into a fight with that French tourist?”
“All that was years ago, Liz. We’re older and wiser now. No one’s going to remember us.”
“Elizabeth Hamilton and Adrian Lexley!” a loud male voice boomed in disbelief.
Liz and I both stiffened, turning in the direction of the voice. There stood Max Goddard, one of the owners of the bar, who clearly remembered us from our younger, wilder, more carefree days.
“Max,” I said, managing to recover from my mild shock.
“You two are still as beautiful as ever. The bar has missed you. Stop by and chat before you leave.”
“Will do,” I chirped as we were ushered inside.
“We are having two drinks, and that’s it. We’re grown-ups now,” Liz hissed as we entered the bar.
“Speak for yourself,” I hissed right back. “Your ex-fiancé isn’t dating a supermodel look-alike.”
*
“She wants my heart and I feel fine!” I sang, swinging my bottle of Amstel Light to the music.
It was three hours later. I was on my first drink. Second. OK, third. I usually wasn’t much of a drinker, but the circumstances of the past few weeks had caused me to temporarily turn into one. Liz and I had taken up a small corner near the jukebox, and I was singing at the top of my lungs.
I was having a great time. My buzz had prevented annoying thoughts from entering my mind, like Marcus in bed with the Helen of Troy he was dating. And the fact that I now had to work with Jackson on a semi-daily basis.
Liz, for her part, had kept to her word and stopped at two drinks. But she was singing right along to the music with me. The song came to an end, and I turned to the jukebox to search for some more songs when I heard a male British voice behind me.
“I believe you two are hogging the jukebox.”
I turned around and looked up. And up. And up. A tall and attractive man stood there, looking down at me with an amused smile.
“We take requests,” I said, surprising myself by my flirtatious rejoinder.
“Really?” asked the man (whom I instantly dubbed the Hot Brit), raising a skeptical eyebrow. “How about the Beatles? ‘Sexy Sadie’?”
“Coming right up.”
I saw Liz roll her eyes. I ignored her, stepping aside to let the Hot Brit get closer to the jukebox. And me. From my vantage point I could see that he was definitely well built, and he looked to be in his early thirties. He was handsome in a more rugged way than Jackson or Marcus.
I shook my head, as if to rid it of the thought of Jackson. It really was irritating how Jackson kept popping into my head. At least Marcus was someone I had actually been in a relationship with.
The Hot Brit’s song choices ranged from the Beatles to Led Zeppelin to Wu Tang Clan to Johnny Cash to Radiohead. Very eclectic. In between song choices, I learned that the Hot Brit’s name was Douglas Hammond. He was a recent London import, an investment banker whose firm had transferred him to New York. He was thirty-one and lived in a loft in Tribeca. I was impressed by my ability to recall all of this, as I’d had a couple more drinks.
As the night progressed, I danced with Douglas to a Billie Holiday song and joined hands with him to chime in to the Beatles’ “Hey Jude.” I lost sight of Liz, whom I saw talking to a cute guy who was definitely not Stewart. I made a mental note to question her about him later.
“Can I ask you a question, love?” Douglas asked.
We were dancing at the edge of the bar. It was getting close to last call. Douglas was intently gazing at me.
“Sure,” I purred, hoping that I didn’t slur my words.
“Do you mind if I steal a kiss? Feel free to slap me,” he added, looking adorably bashful.
I hesitated, but then the image of Marcus kissing the Amazon flashed through my mind. That’s all it took. I grabbed his tie and stood on my tiptoes, kissing him. The painful vision of Marcus vanished as I allowed myself to be enveloped in Douglas’s embrace.
*
“I can’t believe you kissed him!” Liz shrieked.
I cringed, pulling a pillow over my head. The next morning, at a painfully early hour, Liz had bounded into my room, where she perched herself onto the edge of my bed and woke me up.
“What are we, twelve? We’ve both done more than kiss a boy. Do you have any aspirin? My head’s about to split open.”
“Right next to you on that nightstand. I anticipated your hangover. You were knocking back the drinks last night.”
“Can you stop talking so loudly? You’re shouting.”
“I want details. You two were glued at the hip. Oh my God, if I wasn’t there, you probably would have gone home with him!” Liz shouted, not lowering her volume at all.
I downed several aspirins and the water, rubbing my forehead.
“You sound awfully judgmental. You forget that He Who Shall Not Be Named is dating a supermodel. And Douglas is cute and British. You weren’t so innocent yourself last night, by the way. Who was that guy you were talking to?”
“Just some guy who tried to pick me up. Whatever,” Liz said, with a casual shrug. “So what’s going to happen with the Brit? Are you going to see him again?”
“Yes,” I said, leaning back against my pillow, praying for the incessant throbbing of my head to stop. “We’re meeting for coffee on Wednesday.”
“Good. You two looked really cute together. That kiss!” Liz squealed, sounding envious.
“You and Stewart have passionate kisses all the time.”
“Right,” Liz said quickly. She got to her feet. “I’m glad last night was a success for you. You were pretty hilarious. Did you know you sang ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ without any backing music?”
“Oh no.”
I could now remember singing when the music from the jukebox had finally died down and Douglas looking on in what I hoped was wry amusement.
“Yeah. And then you and Douglas got into this heated debate about the political ramifications of Alice in Wonderland. And then you proceeded to sing the Oompa Loompa song from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.”
“Enough, enough,” I groaned, sinking down into the pillows. Every mortifying detail of the night before was now rushing through my head. “I probably scared my rebound away.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t call him a ‘rebound,’” Liz offered. “Maybe this is the start of an actual relationship.”
“Trust me, if I was giving him my Alice as a feminist metaphor argument—and I sang the Oompa Loompa song—he is most definitely a rebound. If I hear from him again.”
“Speak for yourself,” Liz said with a smile, heading to the door. “Want to go to the Waverly for breakfast? Food is good for hangovers. And I can tell you what else you did last night.”
“Can’t wait.”
As Liz left the room, I heard my cell phone chime. Trying not to envision an angst-ridden text from Marcus telling me how desperately in love with me he still was and how that Gisele look-alike meant nothing to him, I reached for my phone. To my surprise, it was a text message from Douglas. It read:
It was lovely mtg you. Your
Oompa Loompa song was spot on. I look forward to discussing further on Wednesday. Cheers, Douglas.
I couldn’t help the smile that came to my lips. Cheers was so much better than best. I was relieved that my drunken antics hadn’t scared him away. Still smiling, I got out of bed.
There was always an inevitable sense of hope when I embarked on a new relationship, rebound or not. That wonderful feeling of starting out on a blank canvas on which I could paint a whole new picture. So I decided to let myself enjoy the slightest bit of optimism. Maybe Liz was right and Douglas would turn out to be more than just a rebound after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Comfort of the Familiar
On Wednesday, the day of my first date with Douglas, I met with Jackson at his office to go over some story ideas for our joint article. Jackson looked disgustingly handsome as always, decked out in a white button-down shirt—which he left partially unbuttoned. Who did he think he was, a Calvin Klein model?—and jeans. I averted my eyes from his exposed chest and slid several note cards across his desk before taking the seat opposite him.
“I’ve already prepared a list, so it’s not really necessary for me to be here,” I said, shrugging. “We might even be more productive if we just e-mail back and forth like I suggested.”
Jackson ignored my comment, barely looking at the note cards before tossing them into his wastebasket. I glared at him. I had spent the entire night prepping those cards.
“Aren’t you going to look at them?”
“No need. I already saw everything I needed to know. It reads like one of those clichéd lists of places to meet men: coffee shops, grocery stores, singles’ bars.”
“Um, I think I would know where to meet men,” I said, though I was a little stung at his casual dismissal of my list. “Those are ideal places to meet potential dates.”
“Ideal’s boring, Adrian. So many lists read like that. I want ours to be different. Unique. That’s why they’re having us write this together.”
Jackson got to his feet, pacing for a moment before reaching for his keys and wallet.
“Where are you going?” I asked, insulted.
“We are going to live our article. Practice what we preach. Come on.”
I reluctantly got to my feet and trailed Jackson as he headed out, wondering what I was getting myself into.
*
“Check that out,” Jackson said, reaching out to grab my arm.
I stopped, ignoring the heat that flared in me at his touch. We were heading down Sixth Avenue, on our way to the subway.
“What?” I asked, stepping away from Jackson’s grasp.
“There are about five, six, seven connections happening right now. Over there. Look. Be subtle.”
As casually as I could, I followed Jackson’s gaze. Across the street, a young woman was bent down, fumbling to gather some things that had fallen from her bag. A man was helping her, and they were engaged in obviously flirtatious banter, which I could discern from their body language.
“I guess,” I said. “But that’s more of a pickup than anything else.”
“I figure you’d say that. But isn’t it always a pickup when you see someone you’re interested in and ask them out? How did you meet your ex-fiancé?”
I gave him a look for bringing up He Who Shall Not Be Named. Jackson smiled, seeming to read my mind.
“Sorry. Just trying to make a point.”
“We met at a party,” I said, pushing the painful memory out of my mind.
“And I’m guessing he asked you out? A pick up.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Understood. Take a look around. Tell me what you see.”
I stepped away from Jackson, looking around. I saw a woman stop a man—a cute man!—and ask for directions. But neither went on their way, and the conversation continued.
“That woman who asked for directions. It looks like it was just a ruse to talk to him. It worked,” I said, watching as they exchanged numbers.
“Good. That man over there in the Oxford shirt. Chatting up that woman about to enter the building over there,” Jackson said.
“That woman by the newsstand, offering to share a cab with that guy,” I offered.
We spotted several more “connections” just by standing on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Tenth during the lunch hour. Apparently this block had become a happening pick-up spot, or maybe I had been in a relationship for too long to notice. I was jotting down our sightings in my notepad when Jackson politely placed his hand on my lower back and steered me across the street toward the subway station.
Again, my body seemed to react instinctively to his touch. My heart rate seemed to speed up, and I felt a little warm. My physical reaction to him had to be due to the fact that I was going through withdrawal after having no contact with a man since my breakup. I decided that the kiss with Douglas over the weekend didn’t count. In any case, I was going to have to keep my reactions in check whenever Jackson was near me.
“The subway?” I asked as we approached the Union Square subway station.
“You’d be surprised.”
And sure enough, we spotted a couple of connections on the subway as well. As we emerged at the Fifty-Ninth Street stop, I turned to Jackson.
“So far, the subway and the street. Who would have known?”
“Love is everywhere. That’s what I emphasize in my book. That’s why it’s so popular,” Jackson said arrogantly, grinning as I rolled my eyes.
“I mean, I met my—” he started but stopped himself. “OK. One more destination for this outing. And then I think we’ll have more than enough material to start with.”
But my curiosity was piqued. Jackson knew all about my tragic romantic past (as did half the world, it seemed). And I was writing an article with him about finding love in the big city. I decided that it was only fair to ask him about his mysterious romantic past.
We found a coffee shop near Columbus Circle and took our seats with our coffees. Jackson was being his usual gregarious self, pointing out the love connections that were happening at the small park across the street, when I decided to go ahead and ask.
“So what happened with you and your ex?”
Before my eyes, the open, friendly, and charming Jackson Taylor shut down. He leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight. His gaze became intense and angry.
“Seriously. Who told you?” he demanded.
“N-no one,” I stammered. As much as the outgoing and flirtatious Jackson Taylor annoyed me, I much preferred him to this brooding, angry, and a little scary Jackson Taylor. “I was just curious.”
“Right,” he said sarcastically, but there was no playfulness in his tone. He really did seem like a different person.
“You know all about my ex and the wedding that didn’t happen. And we are writing an article about love and where to find it.”
“My love life or yours has nothing to do with this article. Just because you’re still grieving over your ex doesn’t mean you have to drag me down with you,” Jackson spat, getting to his feet.
“What are you talking about? I ask you a simple question and you get all psycho on me. You bring up my ex all the time.”
“I’m finished for the day.”
He took out his wallet, tossing several bills down on the table for our coffees. I stared at him, baffled. This was getting more and more out of control by the second.
“Look, I’m sorry that I upset you,” I said, trying my best to even out the situation. “But I just asked you a question. I know it’s none of my business, so let’s forget it. OK?”
“You’re right that it’s none of your business. But I’m done for the day. I’ll be in touch.”
And with that, Jackson was gone. Several curious patrons gave me sympathetic smiles.
I had no idea what just happened.
*
Later that evening, as I was getting ready for my date with Douglas, I recounted the day’s events to Liz, including J
ackson’s outburst.
“So you’ve discovered his Achilles’ heel.”
“His what?” I asked absently, slipping into my wedding dress, which had been expertly tailored to become a shortened cocktail dress. I’d decided that nothing was more symbolic of moving on than wearing my (shortened, sexier) wedding dress out on a date with a new man.
“His weakness, Adrian. If you ask me, Jackson’s always sounded a little too perfect. Unruffled. I wonder what happened?”
“Whatever happened, it wasn’t good,” I said, examining myself in the mirror.
“You look terrific, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“What a jerk for bringing up He Who Shall Not Be Named,” Liz continued, shaking her head.
“I actually feel kind of bad,” I admitted, reaching for a blue belt and putting it on. “I mean, yeah, maybe he did overreact a little. But underneath it all, he seemed really hurt.”
“Please. You just asked him a simple question. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I have been kind of snarky to him. I can at least be a little nicer. And on the pain of death, I will never again bring up his ex.”
“Maybe she’s dead. Or she’s in an institution or something. He could have driven her crazy, and now he feels guilty about it.”
“I can’t believe with an imagination like that you’re only in finance,” I said, shaking my head in amusement. “It’s probably just some ugly relationship stuff he doesn’t want to talk about, and I won’t bring it up again. Believe me, I can relate.”
“Or maybe she’s horribly, horribly disfigured,” Liz continued, on a roll now. “But he loved her anyway. And she was so insecure that she pushed him away. And he’s still pining for her.”
“Or maybe she’s not human. Part beast or something. And it was just too dangerous for them to be together.”
