by Sarah Skye
My type is a guy who can see far enough past his own nose to notice how I’m feeling.
My type is a guy who doesn’t get bored and starts dicking around just because I have to take care of Gram.
My type is a guy who knows what he’s good at and what he isn’t. Who cares about others but in a low-key way, not for show. Who gives me shivers when he touches me. Who doesn’t laugh at me or call me a “free spirit” as if it’s a synonym for ditz. Who… who…
Who’s a vegetarian, maybe. Good god, how long is this guy gonna talk about meat?
Maybe I should forget about dating for a while.
“So, what do you think?”
I blink back to the moment at the question. My mouth opens to apologize, to ask for clarity, but instead, I snap it shut again and look down. There’s a cocktail in front of me that tastes like maple syrup and cherries. An array of tapas sits between us at this bar table: tapenade, chicken liver mousse, and asparagus fries.
“I think,” I begin slowly, gaze fixed on the plates, “That the only cocktails I like are citrus or cucumber-based. That olives are the devil’s invention, and that the only acceptable mousse is chocolate. Oh, and that the after-effects of asparagus make me think I’m dying before I remember why my pee smells like that.”
His eyes blink rapidly, jaw slack in response.
My tone softens a bit. “In short, I think I should leave. Thank you for agreeing to this blind date, but I don’t think there’s much for me here. I’m sure you’ll agree. Have a good night.”
I slide off the bar chair and shoulder my bag.
“Morgan, but—”
Whatever he was going to say is interrupted by the sound of someone shouting in the dining room. Everyone in the lounge startles, it’s so loud, but the thick velvet curtains that partition off the sections of this swanky restaurant keep us from getting a peek at the drama.
The bartender chuckles when it goes quiet. He pours a martini. “Either the chef added a little too much Sriracha to the salmon, or someone’s sleeping on the couch tonight.”
His comment has the desired effect. All his patrons chuckle with him and resume their drinking and chit-chat. My date and I trade one more look, but he doesn’t bother with whatever feeble protest he was going to mount. I push my drink toward him and give him one quick nod before striding away.
In the restroom, I grip the sink and stare at my reflection. A huge exhale bursts from my lips as I replay the last few moments. Did I really tell him about the pee thing? I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry. No matter, because the doorknob jiggles just then, jerking me out of my trance. I wash my hands, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and hurry out. I sidestep the two small children waiting with their mom just outside the door and flash them all a smile before heading toward the maître d’ to call the valet. Of course this stuffy-ass restaurant wouldn’t let me park my own car and thus make a quick getaway.
I’m rummaging in my bag for the valet ticket and not watching where I’m going as I approach the podium, which is why I crash into a brick wall dressed in a white dress shirt and paisley tie. We bounce off each other with a collective “oomph.”
The broad-chested guy reaches out to steady me as I rub my head. He cuts off my muttered apologies with, “No, my fault, I was—”
Nothing else follows that statement. When I blink up at him, I find him looking at me with a kind of sick horror in his eyes. He puts his fist to his mouth, then scratches the thick stubble on his cheek. My brows knit; I can’t have food on my face since I didn’t eat any. I don’t think my essential oil is so potent as to be offensive. Why is he looking at me like I’m his worst nightmare? Why am I getting dread vibes?
And why does he seem so familiar?
I know him… No, no way... He’s too scruffy and raw to be—
The maître d’ clears his throat. “Can I help either of you?”
“Yes, um, well. I need my car brought around, but, um, you go first, Morgan.”
My head whips back to the guy, my lips falling open as my suspicions confirm themselves. “Marco.”
He cringes at the way I whisper-puke his name, but the sour taste in my mouth is too much to suppress. Fucking Marco Woodruff is standing beside me. Someone gouge my eyes out with an asparagus fry.
I scuttle sideways as far away as I can while still sliding the valet ticket onto the podium. “Um, it’s a red Mini Cooper,” I say as if he needs to know this. He nods and picks up a walkie-talkie, simultaneously accepting Marco’s valet stub.
I spin on my heel and race out the door to the front curb, praying the car is magically already there, but of course it’s not. Heavy footfalls behind me tell me Marco, too, has come outside to wait.
We stand side by side in total silence.
“Where did they park them, the North Pole?” I mutter when an eternity has passed.
He breathes out a chuckle that I don’t want to hear. It’s commiseration, and we are not people who have anything to bond over.
I sneak a sideways look at him. He’s dressed impeccably, no surprise. The handful of times I met this jerkwad when he was dating my best friend, Lily, he was always overdressed in my opinion. Shirt and tie for brunch kind of guy, while the rest of us were in jeans. It gave the impression he was trying so damn hard, but at the same time his attitude was too cocky to belie any insecurity.
Yeah, he wasn’t insecure. He was just a cheating dickweed.
I pucker my lips as headlights blaze from our left. A Mercedes glides up. I roll my eyes. “Of course.”
The valet pops out, and Marco moves for the driver’s side door. “She was first.”
The annoyance in his voice stops the valet, who was already jogging back toward the parking lot. “Sorry, boss, your car was blocking hers in. Easier this way.”
We trade a look over his car’s roof. “Do you need me to wait with you?”
His voice is thin. Clothing aside, he’s not at all how I remember him. The scruffy beard he wears is definitely new. He isn’t cocky, and he’s not bored with everything like he used to be. If anything, I sense deep fatigue in him. It’s in his eyes, even in the low light outside of the restaurant. It’s in his shoulders, the way they’re not square and thrown back like before. It’s in his whole damn aura.
But the question has only one right answer. I jut my chin out and sneer. “If I ever need a chaperon, Marco, I’ll find one who’s at least a modicum of trustworthy, thanks so much.”
He flinches like I’ve delivered the blow he’s been waiting for since we ran into each other. Maybe I have. “I expected that answer. Goodnight.”
And with that, he drops into his car and is gone.
“So? How did it go?”
Two days later, I’m brunching with my girls. Harmony is vibrating with anticipation, and Lily is grinning eagerly, too. I wish I had a better report to give.
I bare my teeth in a cringy smile. “We didn’t hit it off. He… wasn’t my type.”
And then I ran into the guy who stepped on both of your hearts and it was weird.
I don’t add that part. Why bring up the ghost of heartbreaks past for either of them? Not that Lily would care; she’s too busy planning a fairytale wedding to her prince charming to do more than roll her eyes at Marco’s name. I’m not sure about Harmony, honestly. She’s been dating lately, but Marco’s douchebaggery was off the charts with her. I mean, he made a move on Lily at his own freaking rehearsal dinner. At least it was before he and Harmony said “I do,” but god. If I were either of these women, never hearing his name again would be pretty okay for me.
Never hearing his name would be quite fine for me too, actually.
Truth be told, I’d replayed that weird encounter with Marco several times in my head over the last day. Why had we run into each other? I’m not big on cosmic coincidence, but they do happen. Why, on that night, had the universe put me in the path of someone I find so totally repellant after another disaster date?
Universe, what le
sson am I supposed to be learning here?
I’ll have to read my tarot when I get home and ponder this some more.
Harmony pouts, and I have to remember why. Oh, right, the failed date. “I really thought you’d like him,” she says.
“I appreciate you trying for me,” I reply with a smile. “Maybe it’s me. Maybe I just need to focus on work and getting back to routine now that Gram is better.”
I silently thank the universe for being able to say those words. A year ago, Gram had hip and knee replacement surgery. I’d gone to be her live-in aide while she rehabbed, since a live-in aide was prohibitively expensive. Living an hour and a half away—the next state over—had required me to put a lot of things on hold, including work. The last few months have been all about clawing my way back into regular modeling gigs and rebuilding the momentum of my Instagram platform, but I’m finally starting to find the groove again.
“You’re far too hot to be single,” Harmony declares solemnly.
I burst out laughing. “That’s ridiculous. What, like all this hotness shouldn’t go to waste?” I gesture to myself and roll my eyes.
“Exactly,” she agrees, but I get her to giggle, too. “I just mean you should be happy.”
“So should we all. I don’t think I need a guy around to order my drinks for me for that to happen.”
She purses her lips again. “Fair enough, but don’t give up. Lily, are you ready to go dress shopping?”
Lily glows at the question. Today is dress shopping day—wedding dress shopping day. She wrinkles her nose and laughs. “I guess so? As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Harmony squeals and motions to the waiter for the bill. She’s a sucker for all things girly and romantic, so helping Lily choose a wedding dress is right up her alley. As for me, I’m just happy to help if I can, but I know my style choices aren’t what my best friend would naturally go for. Whereas I’d be torn between edgy and cool or boho-chic and whimsical, I know my straight-laced bestie will go for cleaner lines and a more traditional look.
I text Gram just as we’re leaving the restaurant.
Me: Hi Gram, just checking in. How are you today?
Gram: Hey, Sugar Pea. Feeling a little tired but not too poorly. Love you, MoMo.
“A little tired” makes me frown, but I don’t push it. I’ll call her later, after shopping and girl time are over.
3
MARCO
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Marco?” Dr. Imana asks.
“Um, well...”
I’m sweating. I’m sweating so goddamn much, and I don’t even know why.
Well, I mean, I kind of know why. I’m officially in therapy, and I’m kind of freaked out about it.
Actually, not kind of freaked out—massively freaked out.
Never in a million years did I ever think I would be here, sitting across from a therapist, on the verge of unloading on him about my life. For my whole life, therapy wasn’t something anyone in my family considered doing. When they did mention therapy, it was always disparaging, always to make fun of or criticize whatever friend or coworker or relative was seeking help.
They’re fucking nuts.
Only people who are too weak to handle their own problems go to therapy.
Why would you pay money to have someone listen to you whine about your problems? What a waste.
The sound of my parents’ voices echoes in my head. But this therapy office is where I need to be. I need help, and I can’t rely on them for support. I haven’t spoken to them since last week when I lost my shit at dinner at The Hound And The Wolf, their favorite upscale restaurant. I blocked their numbers and my brother’s number from my phone because I realized after that night, I don’t want them in my life anymore, not if they’re just going to berate and taunt me.
“Are you alright, Marco?”
I shake my head. “Um, yeah. Sorry, I just… I’m here because I have a lot of issues. Serious issues. And I think I need help dealing with them.”
“Okay, that’s great.”
It’s not until I register the neutral expression, the complete lack of judgment on Dr. Imana’s face and in his tone of voice, that I realize I’m clenching my entire body. I take a breath, and the muscles in my chest, stomach, and neck slowly loosen. He’s not going to berate me for being here. He’s not going to make a joke at my expense for being weak or needing help. He’s not going to call me names.
“I’m here to support you,” he says gently. “What kind of issues do you think you have?”
He’s here to listen, to help.
I wipe my clammy hands on my pants and take a breath. “Can I just… lay it all out there?”
“Of course.” He gestures as if to signal that it’s perfectly okay to dump everything I’ve been feeling.
So I do.
“I think I’ve hit rock bottom.” I let out a sad laugh, then clear my throat. “Last year, I was about to get married to my fiancée. Ex-fiancée, I mean. At our rehearsal dinner, I got very drunk and hit on my ex-girlfriend. She obviously turned me down. And then her boyfriend saw what I did and punched me. Broke my nose. My ex-fiancée broke up with me after that. And because my ex-girlfriend’s dad was my boss, he fired me. Now I’m blacklisted from every law firm in the city. I can’t get hired anywhere in my field. I haven’t dated anyone since then, either. I haven’t really wanted to, honestly. So I’ve pretty much just been sitting at home, alone, looking for jobs. Oh except I, um, got CPR certified because I’ve had a lot of free time. So that’s, um, something.”
It was more than something… it was the one useful thing I’ve done in months… something that showed I could be more than just a cheating, lying asshole. Not that I’ve had a chance to use it, but dammit I could save a life if I had to.
“That’s pretty much it,” I add when he doesn’t speak, mostly to fill the void of judgment and criticism I’m pretty sure he’s preparing.
But Dr. Imana nods thoughtfully. I’m shocked. I was certain he’d be horrified.
“This must be really difficult for you, to go through all that.”
“Um, yeah. It was—it is.” I stammer for a second. “Sorry, I just kind of thought that you’d be appalled at what I’ve done.”
“I’m not here to judge you, Marco. I’m here to help you. And for the record, you’re not the only person who has done these kinds of things. A lot of people do. It’s typically a sign that they’ve had traumatic relationship experiences in the past and never addressed them in a healthy way.”
“Oh.” A lightbulb goes off in my head.
“Why do you think you did that? Trying to cheat on your fiancée with your ex-girlfriend the night before your wedding?”
“This is going to sound like such a clichéd crock of sh—crap. Sorry.”
Dr. Imana flashes an understanding smile.
“I think it has something to do with my parents, with how I was raised to behave in a relationship.”
“What were your parents like?”
“Cold. Detached. Unemotional. Uninterested in me for the most part. They never said ‘I love you’ to me or my brother. I can’t remember the last time I hugged either one of them. It’s been years. A decade, at least.”
I realize my hands are shaking slightly. I’ve never said any of this out loud to anyone before, and it sounds almost unbelievable. But the sad part is that it’s all true.
“They weren’t very loving to each other either. They’ve both had multiple affairs for as long as I can remember. I honestly don’t even know why they’re still together. It’s pretty clear they don’t love each other.”
Dr. Imana’s face twists slightly. “I’m so sorry to hear all that.”
My throat tightens at the emotion in his face, at the sincerity in his voice in his expression.
“I never really felt close to them. And I think… I think that has something to do with the way I am in relationships now.”
“Have you spent a lot of time thinking about
this?”
I nod. “Every day since the night I screwed everything up.”
“How would you describe yourself in the context of a romantic relationship?”
“I can’t get close to people. I always push them away by withdrawing emotionally or cheating. And, this is awful, but I know my default is to blame it on them. I’d rather just shove everything under the rug than openly talk about my feelings with a girlfriend. I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to any woman I’ve been with. This is why I’m thirty and I’ve never had a functional or healthy relationship. I’ve always cheated or ghosted. When someone wants to talk about how they’re feeling or how they’re hurting, I get physically uncomfortable. It’s easier to let them think it’s their own issues. I don’t… I don’t even know why.”
“It sounds like your parents weren’t tolerant of you expressing emotions when you were growing up. That might be why it brings you physical discomfort to address emotions directly.”
“Yeah, that actually makes sense. Feelings and emotions were never important to them. Only money and status. They only ever cared about how much money I made, the prestige of my job, the attractiveness of my past girlfriends.”
I say all of this softly. I’ve known this about them for years but never talked about it. It sounds so disgusting to actually speak the words now.
A lump lodges in my throat, and my brow lifts. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I swallow back the urge. I didn’t even cry after Harmony called off the wedding. I was just… numb. I should probably tell that to Dr. Imana.
So I do. I admit that I proposed to Harmony after just three months together because we were riding the high of the honeymoon phase of our new relationship and she made it pretty damn clear how much she wanted to get married. So I figured why not? She was beautiful and sweet and fun, but I realize now I wasn’t emotionally invested in our relationship. I just thought you were supposed to get married at some point in your twenties and thirties. That’s what my parents did. That’s what everyone around me was doing.
