Maybe Liz really was looking for love by dating every guy in Philly she got her hands on - no matter how awful each one was turning out to be.
As difficult as it was to be around Liz, as the weeks went on, it seemed like I couldn’t stay away. She was addicted to Joey and Hawk’s – everything from the craft beers they featured to Joey’s small-batch artisan scones in flavors like blueberry mascarpone and Brussels sprout and cheddar. After Liz gave me a taste of one of hers – key lime, that day - I was hooked too. I found myself stopping there and grabbing something new for her a couple times a week. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t partly to see the look of ecstasy on her face when she had the first taste.
Then there were her periodic Netflix binges. She didn’t just veg out in front of the TV—she was a participant in the shows she watched. There was The West Wing, The Good Wife, Scandal, Homeland, Designated Survivor, Madam Secretary, and even Jack Ryan—anything and everything to do with politics and Washington fascinated her. For how invested she was, you’d think she was a character on the show that none of the others happened to ever acknowledge. She engaged in (one-sided) dialogue with them, shouted at them about what policy and strategic decisions they should be making, sighed and shed tears over their defeats. It was a stunning thing to watch, mostly because it was a perfect showcase for her passion and knowledge.
She belonged on the political beat, that was for sure. It was evident even in her column. She spun each and every negative quality from every guy into something entertaining, without actually lying about what a tool he was. Watching her watch political shows gave me a glimpse into what her life would be like when she finally got her dream job, and it was beautiful.
We watched other stuff, too. I loved comparing our favorite childhood cartoons and movies. Forcing each other to sit through and watch the whole thing, no matter how ridiculous it seemed, brought a new level of flirty teasing to our relationship. I may have been making fun of how much drama a Saturday morning superhero cartoon involved, and she may have rolled her eyes at the sheer volume of clichés in The Princess Bride, but I never saw her smile as much as when we were immersed in a fictional world together, teasing each other.
Besides that, I cooked for her. Liz took on as many extra little assignments at Philly Illustrated as she could, hoping to make the right connection or impress the right people. I encouraged her to do it every chance I got, and if that meant sussing out her favorite dishes and perfecting them for her, just to watch her wrap her lips around the fork and hum in approval, well, I’d happily suffer through it.
I still tried to fill every moment we weren’t together with things to distract me - schoolwork, lesson prep, even more volunteering positions with high school LEGO clubs and the Boys and Girls club after-school program. That, and voting for the worst option in the Liz Dates Philly poll every week, and setting Ethan’s rudimentary algorithm-run program to do the same.
I was clicking those poll buttons enough times that I almost stopped feeling guilty about it.
I blew out a long breath. I couldn’t think about that now. She was the one whose job was making this whole situation impossible. She would have to be the one to make any more moves. If I let any more amazing- and I mean, amazing - sex happen between us, and if I let any deeper feelings grow between us, I would bear responsibility for messing up this job for her. She so clearly wanted to protect it, and I couldn’t blame her. Journalism jobs were never easy to come across, and in this economy, you had to hold on tight to any job that came your way.
Even if holding on tight meant dating a bunch of randos and then letting your boss publish pictures of the whole thing.
I was glad for the pictures, though. They let me see what a total loser Indian-food guy, whose name was, hilariously, Milton, actually was. The looks on Liz’s face as she watched him talk made it that much funnier. She looked so different from the Liz I knew on that date, with her lips pursed and her brow furrowed, like she was trying so hard to get through every single minute she spent in that place.
I also kind of liked knowing that, at the end of that date, she’d ended up in bed with me. Even if it wasn’t exactly the way I would have liked it.
Even if she’d gone on at least six more dates without the same thing happening again. I heaved a frustrated sigh.
It wasn’t like I had fought it, beyond rigging the votes. Wasn’t like I could.
I was staring at this week’s Liz Dates Philly choices while waiting for students to trickle into office hours. The Engineering department’s main building was in the middle of some very dusty construction, but the promise of nice new offices a year from now didn’t do very much to make me feel better about being cubed off inside one huge office with every other Engineering major at Penn.
That day, though, it kind of worked out for the best.
I had been randomly shoved in next to a Sound Engineering Ph.D. student I hadn’t even met yet. I rolled back in my chair and peered in quizzically when a tiny slip of a girl with a waist-length waves heaved her bag on the desk and collapsed into his chair with a soft groan. “Damn cobblestone walkways,” she grumbled as she slipped one high heel off and rubbed the joints of her toes.
“Can I help you?” I asked, leaning my head into the doorway. “I haven’t seen Mr. Eisen at all today. Don’t know when his office hours are.”
She raised an eyebrow behind her bright red frames. “Mr. Eisen?”
I pointed to the name plaque. “Toby Eisen? Your sound engineering TA, the guy I assume you’re waiting for? I don’t know when he’ll be in. Been here for two months and haven’t even met him yet.”
She smiled and tilted her head, like she felt sorry for me. Like if she used words instead of her eyes, she’d be saying, Aw, bless your heart. Slowly, she stood up, her bare feet showing lines where her shoes had dug into them, just like Liz’s had the other night. “Toby. Short for Tovyah. This is my little cube of engineering office heaven. I’m working under Doctor Hollis.”
I scrambled out of my chair, my heart pounding in total mortification. “Oh, God. I am so, so sorry. You know, I’m not the kind of guy who—I mean, I have a sister, and a single mom, and they would beat my ass if they found out I did or anything remotely sexist—I should never have assumed.”
She watched me, her smile of amusement making her eyes dance with light. “Well, are you gonna shake my hand, or…?”
“Yes. God, yes. I’m sorry.” Her grip was vice-like for being so tiny. At least she didn’t have sharp nails to dig into my palm.
Then, I gasped. Something about the way her smile crinkled her eyes…
“Toby. You used to go by T.”
“Have we…?”
“You had a short red bob, and a lip ring. Right? Stanford?”
“JJ!” she said, her confused expression melting into a smile. “God, it’s been forever!”
Yeah, forever since my freshman year roommate had dragged me to one of those weekend-long outdoor concerts, I’d smoked some pretty potent weed, and ended up fucking T – now Toby - in about six different public places, including against a tree and next to someone sleeping in our tent.
No, they hadn’t noticed. No, I hadn’t called her again after our first non-high date—and fantastic Netflix and chill—the following weekend. She had a fantastic body and the lip ring had done amazing things when it glided over my cock, but when we weren’t high, it turned out we couldn’t find a single damn thing to talk about. I hadn’t even bothered to learn her last name.
She sure looked different now, in professional clothing, with her name on a plate above the “PhD program” designation.
“I…uh…I had no idea you were in engineering. I’m in aerospace, working under Doctor Phillips.”
She giggled. Giggled. “Well, I wasn’t, really, when we…uh…met. I was just a sophomore then. That concert, where we…”
“Yeah,” I stammered. “That was…”
“That was where I decided to look into music careers. I have
an aptitude for math and science, so…audio engineering was a good fit.” She craned her neck into my cube, where the Liz Dates Philly page was up and open to the poll for her next date. “Whatcha working on?”
“Oh, that? I just…um…well, it’s…” Dammit. The first one of my colleagues I’d really met in this office, and I was dicking around reading a tabloid. “She’s my roommate, actually.”
“Elizabeth Palmer is your roommate?”
“Yeah. You know her?”
“I’ve been following her column since it started. I read it after her first date with that underwear model. She’s funny.”
“Yeah, she is,” I agreed. I felt a sigh escape me. It was a strange feeling, admiring a girl who I really wanted but couldn’t have. If we had a straightforward breakup, or any separation at all, it would be easier to talk about her with someone.
“So, did you vote yet? For her next date?” Toby shouldered her way into my cube and motioned for me to scroll through the date options. “Oooh. Some good choices this week. And by good, I mean hilarious.”
“I know. There’s some body builder guy, right?”
“Yeah, but after the model, I think she’s had enough self-obsession in a guy for a few weeks, don’t you? Or, like, a lifetime.”
“Good point. What about…?” She reached over me and slid her hand over mine where it cupped the mouse, nudging my finger out of the way. She scrolled down the page and circled the cursor around a picture of a dude wearing a dark suit, half-unbuttoned dress shirt underneath. His skin was pale as a freaking vampire’s, his cheekbones were steep enough to base-jump off of and he looked like he’d spent hours strategically mussing each individual chunk of his hair. “Can’t go wrong with Mister Emo. He’s suffering for his art.”
She pointed at his profile, and I leaned in to read the single quote, “There is nothing more truly artistic than to love people.” I pulled back and grimaced. “Didn’t Van Gogh go crazy and cut his own ear off?”
“Mmm. And mailed it to some girl, I think. He loved her. This guy seems to sympathize. He’s perfect.” Toby stood up again, making whatever perfume she wore waft out in front of me. I swallowed and tried not to let my gaze travel to her chest, which I’d already noticed straining against her button-down. I loved women’s perfume. I didn’t know if it made me sexist, but it always made me wonder if their skin smelled the same as their clothes or their hair…
“Well? Aren’t you gonna vote?” Toby was tapping away at her phone, apparently doing just that.
“Yeah, I’ll vote for the vampire emo artist guy. What’s his name?”
Toby peered at her phone and snorted. “Alex. It’s so normal. Maybe he’s trying to compensate with that severe suit and the vague quotes.”
“Or maybe he’s just too dense to think of anything original to say. Even so, she should have fun with him.”
“Aw,” Toby said, cocking her head at me and pulling a softly pitying look at me. “You’re so sweet. Let me tell you, these guys are a dime a dozen in this city. This date is going to be miserable.”
As she sauntered out of my cube without another word, I tried to sigh as quietly as possible. I could only hope she was right.
I voted for Emo Alex at least five hundred more times that day.
Chapter 18
Liz
I couldn’t have been more underwhelmed about date number twelve. Thousands of Philly Illustrated readers had spoken, though, and here I was, going on my dozenth date with a very pretty, but seemingly very moody, guy.
Alex was objectively handsome, but his pale, perfect skin and flawless suit made me feel like I would need permission just to touch him. The Picasso quote on his profile meant he thought he was really smart, and maybe really emotional, but it was impossible to tell at this point. I glided on some long-wear red-lipstick and tugged down my curve-hugging little black dress. I was meeting him at the Blue Elephant, one of swankier bars Philly nightlife had to offer, and I knew this dress wouldn’t ride up or down too much no matter how awkward the seating or how crowded the dance floor. The Elephant had done a small advertising deal with Philly Illustrated and created a limited edition cocktail named after the column in exchange for our attendance on this date, and, of course, my favorable review.
I sighed as I stepped into my heels, then cast a longing glance at the empty couch, with my favorite knitted throw draped over the back. I would so much rather be lounging with JJ in front of the TV tonight, even if every time we’d done that since the last time we’d slept together it had been nearly impossible to keep my mind off of ripping his clothes off. Still, it was never a bad way to spend an evening. Not in the least.
Maybe the date would end early.
I arrived at 8:45 for a 9:00 date, after picking Deanna up a block from the club. “Is it crazy living down here?” I groused as I trudged down the sidewalk next to her, shivering against the already pitch-black autumn night air.
She shrugged. “There are people who like to party, and people who like to chill. If you’re the type that likes to chill,” she said, gesturing to herself, “the partiers don’t bother you that much. It’s a nice kind of symbiosis.”
I raised my eyebrows, then nodded. I knew Deanna was a veritable connoisseur of pot, just from random bits of conversation she dropped here and there. She never came to work high, and I told myself that even though I wasn’t a fan of lighting up for a good time, I had to admit that her photography had this otherworldly quality to it that the pot-smoking definitely didn’t hurt. Maybe snapping photos while high on various strains could be her sell to major galleries when she finally graduated and broke free of this Philly Illustrated internship.
“Just try not to stick out too much,” I said, shooting her a kind smile.
“Never a problem,” Deanna said proudly. “This’ll be a nice challenge, with the smoke and the darkness and the neon. I think this is one of the clubs with glowing drinks.”
I wondered what color the Liz Dates Philly cocktail would glow.
“Well, I’m glad at least one of us is happy about this date location, then” I said before pushing my way to the front of the club’s line, as Alex had directed.
Deanna rolled her eyes at the collection of girls waiting to get into the club. “All these girls are, like, college grads. Did you realize that?”
I furrowed my brow. “So? I am, too.”
Deanna snorted. “Nah. You’re a graduate now. You know why there aren’t any eighteen-year olds waiting in this line?”
“Because…?” I didn’t have much patience for this conversation. I also felt older than my years, not knowing the answer to this immediately.
“Because they let all the youngest girls in first. This must be one of those ‘barely legal’ clubs. Ugh.”
“Well,” I said, pulling out my I.D. and showing it to a burly, tattooed guy in a black button-down, “then it’s a good thing you’re just here to take pictures. You don’t actually have to enjoy the club.”
“Not even supposed to,” Deanna said as she gave the bouncer a wan smile and held her camera up to him for illustration. He, in turn, whispered something to a woman wearing a sleek black pantsuit standing behind him with a clipboard. She gave him a curt nod and he lowered the rope separating the crowd outside from the interior of the club, dark and pulsing with bright lights.
I hoped Alex the tortured artist was worth it because the inside of this club—smoke, darkness, constantly moving neon lights, music loud enough to reverberate through my bones—was a recipe for an instant migraine.
A hostess led us on a winding path around low-slung couches and groups of girls writhing on the dance floor, wearing glow-stick jewelry. Deanna had been right. They all looked like they’d just left high school. Disturbingly, this dance floor seemed to have a ratio of about five girls to one much older-looking guy. Most of these guys looked like they were nearing thirty.
My spirits lifted a little bit when the hostess stopped in front of a curtained-off section at the
back of the club. Inside, everything seemed relatively calm. A few girls who looked closer to twenty-five than eighteen dotted the booth seating at a round table, each nursing a drink and chatting with a guy.
I only had to scan the small group for a few moments before my eyes landed on Alex. It was uncanny - the gaze with which he met mine looked almost exactly like his picture. He wore the exact same outfit as he had in the picture, and I made a mental note to joke with him about whether that was intentional, so I could recognize him, or whether that was his standard uniform.
Alex smiled at me, the corners of his lips curving up in a gentle smirk, and stretched both arms out to me in greeting. “Elizabeth,” he said, his voice warm and smooth as honey.
“What is he, the motherfucking Godfather?” Deanna mumbled in my ear. I snorted, luckily not loud enough for Alex to hear over the blaring music.
“So great to see you, my dear.” He wrapped his hands around my fingers, holding them like they were fragile little birds.
“How long have you all been here?” I asked as he led me to a seat.
“I’ve been here since right after opening, and all of these lovely couples are my new friends.”
I nodded at Deanna as she took a shot from behind Alex while he spread his arms wide to gesture to the whole table. As if I couldn’t see the people there. “So, wait…you guys don’t know each other?”
“We do now,” Alex smiled. “They’ve all graciously agreed to become participants in my latest project, and I hope you will too.”
Well, this was shaping up to be the most interesting date I’d been on, if nothing else. “What kind of art do you…do?”
“I don’t really like the word ‘art,’” he said, and I tilted my chin down to look at him skeptically.
“You’re an artist, right?”
He sighed and looked at me like I was a simpleton. “Yes, but what I do is so much more than art. It can’t be experienced in a gallery or through a pair of headphones. Even in a theater would be insufficient.”
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