“You did?” She seems more concerned than impressed, “You already slept with him?”
“Yeah. So?” Why is she so concerned about this?
“So you shouldn’t have given it up on the first night, Sam,” she scolds.
“You yourself just said I should have birthday sex!”
“I was joking. That was a joke. And it was only said in my mind.” I don’t get it. What’s the big deal about sleeping with the perfect man?
“You had sex with Marty!” I argue.
“Yeah, but that’s different. I don’t like the guy!” she explains, as if that should make sense to anybody.
Now I’m legitimately worried. Does this really matter? And why does it always fall on the woman to say no? It’s not like we don’t want it as much as they do. So why does it always fall on us to be good? Whatever “good” is.
“John and I are perfect for each other. You didn’t get a chance to hear about it yet, but the moment couldn’t have been more romantic. So why was I supposed to wait?” I try to calm my rapidly beating heart.
“I don’t know why you’re supposed to wait, but everybody knows that if you like a guy, you want him to stick around. And if you want him to stick around, you absolutely can not have sex with him until at least the third date.” Oh. Well that explains everything. Sometimes I just hate her.
Now I’m in a panic and I don’t even want to be here anymore. My energy and happiness feel like they’ve been zapped right out of my body.
Lacey picks up on my mood shift, and I know she feels partly responsible because she says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I probably don’t seem too encouraged by this because she adds, “He’ll call you. Some guys still call. If he’s as great as you say he is, he’ll call you. Just give him a week, before you panic. That’s the standard six-day maximum, plus one day to make sure he’s not calling.” She puts her arm around me trying to console me. It’s sweet even though it doesn’t really make me feel any better. She can tell, so she continues, “I mean, what I said isn’t even true. I had sex with Marty, and he’s called me a whole bunch of times already.”
Yeah! He didn’t care that she slept with him on the first night. I mean, technically, I guess it’s their second night, since they did meet at K-Bar that one time he mentioned that led to him basically stalking her there. But why does she get to be so lucky? Why isn’t John stalking me?! Or at least calling me…
How had I not even considered the option of him not calling? Until now, it had literally not even crossed my mind as a possibility. He’ll call. He’s gonna call. We had too much fun for him not to call. We were both there having the same experience, and it was incredible. Yeah, there’s no way he doesn’t call. I will be absolutely devastated if he doesn’t call.
Henry and his wife approach me, as they put on their coats. I guess they’re leaving. I look around and notice that the party is winding down. More people have left than I’d noticed while I was hanging out with the misery in my brain.
“So, where is this guy?” Henry asks accusingly.
I lower my head embarrassed, “I don’t know. I mean our plans for tonight were pretty tentative. But I really thought he’d make it.”
“Look Samantha,” he says almost sweetly, “I didn’t appreciate the things you said about me earlier.” Oh God, here comes the part where he fires me. “But I’m not gonna fire you for it,” he goes on. “I just said that to sound tough in front of everyone.”
I can understand that he doesn’t want his clients or employees to think he’s some wishy-washy pushover. And he does have major loyalty issues, which he’s always been very clear about, and which I had personally just breached with my comment about him.
And then, right when I start to think that maybe he’s not such a twisted guy, he sticks the knife into my heart and wiggles it around a little, “Anyway, I’m sure you’re feeling enough pain just from having failed.”
Coming from most people that would’ve been said compassionately, out of sympathy, to mean, “I’ve been there, I feel for you, and I hope things turn around for you soon.” Coming from Henry it sounds more like a warning, meaning, “Your days of getting a free pass around here are over. I forgive you, but I’ll never forget, so beware of crossing me again, because I’m watching you, and by the way, you’re not as fail-proof as you think. Happy Birthday.” Okay, so he said the “Happy Birthday” part out loud, but I know what he meant.
~
The next few days go by one slow second at a time. At work, I look at my phone to check for a call I may have missed. It’s 11:02. I should work. I look at my phone to check again. It’s 11:03. This is bad. I have to wait longer between checks. The next time I look it’s 11:08. It’s an improvement, although probably not one I should be proud of.
This continues after work. 5:16, 5:19, 5:24. And at home. 8:37, 8:43, 8:56—basically during every commercial break from the television shows I’m trying to distract myself with. I should really get a DVR!
But I’m not just eyeing the phone, I’m also looking him up on Google and on Facebook. Every day. What if something changes? What if he posts a status that mentions me. What if he posts a status that mentions his location. No. Don’t even think about it, Sam!
I’m in my office, looking at his Facebook page, and hovering my mouse over the add button, even though I have no intention of pressing it, when the door opens suddenly.
“What are you working on?” Henry asks.
I jump, startled, and accidentally click my mouse. Oh, shit. I just friended John. Five days into him not calling me. That looks desperate. He’s gonna think I’m cyber-stalking him! Worse, he’s gonna be right! That’s pretty much all I ever do anymore. Can this be undone? I suppose I could unfriend him. But that email Facebook sends to tell him that I want to be friends has probably already been launched. Now if I unfriend him, he’s gonna get the email, know I’m stalking him, click to ignore my friend request, and discover it’s not even there, at which point he’ll think that I deleted it because I don’t want him to find out that I’m obsessed with him, which will only make me look exponentially more obsessed than I am! Oh God, this is embarrassing. Why doesn’t Facebook have a prompt to ask, “Are you sure you want to friend this person?” They do that to ask if you’re sure you want to deactivate your account, which is an action that’s a hundred times less impulsive than friending some hot guy you just had magical sex with.
Well, if he’s not calling because he thinks I’m a loser, at least now he has confirmation.
Meanwhile, Henry has come here with a purpose, “Listen, Samantha,” he begins, “we all get to 30 with a list of things we didn’t accomplish on time. The people in this office aren’t judging you for that.” Aw. That’s kind of sweet, he’s trying to console me. Maybe Henry isn’t an asshole at all. Maybe he’s just one of those father figure types, who is really hard on his children because he wants to see them go above and beyond what the other PR children are capable of. He likes to push us and challenge us, but maybe it’s only because he cares.
“But what we’re supposed to learn from it,” he goes on, “is that none of that stuff actually has to get done. What does have to get done, though, is your work here. Do you see what I’m saying?” And that’s when I realize that he’s not being sweet at all. He’s judging me. They’re all judging me. As well they should! I mean, not only did I fail, but I did it in front of everyone!
Eventually, the week comes to an end, and John doesn’t call. Nor does he accept my friend request.
Chapter 10
It’s Saturday night and it’s pretty obvious that I’ve been crying all day from the fact that I’m still in my pajamas, and there are used tissues strewn about my apartment. My eyes are so swollen and red that I’ve had to cover every mirror in the house with a sheet, so that I don’t run the risk of accidentally perceiving my hideous, puffy face.
It’s not just that the boy I want more than anything didn’t call me. What’s really kil
ling me is that for the first time in my life, I can’t think of any way to fix this. I can’t take any of it back. Why did I have to sleep with him?
It seems so stupid that I should have to care about that. And holding out when I want to give in feels like playing games. But I know in my heart that things would be different if I just hadn’t slept with him. I hate that it’s like that, but it is, and as much as I’d like to play by my own rules, it’s not worth it, if this is the result I’m getting. Ugh! I’m so mad at myself.
The doorbell rings. Oh, shit, it’s Saturday night! I promised Lacey I would go to her work party with her. I can’t go. I can’t do it. I don’t want to face all those people from her office. I don’t want to face anybody. Why didn’t I call her earlier to cancel? Ah, it wouldn’t have helped anything, she never would have let me flake out. Maybe this is for the best, she’ll take one look at me, realize what a mess I am, and become overwhelmed with the desire not to be seen in public with me.
I open the door. Lacey looks me up and down, appalled.
“What are you doing? Why aren’t you dressed?” Damn. That wasn’t the response I was hoping for.
“I can’t go, Lacey. I feel like crap. I look like crap. I’m at risk of bursting into tears at any moment. I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if I just stayed here and continued to have my meltdown in private.”
“But I need you at this event! I put a lot of rich men on the guest list, which doesn’t do me any good if I don’t have my wing-woman.” This reminds me of how I found the man I want already.
“We’re perfect for each other. Why hasn’t he called me?” I burst into tears again. Boy, am I predictable.
Lacey takes a moment away from her own angst to feel sympathy for me, “Did you ever consider that maybe it’s because he died?”
Of course I considered that! And as much as I’d like to believe that’s the reason, that’s never the reason.
“He’s not dead. He just doesn’t like me.”
I can tell that Lacey now feels guilty about having gotten on my case about going out with her.
She calms her tone, and sounds almost like an inspirational coach, “I know. But you’re not gonna find someone better by sitting in your house.” Then she storms into my room, “Come on. I’m gonna find you something to wear.”
We go into my bedroom, and as I watch Lacey sift through my closets, I continue my post game-day analysis, “Maybe if I hadn’t been so drunk I wouldn’t have slept with him. Getting drunk around desirable men is almost always a bad idea!”
“So you learned your lesson,” she says, still coaching me. “Now put this on, and pretend you feel sexy until you do.” She hands me the beautiful emerald green, form-fitting, floor length gown that was hidden in the back of my everyday wear. I believe in that “fake it till you make it” stuff. It’s worth a try.
I put on the dress and already look a hundred times better. After washing my face, I decide to let Lacey do my hair and makeup. Maybe it’s from growing up beautiful, but she’s always been better at personal styling than most non-pros I know. She manages to hide the puffiness in my eyes, tame my hair into a sophisticated chignon with danglers, and inject some liveliness back into my lovelorn skin.
By the time I uncover the mirror to check myself out, I look as if I could be a movie star about to walk the red carpet. For the first time all day, I smile. I wish John could see me like this. The thought alone sends me back in the wrong direction, and I burst into tears again.
“I just wish I hadn’t slept with him!”
And now I look like a movie star about to walk the red carpet with a flu.
Lacey looks exasperated. She grabs a handful of tissues, hands them to me, and drops my makeup kit in her purse.
“We’d better bring this along for touch ups,” she proclaims, not backing down from dragging me along with her. Then she grabs my purse, my keys, and my hand, and pulls me out the door.
~
I spend most of the cab ride trying to get into a better space in my head. Who knows, maybe this will be the party where I meet my next big client? Maybe I’ll meet someone with some good leads? What is this party for anyway? Oh, who cares. As long as the booze is free, I should be fine. What if it’s a party for doctors? What if John is there? That would be great! Or maybe it would be awkward. Stop thinking about John! He’s not going to be there.
I’m so up in my head for the whole cab ride that I haven’t noticed anything about my surroundings. Where we’re going, where we are, what neighborhood, how far, nothing. So when we get out of the cab, and I glance up at the venue, I am shocked to find that we are back at K-Bar.
“This is where your event is?” I ask incredulously. She should have warned me. This is the last place I wanna be. It’s too soon. There’s no way I can pretend I’m having fun in the same location where I had the best night of my life only to find out it was the most miserable night of my life.
And now I’m thinking there actually is a chance that John is here. What if this is his regular bar? Then I’ll look like I’m stalking him just like Marty was stalking Lacey. But wait, if it’s a private party, he won’t be here. Okay, at least I won’t get caught accidentally stalking him.
In my reverie, I hardly hear Lacey say, “What are you talking about? My event is next week.”
What? Her event is next week? Then why did she tell me it was today? Why did she drag me out of the house when I was perfectly happy to never feel the air of night on my face again? Not only did she betray me, but if John is here, he’s definitely gonna think that I’m stalking him! Now I’m mad.
“That’s the only reason I came out. I’m not going in there again!”
“Sam, you told everyone to meet you here for your whole meet-a-man-for-your-birthday plan, so we’re going in,” Lacey commands, as she grabs my arm and yanks me inside.
“My birthday was last week. The plan failed miserably,” I remind her, wondering how she could be so self-involved to have already forgotten the reason behind my lack of desire to leave the house.
Speaking of last week, everything inside K-Bar is eerily similar. The song coming from the loudspeakers is some non-descript electronic lounge music, so why do I recognize it? I don’t know one electronic lounge song from the next. I don’t know one electronic lounge song, period.
And just like last week, the place is not particularly crowded, but loaded with hot, age-appropriate men. All the exact same ones.
“Nice choice,” Lacey says, in exactly the same tone and cadence, and standing in the exact same spot as where she said it last week. Does she always do that when she enters a room? No, of course not.
Then, that same group of girls from last week screams loudly for no identifiable reason, and a flash photo goes off, taking that same exact picture. Don’t they already have that one? And much more importantly: what the hell is going on?!
Right on cue, Lacey says, “I hope I never come off that desperate for attention!” And she whips off her coat, revealing the exact same outfit she wore last week for my pre-birthday party, throwing back her hair like she did last week, and jutting out her size Cs that used to be Ds.
Lacey would never do that. She would never wear the same outfit two times in a row—and especially not to the same bar. What is wrong with this picture? Oh my God, I know what it is. I’ve lost my mind. That would explain everything. Even the fact that I’m suddenly not wearing my green floor length gown anymore. I’m wearing the pink flirty dress that was supposed to pass for purple! How did that happen? When did that happen? This isn’t possible! Yes, I’ve definitely gone crazy.
All that’s left for us to do now is meet Marty, have him spill his drink on me, go to the bathroom, come out, and meet John. Great! If all goes well, I can live the most humiliating birthday of my life all over again! Can’t wait!
I take a deep breath and remind myself that there’s nothing to worry about because stuff like that never happens in real life.
That’
s when Lacey picks up that old conversation about the sexologist she met here.
“The thing about him, too, was that he wasn’t the one night stand type, and I just can’t afford to get involved with another guy who’s got no money.”
“Are you talking about Marty?” I ask.
“How do you know his name?” she seems shocked.
“Because you had sex with him. Last week. After we saw him here.”
“Eiw! I would never have sex with him.” She couldn’t possibly seem more grossed out.
“Of course you did! You even taped it.” Please prove to me that I’m not crazy.
“Exactly! That’s proof that I didn’t! I’d have a tape—how did you know that I’d have a tape?” Maybe she’s the one who’s gone crazy?
“Do you not remember any of this, from last week? It was the night before my birthday.”
“That’s today. Your birthday is tonight.” She puts her hand on my forehead to check my temperature, “Are you okay?”
I look at my cell phone to see the date, and discover that she’s right. It is last week. It’s 3 hours before my birthday. Which makes me 29 again, which is awesome! But it also makes me crazy. Which is not awesome.
“Let me see your cell phone,” I demand. I’ve gotta make sure that mine isn’t malfunctioning like my brain. I need to see if her phone’s date matches. It does.
How can this be? Is this a dream? Was last week a dream? Am I psychic, and I played it all out in advance, then woke up to do it all for real? That I could buy. It wouldn’t be the first time I dreamed of something before it happened. But never anything this elaborate, or in this much detail. I mean, when I was in seventh grade, I remember there was this really fashionable eighth grade girl, and sometimes I would dream about what she’d be wearing, and the next day, she’d show up to school in the outfit I had dreamt of. But honestly, it was never some outfit I didn’t know. It was always something I’d seen her wear before, like a month ago, that was due to be repeated soon, depending on the depth of her closet. That’s why I never thought anything of it.
How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel Page 7
