“Thank God,” Gigi says, dabbing the last black streak from under her eye. “Because I really do have to pee, and I was not looking forward to using that Porta Potty.”
“Luckily your friend’s place has better bathroom accommodations,” I say. “But when we get back, you have to help me come up with a dating blog to hand in Monday.”
“Oh please,” Gigi says. “I’m sure you’ll find a date on the bus.”
We walk out of Cecil’s, arm in arm.
MY THREE-HOUR RELATIONSHIP
That’s one way to kill time on a bus ride.
Sometimes being a good friend means putting your love life on hold. So my salacious Hamptons weekend became all about LITERALLY Netflix and chilling with a girlfriend in need rather than euphemistically “Netflix and chilling” (aka hooking up) with a cute boy I’d been talking to.
But a Shift Girl can balance all of her relationships. So, not wanting the weekend to be a total romantic bust, I managed to fit in not only a date, but an entire relationship—complete with a beginning, middle, and end—into the three-and-a-half hour fancy bus ride (called the Jitney) back into Manhattan.
The relationship started by chance. I was stretching my legs in the aisle of the bus when the driver took a sharp turn, causing me to stumble into the lap of an adorable stranger—who just so happened to have an empty seat next to him.
By hour one, we were already sharing ear buds as we streamed a movie on his laptop. And like a true gentleman, he comforted me during the scary parts.
By hour two, we’d had our first romantic meal together, sharing a bag of Doritos Cool Ranch.
By hour three, we had inside jokes and plans for him to visit when I go back to California in August. He couldn’t wait to meet my friends, and I had already plotted our road trip up Route 1 when he came to visit. We were going to make this long distance thing work!
But when the bus pulled into Manhattan, things went tragically downhill.
When the driver made another sharp turn, the book I was reading (that I highly recommend) called We Should All Be Feminists fell out of my bag.
“Oh no,” my new bus boyfriend said, grimacing at the title. “You aren’t one of those are you? Feminism is just so . . . gay.”
Alas, the love was gone. After three hours of bonding, we were torn asunder by one sentence that revealed our major irreconcilable differences.
I gave him a fake number . . . but we’ll always have the Jitney.
Carpe that Effing Diem!
Harper
27
MY SLIGHTLY EMBELLISHED BLOG—OUR 3.5 hour “relationship” also included an hour-long nap in the middle that I didn’t mention—goes up on Wednesday and works its way up to the Leader Board. But the exciting new traffic comes with a dark side I wasn’t expecting: the comments section. So. Many. Comments. And tweets. Wow, people are mean on Twitter. Apparently antifeminist jerks who use “gay” as a pejorative have some rather vocal supporters out there. @PGoods99’s tweet declaring “Well, that guy dodged a bullet. She’s a loser #bitch” was one of the nice ones.
The other Shift Girls tell me not to fixate on the haters and insist that getting mean comments is just part of being a writer. I know that’s true, but it still sucks. They pry me away from refreshing the comments on my computer and drag me to an outdoor movie screening of a nineties classic in Bryant Park.
Once I recharge my deader-than-dead phone back at Aunt Vee’s apartment, the iPhone springs back to life with a series of terse texts from Kristina sent over the course of the night.
Kristina:
Remember me?
Kristina:
So glad you have time to have an entire relationship but not to text me back.
Kristina:
“Being a good friend means putting your love life on hold?” Ironic much? PLEASE
Oh no. I never got back to Kristina.
Harper:
Didn’t see these until now!! Was watching Clueless after work w friends. It’s been a crazy week, but didn’t you see I called back Monday?
I feel terrible. I didn’t call her, but I’m hoping that since Kristina’s phone is always malfunctioning, she’ll think it just didn’t record my fake missed call.
Kristina:
You know I hate that movie.
Harper:
Shit. I wasn’t thinking.
Clueless is Kristina’s kryptonite. Especially considering her relationship with her ridiculously cute, ridiculously awful stepbrother.
Kristina:
How could u forget something like that? Altho u seem to be forgetting a lot of things lately.
Harper:
Well, we’re talking now. Things have just been really crazy. You know having a love life is new for me. What’s up?
Kristina:
Nothing. Just my stepbrother got off the wait list at Stanford and now I have to find a new school to swim for.
Harper:
What?!?
This is serious. I snap back into best friend mode. I call her instantly.
It goes to voice mail after only one ring. Is she screening my calls?
Harper:
???
Harper:
Do you wanna talk about it?
Kristina:
gtg going on a date.
I can’t tell if she’s mad or hurt mad or fake mad or actually just on a date.
I pick Princess up for more moral support and plop us down onto my bed, sinking extra deep into the feather-down mattress. She rests her head on my lap and lets me pet her ears while I stare at my phone, willing Kristina to write more.
As if by my will, the phone vibrates in my hand. But the text isn’t from Kristina.
Carter:
It didn’t take long for you to forget all about me.
My brief stint as a dating blogger has given enough insight to make me certain that Carter’s text isn’t angry, it’s flirty. Since when do I get guys better than I get my best friend?
I stop myself from texting that I actually didn’t forget about him. I texted Carter from the jitney to ask how the rest of his night went and he never responded, even though he was tweeting during my whole bus ride back. I guess this blog post got his attention.
Harper:
I take my job very seriously.
Carter:
Maybe I should give you a date to blog about.
I freak out silently under a slumbering Princess.
Harper:
Gigi gave me her unwanted tickets to Phantom of the Opera this weekend. Wanna go with me?
The fact that there could be such a thing as an unwanted Phantom ticket is impossible for me to understand. But when a PR person sent a pair to the Arts & Culture editor, she gave it to a reporter who gave it to Gigi who gave it to me.
Carter:
There’s a reason those tickets are unwanted. You’ll be surrounded by tourists, the geriatric and the pediatric.
I won’t be the one to remind him that I am a tourist. Or tell him that I love that show. Kristina and I didn’t just have a Phantom phase when we were little, we had a full-blown obsession. After the movie came out, we would incorporate opera house story lines into all our games, in spite of the fact that we’re both tone deaf. (“Maybe sing with your indoor voices, girls,” Mr. Jefferson would say in music class.)
And now I’m going to see it on freaking Broadway. My first-ever Broadway show. I just won’t be seeing it with Carter.
Carter:
I’m going out of town for a week for a story, but my parents are having a party the first Monday in August. Wanna come?
I loudly squeal “YES” under a no-longer-slumbering Princess.
Harper:
That can be arranged.
“What’s going on in here? I heard yelling.” Aunt Vee pushes through my doorway wearing a fabulous gown for the Park Avenue Tulip Society gala she just got back from.
Since I can’t gush about it to Kristina, I decide to tell Aunt Vee everything. That I ju
st got asked out by an incredible guy.
“His name is Carter Bosh.”
When I say his name, Aunt Vee’s jaw drops. Her excitement rivals Brie’s when the beauty editor told her she could take her pick of makeup from the summer collection, since in magazine world, we are well into shooting for fall issues.
“His mother and I are on the board of the Park Avenue Tulip Society. I just saw her,” she says. “I’m not one to brag, but Kiki and I were entirely responsible for the tulips’ color scheme this year.” She takes out her phone to show me pictures of flowers lining the Upper East Side sidewalks.
Aunt Vee goes on to tell me that the party I’ve been invited to is one of the most exclusive events of the summer season. It’s the Boshes’ thirtieth wedding anniversary party.
“The Bosh family is a very good one to be connected to. Kiki tried to set me up with her divorced brother a few years back, but I was unfortunately considering reconciling with my fourth husband at the time. What a waste that was. If you think Princess’s snoring is bad . . .”
My cheeks heat up from all the Bosh conversation. I can’t talk about Carter anymore right now. It makes me too nervous. So I change the subject instead.
“Have you noticed that since she started taking her walks, Princess has been snoring less?” I ask. “I think that the exercise is finally helping her sleep apnea.”
“And she’s getting closer to her prom dress size,” an easily distracted Aunt Vee says. “Benjamin is melting away those adorable fat rolls one by one. I wonder if he trains humans, too.”
“You should ask him.” I can totally picture Aunt Vee in her neon spandex running circles around Atticus in the park. They’d probably make fantastic workout buddies.
“I will as soon as he’s back.”
“Back from where?” I’ve been out every night this week with the Shift Girls so have been skipping our walks.
“New Hampshire with that athletic girlfriend of his,” Aunt Vee says. “Thank God he’ll be back by the weekend. Princess hasn’t taken to his temporary replacement. It’s all very inconvenient.”
“Wait, he’s visiting Delilah?” I’ve gotten a sad series of text messages every time she’s canceled one of his trips to New Hampshire at the very last minute. (“The car was even packed!”) So I wonder why he didn’t send me dancing girl emojis and fireworks to tell me that he was finally making the trip. We need a serious debrief—and I know the perfect place. Ben wouldn’t make fun of me for my musical-theater proclivities.
Harper:
Question, when do you get back in town?
He responds quickly.
Ben:
I haven’t been out of town.
Wait, what? Before I ask, Ben texts again.
Ben:
Why? Do u need more drugs, guns, and other potential felonies?
I ignore his ominous implications and ask if he has any interest at all in being my plus one to Phantom of the Opera Saturday night. He doesn’t respond, so I add:
Harper:
Please? We need to catch up.
Ben:
Ur right. We do. I’ve been staying off my computer and phone for a few days. But Phantom sounds great! I can pick you up at your place at 7?
Harper:
It’s a date.
I regret it as soon as I hit send because obviously it’s not a date. That’s so awkward.
Harper:
Not really.
Harper:
You know. Just an expression.
Harper:
Friend.
Yup, I’ve officially made it more awkward. It’s, like, a gift.
Ben:
U can stop now, BUD. I got it. See u 2morrow.
Maybe I can squeeze a blog post out of it: the importance of the platonic guy friend. The surrogate boyfriend.
28
EVEN THOUGH BEN HAS A key to Aunt Vee’s apartment for dog-walking purposes, he rings the doorbell on Saturday night.
Princess comes running as soon as she sees him walk through the door.
“Actually, I’m here for this one today.” Ben nods in my direction as he scratches her ears. Princess harrumphs.
“You look different,” I say, looking over Ben’s ensemble choice. He’s ditched the Saint Agnes sports tee and gym shorts in favor of pressed jeans and an ironed, short-sleeved, pale blue collared shirt. I think he even put gel in his typically poofy hair. He shifts uncomfortably in his dress shoes.
“Don’t you two make a pretty picture,” Aunt Vee says, entering the living room.
“Don’t get any ideas, Aunt Vee.”
We give Princess a dog treat to distract her so that we can leave the apartment without her.
“So, New Hampshire,” I say, when we go underground in the sweltering subway station. “How was finally seeing Delilah?”
“Um . . .”
Ben looks flushed.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You’re wearing jeans and it’s like a hundred degrees?”
“Yeah.” He tugs on his collar. “It’s just hot down here. New Hampshire was interesting. Let’s talk about it after the show. Are you okay? I read some of the comments on your blog.”
Apparently calling yourself a feminist and saying you don’t want to date someone who tells “that’s so gay” jokes puts a big target on your back for Internet trolls. I’m still getting angry messages about how I’m an “ugly femi-nazi who should take any date she can get.”
“Ugh, I had to stop reading them,” I say as we exit the subway at Times Square. “They’re the worst.”
Ben tells me that he spent the better part of this afternoon on Twitter, responding to some of my hate tweets.
“You didn’t!” We break apart to go around a group of tourists who have inexplicably stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and come back together again. “You’re supposed to ignore them! Don’t feed the trolls!”
“The only food I was offering was a knuckle sandwich.” The severity with which he says it, completely unironically, makes me burst into a fit of giggles.
“You did not just say that! That’s so corny.”
Ben lets the laughter roll off his white button-up shirt’s back, which is starting to freckle with perspiration.
“Corny?” He smiles in a way that activates his dimple. “Says the girl making me see Phantom of the Opera?”
“Touché.”
“And that’s why I’m risking heatstroke, by the way,” he says. “I knew I couldn’t show up in Nike gear and my Saint Agnes shirt. You invited me somewhere nice. Thanks, by the way.”
We turn the corner and see the image of the phantom’s white mask glowing in the marquee of the Majestic Theatre.
“Air-conditioning!” Ben lets out a groan and folds at the waist, with his hands on his knees, after we’re engulfed in the cold lobby’s air.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, and we head to our seats.
* * *
Screw highbrow New York theater society. Phantom of the Opera is freaking incredible. I tune out all the crinkling candy wrappers around me and am transfixed by what is happening on the stage. The crash of the chandelier, the smoky boat ride to the phantom’s lair, those high notes. . . . I become a little girl again, and by the final scene I’m bawling like a baby and reaching for Ben’s hand. His entire body stiffens, and I realize that this probably isn’t acceptable behavior. I quickly pull my hand back but can see that he’s facing me and not the stage as the cast transitions into the curtain call. I just clap enthusiastically and pretend that nothing happened. Ben pretends right along with me, suggesting that we wait outside the theater’s back exit to see if the cast will come out and sign our programs.
“We might as well do this right,” he says.
“I can’t believe I’ve been in New York for almost two months and it’s taken me this long to see a show on Broadway. What have I been doing?” I ask Ben, in the middle of a crowd eagerly waiting for the performers to take off their makeup and greet their fans. �
�You’re so lucky you live here. You must see these all the time.”
“Not really.” He’s using his program as a fan and then waves some air in my direction.
“Not even with Delilah?”
“She’s not the musical type,” he says. “Neither am I, really.”
“So why did you agree to come with me?”
“Because you asked me.” Ben’s face softens. “You wanted me to. And I actually liked it. It’s nice to be asked to try new things.”
The crowd around us bursts into applause as the backstage door swings open to reveal a smiling and waving cast. I start to push up toward the front to get an autograph, but Ben grabs my hand and keeps me back.
“Why’d you invite me, Harper? Why not the Nietzsche guy?”
Ben’s eyes probe my face for an answer. This is because I texted “date,” isn’t it? Because I held his hand. I quickly assure him that I asked Carter, of course I did, but he was busy. So I thought it would be good to go with a friend.
“Actually, I’m thinking of writing about this for my next blog,” I say, talking really quickly. “About the perks of having a surrogate boyfriend. You know, a guy friend who you’d never be romantic with but you can count on for, like, emotional support and going on platonic dates to events and places you’ve been wanting to check out.”
“Surrogate boyfriend?” Ben pulls a Brie and cocks his head to the side. This would be when his floppy hair would flop if it weren’t gelled into submission.
“It’s just a phrase,” I say as the actress who played Christine signs my program. “I could call it something else if you think it would weird Delilah out. Basically it just means that I feel comfortable asking you to do dorky things with me that I couldn’t ask Carter to. Like go to cheesy musicals or eat at Serendipity!”
Little Black Dresses, Little White Lies Page 17
