The Man of My Dreams

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  If he understands, he does not acknowledge it.

  Back in Ander, they return their kayaks and life jackets and spray skirts and rubber boots, they take pictures of one another standing on the dock against the backdrop of the mountains, and that night they stay at a bed-and-breakfast—Davida’s B&B—which is inside the old army bunker. It’s an apartment that smells of cigarette smoke, and Davida herself, a warm woman in her fifties wearing acid-washed jeans, a pilly lavender sweater, and a blue windbreaker, escorts them up in the elevator to their apartment and proceeds to energetically spray air freshener until Hannah can taste it in her mouth, a sour mist. When Davida’s gone, Elliot says, “Who’d have guessed one of the Bs stands for Bunker?” and Hannah laughs extra. Since Elliot’s quasi-come-on last night, she felt first generously pitying toward him, then she felt like maybe there was sexual tension between them, and now she feels like probably he’s not interested in her at all but she definitely has a crush on him. For the last three hours, the crush has been thriving.

  In the morning, they board the train back to Anchorage and take a taxi to the airport, where they will all leave on night flights. Hannah will arrive in Boston at six thirty in the morning. In the airport bathroom, Allison gets her period and doesn’t have a tampon and Hannah must buy one, sticking dimes into the machine on the wall, then passing it under the door of the stall. “Aren’t you glad this didn’t happen in the backcountry?” Allison says. “A bear would have sniffed me out in no time.”

  Then Hannah is back at Tufts, the school year has started. She’s safe and alone again, as she is always safe and alone. The following May, Allison and Sam will marry in a simple ceremony at the Palace of the Legion of Honor in San Francisco, and though in the weeks before she flies out, Hannah will not be able to help wondering what her interactions with Elliot will be like, he’ll mostly ignore her. He’ll bring as his wedding date a very thin, very blond woman who is not only far prettier than Hannah but far prettier than even Allison. The woman will, apparently, be an ER doctor.

  For a long time—more frequently than she’ll wish she hadn’t told Allison Sam wasn’t special, way more frequently than she’ll regret not having fooled around with Elliot—Hannah will think of her glasses on the floor of the North Pacific. It is dark and calm down there; fish slip past; her glasses rest untouched, the clear plastic lenses and titanium frames. In the stillness without her, the glasses see and see.

  6

  September 1998

  HANNAH MEETS THE guy in the financial aid office when she’s waiting to see the director. This is her third visit to the office since returning from Alaska; the financial aid system is starting to feel like an additional class for which she gets no credit. On a piece of paper, she makes the same calculations she has made more than once, as if this time they will yield a different answer: If the tuition for the year is $23,709, and if her mother increases the amount she pays per semester from $4,000 to $6,000 (“You really don’t have to,” Hannah said, and her mother said, “Oh, Hannah, I’m just sorry it can’t be more”), and then if Hannah gets $4,300 as a student loan, and if she works thirty hours a week at the veterinary library instead of twenty—in the middle of her calculations, she senses that the guy behind the desk is watching her. She looks up.

  “While you’re waiting, maybe I can answer your question,” the guy says. She’s pretty sure he’s an undergrad. He’s only an inch or two taller than Hannah, with brown hair and glasses, and he isn’t particularly cute.

  Hannah shakes her head. “It’s kind of complicated.”

  “Try me. I’ve worked here a few years.”

  “I’m an exceptional case,” Hannah says, which is verbatim what the director of financial aid told her—the exceptional part is that Hannah didn’t know until late last May, after the end of the school year, that she’d need aid—but the guy smiles.

  He says, “Oh, I could tell that already.”

  He’s either flirting with her or making fun of her; whichever it is, it’s annoying. She looks down again and resumes writing.

  Less than a minute has passed when the guy says, “I went to that exhibit at the M.F.A.”

  The book she’s holding on her lap beneath the piece of paper is a biography of Pierre Bonnard. Hannah is considering writing her thesis on him.

  “He does all the paintings of his wife in the bath, right?” the guy says.

  Hannah nods. She’s a little impressed. “Did you see the last one?” she asks. “His wife died while he was in the middle of painting it, but it turned out to be the best one by far. The interplay of warm and cool colors is really incredible, the tiles on the floor and the wall. It’s, like, luminous.” Right away, she feels embarrassed. That luminous—it sounded very art-history-major-ish.

  But the guy is nodding. He seems interested. He says, “When I was at the exhibit—” and this is when the director of financial aid opens his office door and sticks his head out. “Hannah Gavener?” he says, and she stands and enters the office behind him.

  DURING THE LAST three years, the places Fig has stood Hannah up are two Starbucks (the one at Kenmore Square and the one at the corner of Newbury Street and Clarendon); the Clinique counter on the second floor of Filene’s; and now, on a Sunday morning, at Fig’s own off-campus apartment. They are supposed to go out for brunch, and standing in the dingy lobby of Fig’s building, Hannah presses the intercom button three times in a row. After the third time, a sleepy, unfriendly female voice—one of Fig’s three roommates, presumably—says, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Hannah, and I’m looking—” Hannah begins, but the voice cuts her off.

  “Fig’s not here. She never came home last night.” In the ensuing disconnection, there is something final; to buzz again, Hannah can tell already, would serve no purpose.

  Back in her dorm, Hannah sends Fig a sarcastic e-mail (Don’t worry about not being there, because I really enjoyed the early morning T ride…), but after several days pass with no reply, Hannah begins to worry that maybe something bad has happened.

  On Wednesday afternoon, Hannah calls. “Oh my God, I’ve been dying to talk to you,” Fig says. “Can we get together immediately? Are you free for dinner tonight? Or, wait, not tonight, because I said I’d go out for drinks with this law student. A law student is the only thing worse than a lawyer, right?”

  “What happened to you last weekend?”

  “Don’t ask. Do you remember my freshman roommate Betsy?”

  Hannah remembers her well. The first time Hannah ever visited Fig at BU, Betsy said, “Did you jog over here?” and Hannah said, “I took the T. Why?” and Betsy said, “Because you’re so sweaty.”

  “Betsy was having this big party Saturday and basically wigging out,” Fig says. “She begged me to help her get ready when, believe me, the last thing I wanted was to get sucked into the vortex of her insanity. But we ran all over the place, getting food, cleaning up, and then the party just went on forever. People seriously didn’t leave until like six in the morning. You should have come.”

  “That would have been difficult, given that I didn’t know about it.”

  “Betsy’s new boyfriend has braces. Can you imagine a guy with braces going down on you?”

  “If you were hungover, Fig, all you had to do was call me.”

  “I know. I’m the most horrible person in the world. But I was just about to call you right now. And I’ll make it up to you—I’ll make brunch for you.”

  “You don’t know how to cook,” Hannah says. The staples of Fig’s diet are cocktail onions from the jar, a blend of cottage cheese and ketchup, and, occasionally, chocolate bars. At restaurants, she orders food but she rarely takes more than a few bites, and Hannah and Allison have speculated for years about whether she’s anorexic.

  “Don’t be cranky,” Fig says. “Come over this weekend and I’ll whip up some French toast.”

  “You’ve never made French toast in your life.”

  “That may be,” Fig says, and
it strikes Hannah that there is something undeniably comforting in knowing her cousin so well that even when she wants to be wrong about Fig, she isn’t. “But I’ve seen my mom do it about a thousand times,” Fig is saying. “It’s eggs and bread.”

  “I’m not coming back over there,” Hannah says.

  “Ooh, playing hard to get. I like it, Hannah, I like it. It’s a bold direction for you to go in. No sweat, though, I’ll come to you. Should we say noon on Sunday?”

  “I’m busy this weekend,” Hannah says.

  “It’ll be grand. We’ll giggle and tell secrets.”

  “I said I’m busy.”

  “Then we’re set,” Fig says. “Can’t wait to see you.”

  THE GUY IS working behind the desk again when Hannah returns to the financial aid office to drop off a form. When he sees her, he says, “Hannah, right?”

  “Hi,” she says.

  “I’m Mike,” he says. “FYI. How’ve you been?”

  There are two other people waiting—an athletic-looking guy reading The Economist and a middle-aged woman just sitting there—and it seems slightly weird to carry on a chatty conversation in front of them.

  “I’ve been fine,” Hannah says.

  “Big plans for the weekend?”

  “Not really. Can I give you this?” She passes him the form, a single sheet of paper.

  But after she has left—she’s gotten about twenty feet down the hall—he follows her. He says, “Hey, Hannah,” and when she stops, he says, “I was wondering if you like jazz. I heard about this place called Aujourd’hui that has jazz on the weekend.”

  If you’re doing what it seems like you’re doing, Hannah thinks uncomfortably, I just can’t help you.

  “I don’t know if you’re free this Friday,” Mike adds.

  Though she tries, she can’t come up with a reason to say no. She says, “I guess I am.”

  ON FRIDAY, THEY meet outside her dorm and walk through the warm fall night to the restaurant. He is from Worcester, Massachusetts, he tells her. He’s an only child. His parents are divorced, too. When he finds out she’s from Philadelphia, he says, “Don’t tell me you’re Amish.”

  “They’re more out in the country,” she says.

  “I’m just teasing,” he says quickly.

  Their table is in a corner far from the stage. Hannah wonders if this is a desirable table, with privacy, given to them because they’re young and it’s obvious they’re on a first date, or if it’s an undesirable table and they’re being hidden away because they’re not glamorous. Even in the corner, the music is so loud that Hannah feels as if she’s screaming every time she speaks. Eventually, she and Mike take to nodding at each other, half smiling.

  Out on the street again, it’s comparatively quiet. He says, “Live music can be so great,” and he seems in this moment like a person who will never say a surprising thing. In the summer, he will ask, Hot enough for you? and on the first day of November, he’ll complain (but not even fervently—he’ll complain cheerfully, conversationally) about how Christmas decorations go up earlier and earlier every year, and if a scandal occurs involving a politician, he’ll say that the press is just trying to be sensational, that it’s boring to read about it in the paper day after day. (Hannah herself never feels bored by such scandals.) He will eventually propose marriage—not to Hannah but to someone—by showing up at the girl’s door with a dozen red roses, taking her out to a nice restaurant, and arranging with the waiter to hide the ring in the crème brÛlée so she’ll find it with her spoon, and that night, after she says yes, they’ll have sex—he’ll call it making love—and he’ll look deeply into her eyes and tell her she’s made him the luckiest guy in the world. The engagement ring will be a gold band with a small, earnest diamond.

  Then they start walking and he says, “But that sucked. You didn’t like it, did you? I could tell.”

  “I was a little worried the saxophonist would pop a blood vessel,” Hannah admits.

  “Maybe he should have,” Mike says. “Put us out of our misery. You want to get a cab?” He steps away from her, toward the street.

  “We can walk,” Hannah says. “Or you can get a cab if you want to, and I can walk. I mean, we’re not—you’re not coming back to my dorm, right?”

  He grins. “Those are some nice manners you have.”

  “I just meant that I didn’t think we were going to the same place. You can come to my room if you want to.” Why has she made this offer? “But I should warn you that I don’t even have a TV.”

  He laughs, and maybe she seems offended by his laughter, because then he touches her shoulder. She can feel his gaze on her face. “You look very pretty tonight,” he says, and the first true feeling she has experienced all evening shoots through her chest. Is she really this easily swayed?

  “Hey,” he says. She looks at him, and he smiles and takes her left hand with his right one. (Their hands are roughly the same size, though his fingernails are narrower than hers, and so are his knuckles. Later, Hannah will think that if someone took a picture of their hands side by side and showed it to strangers and told them to guess whose were the man’s and whose were the woman’s, most of the strangers would guess wrong.) They begin walking, their hands linked.

  “I’m glad we’re hanging out,” Mike says. “It’s a nice night.”

  Hannah says in a very quiet voice, “Yeah, it is.” Intermittently, over the course of the last few hours, she has imagined telling Jenny or Fig about her bad date with a cheesy guy from the financial aid office, but it occurs to her that she doesn’t have to tell them anything. In her dorm, they sit side by side on the edge of her bed, and he rides his thumb down her bare forearm, and the tenuousness of the moment leaves her unable to speak. Mike seems so kind and hopeful (surely this will all go wrong somehow) that she wants to weep. He turns her jaw with his fingertips, and when they kiss, his tongue is warm and wet.

  They don’t end up doing much more than kissing, but he stays over, sleeping in his T-shirt and boxer shorts with both his arms around her; he asks her permission before removing his button-down shirt and jeans. The all-night spooning surprises Hannah. I don’t regret what has happened between us, Mike’s arms seem to say. And then, toward dawn, I still don’t regret what has happened.

  But in the morning, when he again sits on the edge of the bed, this time tying his shoes before he leaves—she lied and told him her shift at the library starts at eight o’clock—she stands there with her arms folded. When he also stands, he sets his hand on her back, and though it’s a nice gesture, it feels arbitrary and unnatural, as if he could just as easily have placed his hand on the top of her head or gripped her elbow. It feels symbolic; they are actors in a play, and the director has told him to touch her so the audience will understand there’s a bond between them. She wants him gone.

  NOON ON SUNDAY comes and goes. When Hannah hears a pounding on her door at 1:20, she briefly considers not answering, and then of course she does. Fig is wearing fitted black pants, a black sweater, and black high-heeled boots. She tosses her bag on the floor, and in one fluid movement—Hannah smells cigarette smoke clinging to Fig’s long auburn hair as she passes—is lying under the covers in Hannah’s bed.

  Hannah, who is wearing jeans and a T-shirt, says, “That’s so gross, Fig. Take your shoes off.”

  Fig throws back the covers and lifts one leg into the air.

  “No,” Hannah says.

  “Pretty please,” Fig says.

  “You’re ridiculous.” Hannah takes hold of Fig’s right ankle, unzips the boot, pulls it off, then does the left boot.

  “Thanks, donut blossom,” Fig says as she pulls the covers back up to her chin. “So I’ve decided to become a cat burglar. I’d be good at it, right?”

  “I was thinking maybe we could go to a movie,” Hannah says. “Is there anything you want to see?”

  “I actually need to get home pretty soon, because Henry is supposed to call.” Fig turns to look at Hannah’s clock
. “What time is it?”

  Just his name—it’s like remembering you have a wonderful party to look forward to. How unreasonable, really, for her to expect that she’d feel for someone like Mike, whom she barely knows, the certainty of affection she feels for Henry. His best e-mail ever arrived a few weeks ago: You should think of paying a visit here. Fig has talked about it, but I’m not sure she’ll make it over. There is lots to do in Seoul (most of which I have not taken advantage of), and we could also travel. It would be so great to see a familiar face, and I hear Korean Air has some relatively cheap tickets. Relatively cheap—she checked—turned out to be nearly a thousand dollars, which was out of the question. Still, it was an excellent e-mail.

  “How’s Henry doing?” Hannah asks. She has never known if Fig is aware she and Henry communicate—it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s safer to assume she is. Perhaps not surprisingly, Fig tends to be a better source of information about Henry than Henry himself, regularly dropping some detail about his life that makes it apparent how sanitized his communications with Hannah are. The most recent tidbit was that he and a few colleagues went to a nightclub where, if you asked your waiter to bring a girl to you, the waiter would find the most attractive woman in the club and, by force if necessary, deposit her at your table. This phenomenon, according to Fig—who appeared utterly unthreatened by the idea of other women being tossed at Henry—was called “booking.”

  “He sounds tired,” Fig says. “Half the time when he calls, it’s three in the morning there and he’s still at the office. So aren’t you curious about my cat burglary?”

  “Should I be?”

  “I stole something.”

  “That’s great, Fig.”