Available

by Matteson Perry

  But I was ready to feel angry now and I poured all that emotion into the letter. I didn’t want to vilify Ella or set myself up as a martyr, but I needed Ella to know she’d hurt me. I was tired of not telling people they hurt me.

  I finished around four in the morning. The letter was long. Like REALLY long. Ten pages long. 2,895 words long. That’s longer than several chapters in this book. It’s longer than a LOT of things.

  Things shorter than my email:

  • The Declaration of Independence (1,323 words)—Our forefathers declared independence in half the words I needed to explain my feelies.

  • Genesis: Chapter 1 (825 words)—The earth was made in about a quarter of the words it took me to say, “You hurt me.”

  • “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (1,108 words)—T. S. Eliot launched modernist poetry with this masterpiece that is way shorter than my explanation of how being dumped made me sad.

  • The Gettysburg Address (272 words)—In a fraction of the words I needed to say, “My heart has a boo-boo,” President Lincoln HEALED OUR NATION.

  • For sale: Baby shoes, never worn (6 words)—Fuck you, Hemingway.

  Despite the length, what I’d written felt honest and worthy of expressing. In the past, I never would have sent such an email, but I was done playing it cool and trying to “win” breakups. I hit Send and went to bed. With the venom out of my system, I fell immediately asleep.

  Ella didn’t write back for a couple weeks (probably because the letter took that long to read), but she did respond. Her email was much shorter than mine (somewhere between the Gettysburg Address and Genesis), and she called me out on the unnecessarily mean things I’d said, but her overall tone was thoughtful, reasoned, and kind. She closed her email by saying, I’m sorry that I said I love you. I thought I did. But I should have thought more about it and not gotten caught up in the idea of our relationship. I’m sorry that I wasn’t better.

  She was sorry. I had told Ella she hurt me and she said sorry. It was a simple thing, something taught in kindergarten, but it brought me immense relief. I hadn’t known how much I needed to hear someone say my feelings mattered.

  In the days following Ella’s response, I felt happy and lighter, but a question lingered—why had her apology meant so much to me? Furthermore, why had I written such a screed in the first place? Ella and I had dated for less than six months and I wasn’t even sure I loved her, and yet, I’d felt the need for extreme closure. It didn’t make sense.

  And then it dawned on me—I’d sent the letter to the wrong person. Though Ella’s name was at the top, the letter was really for Kelly. It was filled with all the things I’d wanted to say to her, but never did.

  I’d written Kelly a long letter toward the end, but its purpose was to save the relationship—I spoke little about the pain she’d caused me, instead focusing on how to fix what was wrong. After she dumped me, dedicated to hiding my wounds so I could “win” the breakup, I’d gone into my heartbreak recovery plan and initiated Ghost Protocol. I blocked her on social media, threw out pictures and keepsakes, and did my best to remove her from my brain. I hadn’t needed to tell Kelly she’d wronged me because who was Kelly?

  I’d chided and even pitied Evan for not being able to get over Joanna, but at least he was being genuine, while I was burying my emotions underneath sex and a pseudointellectual philosophy about dating. No matter how many women I went out with to prove I was “over” my relationship with Kelly, I hadn’t been. I’d moved past wanting to be with her specifically, but that didn’t mean I was over the loss of the relationship itself. By not expressing my pain during or after the breakup, I’d allowed it to fester.

  Though I’d sent the letter to the wrong person (sorry, Ella!), it still worked. Just telling SOMEONE they’d hurt me allowed the anger to dissipate. It had taken more than a year and a half, almost thirty women, a few drugs in the desert, and an absurdly long email, but I had finally moved on and could see Kelly in a different light. She hadn’t been a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, some damaged creature whom only I could save as part of my “hero’s journey.” And her breaking up with me wasn’t a self-destructive wrongheaded move. She was just a girl who dumped a boy because she had fallen out of love with him. Which happens. It’s really uncinematic, but it happens.

  25

  * * *

  THE INFILTRATION OF BROS’ BRUNCH

  There are only two requirements to be a part of Bros’ Brunch:

  1. Have a love of combining two meals into an hours-long supermeal revolving around seasonal toppings.

  2. Have a penis.

  That’s it. Pretty simple. Or so I thought, until Evan broke the second rule by inviting a woman to join us. It seemed absurd. I mean, come on, a WOMAN? At BRUNCH? That’s like a woman using a urinal—would she know what to do?

  “Would people be up for splitting an order of French toast with caramelized peaches if I ordered one for the table?”

  We’d barely sat down when she made this pro-level brunch suggestion. Maybe she was ready for the big leagues.

  The woman in question was Laura, Evan’s friend and ex, whom I’d messaged on OkCupid early in my dating process, not realizing I knew her. We’d seen each other a few times since our online run-in and she always made sure to tease both Evan and me about it. Evan for being a cock-block, me for being the slut she was glad to have avoided.

  Much of the conversation at brunch centered on me (surprise, surprise) and The Letter. I explained how it had finally given me closure on my relationship with Kelly.

  “I actually think I’m ready to date for real now.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Evan said. “I felt bad when Ella dumped you, but part of me did think your plan came together a little TOO well.”

  “Well, the gods have punished me for my hubris. But maybe this time I can find a relationship with someone who doesn’t need to be ‘challenged.’ ”

  Laura sat up in her chair.

  “Is that what your ex said? That you didn’t challenge her?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s what my ex said to me too! Who wants to be challenged by their girlfriend? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know!” I said. “I mean, isn’t life challenging enough?”

  “Exactly,” Laura said. “That’s what I think.”

  I’d heard about Laura’s breakup, which had happened a couple months before Ella dumped me, and hers scored way higher on the misery scale. It wasn’t so much losing the relationship, which was only about six months old, but how it had happened. Her boyfriend had dumped her in the middle of a work/vacation trip to Hong Kong, which Laura had paid for. She had to go from bouts of crying and fighting to fancy dinners with clients. And, worst of all, they couldn’t switch seats on their return, so she had to sit next to him on a plane for fifteen hours. No, that’s fine, use the whole armrest, JUST LIKE YOU USED ME.

  The breakup itself didn’t surprise me, but the fact that he had initiated it did—I thought for sure she would end it. During my only encounter with her boyfriend I’d deemed him unworthy. The reason? He ate mussels slowly. At a dinner for Evan’s birthday, our whole group had to sit at the table for an extra thirty minutes while he finished eating. He would take a few minutes to prepare and eat every mussel and set down his fork between bites, as if he needed a rest after such physical exertion. Eleven of us sat watching him eat until well after the check had been paid.

  His behavior was, at most, mildly annoying, but I found it maddening because of my attraction to Laura. There was a reason I’d messaged her online, after all. When a guy likes a girl, even one he knows he can’t date, he will hate her boyfriends for totally irrational reasons. Thus, eating slowly made Laura’s boyfriend completely unfit. This beautiful woman deserves someone who eats at a normal speed. How does she put up with this MONSTER?

  I’d found Laura attractive from the first time I’d met her at college, which happened while visiting Maria in the basement of the film scho
ol where they were editing a project together. The two of them were huddled over the editing machine in a dark room and when they flipped on the lights upon my arrival, I was stunned by Laura’s beauty. My mouth didn’t drop open cartoon-wolf-style or anything, but I noticed her.

  I was happily dating Maria, so Laura and I were never more than acquaintances in college, but her face was etched into my memory. When I became friends with Evan in LA and learned he’d dated Laura (aka Pretty Spanish Girl) in college, I was amazed. It was like he’d dated a celebrity. (I wasn’t as memorable—the first time Laura and I met again, in LA, she confused me for my college roommate.)

  All these years later, Laura remained beautiful enough to make it hard to focus on my poached eggs and applewood-smoked bacon. Her features were distinctly Mediterranean—olive skin, dark eyes—and she had a voluptuous body. And yes, great collarbones. I don’t know if that’s a Spanish trait or not, but hers were fantastic.

  The more we talked about our failed relationships, the more I felt Laura and I were looking for the same thing, a stable partner who would show us the same loyalty and love we offered back.

  A thought popped into my head: I would like to date Laura.

  I quickly disregarded the impulse. Not only was she Evan’s ex-girlfriend, she was also one of his current best friends, so, off-limits. I’d learned my lesson with Kurt’s friend Amber, the pediatrician—no dating the friend of a friend (Kurt still couldn’t bring me to certain events).

  And so, though a woman I suspected might be perfect for me sat across the table, for the good of my friendship with Evan, I tweaked the thought. I would like to date Laura became I would like to date someone LIKE Laura. Because the world is teeming with beautiful Spanish women who have successful careers, a keen sense of humor, and a gorgeous smile. I’d probably run into one on the way out of the restaurant.

  26

  * * *

  THE ACCIDENTAL BORN-AGAIN VIRGIN

  “I’ve been on only one date in the last six years.”

  I froze, a dim sum dumpling perched in my chopsticks. Cassidy took a sip of her Sapporo. Our second date had consisted of the usual getting-to-know-you chitchat, up to this revelation.

  We’d met a few weeks earlier during the intermission of a show I was hosting. I’d sworn not to date another “groupie,” but that rule came with the ever-present invisible parenthetical (unless she’s hot). Cassidy was a few years older than me, almost forty, but had the face and toned body of a younger woman, thanks no doubt to the usual Los Angeles cures for aging—yoga, juicing, and feasting on wolf placenta.

  Our first date had gone well and the second was going just as smoothly until her revelation about being single-and-not-at-all-ready-to-mingle for the last six years. A few seconds after the announcement I was still holding the chopsticks in front of me, thinking of how to respond. A drop of soy sauce slid down the dumpling and fell to the table.

  “I didn’t plan it,” she continued. “I had a rough breakup and took a breather from dating altogether. A little break turned into six years. I work from home and I’m kind of shy, so I haven’t really met anyone. Until you.”

  I should have moved on to normal second-date questions, asked if she liked to travel or what her favorite movies were, but I couldn’t deny my curiosity.

  “So, does that mean you haven’t had sex in six years?”

  The hue her cheeks turned answered the question before she said, “I haven’t.”

  “Wow,” was all I could manage.

  “I’m not a virgin or anything,” she said. “I actually quite like sex.”

  “Well, that’s good. Me too.”

  We both grinned as we realized this conversation was no longer a generic sex talk, but about the possibility of our coupling. I let the topic drop and finally ate the dumpling dangling in front of me.

  At the end of the night, while we waited for her car at the valet station, I leaned in with the intent of a brief, introductory kiss. She had other ideas, wrapping her arms around me and pressing up close. I could feel the warmth of her body through her thin dress as I got the type of kiss one might expect from a woman who’s waited six years to kiss someone. We made out for several minutes and might have gone on for hours if the valet hadn’t pulled her car up. She skipped around to the driver’s side and waved happily as she drove off.

  “I think she likes you,” the valet said as he took my ticket.

  * * *

  For our third date, I invited Cassidy over to my house for dinner. Normally, this would mean sex, but given Cassidy’s history, I didn’t know what would happen. It wasn’t her first time, but it was her first time in a long time, so she might need more time before our first time. And if she did want to have sex, was I up for the pressure? I wouldn’t be representing only myself, but sex in general, like the UN Ambassador of Intercourse. What if in the past six years she’d built sex up in her imagination to be an extraordinary phenomenon I couldn’t match? I didn’t want our session to end with her saying, “Well, I don’t need that again for another half decade.”

  * * *

  During dinner the sexual tension acted as an adhesive and kept our words stuck to our tongues. After the quiet meal we moved to the couch and started kissing. Only a few minutes in, she said, “I want to have sex.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s been six years. I’m VERY sure.”

  I led her into the bedroom and everything was normal—she remembered how to do it and seemed to enjoy herself, though she didn’t have an orgasm. Being a gentleman, I offered to help her get there using the nonintercourse methods.

  “I don’t let guys do that,” she said, referring to oral sex. “It’s okay that I didn’t have an orgasm. I’ve actually never had an orgasm with someone else.”

  “Have you ever had an orgasm at all?”

  “Yes, I have. I mean, when I’m on my own, when I . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word masturbate. “Can we stop talking about this?”

  I nodded and we both lay back on our pillows. I felt bad for being so forward. Frank talk about sex is important, but given Cassidy’s recent lack of experience, I’d probably been too forthright and explicit. It’s one thing to ask questions, another for the post-coital talk to take on a patient-gynecologist dynamic. No orgasms, eh? Let’s get you up in the stirrups and have a look.

  After a few minutes of silence, she propped herself up on her elbow and faced me.

  “No one’s asked me about this stuff before,” she said. “Thank you for caring and asking.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  * * *

  Over eggs Benedict, I told the guys about my date with the Accidental Born-Again Virgin.

  “So, it sounds like it was a good experience for both of you,” Kurt said.

  “Yeah, it went pretty well. I felt like I handled the situation with maturity and class. I was proud to welcome her back to the world of sexual activity.”

  The experience showed me how comfortable I’d become with sex during the last year. In the past, having sex was like observing a deer in nature—enjoy the beauty, but stay quiet so you don’t scare it away. Now, not only could I have conversations about sex, but I could get others to open up about it too. It was gratifying that I’d helped Cassidy feel that her pleasure was important and worthy of discussion.

  “Last night Evan came over. We watched TV and ate yogurt-covered pretzels,” Kurt said. “It was Evan’s first time. I was proud to welcome him into the world of yogurt pretzels.”

  “He did it with maturity and class. I felt so safe,” Evan mocked.

  They were taking the piss, as friends should. I’d had sex with a woman, not gone to Africa to feed the poor. I would take Sexual Philanthropist off my résumé when I got home.

  * * *

  Cassidy did not want another six years to pass before she had sex again. Our next date came quickly, arranged via a series of suggestive texts. That night, during dinner, she thanked me for not treating
her as “damaged goods” just because she hadn’t dated in a while. As we talked she was brimming with the early-relationship excitement. I couldn’t match her enthusiasm. My mind was somewhere else. I was thinking about Laura.

  She had been coming out with Evan more since she became single, and with every interaction my crush grew stronger. Though my mind remained resolute about not dating her, my body was staging a mutiny. Seeing Laura arrive at a party or hearing she’d be joining us for a drink made my heart jump. Pedestrian conversations about TV or traffic had my stomach flipping. I felt nervous every time I was around Lau. (I’d learned she usually went by Lau—pronounced like loud without the d—instead of Laura.)

  I had tickets to a concert that week, and should have asked Cassidy to be my date, but I didn’t want to take her. I wanted to go with Lau, so we could spend some time alone together, so I could see if my crush was real.

  I couldn’t just ask Lau to go with me, because that would be a date, so I devised a plan. I would ask Evan and Kurt first and, because they weren’t huge music fans, they’d probably say no. I could then ask Lau as a “backup” option and it wouldn’t be a date; I’d just be trying to get rid of a ticket at the last minute. My ploy worked and Lau agreed to join me.

  It was a “secret” acoustic show and because cool things always have to be uncomfortable, we were seated on a dirty carpet in a converted garage. Normally, I would dread such a cramped setup, but I loved sitting shoulder to shoulder with Lau as we passed a tallboy beer back and forth. When our knees or elbows bumped together I could feel her touch on my skin for a few seconds, slowly fading like a blip on a radar screen.

  After the show we lingered by our cars, trying to extend the night a little further. Being around Lau felt comfortable and exciting at the same time. I hadn’t felt this electricity with Ella or Cassidy. It was a perfect first date. Except for the fact that it wasn’t a date.