Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  The only problem is—well, there are two problems. First, he’s an athlete, and second, he’s young. Very young. Well, I shouldn’t say very, because that makes me sound like a pedophile, but he’s twenty-five. I’m twenty-eight, so it’s not that bad, right? I guess I’ve just always thought that when it comes to men and maturity, you have to subtract about five years from their actual age. But this one seems different. There’s a depth in our conversations that I haven’t found with anyone else. He responds quickly but not so quickly that it comes off as desperate. He’s thoughtful. He’ll send me messages saying good morning and good night. We talk about our days and make random jokes that we then text about until we’ve beaten them to death. There’s an ease in our conversations that isn’t boring but rather exciting. And though he may be young, there’s a mature vibe to him that makes him seem older than half the men I’ve dated.

  Now on to the second problem, the fact that he’s an athlete. A baseball player. A baseball player who lives in Seattle. I couldn’t find a guy any further away from my house and any closer to my type. And though I doubt it will lead anywhere, right now, he’s all I’ve got in the man department.

  Our texts finally lead to our very first FaceTime, when I find myself in the back of a car on my way to JFK, already running late for my flight. I am bound for San Francisco for my very first Super Bowl. I’m going solely for the thrill of it while Jess, whose hotel room I’m crashing in, has to go there for work. Sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic I find myself bored in the back of a cab, so I do what any bored woman would do: I whip out my phone and text my latest crush, my Seattle baseball boy.

  Five minutes after my text, my phone rings with an unfamiliar tone. Shit! He is FaceTiming me. Why is he FaceTiming me? I decline it, because obviously I need to check the mirror and make sure I look halfway decent before I allow him to see my face. A few minutes and a dab of concealer later, I decide to FaceTime him back. He answers on the second ring. It’s the first time I’ve actually seen his face in real time. He’s just gotten done with a workout and is sitting on the couch. I should be giddy and blushing, but I’m not. I don’t know, his face isn’t as cute as his texts are. There isn’t that instant chemistry that I expected. Then again, I wasn’t expecting this random call, either. I hang up in disappointment. But being in no position to turn down attention from the male species, especially when they make the effort to FaceTime me, I decide I won’t completely cut the cord just yet. Instead, I’ll just keep him on the bench. He is a baseball player, after all. And while he may not be a starter just yet, I might need him to come close out a game for me in the near future.

  I arrive at JFK, check my bags, and make my way to the Sky Club, where I immediately see Jess at a table by the bar.

  “Umm . . . Hi! I thought you were on an earlier flight,” I say as I hug her.

  “I was, but I forgot my license at home, and I had to go back, and long story short, I missed my damn flight, so now I’m on yours.”

  “Well, that blows, but I’m not gonna lie. I’m selfishly happy.”

  “What seat are you? ”

  I look at my boarding pass. “Three C. You? ”

  “Hell, yes, three E.”

  We’ve got about forty-five minutes until boarding starts, so I order a drink and sit with her. Mr. Seattle and I are texting, which must have induced me to smile, because Jess immediately says, “Okay, spill, who is he? ”

  I look up guiltily before telling her everything about him. I’m gushing but then clarifying that I don’t think I’m into him, then gushing, and then downplaying it. I’m beginning to nauseate myself with my back-and-forth rant. I can only imagine how Jess is feeling.

  “Wait, how is your new guy? What’s his name again? ”

  “Mike. He’s really good.”

  “Okay, now you’re gushing.”

  “It’s early. We’ll see.”

  I haven’t met Mike yet, considering they’ve only been together a short time now, but from all that she’s told me, he seems to be more into her than she is him, so I’m not worried. Plus, she seems happy, so despite seeing her less because of him, I guess I’m happy for her.

  “Well, cheers to us!” We clink our glasses before heading to the gate.

  Fast-forward through a plane ride filled with bottles of red wine followed by a night of partying, and it’s Saturday night. We’re tipsy in San Francisco, and we’ve managed to persuade the Uber driver to let us cram ten people, most of whom work with Jess, into one Suburban. We’re on our way to another party, and this one has me amped up, not because it’s more free booze but because the Red Hot Chili Peppers are performing. To be honest, I don’t think I could name a single song of theirs, but everyone else is so excited that I’d feel uncool if I’m not.

  I’m sitting on Jess’s lap when I feel my phone vibrate. I have a new text, and it’s from a number I don’t recognize. I swipe my screen to view it.

  “Hey! Jess gave me your number. How r u? ”

  I turn around and glare at Jess behind me. She knows she’s in trouble, because without having to say anything, she blushes with guilt and says, “Whaaat? ”

  My eyes shift from my phone back to her guilty face. “Did you give someone my number? ”

  “Ummmm, maybe.” Her nose crinkles as she shrugs.

  I shoot her the visual what-the-fuck glare.

  “What? He asked for it. Asked about the brunette in the photo I posted of us yesterday. He’s my friend. He’s hot. What did he say? ”

  I pass her my phone. “Who is he? ”

  “A baseball player.”

  “No! Absolutely not. I’ve already got one baseball player on the roster. I’m good.”

  “I doubt they know each other, plus this one lives in New York during the off-season. Much more feasible. Just say hi.”

  Begrudgingly, I do as ordered and type an H followed by an i. Three dots immediately come up. He’s typing already. Shit!

  “How r u? ”

  Does this dude not know how to fucking spell are and you? What is it with men nowadays that they abbreviate words that have no business being abbreviated? It’s obnoxious. I wait a few minutes before responding with “Great. Actually out in San Francisco right now. How are you? ” I’m hoping my appropriate grammar will lead him into the land of appropriately formed sentences.

  “Ha. Nice. R u having fun? ”

  Nope. “Yeah, it’s great!” I reply.

  We arrive at the entrance to the party and file out of the Suburban. I tuck my phone into my clutch and reapply some lip gloss before checking in at a table with a sign that says VIP. A woman asks if I would like to walk the red carpet.

  Jess answers yes for me immediately. “This is a good one to walk,” she whispers in my ear.

  The rest of our group decides to go into the party, and Jess offers to stay with me. I walk the red carpet like usual. Flashes of light blind me while photographers shouting “Over here!” “This way!” and “Over the shoulder!” deafen me. I’ve gotten so used to this that it kind of freaks me out. Like, who the hell am I, and why am I still relevant enough to be walking a red carpet? I shouldn’t question it, though, because sooner or later, everyone is going to catch on and start asking the same thing, and I’ll never be able to score tickets to parties like this again. So, instead, I just smile and pose.

  After the photo snapping ends, a line of reporters waits to get a sound bite, which is really just an industry term for a quote I will say and then later regret. Some of them ignore me because their outlets are too good for reality television people like myself. But most of them are nice. Aggressive but nice. They ask generic questions like “How is New York? ” and “What are you doing now that the show has ended? ” And without fail, the final question is always, “Are you dating anyone? ” Sometimes I get creative in my answers and say coyly “Maybe” or “You’re making me blush.” Tonight I keep it pretty basic, since the rest of our group is waiting inside for us.

>   It isn’t until the Chili Peppers actually take the stage that I remember I was in the middle of a texting conversation when we arrived. Certain there are a barrage of texts waiting for me from Jess’s friend, I pull my phone out of my clutch, and sure enough there’s an unread text. It’s from Mr. Seattle.

  “You make it okay? ”

  Disappointed, I tuck my phone back into my clutch.

  It isn’t until the next morning that Jess’s friend texts, “Sorry, went 2 bed early. How long r u in San Fran for? ”

  Fucking abbreviations. “Just the weekend!”

  “Nice, well when you get back, maybe we can grab dinner? ”

  “Yeah, sounds good.”

  “Great. Have fun!”

  And just like that, I’ve managed to score at the Super Bowl without ever so much as stepping foot on the field.

  the yankee

  The day after I return from San Francisco, I’m greeted with a text from the baseball player Jess is trying to set me up with. A quick Google search of him reveals that not only is he a baseball player, but he plays for the most famous baseball team in America, the Yankees. Go big or go home, I guess.

  He asks me what my schedule looks like this week. I tell him the only night I’m free is Thursday, which turns out to be the only night he’s free as well.

  “So dinner Thursday? ” he asks.

  “Let’s do drinks,” I respond.

  “Okay. Drinks and maybe dinner Thursday? ”

  “Perfect. Maybe.”

  He’s intrigued, and I know it. To be honest, I wasn’t suggesting we do only drinks as a smooth move. I really wasn’t trying to play games. I just didn’t want to commit to a full dinner with someone I knew nothing about. “Drinks” could mean just drinks. You could have one, maybe two, and then call it a night because you only agreed to drinks and nothing more. Or “drinks” could mean drinks followed by dinner, followed by more drinks, followed by who knows what else. Anything can happen with “drinks.”

  I call Jess to whine about being set up on a date. I go on and on about how I am dreading having to go on a first date with a stranger because I hate first dates because they’re awkward and they never lead anywhere—and she cuts me off. “Shut the fuck up and go on the date with the Yankee.” She’s right. I’m bitching about “having” to go on a date with a professional athlete, a Yankee no less.

  Thursday afternoon rolls around, and he texts me.

  The Yankee: “Still good for drinks? ”

  Me: “Yeah! Are you bringing any friends or is it just you? ”

  The Yankee: “Just me. U killing me.”

  Me: “Sorry ha ha, why? Was that bad for me to ask? ”

  The Yankee: “I’m trying to ask you on a date. U already downgraded me from dinner to drinks ha ha.”

  Me: “Shit. I did, didn’t I? Okay so drinks, just us. Good? ”

  The Yankee: “Yes. Anywhere you’ve been dying to go? ”

  I tell him not really. The conversation continues with him asking what neighborhood I live in and what my address is. He tells me he’ll pick me up at eight and we can walk somewhere in my neighborhood. I agree.

  Five minutes before eight fifteen, I get a text from the Yankee telling me he’s downstairs. I quickly grab my clutch and throw on a coat before locking my apartment door behind me. I can see him standing at the bottom of my stoop as I push the door open. And just like in the movies, when I emerge, he turns around with a smile on his face. Damn, he’s hot! Everything about him is hot. His athletic build, his salty-blond hair, the perfect amount of scruff on his chin and cheeks that says I care about hygiene, but I’m still a man. Even his peacoat is hot. It’s not a feminine-looking peacoat, it’s a sophisticated, simple but expensive-looking one.

  He gives me a hug and a small peck on the cheek. I’ve got the chills, and it’s not just from the cold air. We start walking down Seventh Avenue before turning left on West Tenth Street. I’m really just following his lead. We arrive at a black door with steps leading down to it.

  “This good? ”

  I nod in disbelief. It’s Bell Book & Candle, the same damn place where I went on my first New York date with the guy who was coked-out and drunk and flirting with the bartender. Oh, my God! What if that skanky bartender who flirted with my date is working tonight? Oh, my God! What if she remembers me? Oh, my God! What if that douchebag is here? I don’t even dare glance toward the bar. Instead, I hide my head behind the Yankee’s back as he talks to the hostess. We’re immediately ushered into the dining room. Crisis averted. I think.

  We sit down, me in the booth, him in the uncomfortable wooden chair, and both order drinks, me a glass of wine, him a vodka and soda. He tells me he’s hungry and asks if it’s okay if he orders some food. I smirk at him in an I-know-what-you’re-doing-but-okay kind of way. He chuckles. He’s hot. He’s even hotter when he chuckles. He orders a few different appetizers that, of course, being unable to resist food in front of me, I pick off of. We’re talking and laughing and actually having a good time. Good enough for me to forget about the asshole I was here with not so long ago and the fact that I hate first dates.

  By the end of the night, he has moved from the wooden chair across the table next to me in the booth. Our body language has reached beyond the level of flirtation; now it’s just straight-up sexual. He grabs my hand at one point in the conversation. Next thing I know, it’s one in the morning, and the restaurant is closing. The waitress drops off the check. I look around to see that we are the only people left. The chairs are now upside down on tables. I didn’t even notice.

  Like a gentleman, he offers to walk me back home. It’s only been a few hours, but the walk home is completely different from the walk there. I now have my arm linked in his when we arrive at my stoop, where I’m certain he will either kiss me or ask to come up. But in a surprisingly chivalrous move, he does neither. Instead, he gives me a hug and a peck on the cheek. But it’s a little warmer than the first one. We say goodbye.

  I’m lying in bed with a grin when my phone chimes. It’s a text.

  The Yankee: “Tonight was fun. Thanks. Can we do it again tomorrow? ”

  Wow. He actually formed a complete sentence.

  Me: “Yes. And yes.”

  The Yankee: “Good night.”

  Me: “Good night.”

  Ahhhh . . . I love this part of dating. I love lying here in bed with butterflies in my stomach. I love the anticipation of what the next week will bring; the excitement of something that could, possibly, maybe, just very well turn into something.

  The next day, he texts me to see if I want to grab dinner. Two dates in a row? I am on fire! I coyly say sure, and next thing I know, it is eight o’clock yet again and he’s texting me from my stoop. I make him wait a few minutes just for good measure before making my way out the front door. I greet him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Where are we eating? ” I ask.

  “I figured we’d just walk and find somewhere.”

  I’m a little annoyed that he didn’t bother to make reservations anywhere. It’s Friday night in the West Village, and every restaurant is bound to be full. Why do men ask women on dates and not bother to plan? I decide to hold my tongue. It is, after all, only our second date. I can’t be a bitch this early on. We start walking down West Fourth Street, only to find that every restaurant is, just like I predicted, packed. He suggests we go to the Soho Grand. With no other options, I agree, and we hop into a cab.

  Twenty minutes later, we are sitting side by side on a velvet couch in the lounge area of the hotel. It’s quite posh, I must admit. There’s a piano player in the corner playing sultry songs. The patrons at the other tables are pretty eclectic. Some tables are filled with suit-clad men, clearly enjoying the few precious hours they have between getting off work and having to go home to their families in the suburbs. There are the typical New York models who take notice of each man walking by. They laugh in a fake candid way like someone is t
aking an Instagram photo of them. The other tables are filled with groups of martini-drinking chic locals.

  We order a few drinks and some appetizers. Drink by drink, we become more engaged with each other, just like we had on our first date last night. Only this time, the occasional hand holding and thigh grabbing happen more often. At one point, he takes his hand and brushes a strand of hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear. I’m giving him my best flirty eyes.

  Somewhere between rounds three and four, I find myself in the middle of conversation and gazing into his eyes, when out of absolutely nowhere . . . he kisses me. Not a full make-out but not just a peck. A real, publicly appropriate (by New York standards) kiss. We’re both a little taken aback by his boldness. I didn’t take him for a public-display-of-affection type, and from the look on his face, this spontaneity isn’t something he’s used to, either. But it’s a pleasant surprise, one that has me yearning for him more than I ever expected. I want the full kiss. And so does he.

  As we both finish our drinks in unison, he whispers in my ear, “Want to get out of here? ”

  “Absolutely.” I grin.

  “My place is around the corner. We can have a drink there.”

  “Works for me.”

  His place is right around the corner—well, two blocks away, to be exact. I follow him through the lobby and up the elevator to his apartment. The door flies open, revealing floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook all of Soho. It is an exquisite, modern, and very expensive New York apartment. The couch has an unfolded blanket on it. The dining-room table looks to have never been used. Come to think of it, there aren’t even any chairs around it. The kitchen countertop is made of pristine white marble. A few Coors Light cans and some old takeout food sit atop the island. Such a bachelor pad. There’s a bottle of red wine on the counter, which he opens and pours into two tumblers.

  “No wineglasses, I see.”

  “Don’t judge.”

  I smile, but inside I am judging a little.

  I take my glass of wine with me as I strut over toward the couch, passing the windows and taking in the view. It really is an incredible view. I’m gazing out at all of Soho below when he comes up behind me and brushes my hair to one side, kissing my neck, sending tingles down my spine. He removes my jacket, leaving my silk camisole and bare shoulder to be kissed. I turn around. He kisses my lips. The kissing starts slow but quickly escalates. His hands move from my cheeks down my arms before making their way around my waist. Everything about it is steamy. He lifts me up. I wrap my legs around his waist. My back is against the living-room wall, my legs wrapped tightly around him. We can’t stop kissing. My silk camisole is now halfway off, my black lace bralette teasing him. I’m tempted to take it off, and so is he. He starts to lower one of the straps, but I pull it back up. He tries again, and I pull it back up again.