Single State of Mind

by Andi Dorfman

  I immediately wrap my arms around her as she sobs. “What happened? ”

  “He cheated. It’s over.”

  “Did we find out for sure? ”

  “Yes.”

  She whips out her phone and shows me a photo. It’s her boyfriend. At the Knicks game, on the night his phone supposedly died. He’s sitting courtside. He’s sitting courtside next to a woman. He’s sitting courtside next to a woman with his hand on her thigh. I’m in disbelief. I’m less shocked at what a dick he is and more at what an idiot he is. Did he really think he was going to get away with sitting courtside at a Knicks game with a chick and not get caught? People who sit courtside at a Knicks game sit there for one reason and one reason only, and it’s not to enjoy the game. It’s to get photographed “getting their PDA on.”

  “Who is she? ”

  “A fucking cocktail waitress from Miami.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I wish I was.”

  Apparently, when Jess confronted him with this evidence, he told her that while he was at the game, he was “randomly” given courtside seats. And a “random” girl who was with them just happened to sit next to him.

  She starts to wipe away her tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to ruin your birthday night.”

  “Are you fucking kidding? You’re not ruining my birthday night. Who gives a shit? It’s just a birthday. Who wants to be twenty-nine anyway? ”

  “Me.” She laughs. “I just knew it. And the thing is, he was the one chasing me. And then for him to be cheating on me, it’s, like, I don’t get it.”

  “He’s a fucking tool. There is nothing more to say. He’s a tool who doesn’t deserve someone like you.”

  Jess continues wiping away her tears. It breaks my heart to see her this way. In fact, I’ve never seen her this way. She’s usually the rock of our group, the one lending out the shoulder for us to cry on. But on my birthday, there, in the bathroom stall, Jess is the one in need of a shoulder, and I’m just glad I’m able to give it to her.

  “Fuck men! They’re all fucking bastards!”

  This causes her to giggle as she sniffles and wipes away the rest of her tears. “I look like shit, don’t I? ”

  She does have mascara running down her face, but I can’t bring myself to tell her she looks like shit. Instead, I dig through my purse and find my emergency concealer. I pat it underneath her eyes. “Not anymore.”

  “Let’s keep this between us for right now? ”

  “You got it. Bury the body? ” I say.

  “Bury the body.”

  We return to the table just in time for me to blow out the candles on a Momofuku cake one of the girls brought. Just when I think the night is over, I see a tall guy in a smoking-hot leather jacket approach our table and start talking to Ava. It is clear they know each other as they exchange pleasantries and chat. I look at him curiously. I don’t find him particularly attractive, yet I am drawn to him.

  “This is the birthday girl, Andi. Andi, meet my friend!” Ava shouts from across the table.

  He walks over and reaches out his hand to introduce himself. “Nice to meet you, and happy birthday.”

  “Thanks. Sick jacket.”

  “Really? You like? ”

  “Yeah, I actually do,” I say as I pet the sleeve.

  Next thing I know, I’m stroking the sleeve of his leather jacket and he’s inviting us to go to the rooftop bar next door after.

  “Oh, yeah? Maybe we will.”

  As he walks away, I can’t help but feel even more perplexed by my fascination with him. Maybe it’s because I realize he never told me his name. We’re just getting up to leave when from across the room he shouts, “You ladies ready to go? ”

  “Yeah, we’re going to head out. Nice to meet you.” I’m trying to hint to him that he’s yet to tell me his name. The next thing I know, I’m starring in a joke: ten girls and one dude wearing a sick leather jacket walk into a bar. He shakes hands with the doorman, who lowers the red velvet rope as we file in. Another doorman opens a large door, revealing the bar. It’s dimly lit with neon strobe lights, and music blares from the DJ booth as bandage-dress-wearing chicks dance atop tables that line the walls of the room. Led by the nameless man wearing a sick leather jacket, we make our way to a large booth where two waitresses clad in thigh-high stockings and corsets ask us what we’d like to drink.

  “Let’s do some champagne, a few bottles of vodka, and some mixers. You like vodka? ” He’s even sexier when he takes charge.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Ehhhh, that doesn’t sound too convincing. Hold on,” he says to the waitress. “What do you want, birthday girl? ”

  “Kind of craving an old-fashioned.”

  “Done. Do the champagne and vodka, and then can we get her an old-fashioned, please? ” His sexy meter continues to climb.

  “All right, jig’s up. Who are you? ” I ask, hoping third time’s the charm and maybe he’ll actually tell me his name.

  “I’m a nobody. But I do own the bar.”

  I laugh in defeat. Of course he does. Mr. Leather Jacket stays with us as we dance and drink in our private booth for the next few hours. Everyone’s dancing on the table and having fun, even Jess, which makes me happy to see.

  “Let’s go to the Box!” he says.

  “The Box? ” I scream over the music. “What the hell is the Box? ”

  “You’ve never been? It’s a New York City staple.”

  “Do any of you girls want to go to some place called the Box? ” I shout across the table.

  “Can we get in? ” Jess asks.

  “Can we get in? ” I ask Mr. Leather Jacket.

  “I got us.” Just like that.

  “He says yes.”

  “Then hell, yes!” shouts Jess. I nod.

  “Great. I’ll order a car.”

  A short drive across town, and ten girls and one guy in a sick leather jacket arrive at another club. Yet again, our fearless leader is greeted by the bouncers, who lower the velvet rope as we file into a small foyer. A hostess in burlesque attire talks to him as she looks at the computer on her podium. She offers us a table upstairs.

  “Right this way,” says another burlesque-clad hostess. She pulls back two thick purple crushed-velvet curtains to reveal a massive room filled with lively clubbers. A spotlight shines on a large stage with the words THE BOX on the closed curtains. The hostess leads us up a staircase to a private booth overlooking the crowd and stage below. We have what can only be described as the Lincoln booth, hopefully sans any assassination. Two more waitresses wearing sequined booty shorts, fishnet stockings, feathered headpieces, and nipple tassels—and nothing else—come over and tell us the show will be starting in about fifteen minutes.

  “She’ll have an old-fashioned, please” he says without even asking me.

  “Good memory.”

  “Birthday girl gets whatever birthday girl wants.”

  “Whatever I want? ”

  “Within reason.”

  By now, a few of the girls have invited their boyfriends, so there’s a nice mix of drunk girls and guys. And I’ve got a date of my own, though I still don’t know his name, and at this point it’s way too late in the evening, or probably morning, to ask. Instead I whisper in his ear, “Thanks for doing this.”

  “You’re very welcome.” He squeezes my thigh.

  Suddenly there’s a voice coming over the entire club shouting, “Ladies and gentlemen . . . welcome to the Box.”

  Applause and “woo-hoos” erupt. The red curtains draw back. A spotlight turns on. And there in the middle of the stage is a woman. She’s not wearing fishnets. She’s not wearing feathers or nipple tassels. She is completely naked. She doesn’t say a word. She just stands there for what feels like a minute or two. What the fuck. Sultry music begins to play. The spotlight shifts to reveal a four-poster bed with a woman in lingerie lying on it seductively. A naked man walks out and makes his way
to her. He begins kissing her. They roll around on the bed in coordination with the music. Is he penetrating her? Or is this just weird soft-core porn? Is this the same woman who was narrating? I’m so confused but so enraptured by the entire scene. I’m in disbelief that this is happening but more so that it’s allowed to be happening. Only in New York City. The curtains close. My jaw is on the floor. I cringe, wondering what is next. I can feel Mr. Leather Jacket staring at my face. I turn to him.

  “What the fuck? ”

  He’s dying with laughter.

  “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  I laugh. He places his hands on my shoulders and gives a squeeze.

  The next act is a woman doing some rendition of a striptease that involves a red boa. She takes off her sequined G-string only to reveal that she is really a he.

  “Just check your judgments at the door,” he says over my gasp.

  He’s right. There are about ten more acts. Some of them are hilarious, some are artistic, and others are just straight up vulgar.

  As the night goes on, my friends begin to fade, one by one calling it a night. It’s down to me, Kelly, Jess, Ava, and the man in the sick leather jacket when the lights come on.

  “Y’all ready to go? ” I ask the girls.

  “You should stay,” Kelly whispers.

  “Stay? ”

  “With him.”

  “But you’re staying in my apartment.”

  “Umm, so what? ”

  “I can’t leave you for a guy.”

  “It’s your fucking birthday, Andi. Have some fun. Live a little. Make out. Do what single New York City girls do on their birthdays.”

  Ava overhears us and offers to drop Kelly off on her way home.

  “Are you sure you won’t be mad? ”

  “Give me your keys. I’ll only be mad if you don’t. But you have to tell me everything tomorrow morning. Deal? ”

  I hand her the keys. “Deal. Love you! Love you all!”

  Now it was just the two of us, alone in the Lincoln booth, as everyone below files out of the club. It takes about three and a half seconds before we start making out. Honestly, I can’t believe it’s taken this long. I must have lost track of time because the next thing I know he’s called an Uber and we’re walking down the stairs. I follow behind him as we exit the club when suddenly I’m blinded. Holy shit, it’s morning. We climb into the awaiting sedan.

  “I should just go home.”

  “No, come to my place, you can just stay and lay with me.”

  “Ehhhh, not really a stay-and-lay kind of girl.”

  “Wait, did I just get used for some birthday fun? ”

  “No, no, no. Well, maybe. Depends. How does it feel to get used by a birthday girl? ”

  “Different. Sexy. Intriguing.”

  “Then yes, you sure did.”

  I tell the driver my address. It’s now seven in the morning and I’m holding my stilettos because my feet are killing me, pressing the button on the call box buzzing my own apartment, praying Kelly won’t be pissed off to be awakened so early. She lets me in and immediately shuffles back to bed.

  “How was it? ” she mumbles.

  “Amazing!”

  “That’s my girl!”

  I crawl into bed myself. Best. Birthday. Ever.

  The next morning, I’m lying in bed next to Kelly, nursing both a physical and a moral hangover when my phone buzzes.

  “Hey. Wishing you a Happy Birthday.”

  My heart sinks. Unlike the rest of the birthday texts I received, this one isn’t from a friend or family member. It’s from my past. It’s from . . . Seattle. And it’s got the wheels in my head working overtime. One generic text has me thinking deeply about the Jess ordeal. I start to wonder, if Jess, the woman who has her shit together the most, can get cheated on, are any of us safe? Is it possible that she, or I, or any of us, for that matter, will ever find a man who is sweet and loving and faithful? A man who maybe isn’t the most attractive but is the most loyal?

  What is it with these New York men? It’s like in order to be a resident here, you have to be a douchebag. And as I reread the six-word text, it hits me. Maybe I have found that man. Maybe I have found a guy who I let slip away because he isn’t the hottest, isn’t the head turner, isn’t the dreamy stud. Maybe he’s been under my nose the entire time, but I just haven’t been ready to sniff him out. I start to type.

  “Thank you. How are you, I’ve missed you lately.” I press “Send.”

  And just like that, the brief romance I once had with the average-looking but sweet Mr. Seattle has officially been rekindled. I ignored him for so long because I was too busy hooking up with the Yankee, and yet, even after all that time, here he is still responding to my text. The thing is, I really did enjoy our conversations before I met the Yankee, but I think I got wrapped up in the Yankee because he was hotter and, well, it was all just so much more convenient. But with that over, I’m hoping that just maybe Mr. Seattle might be willing to give me a second chance. After all, it is my birthday . . . and birthday girls get whatever they want, right?

  the dark horse and a bestseller

  Two things have been made official since my twenty-ninth birthday. The first, I’m a published author. The second, I’m in a relationship, well sort of. Ironic given the fact that my book is about heartbreak.

  I’ll start with the second. I say sort of because it’s still in the early stages, but since that random birthday text, Mr. Seattle and I have spent practically every morning on the phone with each other. What used to be casual texting has escalated to distracting in the best way. One night we FaceTimed for seven hours straight. I called him when I got into bed to say good night, and the next thing I know, the sun is coming up outside my window. Mind you, this is the same guy whom, not long ago, I couldn’t FaceTime for more than five minutes while in the back of a cab on the way to JFK. And now here I am, FaceTiming with him for seven hours.

  He’s still not the hottest guy I’ve ever met (or, technically, seen on a screen). But his personality makes him attractive to me. There’s something about him that I just can’t seem to get enough of. We talk about things without any tone of judgment in our voices, without any condescension, without anything but acceptance. That’s what it is, I think; there is an acceptance for each other that I’ve never experienced before. He doesn’t care about my past as a reality television contestant. He doesn’t care that I’ve been engaged. He doesn’t see me in that light; he just sees me as a woman he likes. He doesn’t just accept me, but he admires me. He tells me how proud he is that I’m writing a book and that I am making my own living in New York City. He says that my independence is “sexy.” And I believe him. And beyond the pride and acceptance, there is this overall feeling of sweetness and ease between the two of us. He’s the first man in a long time who makes me not want to play games just to stir up drama or fish for compliments; instead I just want to be nice. Who the fuck have I become? A woman smitten, that’s who. A woman who has finally realized that I don’t want to be in the same kind of relationship I’ve had in the past. I don’t want to be on a roller coaster ride anymore.

  Don’t get me wrong, I think we all have to experience those roller coaster relationships at least once in our lives. They give us the unhealthy dose of highs and lows that satisfies our craving for drama. And I did that kind of relationship. I did it for far too long. But now that I’ve indulged in the roller coaster, gotten my thrill, I’m happy riding on the merry-go-round, slowly, peacefully, and easily. I think I’ve finally reached the point in my life where steady is more intriguing and exciting than anything else.

  And in just two short weeks from now, this long-distance thing we’ve got going on is going to become face-to-face. Oh, yeah, I am heading to Seattle! It was a no-brainer that I’d visit him, but I was waiting for the invitation. And just last week, it came, along with a first-class ticket purchased by him. I haven’t told too many people about him yet, especial
ly not my family. Jess, Ava, and Kelly know, but that’s about it. I think I’m keeping my guard up a little when it comes to him. I don’t know, I’ve just been through this before, where I get into a relationship and it doesn’t work and then everyone knows about it and it haunts me forever. Of course, that was in part due to the fact that millions of people knew about my last breakup. But that’s the other thing: this is the first time I’ve had feelings for a man since my engagement. I don’t want any outside sources to ruin that. I don’t want to worry about the backlash if this doesn’t work out. I just want to bask in my secret right now. Plus, it’s kind of hard to tell the world I’ve met a new man when I’m busy promoting my new book.

  Oh yes, the week has finally arrived! It’s Not Okay has made its way onto bookstore shelves and into the hands of anyone willing to read it. My publicists and agents have scheduled a week-long, jam-packed, full-court press junket with every major media outlet you could imagine. My parents have come up to New York to support me; my mom even brought smudge-proof pens and markers to sign books with. Kelly and my friend Christy have flown up from Atlanta. My most valued core of friends and family are here.

  I should be panicked. I should be in an ultimate tailspin considering this is to be the biggest week of my life, the week I’ve spent a year waiting for. I am about to have to face the criticism of fans, book reviewers, and God knows who else. But I’m not. I’m not because for the first time in a long time, thanks to my family, my friends, my new life, and most of all my upcoming trip to Seattle, I am able to see beyond the book, beyond the heartbreak, and beyond the reality television show I once appeared on. I am able to see beyond what the critics will say and how I will be judged. And instead, I just see what is around me right now, in the present. It almost feels as if releasing this book is also releasing me from my past.

  We kick things off with my very own launch party, thrown by my publisher. All my New York friends, like Jess, Ava, Michelle, and Sarah, come out to support me, along with plenty of my acquaintances and kind-of-friends. At one point, I look around and wonder, is this the first event in my life that is in honor of me? Sure, I got plenty of attention being the Bachelorette, but this isn’t about attention. It’s about a celebration. When I think about it, I’ve never had a wedding or an engagement party. I’ve never had a baby or a bridal shower. Is this book both, my child and my lover?