Love at First Like

by Hannah Orenstein

  “It’s okay to be completely miserable,” Raj says, as if he understands exactly what I’m thinking. “I mean, this is bad. Really bad.”

  I laugh hollowly. “Yeah. It is. Even though it was all my fault.”

  He rubs my shoulder sympathetically. “It was not your fault.”

  “Of course it was!” I exclaim.

  “Relationships are a two-way street,” he says. “Maybe you weren’t honest because he didn’t make you feel comfortable enough.”

  Raj’s suggestion makes my thoughts shift and ooze in a way I don’t know how to process.

  “Let me walk you home?” he offers.

  “Sure, thanks,” I say.

  I gather my things. He holds the bar door open for me. The walk to my apartment is barely thirty seconds, even if you count waiting for the crosswalk signal to change. But it’s just long enough for me to make up my mind.

  “Raj, would you, um, want to come up and hang out?” I ask, lingering by the door to my building. “I don’t mean anything, you know, like that. I just thought we could talk or watch TV or whatever.”

  Even in the darkness, I can see him blink twice.

  “Never mind, forget I said anything,” I say, turning to unlock the door.

  Is there anything I can do right lately?

  “Wait, Eliza,” he says. He reaches out to grab my wrist. “I’ll come up.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say. I can feel my cheeks starting to burn.

  “No, really, I don’t mind,” he says.

  I bite my lip. “Okay,” I say simply. “Thank you.”

  • Chapter 23 •

  I open the front door, lead Raj upstairs, and unlock the door to my apartment. I’m no longer embarrassed by the clutter. He’s seen worse pieces of me. He plops down comfortably on the couch. I take two seltzers from my fridge, hand him one, and sit down on the opposite end of the couch.

  “All right, you are officially graduating to step three of Breakup School,” he says, grabbing my TV remote.

  “Step three?” I ask.

  “We already accomplished step one, which is alcohol and snacks,” he says seriously. “And step two, which is forcing yourself to hang out with friends, so you can’t just cry alone into your beer.”

  “I see, thank you for guiding me through this,” I say, mimicking his no-nonsense tone.

  “So step three. We have to find the ultimate distraction on Netflix. Sappy romances and cute rom-coms are strictly off-limits, which means we either need a dumb buddy cop thing or a really disturbing horror movie.”

  I love that Raj can make the worst day of my life into something remotely bordering on fun.

  “I think I want the TV equivalent of comfort food,” I say. “So . . . The Office?”

  “Are you sure you’re emotionally prepared to watch Jim salivate over Pam right now?” he asks.

  “I think I can handle season one. He’s hard-core friend-zoned.”

  “The Office it is,” he says, queuing it up. “A personal favorite.”

  The ottoman is only wide enough to cover half the couch, so I slide it toward the center so we can both use it. He scoots a little closer to me and kicks up his feet. I prop up my feet, moving carefully so that our legs don’t touch.

  As the first episode rolls, Raj quotes Michael’s lines and does impressively accurate impressions of Dwight and Stanley. When it’s over, I’m relieved that he clicks the remote immediately to begin the next episode. (Only a person with freakish self-control could stop after just one, and let’s be real, that’s not my strong suit.)

  At some point during the second episode, I realize that Raj’s leg has brushed up against mine, but I actually don’t feel weird about it. The adrenaline rush from the surprise party is tapering off, and I just want to relax. I slouch down so my head rests against the back of the couch. A few minutes later, I shift in my seat to get more comfortable and find my head leaning against Raj’s shoulder. Neither of us flinches. I wonder if he cares—but if he did, wouldn’t he move?

  There’s a third episode, and maybe a fourth, and then I lose track of what happens next. It must be midnight. Raj’s arm slips around my shoulders. I shift on the couch to curl up with my head on his chest. The last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep is how easy it is to lie in his arms.

  The next thing I know, a hand is stroking my hair. Last night floods back to me: Raj threw me a surprise party on the roof of Golden Years. He walked me home and we put on The Office. And that means . . . that means we’re still curled up on the couch together. That hand in my hair? It’s his. Not Blake’s. Raj’s.

  I’d be lying if I said I was totally clueless that he might be into me. The signs are all there: he sends me free drinks; he usually texts me first; he goes above and beyond what a casual friend might do (hello, that surprise party). Even though that all seems glaringly obvious in the morning light, with his fingers gently smoothing down my hair, they were easy to push aside until now. I had my sights set on Blake. I had a boyfriend. Nothing could have happened between me and Raj, so I never bothered to address the chemistry between us.

  But now that I’ve fallen asleep in his arms, I can’t ignore it. The seamless way we slipped into instant banter the first time we met? You can’t fake that. And I’ve been on enough dates in the past decade to know that the way he makes me laugh is truly rare. With Raj, there are never any awkward silences or boring lulls. We don’t make conversation—we just talk. Often. Easily. I like his warm, brown eyes and wide smile. I’ve definitely had some lingering thoughts about the way his forearms look when he pushes his sleeves up.

  The sound of his voice makes my heart race.

  “Hey, you awake?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, sitting up.

  I can’t quite face him right away. I run two fingers under each eye to wipe away the dark makeup smudges I can guarantee have appeared overnight. I’m embarrassed: not only am I probably all smudgy, but my morning breath can’t be amazing, and I have a hunch my hair has mussed in the least sexy way possible. I take a deep breath and turn back toward him with a look that says, Hello, I hope you remember I usually look more attractive than I do right now. Because suddenly, I care.

  “I turned off Netflix after the fourth episode,” he says.

  “Sorry I fell asleep on you,” I say.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

  He has a loose eyelash on his cheek, and before I realize what I’m doing, I brush it away.

  “Eyelash,” I explain.

  He looks away and rubs his jaw. He’s grinning, and I don’t know what to do with that information.

  Before my brain can catch up to my body, I lean into Raj, turn his chin toward mine, and kiss him. His lips are soft and his body is warm. I kiss him again, yearning for something more from him—more passion, more tenderness—but his posture stiffens. I pull back and inch away from him on the couch.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I don’t know why I thought you wanted that—that you felt like that.”

  I’ve never felt self-conscious in front of Raj before, but suddenly, I worry I’m too much in every direction: too messy, too impulsive, too careless with his emotions. I feel the sinking sensation I’ve felt all spring and summer long, as if I’ve raced off the high dive without checking to see if there’s water below.

  “I—uh, you—” he starts to speak, but shakes his head and pauses to collect himself. He clears his throat. “I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything just because I stayed over.”

  “I don’t feel pressured into anything at all,” I say quickly.

  He swallows and looks at me nervously. “I don’t want to be that guy who swoops in the minute a girl is single, you know? That’s not why I’m here. I came as a friend. Really.”

  “A friend,” I echo. “Oh.”

  “I mean, ugh, Eliza.” He mops a hand over his face and gives me a pained expression. “Look . . .”

  “I don’t think it’s
shady of you to swoop in here, for the record,” I say. “Remember, I invited you up. I wanted you to be here. I still want you to be here.”

  “True,” he concedes. He glances down at my knee, like he’s considering putting his hand there, but he refrains.

  I bite my lip and twirl a loose strand of hair around my finger. It doesn’t seem to matter how much practice I get talking about my feelings with guys; it never gets any easier. I know that if I say what’s really on my mind out loud, I could ruin our friendship for good—and right now, I can’t afford to lose anyone else. But despite what’s at stake, I need to know how he really feels.

  “You haven’t always wanted to be just friends, right?” I ask.

  He freezes. “I won’t lie, I liked you,” he admits. “But you weren’t single. And if we weren’t going to, you know, date . . . hanging out with you is awesome. I’d be an idiot to give that up.”

  I take a deep breath and steel myself to get real with him. “So here’s the thing. When I invited you up last night, I wasn’t expecting anything beyond friendship. At all. But having you sleep over . . . I don’t know, it’s made me see things differently.”

  “Differently?” He cocks his head.

  God, vulnerability is terrifying.

  “I want to kiss you again, if that’s okay,” I say.

  I hope I sound confident and sexy, like a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it. But Raj doesn’t lean in to kiss me. Not at all. Instead, he hesitates and pushes himself backward on the couch.

  “Eliza,” he says softly.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m here if you want me,” he says. “But you have to choose me. For real. I’m not just your fallback guy for when you’re sad. You can’t kiss me because you feel lonely after your breakup. It’s not fair for you to only hang out with me at the bar when there’s nothing better for you to do.”

  I feel my cheeks burn in shame. I can’t look at him. My first thought is to sputter, I don’t do that, but I know that’s not true. I feel like I’ve been caught naked and exposed. I want to tell him that he deserves better than to be my second choice, but suddenly, there’s a lump forming in my throat. I was the one who overstepped a boundary—I don’t get to cry in front of him. He’s too much of a stand-up guy; he’d probably wind up comforting me. Again.

  “I get it,” I say, keeping my eyes cast downward. “I do. And I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he says, standing up and stretching. He ruffles his hair. “All I’m saying is that if you like me, treat me like you do.”

  I stand up, too. I don’t know where to look, or what to do with my arms, or what to say to cut the suddenly thick tension between us. I place my hands on my hips, decide that might look too confrontational, and let them go limp by my sides.

  “I didn’t mean to give you mixed messages,” I say. “But you’re right.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he says coolly. “No need to figure out anything right now. But if you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

  He heads toward the door and reaches for the knob.

  “Eliza?” he says, turning back to look at me. “You have to slow down. Breathe. Take your time. There’s no rush.”

  I try to force a smile. I wish I didn’t have a deadline hanging over my head—the soft noise of the ticking clock drowns out all other sounds. I have to wonder: if there wasn’t a reason to tie up my love life in a neat bow by October, would I be into Raj? For that matter, would I really be into Blake?

  “Right, no rush,” I say softly. “Bye.”

  He leaves my apartment. The front door clicks shut. I listen to the fall of his footsteps as he descends the stairs and exits the building. He’s gone. I sprawl out belly-down on the couch, reveling in the warm spot Raj left behind, and press my face into a throw pillow.

  So it’s clear: I fucked up. I was right about one thing—Raj has liked me this whole time. I wasn’t imagining the crackling chemistry between us; I didn’t hallucinate the affectionate way he looks at me. But that doesn’t mean I had the right to kiss him the moment I felt alone and confused and comfortable. Raj deserves more than a girl who’s not done crying over someone else.

  It’s not fair for me to kiss Raj if I can’t commit to being there for him, the way he’s been there for me. I need to work out my own shit before dragging another person into it. I’m deeply mortified that none of this occurred to me before I tried to slip my tongue into his mouth.

  The ugly combination of shame, humiliation, and rejection I feel in Raj’s wake piles onto the lingering sadness, guilt, and panic I’ve carried ever since my breakup with Blake three days ago. I feel utterly and totally miserable, and it’s entirely my fault for being such an impulsive idiot. I can’t prolong my body’s natural reaction anymore. I sob big, fat tears into the pillow and let myself cry until I’m worn out.

  When I’m done, I wipe my tears and straighten up on the couch. I might be able to process that failed kiss with Raj another time, but there’s one thing I have to do first. I fish my phone out from between the cracks of the couch cushions, open a new text message, and type in Blake’s name.

  “Hi. I know you must be angry at me right now, but if and when you’re up for it, I’d love to talk. I have a business proposition for you.”

  • Chapter 24 •

  I enter Starbucks five days later like I’m greeting a wounded, skittish kitten: avoiding any sudden movements that might scare him off. Blake ignored my first text, and I thought he might ignore my second one, too, but he surprised me with a single-word answer: “Why?” It took days to convince him. Rather than volley texts back and forth every few minutes, like we used to, he sent just one reply per day. I couldn’t tell if he really needed that time to think about my request, or if he simply wanted to punish me by drawing out our conversation. Either way, I deserved the torturous wait.

  He requested I meet him at the Starbucks two blocks from his apartment, even though there are plenty of other cute coffee shops in the neighborhood. The Starbucks here is forgettable, entirely devoid of personality and charm. We could be anywhere in the world right now. If this conversation turns out to be haunting and awful, at least it won’t ruin his regular coffee spot, the indie café on his corner.

  It takes me a minute to locate Blake. He’s at the table farthest from the entrance, with a drink in front of him, and dressed in a light blue, collared button-down that’s too formal for a Sunday morning. He’s dressed for a business meeting. It hits me that I am the business. He stands when I approach; I spread my arms to give him a hug, but he doesn’t show any signs of reciprocating. A handshake would be too weird, so he doesn’t try that, either. I clasp my hands tightly in front of me.

  “Hi,” he says.

  It’s strange to hear him speak again, after more than a week of silence between us. The usual warmth in his voice has evaporated.

  I eke out an awkward, “Uh . . .” before swiftly sitting down.

  “You don’t want coffee?” he asks, taking his seat again.

  I glance at the cash register, but the line stretches halfway to the door. I don’t want to make him wait for me. “Nah,” I say. “I, uh . . .” I clear my throat and try to summon the strength to speak. I had been so paralyzed with nerves on the subway ride up here. “I wanted to talk to you. Thank you for giving me the chance.”

  He rests his chin on his interlaced fingers. He’s waiting for me to say my piece.

  “First, I’m sorry,” I begin. “I’m deeply sorry for all the ways in which I abused your trust and hurt you.”

  He raises one eyebrow. I think that’s my signal to continue.

  “I should’ve been honest with you from the start. Well, maybe not at Dorrian’s. But I won’t lie: At first, being with you felt like a game. Like as long as I played my cards right, I could strategize this perfect future for us and bring it to life. But then, once we started falling for each other, things changed. There were times I wanted to come clean, and I wi
sh I had, but I was too afraid that you’d react badly and that everything would be over. I was selfish, and for that, I’m sorry.”

  A line of stress creases his forehead. “ ‘Once we started falling for each other’? ” he repeats bitterly.

  “Maybe you fell first,” I admit. “But I did really care for you. You have to know that. I couldn’t fake that.”

  “No? You faked everything else,” he retorts.

  I take a deep breath to keep the pangs of panic in my chest at bay.

  “I was wrong, and I know it, and I’m sorry. I know that’s probably not enough. But it’s the truth.”

  “So, basically, you’re saying you loved me, but not enough to be honest with me.”

  I feel breathless with shame. I wish I had a coffee to sip, or at least the cardboard sleeve to fiddle with. Right now, I could tear it to shreds.

  “Blake . . .” I begin. But the words don’t come.

  “I’m guessing you came here because you want something from me,” he says sharply.

  “I . . .”

  “Don’t lie,” he says. “You always have an agenda. I know you.”

  “Blake, I . . . I . . .”

  I stumble over my words. He deserves to hear what I have to say, but I’m surprised by how difficult it is to explain what I want. I wish I knew how to tactfully suggest he marry me in a legally nonbinding wedding ceremony, but there’s no rulebook for how to do that. I’m overwhelmed.

  “God, Eliza, be honest, just for once!” he explodes.

  I’m sure that caught the attention of other people here. I feel so enveloped by embarassment.

  “Okay, look, I wasn’t going to say anything unless you seemed potentially open to it, because my first and biggest priority here really was to apologize,” I begin. “And again, I am sorry. Truly, I am. But if you want it, here’s the truth: my company is in serious trouble. I won’t be able to afford to re-sign my lease unless there’s a major spike in sales, and based on everything I know, the interest in a wedding would lead to exactly that.”