How to Meet Cute Boys (27 page)

There were bad scenarios, too. The worst was when I imagined running into Max with another girl. Someone adorable. Someone
his age. Maybe that girl Kaitlyn from Collin’s birthday party. What if they ran into each other, and he asked her out, and
she was able to date him the right way, and ended up being his girlfriend for real? This thought was so excruciating, I’d
have to push it out of my mind with violent force.

“I want Max back,” I finally declared to Kiki at the
Filly
Christmas party. We were at the Chateau Marmont, standing off to the side of the hotel’s wide patio, which was peppered with
heat lamps. People clustered around them like mosquitoes around those zapper things, because despite the fantasy that it never
gets cold in California, tonight’s temperature was hovering just above forty. The olive trees were decorated with little white
lights, and you could sneak peaks through their branches and into guest rooms above. For a moment I saw a figure standing
at a window, looking down on us, and I wondered who she was, where she was from. Another figure appeared, circling her waist
with his arms. She turned toward him, said something, and drew the shades.

“You don’t want him back,” Kiki said, smacking my hand away from what would have been my tenth caviar beggar’s purse.

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I really fucking do.” I grabbed a chicken satay skewer off the platter of a passing waiter and crammed it into my mouth.
“Maxth back now.”

Kiki took an anxious look around the room—it seemed Curtis, who was standing at the other side of the courtyard, was getting
his ear talked off. Even from that distance, I could hear Steph telling him something about how “EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT ANGIE
GETS HER TATTOOS DONE AT THE SAME PLACE AS PAMELA BUT THE THING THAT NOBODY KNOWS IS THAT THEY BOTH HAD THE SAME PLASTIC—”
Kiki rolled her eyes. “Look, I have to go check and make sure Curtis is okay, okay?” she said. “I’ll be right back and we
can talk about Max some more. I promise.”

You really can’t blame her.

Meanwhile, on Christmas Eve, just after I asked the Mother if she thought the fact that Max had never called to say happy
holidays meant he was devastated to have lost me or, conversely, over me completely, she snapped, “Oh my God Ben,
you have to stop
.” The Mother was serving mugs of very strong eggnog, and the table was decorated with a bouquet of “glitter-dipped” pinecones
Audrey made with instructions courtesy of Martha. The house reeked of pine needles. My allergies were going nuts.

“She’s right,” Audrey said, handing me a napkin with a somewhat revolted look so I could blow my nose. “It doesn’t matter
how he feels; it matters how you feel.”

I muttered something about feeling like I wanted to know how he felt, and the Mother shot Audrey a look like,
See what I have to deal with?

And lucky me, Jamie was spending Christmas Eve with us. “I have two brothers,” he said, leaning over so Aud could brush some
cookie crumbs from the side of his mouth. “Maybe you can marry one of them.”

At least I was keeping busy. Nina and I hit the day-after-Christmas sales, and I got a lecture that lasted from the Barneys
Stila counter all the way to the rooftop deli, where we stopped for brunch.

“I could have told you that full-life thing wouldn’t work,” Nina said, carefully dissecting her tofu scramble. “If a guy is
tracking toward you, you can goad him by playing off his insecurities. But if he’s tracking away, well, it’s best to accept
his mental place and just let him go.”

I took a big bite of my bagel, smiled with my mouth closed, and made a gesture like,
Hold that thought; mouth full
. Nina took this as permission to continue, saying, “Your neediness probably stems from childhood, when you competed for affection
with Audrey and lost.”

My eyes widened.

“Oh, don’t be so defensive—I’m not saying it’s your fault. Focus on next steps. You need to get back out there. Saddle …”
Nina held up a bagel in one hand; then she held up a knife smeared with cream cheese in the other. “Horse. And remember”—she
rested her elbows back on the table—“there’s a fine line between mourning and self-indulgence.”

And finally, the ultimate humiliation: I spent New Year’s Eve alone. Kiki offered to do something, but I let her (and Curtis)
off the hook, insisting that all I really wanted to do was watch movies with predictable story lines—Boy Meets Girl and They
Get Together by the Holidays—and cuddle with my cat, if he’d have me.

I probably would have made it through the Cruelest Evening on Earth with nothing but Meg Ryan to keep me company, too, if
only I’d stayed away from the cheap bottle of champagne I’d bought at the liquor store. The first glass went down okay, the
second I drank without really thinking about it, but by the third or fourth the pathos started to wash over me in waves. The
twinkle lights I’d put around my front door took on a depressing air, while the Christmas presents I still hadn’t put away
gave me incriminating glares from the kitchen table. Empty pizza boxes stacked by the door screamed at me,
Can’t you see how pathetic you are?

For reprieve, I turned on the news. They were showing a report about a huge snowstorm in Cleveland. B-roll showed people shoveling
snow outside cute little brick houses, trucks sliding down the street.
So that’s where Max is from,
I thought. I pictured him in a heavy parka, drinking cocoa and making snowballs, throwing them at some girl he met at a Christmas
party who would probably kiss him when the ball dropped in Times Square. Suddenly I realized I was never going to meet Max’s
mother. Or his father. I used to fantasize about the day he’d bring me home to meet them. It was never going to happen.

I don’t want to say I ended up lying facedown in my bathrobe, bawling into the floorboards and moaning,
“Why, Max, why?”
But I don’t want to say that
didn’t
happen either.

They manipulated me. Kiki. Nina. My mom. My sister. They manipulated me by acting like I had to get on with my life. But if
they had asked me, I didn’t think I had to get on with my life. I had to get my life back. I had to get
Max
back.

Of course, it wasn’t Finlay’s fault. I mean, he didn’t even know me. But it was so irritating. All evening he’d been opening
doors. Summoning waiters. Filling glasses. Asking thoughtful questions. And I drank, smoked, scowled, and generally ignored
him. Talk about not getting the hint.

Finlay was best friends with Curtis. Kiki called me one day in the middle of my Max depression, ecstatic about how Curtis’s
friend, who produced MTV’s
Rock the Vote, Spring Break,
and other painfully enthusiastic special-event programming, was moving here from New York. I could tell from her cloying
tone that a setup was imminent. At the time I was playing Grand Theft Auto on my PlayStation 2, so the words came through
as though she were on a staticky cell phone: “Great job … Black hair … Glasses! … You have to … The thing is …”

“Just give him my number,” I said, and made excuses about needing to go to bed.

So now there I was. On a date with a total stranger. And I was supremely annoyed.

“Do you come to this restaurant often then?” Finlay asked.

It sounded like,
D’yew come to this rest-ront off-ten then?
His accent seemed vaguely hostile to my ears. Maybe it’s because he’d gone to Cambridge, a late-breaking factoid that gave
Kiki vicarious orgasms.

“Never,” I said.

I took a look around. It was a grown-up place. Tablecloths. Wineglasses. A wood-fired oven that made gourmet pizzas, just
like in Rome. Crusty bread, just like in Tuscany. Apparently Robert De Niro was a silent partner. Max and I didn’t go to places
like this. We liked to order in.

“I think it’s quite nice, really.” Finlay swirled his olive ciabatta around in a light green dish of oil. Suddenly, it dawned
on me that with his glasses, floppy hair, and red scarf, he looked like Harry Potter.

But I figured I should at least make
some
small talk. That way I could tell Kiki I tried, he sucked, and that would be that.

“So, Finn,” I asked, taking a big gulp of wine. “Where you from?”

“Oh.” He stopped fidgeting with the bread and leaned forward like he was surprised I’d actually spoken to him without being
asked a direct question. “I’m from Liverpool. Dad owns a small business. Mum keeps the house nice. Two sisters, which I guess
makes me the sensitive sort. Never freak out about the tampons, heh, heh—”

I looked at him blankly.

He cleared his throat. “Have you been?”

“Where?”

“To Liverpool.”

Just then Max walked into the restaurant.
Oh my God
. My heart flew up into my mouth, and for a second I panicked—what should I say, what should I do? But when he stopped to
say something to the hostess, I realized it wasn’t actually him. It was some other guy. Finlay was still waiting for me to
elaborate. So I said, “Oh, yeah. I saw that clock. You know, whatsitcalled.”

“Big Ben?”

Wait—was it definitely not him? I snuck another peek. No, not. But it looked like him—a lot like him. “Yeah, Big Ben.”

“In Liverpool?”

“Right.”

Max had better style, I observed. This guy was cute, too, though.

“You are aware that you weren’t in Liverpool, then, you were in London?”

Hello,
I thought.
I think I’m making an ass of myself
.

“What?”

“Big Ben. It’s in London. I’m from
Liverpool,
which, as anyone who was listening to our conversation could tell you, is where the Beatles are from. Of course, that’s all
any American knows about the place where I grew up. But it’s more than I can say for you.”

I was shocked. Was this any way to talk to someone you hardly knew? I wasn’t sure what I should do. Leave the table? Throw
a glass of water in his face? Say something cutting? If so, then what?

“Ah,” he said, “seems I’ve finally got your attention.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t really been on a date in …”

“Quite a while. Yes, I can see that. And you’re so charming, too. Not to worry.” Finlay reached over and refilled my glass
to the brim, then his own. “I love nothing more than a woman who drinks heavily on a first date, as you’ve been doing all
evening, so let’s both have a bit more of this lovely Pinot Grigio and you can keep me entertained with your interesting take
on European geography.”

My face was burning. I think I was actually blushing. I said, “Are you serious?”

“No,” he said with a little smile. “But I think you’re very beautiful. So I’m willing to put up with this inexcusable behavior
for at least a few hours longer, if not for, let’s say six, no, eight, weeks. After that I can’t make any guarantees.”

What
an asshole.

Kiki called the next day to grill me for details and pronounced Finlay—despite my protestations that he was dull and not even
remotely my type—“Marriage Material.”

“Are you going out with him again?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I don’t know.”

“You will.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you have nothing better to do.”

She had a point.

Next, Kiki wanted to know what I would contribute to
filly’s
“Sex vs. Love” issue. I didn’t have the faintest idea. Last night’s date had ended better than it began (I’d felt guilty
so I’d let Finn kiss me when he walked me to my door), but it wasn’t sex and it definitely wasn’t love. Kiki said that was
okay, because whatever I wrote, it didn’t have to be “up.” It could be “true.” But “funny true.” Not “down true” or “icky
true.”

“If you’re suggesting I write about He Who Cannot Be Named, I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I said. “I’ve lost my sense of humor
when it comes to him.”

“Write about the breakup, then,” she said. “An honest, heart-wrenching account. Ohhh, brainstorm: Write about the age difference!”

“I’m sure he’d really appreciate that.”

“Who the fuck cares what He Who appreciates and doesn’t appreciate? I’m sorry, but you don’t owe him
anything
. You could write about what a coward he is—”