How to Meet Cute Boys (28 page)

“He’s not a coward. He’s just confused.”

She ignored me. “Wait—does he have a small dick? Can you write about that?”

“No.”

“Really.”
She lowered her voice. “How big was his …”

“Kiki.”

“Spoilsport.” She laughed. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you’re depressed. But the Whip specifically asked for something funny-slash-true
from you for the ‘Sex vs. Love’ issue so you’re going to have to come up with
something,
honey. Just think
catharsis
. Now. Tell me more about Finlay. Has he called?”

“Do I care?”

I sat at my computer for the next two days, trying to think if I had anything to say about sex or love that wasn’t down true
or icky true.

On the third day, I sat down again, determined to write something if it killed me.

And I sat.

And sat.

Mmmmmm, bagels.

I was still sitting.

It dawned on me that I could have been a drummer in an all-girl punk band. I was pretty good at banging out beats on my desk.

Tap ta tap tap ta tappy tap tap. Tap ta tap tap ta tappy tap tap.

I hate him,
I thought.

Tap ta tap tap ta tappy tap tap.

I miss him.

I hate him I miss him I hate him I miss him I hate him I miss him I hate him I miss him.

I ate him.

Har har.

I miss him.

The night M. and I broke up, I cried in a way I hadn’t since I was a little girl. I was hyperventilating, sobbing so hard
it hurt to talk, big gulps of air that choked, tears streaming down my face. I called my best friend to tell her what happened,
and it sounded something like,
“Ah cant be lieve he jus leh me walk a way ah cant be lieve its ov ver ah cant take it wha have ah done wah did he not wan
to be with me wha did he say he loved me wha …”

And all she could say was, “Oh, honey, breathe. Oh, honey. Let it out. Oh, honey, breathe. You’re going to be okay. I promise.
Just breathe.”

Eventually I breathed. But inside, I felt pretty much the same.

Breaking up with M. was my worst friggin’ nightmare. Think you have it bad? Try falling in love with a guy who’s
seven years younger than you are
.

I know. Right?

You probably think I just lost perspective. You probably think a mere child couldn’t possibly do
that
much damage. I know—I used to think that way, too. I met him at a party. He was cute (of course). I fantasized that he’d
be the Justin to my Britney. (Before the hideous breakup.) That he wouldn’t be like all the jerks I knew my age—the ones who
already figured out that when a girl’s pushing twenty-eight (or thirty, or fifty-nine) she’ll drop her underpants before he
can say, “A dozen roses costs
what?
” My new boy was sweet. Unspoiled by heartbreak or cynicism.

And because I had more experience, I told myself that, like Janet Jackson, I had the control. That after I had fun with his
twenty-one-year-old rock hard torso, when it was time to settle down, I’d breezily move on to an older, more sophisticated
guy with whom I could steam Chilean sea bass and breed.

Except that’s
not
what happened. Here are the major plot points …

I recently met a woman who’s married to a guy ten years her junior. I would have placed her somewhere around twenty-six years
of age. Over dinner, I marveled that her skin was wrinkle-free and her frame model-thin. When she told me she was thirty-eight—and
her husband was still in his twenties—I rejoiced. “What’s the secret?” I asked her. “How does your relationship defy the odds?”

Her answer chilled my soul. “Aging simply isn’t an option for me right now,” she said. “It took years to get him to commit.
He broke up with me so many times, went out with these little girls, came back, left again. I never made a stink. And now
he’s finally mine. So you know what I do?” Her eyes locked onto mine. “I spend thousands of dollars a year on facials, trainers,
and sunscreens. I do Power Yoga, I’m on the Zone, I take three Spin classes a week. I can’t start aging until his hair falls
out. Maybe when that happens, I’ll be able to finish getting my law degree.”

Clearly this isn’t the answer.

Where is Mr. Right? Does he exist? I honestly don’t know. When I started my romance with M., I thought my experiences with
other men would give me the upper hand, but I came out on the bottom. I thought at least, if it didn’t work out, the breakup
with Junior would be less painful than the others, but it hurt more. I’m still hurt, confused, broken.

However, I do know this: When I go to bed at night, and those feelings—the
why did he do this to mes
and the
what have I dones
—come, I repeat to myself this one thought. No, make that prayer: The easy affections of a boy will be nothing compared to
the love of a true man. Say it with me, The easy affections of a boy will be nothing compared to the love of a true man. All
together now, The easy affections of a boy—I have to believe this, please, God, let it be true—will be
nothing
compared to the love of a true man. [[romega]]

Kiki turned out to be right. I really didn’t have anything better to do. So I went out with Finlay again. And again. And again.
Each time I told myself he was perfect on paper, and chances were he’d leap off the page into perfect in real life. Besides,
as Kiki constantly told me, everyone knows the best way to get over someone is to start seeing somebody else.

Each date was carefully orchestrated, I assume because Finlay thought this would impress me enough so I’d keep returning his
calls. We did northern Italian, sushi, Indian, minimalist Californian … On balance, each evening was fine, but not great.
I still missed He Who.

Our fifth date was Franco-Moroccan, which, I discovered, I actually liked. The lights were low, the wine was flowing, and
Finlay ordered some kind of pastry stuffed with chicken and dusted with powdered sugar, which sounded gross but was actually
pretty good. I was all dressed up—decided making an effort was pivotal to my recovery—and fairly contented.
Finlay’s not so bad,
I thought, taking a bite of the chicken thing.
He’s cute. He’s successful. He reads …

When he picked me up, Finlay told me he couldn’t contain his excitement anymore—he had to tell me that he “thinks there could
really be something to build on here.” My stomach did a little flip when he said it. I hoped it was a good flip.
I have to remember it’s okay to be happy,
I thought. That’s what Nina was always saying, anyway.

After dinner, Finlay asked if I wanted to see his apartment. I surprised myself and agreed. When we got there, I drank another
glass of wine. Then he let me change into his pajama bottoms because I was sick of wearing what I was wearing. I was in an
affectionate mood. I snuggled up to him on the couch and we talked and talked. Not the stilted chitchat we’d been doing on
our previous evenings together, but real talk. He asked about the Mother, why she’d divorced my dad, how I felt about his
endless surfing trip around the world. Whether or not I ever missed him. While I told him about my family, I suddenly realized
I felt comfortable. Able to be myself. Free of worry about whether or not Finlay liked me, thought I was funny, thought I
was pretty. I told him stuff about me—particularly about Audrey—that I never admit out loud, and Finlay was being kind about
it, too. “It’s hard with sisters,” he said, putting my feet up in his lap and playing with my toes. “I know, I saw the battle
firsthand.”

“Oh yes, the great sister war chez Finlay,” I teased. “The one where they used tampons as missiles and safety pads as armor,
all so you wouldn’t be freaked out by femininity.”

“Good Lord, don’t bring that up.” He laughed. “What a conversational blunder.”

“It really wasn’t so bad.”

“What a relief.” Finlay lifted my foot and kissed my big toe gently. “Bless your little heart.”

I got up to go to the bathroom, and while taking a quick peek into the medicine cabinet (antibiotics, Kiehl’s products, several
bottles of expensive cologne, and an old-style shaving kit—a mortar-and-brush thing—not the store-bought kind) it occurred
to me that Finlay’s apartment was an adult apartment. Everything matched everything. The marble tub sparkled, the chrome fixtures
glimmered, and there was a jar of rosemary-scented bath salts on a little shelf. I made my way back to the living room, where
heavy mahogany furniture gleamed—solid, dependable. And then, I don’t know what came over me. I guess I was seduced by Finlay’s
ability to give foot rubs and buy antiquated Mission-style furniture from Restoration Hardware and I proceeded to jump him.
Literally. I ran across the room and hopped onto his lap like a cowgirl ready to ride her favorite palomino, grabbed him by
the hair, and kissed him.

“Wait,” he said. Pulling back and looking at me in surprise. “Wait …” He took my hands down and placed them around his neck,
and gave me a light, but sincere, kiss.

Which led to light, but sincere, sex.

In the morning I got up, got dressed, and got the hell out of there. Finlay was being ridiculously sweet—made me tea and toast
for breakfast in bed, wanted to cuddle the morning away—but I couldn’t wait to get home, shower, regroup. Things were good,
it wasn’t that. I just needed a little breathing room. He called in the afternoon, right on schedule. Said he wanted to see
me that same night. Two nights in a row. Somewhere deep down, an alarm went off. It went to the tune of
too much too soon, too much too soon
. But I slammed my palm down on my internal panic button and said I’d love to. The other day at lunch, Nina had said something
about how I was—for all my moaning and groaning about wanting a real boyfriend—emotionally unavailable and terrified of real
intimacy, and that’s why I’d found Max so attractive in the first place. I was determined to prove her wrong.

That night I went over to Finlay’s and we ordered in Pacific New Wave. While we ate, we watched
Austin Powers
on DVD. It was extremely amusing—I love that movie. But then Finlay started with the kisses on the back of the neck. And
his hands started moving under my blouse, where they lingered over the clasp to my bra and undid it. It seemed a little stagy—like
he’d planned the whole thing in advance—and I was kind of into the movie. I shifted my weight on his overstuffed couch and
said, “I really wish you wouldn’t …”

“Sorry about that,” Finlay said, sitting up and reaching over to rub my shoulders.

“Maybe not that, either.”

“That, too.” He took his hands away, sat on them in an attempt to make me laugh. Then he tried to kiss my ear.

It made me all squirmy. “That tickles.”

“Oh, damn it all to hell, Ben. What’s the matter?”