Chapter 21
Don’t masturbate this morning.
When I finally open my eyes after valiantly ignoring my alarms, these are the words scrawled on my left arm in blue ballpoint pen. I vaguely recall scribbling it last night when I tiptoed in sometime after three, carefully stepping over a snoring Houdini.
I guess I was (rightfully) concerned that in my sleep-deprived haze I’d go into my morning autopilot once the apartment was empty.
Admittedly, there’s a moment where I consider doing it really quietly, but I’m feeling so disoriented after the events of last night that I manage to behave myself. Not that refraining helps me think more clearly. My head is pounding, and painkillers and water aren’t within reaching distance.
When I left Treehouse, I remember thinking that if some other big, dramatic event would happen, it would take the edge off my Hal anger. Well…I got what I wished for.
My brain pulls up a helpful montage of clips from every moment: doing my cat eye, which might as well have been clown makeup; the emotional and practical fallout of Mom’s big announcement; Hal shooting his shot with a literati princess; and every single thing that happened on Chili’s property.
All of them battle it out for the lion’s share of real estate in my mind. Maybe that’s why I have the headache.
I’ve always understood that pain is more potent than pleasure. By that metric, the whole blowup with Hal should be hovering over me like a persistent storm cloud.
But I have to admit, what I keep coming back to—those panels that are provocatively splashing across the page I’m drawing in my mind—is the person who sleeps on the other side of this wall.
God, I must’ve been throwing off some intense I’m lonely pheromones in Nick’s direction because I know my personality is the least appealing it’s ever been.
I might as well walk around this apartment complex with a sign hung around my neck declaring This Is a Depressed Person: Stand Several Feet Back.
We parted in the hallway with a promise to “talk tomorrow,” so I’m assuming I will never hear from him again and we’ll simply avoid each other in the hallway for the next six months.
Hey, at least that would give me extra incentive to find a new place to live.
Who knew hooking up with my neighbor could be so motivating?
THUNKK!
It comes not from the shared wall but from the living room.
“We’ll get it back to you later today,” I hear my mom tell someone. “We should’ve invested in a taller ladder years ago.”
“No rush. And let me know if you need help with anything.”
It’s Nick’s voice. What happened to the natural order of politely avoiding each other? What rule book is he following?
For a terrifying moment, I wonder if he’s come over to report me to my mother. Jen, I gotta tell you. I’m worried about your daughter.
But from a few seconds of casual eavesdropping (pressing my ear against the wall), I conclude that the conversation is limited to some boring small talk about the best way to mount curtain rods. I’m about to climb back into bed when Mom springs her trap.
“Say, Nick,” she says as if this thought has just occurred to her. “Perry and I would love for you and Kira to come to the wedding.”
I have to put my hand over my mouth to prevent an indignant noise from escaping.
“Oh,” Nick says in a way that sounds like he’s trying to think of the best way to politely decline.
“Now, it’s going to be casual,” she says. “There’s no stuffy sit-down dinner, just a nice little party in Goodale Park.”
“Kira hasn’t been to many weddings, so I’m sure she’d have fun getting dressed up.”
“And you’re welcome to bring a date, obviously.” She pauses. I hold my breath. “If you’re seeing someone.”
My heart is thumping. This is diabolical. Totally invasive.
And yet, my ear is practically suctioned to the wall in an effort to hear his response.
“I’m really just focusing on Kira and getting the new place set up,” he says.
“In that case, I’d love to introduce you to a friend of mine.”
“Oh, well—”
“She’s a single parent, too,” Mom says. “And she’ll also be at the wedding, so it might be nice to get to know each other beforehand.”
Within twenty seconds, she manages to convey that her name is Shawna, she went to Ohio Wesleyan, she’s “so pretty,” and is “getting back out there.”
I’m dying to observe the body language here. I’m not sure how anyone could respond to this hard sell aside from a conciliatory but noncommittal nod.
“I think you two would really hit it off,” Mom says. “It’s so funny, the other day she told me that her son just loves Chili’s. He was thinking of having his birthday party there! And I thought to myself, that can’t be a coincidence.”
It’s not a coincidence because I’m pretty sure my mom just invented it.
“I’m sure she’s great,” Nick says.
Mom must take this as an enthusiastic yes! because she immediately moves to close the deal. “Can I tell her to send you a friend request? You’re on Facebook, right?”
I swear I hear a moment of hesitation before he says, “Sure.”
After another minute of conversation about how slow the building’s maintenance staff responds to requests, I hear Nick say his goodbyes.
I return to the warm cocoon of my bed, not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed that Nick hadn’t shut down my mom’s efforts to pair him off with Shawna.
Putting aside my lack of faith in my mom’s matchmaking abilities, what reason does he have not to have an awkward get-to-know-you conversation with Shawna on Facebook Messenger?
He has a stressful, time-consuming job, responsibility for a kid, little evidence of a social life with adults he’s not managing.
He probably does need someone to give him a little push.
And who am I to assume that Shawna wouldn’t be a good fit for Nick? Just because she’s going through a nightmare divorce and has a lot of credit card debt? I’m an underemployed bartender about to be evicted by her own mother, for fuck’s sake.
“I think I need you to do the PowerPoint again,” I tell Romily after I’ve taken enough Advil that I’m able to walk Houdini over to her place, which is technically my uncle’s basement.
And yes, while she must endure the occasional joke about “living in your parents’ basement,” Rom has a private entrance, a minifridge, and an entire set of stairs separating her from her parents.
If failed-to-launch kids had a hierarchy, Romily would be just one step below “living in my parents’ pool house. ”
“Traditionally, researchers consider sociosexuality as a unidimensional framework,” she says after I spend what feels like an hour monologuing about the way Hal ditched me last night. “There’s a spectrum: unrestricted to fully restricted.”
“Either you need to translate or I’ll need more Advil.”
“You’re a visual learner. I’ll draw it out.”
Houdini snores on one of Romily’s blankets.
Romily grabs a notebook from her desk, flips it to a blank page, and draws a horizontal line.
“This is the casual continuum,” she says. “On the left side: no commitment at all. On the right—”
“Headed for an overly elaborate engagement involving a scavenger hunt?”
“Yes. Everything between these two poles is degrees of commitment when you’re not ‘officially’ in a defined relationship.
So, all the way on the left is probably ‘one-night stand,’ then ‘fuck buddies,’ ‘hanging out in private,’ then ‘hanging out in public,’ ‘de facto date,’ and finally ‘situationship.’ ”
“Okay.” I scratch my head. “Well, Hal and I are over on the right, I guess. We hang out in public. He’s my de facto date to weddings.”
“Correct. So the fact that you perceive yourself to be ‘just a step’ from a defined relationship is what’s creating the cognitive dissonance.
” She points again at the right side of the continuum.
“It’s not a step-by-step process, where you defeat the final situationship boss.
If anything, being stuck in this zone is more likely to trigger a ghosting. ”
“This is beginning to feel like an online seminar given by a man who greatly admires Joe Rogan.”
“No, this is important for you to understand. This continuum is not a progress chart. If either one of you wants a defined relationship, you can do that from any one of these points.” She gestures along the horizontal line.
“But the irony is that when you’re closer to the commitment pole, there’s almost no incentive to redefine the relationship.
You’re likely to get trapped here until one of you meets a new partner who more closely shares your sociosexual orientation. ”
“Hal ditched me for Leen because they have the same sociosexual orientation?”
“No, he probably just wanted to fuck her.”
Houdini punctuates the sentiment with a particularly loud snore.
Rom continues. “My conclusion would be that you should find someone with more of a commitment orientation, since you clearly prefer a defined relationship.”
“Wait.” I sit up straighter. “Since when? Did you miss the part about how my mom wants to banish me without a place to go? My life is a mess. I’m not trying to get in a relationship with anybody.”
She narrows her eyes slightly. “Are you sure about that?”
“Because of Nick? That was an accident!”
I grab the notebook. Underneath the One-Night Stand label, I write Alcohol-Fueled Revenge Hookup.
At work I find myself inadvertently placing every couple I serve somewhere on the casual continuum.
By some miracle, Hal isn’t working, which leads me to believe that he and Leen have purchased the camper van he promised me and any day I’ll see an Instagram photo of the two of them in Marfa or Arches National Park.
I wonder if Leen has her driver’s license.
I hope she doesn’t. I hope Hal has to teach her to drive by white-knuckling it in the passenger seat while she slowly circles a Whataburger parking lot.