11
The date is… fine.
It’s not bad. He’s not a jerk or anything, we just never click. The conversation drags and lulls and I wonder if I’m the boring one or if it’s him. Maybe it’s both.
By the time I start walking back home, I’m pretty convinced it’s a me-problem.
Not that I think Patrick was a great catch that I fumbled or something, but I’m realizing I don’t actually know how to date anymore.
I’m so used to being with the same person for years that I can’t remember all the romantic getting-to-know-you social mores.
I could even be a bad kisser now, for all I know!
And I have no way of assessing it because all I know is what Elliot liked, and any other experience is in the too-far-distant past to recall.
I have a detailed date debrief on the tip of my tongue when I get home, but Andy doesn’t seem to be around, so I call Lia instead.
“I very much doubt it was your fault,” she insists. Her voice is muffled by the wind—I caught her while taking her sweet bulldog Archie on his night walk.
“Yeah but you already like me. You’re biased.”
“I like you because you’re fun to be around. If you didn’t have fun tonight, it’s because he wasn’t fun.”
“I don’t know.” I belly flop onto my bed, still in my dress but too lazy to change. “Elliot always said I overpower conversations. Maybe that’s what happened, and I didn’t give the guy a chance to be interesting.”
“UGH,” Lia yells. “I fucking hate that guy. Sophie, everything Elliot ever said to you, you need to forget. He was just trying to bring you down because he knew you were too good for him.”
“Okay, nevermind. Undo. Unsubscribe. I don’t want to have this conversation again. Forget I brought him up.”
“Can I please just say one last thing, and then we can change the topic?”
I sigh in a completely overdramatic way. “Fine.”
“We all know I hated Elliot, and we can joke about that fact all day and night. But I’m not joking when I say that I genuinely think he hurt your self-esteem. He did everything in his power to make you feel undesirable for three years straight,
and it’s normal that it’s taking a little while to build your confidence back after that.”
“He wasn’t that bad,” I say, but there’s no heart in it. Suddenly I’m exhausted.
“I just want you to know that you’re amazing, and I want you to be open to the right kind of guy when he comes along. Don’t settle for some boring guy from the internet just because he’s the first one to ask you out.”
“I’m not that desperate,” I reply.
But aren’t I? If Patrick asked me out again, would I say yes? It just seems so entitled, thinking I’m too good for a second date.
When Lia and I hang up, I peek back into the living room for Andy, but he’s still not there.
In fact, I don’t see him at all before I fall asleep.
It’s not until the following morning, when I stumble out of bed in a glamorous XXL Minnesota State Fair t-shirt, hair in a messy bun and sleep gunk in the corners of my eyes, that I see him again.
It’s earlier than I usually get up, but that’s what happens when your date ends at 8:30 and you’re in bed by 9:00. I walk out of my room mid-yawn, then yelp out loud when I spot something moving in the kitchen.
“Ah! Jesus, Andy, you scared me. I didn’t hear you get in. Where’d you go last night?”
He rotates to face me, then freezes stock-still. Only his eyes dart from my face, to my shirt, to the bedroom door.
“Sorry.” He hurriedly puts the coffee grinds back into the cabinet, then starts towards the front door. “I’ll come back later.”
I rush in front of him. “Woah. Slow down there, cowboy. Where are you off to?”
“Just—” His eyes flit down to my sleep shirt again, then back up at my face. “—giving you some space.”
He tries to sidestep me, but I block the way again. “Why are you being weird right now?”
“I just don’t want to get in the way of your date.”
“My date from last night? He’s not here.”
Andy scratches at the back of his neck. “Oh. He got up early?”
“I wouldn’t know. We went our separate ways yesterday after an hour of mind-numbing small talk.”
“Oh.”
He doesn’t try to move towards the door again, so I relax my defense and head back into the kitchen.
“Yeah, it was bad. I used to think I was good at small talk, but last night it was not working. It was excruciating, like I could feel our conversation sucking the life force out of me.”
I pull the orange juice out of the fridge, then pour myself a glass.
“So, he didn’t spend the night?” Andy asks, clearly still buffering. “I thought… with the shirt…”
“Oh this?” I glance down at myself. “This is my very own horrifically ratty sleep shirt. He definitely did not spend the night. He didn’t even walk me home from the restaurant.”
“Seriously?” Andy comes to join me in the kitchen, immediately assuming his role as breakfast chef. “Did this guy not have a dad? You know what, I didn’t have a dad, and even I know you have to walk the girl home.”
I laugh. “I know you do, Andy. You’re the guy who once came like a mile across campus in the middle of the night just to walk me home.”
“Don’t remind me about V&S guy right now. It’ll give me visceral rage.”
I snort at the forgotten nickname. “I think his real name was Ashton. Or Ash…ford?”
“Asshole,” he mutters.
“You know, I don’t even remember why we called him V&S guy anymore.” I take my seat at the kitchen table, swigging from my orange juice.
“You don’t?”
I shake my head. “I just remember we hooked up and then he told me I couldn’t spend the night, but I was scared to walk home alone so I texted NASA.” I shrug. “Everything else is a blur.”
“Well, I remember.” Andy pulls a cutting board and knife out of their respective drawers. “When I got to his building you were sitting on a bench in the lobby because you felt sick. And I asked how much you’d had to drink and if you ate dinner. And you said—”
Realization dawns. “Oh my god, no—”
I stand and rush towards him, trying to cover his mouth before he can pull my humiliation into the light of day, but I’m too slow. He twists out of reach, laughing as he recalls, “You said, ‘All I have in my stomach is vodka and semen.’”
And then I’m melting into laughter, collapsing against the countertop as my cheeks flame. “Oh god, vodka and semen—V&S! I do remember that. Oh, that’s horrible. That’s a really embarrassing story.”
“It’s embarrassing for him, not you.” He calmly lays the vegetables out on the cutting board, then starts to chop.
“It’s kind of embarrassing for me.”
I grab a mushroom from his pile, popping it into my mouth. When I reach for a second he swats my hand away. “Would you let me cook? We both know what happens when you don’t have any food in your system.”
“Low blow, Walsh,” I chuckle. “Very low blow.”
So I hop up onto the counter and watch him work. Andy places a skillet on the stovetop, then starts chopping the onions and bell peppers, biting his lip with unconscious focus. Once the aromatics are in the pan, he turns to the spice rack, hand running through his hair as he considers his options.
I like this version of Andy—lazy weekend morning Andy. He’s usually so polished, but this morning he’s wearing a gray sweatsuit that’s at least as old as our friendship, with the sweater unzipped halfway to reveal a navy blue t-shirt from some race he ran ages ago.
For a man who’s so often tense and hard on himself, he’s relaxed while he cooks. He cracks four eggs into the skillet with one hand, then adds the mushrooms, spinach, and spices. I watch him nod down at the pan while it simmers, then turn to pull out plates and silverware.
“Oh, let me do that.”
I hop down from the counter to set the table, and by the time the meal is served, any awkwardness from earlier this morning has totally dissipated.
“So,” I say around a mouthful of omelet, “our third weekend as roommates. What should we do to celebrate?”
“Well, it has to be special. You know how important week-based anniversaries have always been to me.”
“Do you want to get out of the house? We could go somewhere really messy like White Horse or TITS.”
The two bars aren’t so different from each other, but that’s the Allston neighborhood for you.
Either way we’re guaranteed a night of sweaty 21-year-olds, early 2000’s dance hits, and bottom-shelf liquor.
“Yeah sure,” he says. “An homage to our friendship’s humble beginnings. College kids and strong drinks.”
“I’ll text NASA.” I take out my phone and scroll for the group chat as I ask, “What are your plans for the day until then?”
Andy shrugs. “Making my schedule for the week, maybe meal prep, or reading. Nothing special.”
“That sounds great. Let’s be lazy. Oh, but… I forgot, I finished my book yesterday.”
“Did you want to borrow one?”
“Can I?”
“Yeah, come on,” he says, rising from the table. “You can pick.”
He crosses towards the closed door of his bedroom, and here’s the crazy thing: I’ve never actually been in his room before.
I mean, I went in his college bedroom a bunch because it was a dorm and they threw all kinds of parties there, but that was different. Since he moved here after college, I have never, ever been in his room.
It’s hard to explain just how weird that is, but let me try:
NASA is close. We are very, very close. Definitely not the type of friend group to keep things off limits.
Nolan is the first person I text every month when my period starts, so he can make me his special chicken noodle soup.
One time I flossed Lia’s teeth for her because her nail polish was wet.
I have often peed while on the phone with any/all of them and not even bothered to mute.
We know each other to our bones. So I should know every inch of Andy’s room already, and shouldn’t be surprised by the contents. But I don’t, and I am.
Andy’s bedroom is just off of the living room. He opens the door now, revealing two tall windows on the far wall—same as my room. Between his windows is a queen-sized bed, tidily made with light blue sheets and a dark blue comforter. That’s not the part that surprises me. It’s the rest.
Dark wood shelves cover all of the remaining walls, floor to ceiling.