Back After This

Chapter Twenty-Two The Third Date

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Third Date

“I want to talk to you about sex,” Eliza said to me as we sat in the studio talking about my long-awaited third date with Michael #2, scheduled at last for that night, only a little more than three weeks before we were supposed to send out our finale.

“That’s the naked thing, right? I think I’ve heard of it.” The microphones were not where I was going to refer to Will even existing. Especially existing naked at my apartment. Or existing fully clothed on the street where she yelled at us. Better just to forget it ever happened. Right?

“In general, what do you think is the right time to have sex with someone?” she asked.

“I don’t know, 10:30? Maybe a little earlier if you don’t have dessert.”

She rolled her eyes back so far she probably stabbed herself with her eyelashes. “Hilarious,” she said.

I had slept with Justin on what I supposed could be considered our first real date, but we’d known each other for a year. With other people, it ranged from “first date, because I felt like it” to “after kind of a while, around the time I was starting to wonder if he didn’t want to because he was very religious” to, unfortunately, “when I decided he was about to break up with me if I didn’t,” although that was college. (And then there was always “when he successfully completed an assignment about audio production.”) I certainly wouldn’t consider any of those necessarily the right time.

“I guess it depends?” I said.

“Good answer,” she said. This was satisfying, because I rarely felt like I gave her good answers, at least not to the degree where she would announce it. “It depends, although I do have a rule of thumb.”

“Of course you do.”

“I honestly feel you should wait until at least the fourth date.”

“Why the fourth date?” I didn’t know much, but I did know that pop-culturally, the conventional wisdom seemed to be that it was the third date. Maybe Eliza was a sex contrarian.

“Well, you might be aware that a lot of women go with the third date.” I nodded, rather than yelling “AHA!” “So because of that, I think some guys are just waiting to get to that third date, and they’re assuming that will be the one with sex, and then after that, they won’t hang around. Unfortunately, I see a lot of post-third-date ghosting.”

“That’s a terrifying-sounding diagnosis,” I said. “Wait, are you saying men you’ve picked do this? Men you’ve approved do this? That seems impossible when they’ve been vetted so carefully.”

“Look, it happens almost never. It’s not a nice thing. But yes, occasionally, obviously, even I have been known to arrange a date with a man who is waiting for the sex part, and then after that, he moves along.”

“Please tell me your next book is going to be called Waiting for the Sex Part. ”

“Can you focus, please? You’ll remember we talked about this once before, the fact that sometimes people who appear to be interested in getting to know you actually aren’t. You can’t know,” she said. “You can’t know, but you can give yourself the best information. And I personally believe you get the best information by waiting until at least date number four. If you decline on date number three and they come back for date number four, it clears a certain amount of clutter.”

“Human clutter,” I clarified. “We’re trying to clear human clutter.”

“Human clutter!” she said. “Exactly. You clear out the human clutter, and you’re left with the, you know, better-quality human furnishings.”

“This is getting weird,” I said. “You’re going in a very ‘I turned my date into a lamp’ kind of direction. I don’t like it. And to be honest, I don’t know that the thing with Michael is all that sparky, so I’m not in a hurry.”

Her eyes narrowed a little disapprovingly but pityingly, like I’d bungled the pronunciation of the name of a country where she, but not I, had vacationed. “I really think sparks are overrated,” she said. “That’s a common complaint, ‘no sparks.’ But if you think about it, what creates sparks is your gut reaction to someone, right? That spark is just your gut instinct and their gut instinct crashing into each other. They react to you, and you react to them. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. So don’t get wrapped up in that.”

“But sparks are fun. They make you want to see people again.” Up against the wall inside your front door, I added, but only to myself.

“Yeah, but sometimes it’s just because you’re sensing that the person is your usual type.”

“I don’t know if I have a type, really.”

“You don’t think you could describe, just generally, what kind of guy you like?”

“I’m not sure. I guess I don’t have a list, I just like what I like, it’s by instinct.”

She rolled her eyes. Again. “Oh, okay, you’re an I-don’t-have-a-type type. Here’s the truth: Everybody has a type. I have a type, you have a type, everybody does. And people want to say they don’t, because they think it makes them sound phony, when actually, I find it a little bit phony when people tell me they don’t have any standards, they just take it completely fresh with every person they meet.”

“I try not to have lists in my head, I guess,” I said.

“Oh my Goooooodddd, ” she moaned. “I’m asking you, I am begging you, not to pretend there isn’t anything you want in a person just because everything you want makes you feel guilty.” I was glad we were in the studio, because I felt that prickle on the back of my neck that I sometimes get when I know the tape is good. “I get it, I get it. You can’t say anything you haven’t run through twenty different filters to see how it sounds. You say you want a guy with a good job, and you think it makes you sound like a gold-digger. You say you want a guy who turns you on, and you think it makes you sound obsessed with looks, when all it means is that when you’re picking someone you are ideally going to end up having sex with for like fifty years, you should pick someone good-looking.”

“You just told me not to think about sparks!”

“I told you not to think about sparks, not sex. You’re definitely supposed to think about sex. In fact, I’m trying to save you from fifty years of sex with someone you aren’t actually all that attracted to but you settle for because you don’t think it’s polite to have preferences.”

“I never said I didn’t have preferences. I just don’t like listing them like I’m ordering a sandwich off a menu board.”

“Exactly,” she said triumphantly. I was so lost. “That’s exactly right. You’re the kind of person who refuses to order off the menu board. So you say ‘Make me anything.’ And they make you a sandwich and you don’t like it. But you don’t tell them you don’t like it, and you don’t learn anything, you just throw the sandwich in the trash, and then you’re mad that you’re starving at two in the afternoon eating Cheez-Its out of the vending machine because you refused to start a sentence with I want, even when somebody asks you to.”

It seemed impolite of her to improve upon my simile and beat me to death with it. She didn’t say anything more. I thought maybe she would charge back into it, but she didn’t. She sat back, just an inch or so, and she looked at me, so I said the first thing I thought of. “I want someone who improves bad days,” I said.

“It’s not very specific, and it’s very Cecily to frame your perfect partner through something negative, but it’s a start. What does improving a bad day look like?”

“It looks—”

“Start with ‘I want.’ And you are making a face, don’t make that face, they can’t see it on the podcast. People of the podcast, Cecily is making a face.”

“That’s just my face!”

“It is not. Do it. ‘I want…’?”

“Fine. I want someone to care why the day was bad, and then I want him to want it to be better. I want us both to know what the thing is—the little, seemingly insignificant thing—that will make a hard day just a tiny bit easier.”

“What is that for you?”

I let the dead-flat quiet settle around me. “Make me a drink,” I said. “A cup of coffee, a really cheap beer, a bourbon and Diet Coke, an iced tea. You set that little mug, or glass, or bottle in front of me, and I feel five percent better, no matter what. So I guess I want a drink.”

“I think,” she said, “that you want someone to know enough about you to know that you want a drink, and to care enough about you that for that moment, he’s going to stop what he’s doing, make you a drink, bring it to you, and then…do what?”

“Sit with me. Have a drink with me.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Exactly.”

“Well, hooray for me,” I said.

She smiled. “I’m not going to tell you that you’re the easiest person I’ve ever worked with. But you sat here with me and you gave me one thing you are genuinely looking for, that you want someone to do in a relationship with you, and this is pretty much the first time I’ve gotten you to do that, so I, for one, feel encouraged. And I think you’ll find that Michael is a guy who will make you a drink.”

“Oh, good.”

“So, you’re getting ready to go out with him again. Tell me about that.”

“I am,” I said.

“ I want, ” she said. “Start with that.”

“I want…” My voice sounded uncertain.

“Do it!” she ordered, and we both laughed.

“I want to go out with him again. I want to see what it feels like on a third date. I want to give it a try, and I want to find out a little more about him.”

“Well, that is fantastic,” she said. “He’s excited to see you, too. I just want to make sure you’re getting my original point. Do you even remember my original point?”

“Do not have sex with Michael. You’re afraid that I’m going to be overcome with desire and I’m going to tackle him in the back room of this restaurant, and we’re going to do it among the raw chicken and the kale, and it’s going to be very unsanitary, and you’re against it, that’s your point.” I turned toward the booth. “You can stop rolling,” I said. “I think we’ve covered this territory.” Abby gave me a thumbs-up.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Eliza said.

“How can that remind you of anything?”

“It does, it does. I was supposed to tell you, we had an issue with the reservation at the other place we picked for date number three, so tonight is Madeline’s again. We had to improvise, and they can take us on short notice and accommodate the production and everything.”

Madeline’s? Where Will worked? “Eliza, I’m not sure that works for me.”

“Don’t worry. I checked, and he’s not working tonight. You’re not going to run into him. It’s at 7:30. Call me after. I have to go. And please, give Michael a chance. You promised me you would, you owe me.”

Madeline’s. Well, hell.

All there was to do was put on a brave face, go on this date like a professional, and try to think on the walk over there of as many ways as possible to avoid Will if somehow it turned out he was working after all. Disguise? Sudden flu? Spiritual need to be seated in total darkness? Demand for a particular server who wasn’t Will, if I could remember anyone’s name? But the truth was that the odds were on my side to begin with: There were lots of tables, and there were lots of servers, and even if Eliza was wrong, the odds that Will would be our server were substantially lower than fifty percent. In all likelihood, he might be there somewhere, but he would not be our server.

—

Obviously, Will was our server.

Michael #2 and I had just sat down, exchanged a cheek-kiss, and started in on some red wine he’d ordered without me when I was overcome by the feeling that someone I had slept with was standing over me. I looked up. And really, we had reached the point where neither of us could possibly act surprised. If I had flown to Australia instead of Michael, and I had visited the Sydney Opera House, and I had tripped over a wombat on my way up the steps, Will would be the person who helped me up. If he had gone on an African safari and been eaten by a lion, I would have already been in the belly of that same lion when he got there, looking at him and going, “Well, this is unfortunate.”

“Good evening, sir, ma’am,” he said. I blinked twice.

“Oh. Yes. Hi,” I said.

“I’m Will, I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

Didn’t I wish.

He rattled off a couple of specials, and Michael #2 ordered a salad and something with fish that sounded very virtuous, and he handed his menu back.

“I think I’ll do the filet,” I said. “And the little burrata thing to start.” Will nodded. “Very good, I’ll be back with your starters.” I watched him go. Crisp white shirt, great hair, good arms, little scar on his ribs, smelled like that soap…obviously some of this was from memory.

Michael #2 put on his very appealing smile. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

“Oh, you too,” I said, and it went on like this. Nice to see you, how’s your work, how was Australia, how’s your mother, how’s podcasting, how are your patients, treated any sore throats lately? And then Will appeared and set down the starters—cheese for me and salad for Michael #2, which I tried not to take as a comment on our respective merits. “Thank you,” I said. “It looks delicious.”

Michael didn’t say anything. I flicked my eyes up at Will, whose face was unreadable. His smile was missing. And missed, by me.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked, and Michael gave a flat smile and shook his head.

I straightened the napkin on my lap. “No, no, thank you, this is great.” I tried to smile at him, but I honestly wondered whether I was now looking at his secret identical twin, so complete was the lack of acknowledgment. I had been naked with this person, had I not? I was almost sure of it. Had he not winked at me once? I tried not to let the phrase “human clutter” seep into my brain—Was he human clutter? Was I human clutter?—but by then, it was already there.

When Will was gone, Michael #2 reintroduced his warm grin. “My dad used to say waiters are the people who didn’t have the grades to be plumbers.”

I bit my upper lip with my bottom teeth, which was my most effective method of forcing words back down my own throat. I knew someone who used to say, “Plumbers are highly trained and probably make more money than ninety percent of their clients,” but it was me, so it seemed like the wrong thing to say. Give him a chance, Eliza had said. Anybody can have a bad day.

“Well,” I said, “I love the food here, so I’m glad things worked out this way.” I did love a plate highlighted by cheese.

We got through the first course talking about Michael’s niece, who had recently gotten the fourth-highest mark in the state of Maryland on some kind of standardized test that sounded very dystopian, and that I assumed I’d have heard of if I had children. She did sound like a smart kid. I’m sure he was delighted to feel confident she would not wind up as a waiter or a plumber.

He remained a mostly very nice man, but by the time he asked me if I wanted dessert, all I wanted was to get out of my uncomfortable shoes and my shape-perfecting bra and get in bed for a week. “I think I’m going to make it an early night,” I said, “I’m feeling a little off.”

“It’s probably the cheese,” he said. “I couldn’t handle that much cheese, I’ll tell you that.”

Maybe I would get in bed for two weeks.

He got the check, which he had told Julie he thought was important now that we were transitioning into real dating and not just show dating. And as we got up to leave, I couldn’t help peeking. He had tipped a flat ten percent, to the penny.

He smiled and extended his arm toward the door to walk me out, leaving no particularly graceful opportunity for me to reach into my bag and pull out an extra bill or two for Will. I smiled weakly and followed him out through the door he was holding open. He signaled for a cab, because he was the kind of guy who always seemed to be able to magically cause cabs to appear, and when he offered it to me, I shook my head.

“Oh, thank you,” I said, “but I can walk from here, I’m not far. This was fun.”

He came back toward me, but as he approached, I put out one hand, like I was discouraging a hungry dog. “I’m just going to play it safe since I’m not feeling well, I don’t want to get too close. Don’t want to make your patients sick.”

He nodded. “Good thought, I have an early appointment anyway.” He extended his arm and put it on my elbow. “I’ll call you?”

“I—sure, sure.” There was literally no reason to get into it standing outside the restaurant when I was so close to watching him disappear into a cab. He shut the door behind him, and the cab drove off, and I buried my face in my hands.

“Nice guy.”

I turned. Apparently, we’d been so taxing to wait on that our server had needed to take a break.