Chapter 4
4
A fter a day of deliberation, in preparation for my dating lessons, I am proud to say I downloaded a dating app. I’m prompted to design my own profile and I am stumped. I don’t know what kind of photos to use. Or how to write a bio, or literally anything that isn’t filling out an explicit questionnaire. I should have asked Melissa from therapy for advice. I close the app. I don’t want anyone on this train to see me setting up a profile.
I enter the building and get in the elevator, and soon enough find myself face to face with apartment 504. It is only after I insert the wrong key that I realize I don’t live here anymore. I slump and my backpack, filled with newly purchased art supplies for the mural, falls to the ground. I hang my head, lightly bumping the door. I let out a ferocious sigh. Wrong apartment.
I am bitter. This should still be my apartment. I’m about to turn around, but to my surprise, the door opens.
“I’m not interested in any thin mints,” Jae grins at me, folding his hands behind his back, dressed in some kind of athleisure getup. “But I’ll take a samoa.”
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I was just leaving…but what?”
“Have you never had a girl scout cookie?” He asks.
“Girl scouts don’t sell door-to-door,” I laugh suddenly. “They’re not…selling, like solar panels or vacuums or something.”
“I know…I was just, um, eating some.” He moves his arm from behind his back and offers me a cookie from a plastic sleeve. “They’re out in front of the Whole Foods on 7th Ave. I couldn’t resist.”
“Uh, no, thanks,” I take a step back, and I sneak a glance of the apartment behind him. There’s tarps covering the floors. “Are you renovating?”
“Your loss,” He says, shoving his other hand in his pocket. “And yeah, just a little—my mom might be moving in with me. She’s been having some health issues.”
“Oh, you don’t have to explain it to me—” I start.
“Geez, Riley, you gotta let me in a little. It’s not going to kill you to learn a little about others if you want to be successful at dating.” Jae’s voice is tinged with frustration.
“I’m sorry—” I whisper.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Jae says. “But at least give it a real try with me first.”
I think about it for a second—he’s right. I need practice talking and learning about others if I’m going to have a real shot at getting a date. “Okay.”
He leans on the doorframe. “I know you’ve been burned before, okay? But I won’t do that to you.” The second I lock eyes with Jae, I feel like I’ve been set on fire. He’s not fucking around. And neither am I.
“Okay,” I agree.
“Okay,” He nods. “Sorry, were you actually here for something?”
“No,” I glance around. “I came here from…muscle memory, I guess. I’ll see you later, though?”
“Yeah, I’ll text you about the mural later today. Let me give you my number.” I reluctantly hand him my phone, and he inputs it. “Don’t be a stranger. We’ll talk about dating soon, too.”
I give him a weak smile and turn away.
This has to be a mistake.
Later that night, I don’t know what photos to choose for my dating app profile. I don’t know what to write about myself either. The only thing I know is how old I am. I just want to get to the good stuff already.
I feel like a preteen giggling at her mother’s Cosmopolitan magazine . Show me the goods! I haven’t let myself look at other people in three years. And as much as my guilt permits me to admit, I miss it.
At a loss, I choose the first five photos of myself on my phone. I don’t want people to match with me. They can match if they want, that’s their prerogative. I want to flirt from a distance and ogle hot men.
Once I fill out my profile, it lets me swipe.
Derek, 29. Looking for my partner in crime. ;)
“Winky face,” I say aloud to Lily. “That’s acceptable, right?” I scratch her head while she looks up at me, her big, brown, fish eyes with not one ounce of comprehension.
I read the rest of the bio.
I’m an airline pilot. Looking for my dream girl to go on adventures with. Always down to try a new craft beer.
Okay, an airline pilot. I could work with that. He’s not bad looking, either. A bald head with big, blue eyes and pearly white teeth.
I swipe right.
IT’S A MATCH!
Already? I’m not upset by it. I open up the chat function. What do I say? I type, taking the plunge.
Hi.
What’s up?
Comes Derek's instant reply. That was fast. Do guys always reply this fast? Well…
Just sitting with my dog. You?
Same. Want to meet tonight?
Tonight? Are men usually this forward? It’s late. I don’t answer while I ponder these questions. Then he messages again.
Let’s get drinks and go back to my place
No, thanks. I don’t drink.
Boo. You can still come to my place. Lol
I definitely do not want to go to Derek’s place. A painful minute ticks by.
You can sit on my face if you want, Queen
I X out of Derek’s chat.
Maybe I’ll try someone else. I swipe left through a handful of men.
Nathan, 29. Tattoo artist in Brooklyn. Don’t use me as your time waster, Lol.
Jacob, 31. High-tech entrepreneur. Crypto billionaire. If I message u, u message back ;)
Reese, 22. Feminist in the streets, misogynist in bed. 420 friendly.
Max, 27. Fuck this app I’m never here lol. Add me on snapchat
Ryan, 26. Only swipe right if U can handle this. No makeup on the first date or expect togo swimming!
Am I using this app right?
Where are all the hot guys who pose with their dogs and their baby nieces and post photos of their homemade baked chicken? And then it hits me like a ton of fucking bricks.
I downloaded an app to look at hot guys. You got what you wanted, dumb ass.
What’s wrong with me? Derek messages again.
Fine bitch lmafo you’re missing out.
Dumb whore. Fuck u
Only prudes on this app
Grant would never treat me this way. I need to think about Grant. I feel my lip quiver. What have I done? I lock my phone and toss it across the sofa, startling Lily. Why would I need to download an app? I’m mourning, right? Mourning girls don’t need to look at hot guys or go on dinner dates.
How can I be happy and go on a dinner date when my fiancé is dead? How can I even think about being happy when Grant is dead? I walk towards the bathroom.
I feel trapped in my own skin. I am disgusted by my own actions. I feel so gross, like I need to take a shower to wash the dirty thoughts from my mind. I feel like I have fucked another man and paid him for it. Another man. I feel so ashamed.
Stripping my clothes, I climb into the shower. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Why did I download that app? Grant would never treat me this way. I let the water flow over my skin, mixing with my own tears of regret. I didn’t deserve to be happy after Grant died. I don’t deserve to be happy when he’s dead. I repeat that mantra over and over like I have the last three years.
If he’s not here, I’m not happy.
If he’s dead, he’s not here.
I should have done more.
I shouldn’t have let him die.
Even though I knew I could not have done a thing. Death doesn’t discriminate. I feel a shiver deep in my bones, and I know deep down, I have to break free of this spiral of thought I have let myself swim in the last three years. My therapy wasn’t in vain.
He’s not here. Why can’t I be happy?
He’s dead. He’s not coming back.
I couldn’t have done anything else.
I’m not a doctor. Why wasn’t I a doctor?
I’m crying with my whole body. I cough up a lump of mucus and spit it into the drain. A tsunami wave washes over me. This guilty grief feels like nothing else. It destroys everything else I feel
All guys can’t be like that, right? I ask myself the question as if I have the answer. Grant wasn’t like that. I wish I could have Grant back. I miss him terribly. I am so, so lonely.
Shampoo.
Rinse .
Conditioner.
Rinse again.
I want to be in good company. I want to be happy. I want to be in love again. I have so much love to give, and I want to give it to someone, anyone, who will receive it. How much longer must I wait before I don’t feel so terrible about wanting to love again? Why does it feel so terrible? I know I’m ready to love again. Maybe I’m not ready if I feel like this.
Who decides? I decide.
I don’t mind the changing of the seasons, the many sunrises or sunsets I’ve spent without him. I don’t care about the empty bed, or the missing shoes, or the thrown-out razors anymore. I don’t even really mind moving from the apartment.
But I am so afraid that if I learn to love someone else, it means Grant will be gone forever, only a memory truly lost to the passing of time. I’ll have to find some way to remember him. I cry for the rest of my shower.
I wake up the next morning with a headache. Today is the day I start painting Jae’s mural. I stare at myself in the mirror and someone different stares back at me. The same shell of myself I’ve looked at in the mirror for the last three years suddenly looks different. After it hit me last night, how long must I wait before I can love again?
I don’t want to wait any longer. I’m ready for good things to happen. I need something good. Look in the mirror, and they can happen today. Determined to make today a good day, I get dressed in my painting coveralls that I haven’t worn in well over a year. They’re a little snug in the shoulders but I will make it work for today. I pet Lily’s snout and pat her head as she awakens from her slumber. She clobbers my feet, excited for the day ahead. Little does she know; it will be filled with much napping and solitude once again.
I go over my schedule in my head.
Feed and walk Lily. Go to The Red Kettle and apply primer. Start drawing the design. Lunch break. Go home to walk Lily. Back to The Red Kettle to finish drawing until the restaurant opens. Go home.
I wonder how I can squeeze in working on my dating app in there.
Deciding that the issue with my potential suitors is that my bio is not specific enough, I try to come up with an extremely detailed profile to put off anyone who would, you know, think about cryptocurrency as a turn on or take me swimming on the first date.
I know what I want.
A dinner date with the boy next door.
He’d be unforgivably handsome. He’d be sweet to his mother and would bake me a cake on my birthday. He’d call me every night before I go to sleep, even if we saw each other that same day. He would hold my hand when we walk in the park and buy me tea, not coffee. He’d give me a chaste kiss on the doorstep of my building after he walked me home. He’d tell me he loves me while we watch the city roll by from his secret spot, tucked away in a rooftop or park I’ve never been to.
He’d take care of me for once. I’d be his kind of woman and he’d love me for all of me, grief included. He’d say: “Darling, as long as I’m with you, I don’t care where we are.”
And I’d love him back just as much. I am determined to find him, no matter how guilty I feel. I deserve to be loved again. Grant would forgive me. He would not want to see me so lonely. Jae and the dating app are my first steps, and if that fails, then I’ll try again somehow. I’ll ask Melissa from the grief support group.
Feeling confident with my plan, I take Lily on a short walk around the block after feeding her breakfast. By the time we get back inside, she is content and ready for her mid-morning five hour long nap, several hours earlier than usual.
I refresh her water bowl and leave out some kibbles. It’s my first time leaving her for such a long period of time, and I’m worried about her more than myself. I shower her in a flurry of kisses before I grab my bag, paint in hand, lock the door, and make my way downstairs.
Outside, the morning air is crisp, even for April. Spring in New York City is my favorite; not even the vibrant leaves of Autumn compare to the baby blooms of magnolia and cherry blossom trees.
It is as if every year the city is reborn along with the crocuses and daffodils. The sure signs of spring are here, littering every block: ice cream trucks grabbing their parking spots after the street sweeper comes by; the fruit cart ladies sitting on their corners, selling mango with chamoy sauce under umbrellas; artists displaying their prints, even at this early hour.
Shops put signs outside, advertising their specials from two for one cinnamon buns to cheap cocktails. Elegant bouquets adorn outdoor dining tables, and joggers and bikers, decked in the trendiest workout gear in the open streets, make the coming warm weather feel especially promising..
I smile to myself and snap a photo of a pear tree adorning the side of a brick building to use as a painting reference. I make my way down the subway steps and lean on the steel beams on the platform. Six minutes until the next train.
I hesitantly open my dating app. No new matches. Of course. I hadn’t swiped on anyone since Derek. I open my profile and delete my current bio.
I type out:
Reserved woman seeks a funny, college educated man down for uncomplicated romancing. Pets must be OK.
There. That has to be off-putting enough to scare off the assholes and douches, but not so off-putting it won’t scare off the good guys. I’m satisfied with that. I switch to the feed of potential suitors.
Troy, 28. Wannabe standup comic. Looking for a girl who can take a joke.
I can take a joke I think to myself and swipe right before I can stop myself. No match. Maybe he hasn’t seen me yet.
I lock my phone as the train arrives, ready to focus on art, and only art. I’m here to do a job. Thinking about painting makes my anxiety grow. It has been a long time since I painted something of this scale. I know it’s like riding a bike, once you get on and start pedaling, you remember how to do it, and all is well. It is the getting on part that makes me, and everyone else who is afraid, so nervous.
The train arrives at the station quickly, as it’s only a stop away. I could easily walk there, but with the paint in my bag, I don’t want to arrive looking like I ran a marathon. Sure enough, the restaurant has the lights on, and I can see a figure moving in the back. I try to open the door, but the bells only jingle. It’s locked.
I try rapping the glass door gently, waving my hands wildly, anything to get Jae’s attention. I know he’s in there. He’s wearing a chef’s white uniform with the embroidered patch on the breast pocket. He seems to be mopping. It sounds like he has loud music playing from the back. He’s completely undisturbed by my knocking and waving.
I still can’t get his attention after knocking one more time, so my only choice is to call him and let him know I’m here.
I select the contact, Jae (Mural), and click “call”.
“Hello?”
“It’s Riley Chase. I’m here to paint the mural. I’m out front. Can you let me in? The door is locked.”
“Huh?” He answers, looking up. Jae walks towards the door and pulls it open with ease. “It’s unlocked.” Jae laughs, mop still in hand. “You just have to pull on it.”
I am immediately, unabashedly embarrassed. I knew I should have yanked on it harder. God, why does that sound so dirty? I turn an ungodly shade of tomato red, apologizing profusely.
“Sorry. I didn’t want it to look like I was trying to break in … I figured it was best to call you.”
“It’s fine.” Jae drops his mop in a bucket. “So, I guess I’ll show you around you as part of your orientation. The official tour if you will.” I follow him as he walks towards the back. The restaurant is L-shaped with the sushi bar at the base of the L.
“The bathroom and my office are that way.” He points to a long dark hallway.
“Kitchen is here. Don’t come in unless you have non-slip shoes.” Jae points to a set of swinging double doors.
I nod my head in agreement. “Non-slip shoes. Kitchen. Got it.”
We retrace our steps towards the front of the restaurant. He points to the long blank wall I suspected would be the mural canvas. “This is where I want the mural to go. You can use this entire wall. Just don’t get paint on the floor or the bench. I already have tarps and a step ladder in the back of the kitchen.”
My height is no match for a twelve-foot ceiling, unfortunately. His grin is infectious, and I almost want to smile back at him, as if it weren’t 7 o’clock in the morning.
“Thanks. I’m going to get started with primer and sketching the design. Should I get the tarps?” I ask him.
“I’ll get them. You don’t have non-slip shoes.” He glances down at my red sneakers. He disappears behind the double doors, swishing and swooshing behind him.
I grab the primer out of my painting bag, and a large roller. I take my pencil case out and set it on the table in front of me. I size up my canvas.
First, there’s crown molding at the top by the ceiling. That takes at least a foot off the canvas. The bench is about three feet up on the wall. Does he want me to paint under the bench? We’d have to remove it. This is way smaller than I anticipated. I’d really have to scale down my idea to make it fit. I’d probably have to cut the top part of the landscape…or the bottom part. Or both.
Jae returns, a stack of tarps over one shoulder, the step ladder in the other arm. He now has his sleeves rolled up, showing off a set of black and gray traditional American tattoos. A set of kitchen knives on the left and a sharp rose on the right. For a moment, I am utterly distracted and unable to deliver my bad news.
Why am I even noticing him?! I kick myself internally. Focus on the art.
“So, we have a bit of a problem,” I start, trying to work up my confidence. “I don’t really have a twelve by six canvas here, like your email said. Your bench cuts off at the three-foot mark, and your crown molding cuts off at about the eleven-foot mark.” I show Jae my measurements using my tape measure.
“I could paint under the bench, but no one would see it, and you risk it getting scuffed by feet. Additionally, we’d have to remove this whole bench or risk the continuity of the painting. And I don’t think you want me painting over the crown molding.”
Jae looks like I just smacked him. He is not my first clueless client, and I doubt he’ll be the last. Luckily, the ball is in my court with this. I push the image of his forearms out of my head. Scram. I remove my sketch from my sketchbook and fold down the first inch, and the bottom three inches. “It’ll look more like this if we account for this main area here,” I say, waving my hand towards the bulk of the empty wall above the bench.
Jae looks at the sketch, his brow furrowed.
“Who measured this space for you?” I ask him, trying to parse out information about how the measurements got so misconstrued.
“My younger sister. She’s seventeen,” Jae answers. He sets the stack of tarps on the floor and holds the folded sketch up to the wall.
“Well, as I see it, we have two options. Cut off a foot at the top for the molding and remove the bench. Or remove both. Or just do a smaller mural.” I tell Jae, crossing my arms. I hope that this entire project is not a series of me asking to make changes due to his poor planning.
“What do you recommend?” he asks me, appearing to genuinely want my opinion.
“I recommend doing the smaller mural. I can make it more detailed to make up for the loss of space,” I tell him. “I am still confident in my ability to do a nice mural. You don’t want people’s shoes on it.”
“Let’s do what you think is best,” he says. “I trust you to make the right decision. You’re the artist. Clearly, I don’t know what I’m doing.” Jae laughs at his own misfortune. “Let me know when you want to take a break.”
Taking a break hadn’t even crossed my mind before suggesting we cut the size of the painting. What’s wrong with me? His tattooed forearms, that’s what’s wrong with me.
“I’m going to start now.” I take a glance at him once he’s back to mopping, facing away from me. Good god damn, he’s even got a nice ass, too. Focus.
I’m pouring primer in a tray and getting my roller in hand after covering the bench with tarp, and before I know it Jae turns his music back on so we don’t have to work in silence. We work quietly in tandem. I draw a new, shorter version of the mural in my sketchbook. He mops. Jae approves the new mural while I wait for the primer to dry. He sets the tables. I take out my pencil case and decide on a pencil.
“Where did you go to school?” He asks me, sitting down at one of the nearby tables.
“The School of Visual Arts. I studied fine studio art.” I say absentmindedly, concentrating on my pencil strokes.
“How long have you been painting?” Jae asks, his interest seeming genuine.
“As long as I can remember.” I erase a stray mark, shavings falling to the bench below.
“Where’d you grow up?” He asks another question.
“Hartford, Connecticut.”
“And what’s your favorite color?”
“Sage green.”
He gets up and stocks the bar miniature refrigerators with reused wine bottles filled with cold water, a bowl of lemons, and a bin of ice. I continue drawing, and try to build up the courage to ask him a question. I can’t let it be all about me.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I finally ask.
“I taught myself.”
“You didn’t go to school?” I follow up.
“I did for a little bit,” He says, slicing some more lemons. “It wasn’t for me.”
“Do you own this restaurant?”
“I rent the space from the owner.”
“What’s the best thing on your menu?”
“The Omakase.” I look over my shoulder to find him grinning. “I’ll feed it to you sometime.”
“How’s your mom doing?”
“She’s just fine.”
By 10:00 a.m. I’ve just about finished the outlines of the mountains and cherry blossom trees. I hear him rustling behind me, to the right, to the left, all over the restaurant, and then it’s silent again when he disappears into the kitchen. I stand static in front of my wall, not once taking a break because I finally feel like myself again. I smile to myself, pleased with my sketch. I am at my best when I am creating.