Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
O nce Matt is back in LA, I try my best to get back to normal life and enjoy the end of summer in New York City. It’s not easy. I’m captivated by him—I feel a pull toward him with an intensity I've never experienced before, especially in the context of only spending time with him for seven days. I can't shake the feeling that this chance encounter with him means something—a Sliding Doors moment. I have to acknowledge that I misinterpret signs at about a fifty-fifty rate, but this feels different. Even if I want to forget about him and our week together, I can't. We have been talking almost nonstop since his departure.
I ask one of my best friends, Meredith, to meet me for drinks. She is one of my oldest friends in the city—I met her years ago through Nick and Meredith’s husband, JP. Nick and JP played club soccer together in college and are joined at the hip. I was instantly drawn to Meredith the first night I met her at a party in someone’s tiny apartment on the Upper East Side. She was holding court, telling every single guy at the party exactly what she disliked about them in between shots of tequila.
She is hilarious, smart, and unapologetic. We talk frequently about how we are each other's “bury a body in the middle of the night, no questions asked” phone call. She seriously considered ways to fuck with Nick in the wake of the “I’m not in love with you” line, including getting dog poop delivered to his doorstep. “There is an app for that, you know,” she told me.
I get to the restaurant first and grab a table outside. I order two top shelf margaritas and tableside guacamole. As I wait for Meredith, I pull out my phone and smile when I see a new text from Matt.
What are you doing?
He's been spending long days in the studio, plugging away at new music. It seems like our conversations were a way to power through some writer's block, and I am more than happy to keep him company.
Our conversations range from intriguing and deep to light and fun—all with heavy doses of flirtation. The chemistry—even over text—is undeniable.
A server drops off a basket of chips and salsa.
Dinner with a friend.
I send him a picture of the margaritas.
You haven’t told me what that drink means yet.
I laugh.
Margaritas—one of the few neutral drinks. They can be consumed almost anywhere, anytime, with anyone. No preconceived notions or limitations. Except maybe that in Mexican restaurants they are a requirement.
Haha. Very true. And brilliant.
What are you up to?
He sends back a selfie of him in the studio, all furrowed brow, smoldering eyes, pouty lips. A fire erupts in my stomach. He is exquisite.
Meredith bustles in, a flurry of high heels, blond hair, and an overflowing Celine tote. I put my phone away.
“Sorry, sorry.” She gives me air kisses. “You are an angel,” she says as she takes a long sip of her drink and flops into the chair. “I got stuck at work. My boss and his small dick energy continue to reign supreme, and apparently, I am the only one in the entire fucking company who dares to call him on it.”
Meredith works in corporate communications, and while I don't understand what that means, it seems like she faces high-pressure situations often. She is my only remaining married friend who doesn’t make being married a defining part of her personality. With so many of my other married friends, I sit quietly at dinners and brunches while they complain about their husbands: their golf trips, their inability to load a dishwasher, their socks on the floor. Which quickly morphs into talk about ovulation, breast pumping schedules, or the cost of childcare. Most of the time, I don't mind that I can't relate to them at this point in my life, but it wears thin on occasion. Meredith, on the other hand, doesn't talk to me much about JP, and they are one of the only couples who've managed to stay completely neutral throughout the divorce and continue to maintain close friendships with both of us. Meredith never mentions Nick, and I never ask.
“What is new in your life, Jules?” She signals the server for another round.
“Nothing, same old, same old,” I lie.
I'm not convinced anything will pan out with Matt when he gets back to town, so I don't mention it. Our week together was a whirlwind, physically and emotionally supercharged. Despite the continued texting, I'm trying to be realistic about what it might be … nothing. And I decided a few days ago that I'll be okay with that. Just to have the experience of him—the knowledge that men like him exist, that the week we spent together was possible—could be enough for me. The thought is slightly depressing, however.
"Okay, don't say anything until I'm done. But , I think I have a guy for you." She gives me a conspiratorial smile.
I roll my eyes.
" Don't . You haven't even heard me out!"
"Fine." I sip my drink.
"Okay, so the stats are, he is forty-one, also divorced. Very amicably, like you. No kids, no baggage. He is a client—the head of one of our big accounts. I met him at a conference a few months ago, and we've been working closely with them for the past few weeks. He's tall, at least six feet, muscular, like he lifts heavy weights regularly, dark hair with some salt and pepper, very distinguished, piercing blue eyes, absolutely dreamy, Jules. He's smart and successful—he makes more money than you and I combined, judging from his custom suits and Nolita address. And he is funny—sharp, quick-witted, observant funny. He's a Princeton grad, but he doesn't reek of it like the other Ivy Leaguers we know. I think he's a winner. And before you dismiss me, please let me remind you, I have never once—until now—suggested you go out with someone of my choosing. But this guy is it."
Meredith is a fantastic pitch woman. I try to imagine the person she is describing, but all I can do is conjure up Matt. His dark brown eyes, soft smile, his messy hair and worn jeans. The guy she is describing sounds like the exact opposite.
"Hmm ... no."
"Come on ." Meredith groans. "You are so completely boring. What is the point of saying no? At the very least you get a nice dinner and some good fodder for our next girls' night. I also know you need to get laid. There is only so much a Magic Wand can do."
She is right. Meeting Matt has made me very cognizant of how long it has been since I've had an orgasm with someone else in the room.
"Can I think about it?"
"Fine, but I'm going to put an expiration on this offer. He's not going to be on the market very long, and I can just see the two of you and your future dark-haired, blue-eyed babies, or maybe brown-eyed? I can never remember what color is recessive or dominant…doesn’t matter either way —so gorgeous. You have one week."
"All right, deal."
* * *
By the time I get home, it's after ten p.m. I have just settled onto the couch in my pajamas when I hear the buzz. Neil's familiar voice fills my apartment. "Miss Julia, I know it's late. There is a courier here for you. Should I send him up or away?"
"Up is fine. Thanks, Neil."
A few moments later, I open my door to find a twenty-something guy with a bag and something wrapped in brown paper and twine. He hands me a note and a clipboard to sign for the delivery. I thank him and start opening the envelope as I head back to the couch.
Jules—To help with your drink decision angst, I figured I’d save you the struggle and send one of my choosing. And a book to keep you company until I see you next week—M.
I open the bag to find a bottle of Yamazaki twelve-year-old single malt whiskey, two lemons, a jar of sugar cubes, and handwritten instructions for how to make a whiskey sour.
I open the package to find a hardback copy of An Inquiry into the Good by Kitaro Nishida. I smile as I walk over to my counter and set about mixing the cocktail as instructed. When I'm done, I call Matt. He answers on the first ring.
“You are very thoughtful. Thank you for the gifts.”
I can hear voices in the background, instruments clanking.
“You are very welcome. If you give me two minutes, I'll make myself a drink and FaceTime you back so we can have it together."
"How 2020. Sounds good."
Five minutes later, I pick up the FaceTime and watch his handsome face fill my screen. I hold up my drink to him. “Cheers.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you. Is that crazy?” he asks.
Butterflies. “Yes. But the feeling is mutual.”
“Good. When I'm back in New York, can I make you dinner at my place?”
“Yes, I'd like that.”
We chat a while longer and say goodnight. He clicks off, and I curl up on the couch with Murphy, sipping my cocktail, reading my new book, and can't help but notice the lovestruck smile plastered on my face.
I text Meredith.
Thanks, but no thanks on the corporate sexpot.
Ugh, suit yourself.