16

Eddy: The Dating Game

There was a new man in my life. Or boy; he was quite young. And tiny. And furry. One night, I was walking home from work, and I saw a sign in the local veterinary clinic asking for people to take in kittens who’d been found earlier that week. At first, I walked past the clinic and tried to convince myself that I didn’t want or need a pet. I’d already lost custody of a pet and wasn’t too happy about it. When Andreas and I split, he’d insisted on keeping our dog, even though he’d never shown the slightest interest in the miniature schnauzer that was meant to be ours. But I ended up doubling back, and curiosity got the better of me. Especially when I saw that sweet little furball.

I’d never really considered myself a cat person, but as soon as I saw that sweet little tuxedo kitten, I knew I had to have him. So I filled in the paperwork and became the proud owner of Sable, just a few weeks old and capable of so much mischief and joy.

Some nights, I fell asleep with Sable, curled in a furry ball and pressed against my chest. Other times, I woke to him mewing for my attention, his white-socked paw gently tapping me awake. Sable kept me from thinking too much about how much I missed Laney…or how much I wished Henrik would tell me he was coming over.

On a whim, I took a picture of Sable and me in bed together and sent it to Henrik. I’d typed in a message that I was on a hot date with the new man in my life. It took a while to get a reply and I worried—perhaps I’d been a little too provocative. Maybe he’d think I was being flippant. But a few hours later, the reply came, “Sable can keep my space warm for me.”

And it made me smile.

I waited for a text with news of Henrik's impending arrival. I hinted to him that I wanted to see him, but he kept talking about work and how things were still too crazy in the office. Two weeks went by and still he never mentioned if he was coming. I finally asked him one night when I was tired of the radio silence. But Henrik would never confirm.

Maybe Mads hadn't managed to convince him. Maybe he'd got it all wrong. Maybe I'd misread everything.

Maybe Henrik liked flirting with me from a distance, but he didn’t want anything more.

My mother and I had taken to texting one another every day now that I was back in the States. We rarely texted when I lived in Sweden. Instead, we scheduled weekly Skype sessions, which always ended with Cecily lamenting that I lived so far away and reminding me it was time for a visit. Now though, we texted several times a day. And my mom had joined the modern age--she was more active on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter than I was.

I sent Henrik links to my mother’s social media pages and he followed her. Sometimes, he commented more than I did. And I liked it—the silly comments he and my mother traded and how natural it seemed.

One evening, she finally grew tired of texting and called me. I was in my favorite spot on the sofa with Sable sleeping in my lap.

"How are you?" my mother asked in that way that all mothers do when they know that something more is going on that you're admitting.

"Everything's fine," I retorted. "Honestly."

"Then why are you at home on a Friday night? Shouldn't you be out taking the city by storm?"

"I wasn't in the mood." I scratched Sable behind his ears and listened to him purr. "Besides, I was at work all day and I'm exhausted."

"Edwina, be honest with me." Now my mother was using that clipped tone from her days as a teacher. It always worked.

"I'm not loving being back," I admitted. "Everything's too different. And...I keep thinking about Henrik and wishing I were still in Copenhagen with him."

"You could always visit him."

"I only just moved back, Mom."

"Well, is he coming for a visit soon?"

“You’re never going to meet anyone if you go home every single night,” Mimi complained for the fourth time this week. I’d been back in New York now for nearly a month, but I didn’t want to admit it yet. She cast aside an invoice and leveled me with an exasperated eye roll.

“I’m not in the mood for dates,” I reminded her.

We’d already been through this, but I’d made the mistake of telling her that Henrik and I had agreed we could see other people. It’s just…I didn’t want to see anyone. Even if I hated going home to an empty apartment. Even if it meant the only way I could see him was when we Skyped or FaceTimed. It was better than the horrible, standing-around-at-wine-bars-and-pretending-I-was not-looking-scene. I’d already tried that. I felt too old now for such nonsense. I wasn’t that Sex & the City-loving girl anymore. I didn’t long for my own Mr. Big. I just wanted to go home, kick off the heels I wore all day, and slip into a cozy pair of yoga pants and a tank top. I was turning into the exact opposite of who I’d once been.

“Well, you have to go.” Mimi was already breezing past me to greet one of our regular clients, a wardrobe assistant for a production company who’d just walked in. “Darren and I arranged a date for you. His name is Winston, and you’re meeting him at Ardesia for tapas.”

Damned Mimi. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be hoofing it to meet Date Number One on such an abysmally steaming Friday night. I couldn’t bear the thought of going down into a crowded, humid and probably fairly stinky bus or subway. We were well into September, but the temperatures still soared into the nineties, and the humidity wilted even the simplest of hairstyles and outfits. And I was wearing a silk t-shirt and very skinny linen pants with leather thong sandals that had felt very put together, very cool in the air-conditioned confines of my apartment.

Yes, I was stupidly optimistic.

If I’d been smart, I would have taken Uber to Ardesia, the agreed meeting place. By the time I reached the corner of 52nd and Tenth, I was certain I could feel my makeup sliding down my face and dripping on my silk t-shirt. The walk had taken a little longer than I’d expected, so I only had a few minutes before our arranged time to repair any damage the heat and humidity had done.

Why had I let Mimi talk me into this? I didn’t want to go on a date. Not with a random man. But here I was, now pulling the door open to Ardesia and shivering as a blast of arctic air from the fully-functioning AC hit me in the face. From melting to freezing in no time flat. I headed straight for the restrooms. Even if I wasn’t really invested in this date, I needed to repair any damage to make sure I was at least presentable.

I eased through the crowd, trying to avoid too much skin-on-skin contact since my arms were slick with sweat. Once I was in the women’s restroom, I commandeered a spot in front of the sinks and surveyed the damage. Luckily, it was minimal. The bronzer I’d applied had faded in the heat’s assault, but at least it hadn’t smudged on my shirt. My mascara? Still on my lashes and not—thankfully—running in black rivulets down my cheeks. My pixie cut had held up—no humidity-induced frizz, no cowlicks. Thank God for styling products.

I freshened up, retouched my lip gloss, and tried to ignore the niggling voice in my head reminding me of the time when Henrik asked me why I was reapplying lipstick when he was just going to kiss it off me….

No, I would NOT think about him tonight. He still hadn’t confirmed whether or not he was coming to New York.

I’d stupidly checked my Facebook feed before leaving the apartment. Someone had tagged him in a post. I shouldn’t have bothered to read it.

“Stellar night out with new friend, Henrik Rasmussen!”

And there were several pictures of him. With one of those impossibly beautiful Danish women—the type with the most perfect cheekbones and slim, tanned limbs, and a mantle of shiny dark hair. She reminded me of a younger version of Helena Christiansen—tanned skin, impossibly pale eyes, and a mantle of tousled, glossy brown hair that had that “I just rolled out of bed” look. And she looked sated.

And pleased.

And smug.

I recognized that look.

I’d worn it all summer.

Fuck…

I texted him. I should have ignored it, but that picture rankled me.

- Are you seeing someone else?

- No. Told you before.

- Who is the girl in the picture then?

-What are you talking about?

- On FB. Some woman in your lap, calling you her new friend.

- Not date. She works with us.

-Right.

-Call me.

Instead of calling Henrik, I set my phone to silent. But I didn’t have a right to be upset, did I? We were still in limbo. I was on my way to meet a blind date. What kind of game were we playing?

I found Date Number One easily enough. He was waiting at the bar, nursing a bottle of Stella Artois as he scrolled through messages on his phone. He matched the description Mimi had given me: with his slicked back hair and his overly groomed appearance, he was practically a carbon copy of her husband, Darren. Not really my type, but at least I was out and trying to meet people.

I eased into the stool beside him and said, “You must be Winston.”

He flicked a glance at me. I thought maybe he’d compliment me—wasn’t that the standard? Or had Henrik spoiled me?

“You’re late,” Winston said, still scrolling through his phone. “But I’ll excuse this because you’re Mimi’s friend.”

“How kind of you.” Even I heard how icy my tone was. “Maybe you’ll order a glass of white wine for me to prove it.”

He arched an eyebrow at me. “Aren’t you forward?” Hmm. This wasn’t going well.

But he ordered the drink. I thought perhaps he’d order some tapas, but he showed no signs of doing so. When I suggested it, he wrinkled his nose at me and said, “I don’t think so.”

Christ, I’d never struck out this badly before, but maybe it was a blessing. Neither of us was into this. The sooner this date was over, the sooner I could go home, take a shower, and relax. The bar was full of other women in similar situations—trying to impress the men they were with or trying to seem impressed by their dates. How many of us were out that Friday night, looking for love or at least someone to fuck? I wasn’t even really interested in either. I kept telling myself that—even if it was possible that Henrik was seeing other people—I could live in New York and enjoy being single without having a man on my arm.

So I drank my wine and made small talk with Winston. And when he excused himself and left his phone on the bar, I took a quick peek to see if his messages were really so scintillating that he could prefer reading them to talking to me.

Instead of a stream of messages from a random woman, I was greeted with his Tinder profile…and he was looking to hook up with men who liked to be spanked and who liked dirty martinis and sex on the beach. I was down with the sex on the beach…Midsummer’s Eve was proof of that. But I was the wrong gender. And I didn’t want him spanking me.

The next date was a dud. Well, he turned out to be more interested in checking Tinder than talking to me. Another of Mimi’s finds, this one was one of her neighbors, a recently divorced architect called Andrew who’d sworn to Mimi that he was ready to meet new women. We’d arranged to meet at a pop-up beer garden in Dumbo.

At first glance, he was attractive enough to catch any woman’s eye—with his dark, wavy hair, athletic physique, and chocolate brown eyes, he reminded me of JFK junior. But that was where the similarities ended.

He was no John-John.

Throughout the evening, he stopped mid-sentence to glance at his phone and then return messages. I ignored it…until he called me Chelsea instead of Eddy. And when he excused himself to “take a slash” as he called it…I took that as my cue to leave.

At home, Sable greeted me with persistent meows, chiding me for leaving him alone so long. I cuddled my precious little fur ball, not caring that his breath smelled a little like tuna fish. He was much preferable to a guy who called going to the toilet “taking a slash.”

Date Number Three was good-looking enough. They always were—these banker boys that Mimi swore could be the new men in my life. They came in every color. She knew I didn’t care if he was black, white, or Asian. All that mattered was he was mature, that he would be good to me, and he’d never fuck me around. I wasn’t in the mood for another Andreas—a man too impressed with his own good looks to care about my feelings.

Mimi had picked a good one this time. His gray flannel suit was impeccably cut, and he had the lean sort of body she knew I liked. He was also her brother-in-law.

I wasn’t really certain what I thought of this. First Laney and Mads wanted me to connect with his cousin, now Mimi was offering me her brother-in-law.

James looked like he’d stepped straight out of a J. Crew catalogue or one of those Tiffany & Company commercials. He looked the part of the perfect date. He even smiled just right when I approached him and asked him if he was the person I was looking for.

“Mimi wasn’t lying when she said you were gorgeous,” he said and smiled just the right way—that way some men have that makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the room. I had the feeling it was a practiced art form for him.

“I’m sure you say that to all the girls,” I teased as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. His lips left wet marks on my skin.

I couldn’t help comparing him to Henrik, as he cupped my elbow and led the way to the bar. He walked with that swagger of self-assurance that so many American men had, the one that told the world he was the master of all he surveyed. There was none of Henrik’s diffidence or reserve. I doubt James ever felt the need for reserve. In a way, this was what I’d wanted—the man who knew he was attractive, who knew how to get things done. But that little smidgen of doubt about this date lingered.

At the bar, he ordered for us both without asking what I wanted. “I don’t want a martini,” I told the barman before he could begin mixing it. “I’d much rather have a glass of white wine—a Chenin Blanc if you have it.”

“Sorry about that. I should have known you’re a woman who knows her own mind.”

“I do,” I concurred. “And I know what I like to drink, and martinis aren’t very high on the list.”

“How is it that you and I have never met before?”

I shrugged. The wine bar was beginning to fill with the pre-theater/pre-dinner crowd. Someone squeezed past me, pushing me into James. I mumbled an apology and then said, “Could be I’ve been in Europe for a while.”

“Ah, yes. That’s right, Mimi did mention Europe.” He stared past, just over my shoulder and nodded at someone. “I assumed she meant you’d been on vacation.”

“No, I moved there eons ago. And now I’m back.”

“Were you working there?”

“Yes, I’m not a trust fund baby.” I tried to keep my tone light. I knew he was a trust fund baby. So was Mimi, though she’d always had a job. “I worked in PR for Max Mara for a while, and then I had my own business selling vintage couture.”

“And now you’re back.”

“Yes, that’s about the size of it.”

We were jostled around a few more times before he finally suggested we go somewhere else. I was starving—working around Mimi often meant you either didn’t have time to eat or you only grazed—eating handfuls of almonds or nibbling on salad. I really wanted a steak or something I could sink my teeth into.

“By the way, I’ve booked a table at the Marshall,” he said as an aside. “We could head there now.”

It was the best idea I’d heard all day.

I’d never been to the Marshall, though I’d read enough reviews to know that the food would be good. It was narrow—there were only enough tables for perhaps twenty guests at most—and though it was a relatively new restaurant, it had the look and feel of a place that had been there forever with its black wainscoting and faded sage green walls. It was a cozy farm-to-table restaurant on Tenth Avenue. The waitresses knew James and told him they’d saved his favorite table—a table for two, close to the bar.

Once we were seated, he grinned at me and said, “Sorry if it felt like a job interview while we were in the bar.

We traded notes—on mutual friends, which Greek Islands we preferred, on how the city had changed since 9/11. We’d both lost friends when the Towers collapsed; we’d both considered leaving…I did. He stayed. Somewhere in the midst of this, we ordered our meals—steak with chestnut mushrooms and gratinated cauliflower for me and for him, pan-seared chicken and roasted summer squash. Under the table, his knees bumped into mine. We both laughed and shifted, only to meet again.

Over our starters, James told me about what he did for a living. I nodded, understanding enough thanks to Mimi’s explanations of what hedge fund managers did. He assumed I knew most details and didn’t dumb it down. If Ingrid were here, she’d be rolling her eyes in boredom and whispering to me that Henrik was a much better catch. And he was…but he wasn’t here, and he was apparently dating someone else.

By the time we were consuming dessert, James and I exhausted our conversation. He’d already given me signs that he was interested in something more. Twice, he’d stroked my leg and I hadn’t stopped him. A few times his gaze dipped to my cleavage and lingered. I still hadn’t decided if I was interested enough to sleep with him. I was lonely, I could admit it.

I couldn’t keep living on memories of nights with Henrik. I wanted intimacy again.

By the end of the evening, I’d made up my mind. Sleep with James. Get rid of the itch to be with someone, since playing the waiting game with Henrik was not giving me any satisfaction.

We went back to James’s place. He lived in an insanely overpriced loft in Tribeca. It was the sort of sprawling apartment I’d dreamed of back in my pre-Europe days. He was the sort of man I would have wanted to date back then. He took charge, he did all the right things to turn me on….and it worked, but it was just…fucking. The longing never came, the craving more...it was fucking and that was it.

And after a summer of making love…I wanted more of that.

Goddammit…Henrik had ruined me for all other men.

“How was your date?” Mimi could barely contain herself. She barely gave me time to set my breakfast smoothie on my desk before she began quizzing me. “Did you and James hit it off? He told Darren he thought you were really sexy.”

“It was most definitely not a love match,” I quipped as I tagged the dresses on the rack for the appropriate stylists. “But he was a good kisser. And he knows what to do with what he’s got, I’ll give him that.”

“Eww, too much information, darling,” Mimi grimaced and flapped her hand at me. “I’ll never be able to look at my brother-in-law the same way again!” Then she shook her head and feigned shock. “But…he was good?”

“Amazingly so.” I was still in shock. My mind and body still wanted Henrik, but I'd gone ahead and fucked someone else.

Until last night, I hadn’t slept with anyone since…Copenhagen. I was trying not to compare James to Henrik, but it was difficult. My body still longed for Henrik. My brain too. But the distance…it was eating away at me. And we’d left everything so open-ended. I had no clue when I’d see him again and he hadn’t made any promises. And I hated it. I wanted to know for sure what we were or if we were anything at all, but he’d been the one who’d speculated I would want to be single in New York, even as he told me he loved me. And now I was rootless, unable to figure out where I stood with him. And going on these pointless dates.

I hadn’t planned on sleeping with Mimi’s brother-in-law. That was the last thing on my mind when we’d met the previous night. He’d not been my type at all. Or rather…he was what had once been my type—the Wall Street types who liked a challenge, who pursued you relentlessly until they found someone who was even more of a challenge. And I’d gone into this thinking I needed to erase Henrik from my brain, but I couldn’t.

Why couldn’t this be simpler? Why were we both so damned reluctant to say those words that would change everything? Whenever I spoke to him, they were on the tip of my tongue--those three little words. They echoed in my head each time our video chats were coming to a close. After an “I miss you...” it would have been so easy to confess to him, to say, “I love you...” And yet, I held back. And so did he. What were we so afraid of?

“Are you going to see him again?” Mimi’s bracelets clanked and jangled as she tapped away on her iPad screen. “Does this mean you two are an item?”

“We’re not an item.” I emphasized “not”. Even talking about it now gave me pause. What was I supposed to do now? If Henrik were to call...if he was going to be in New York, should I put my online dating and blind dates on hold?

The old me would have simply juggled them both. It’s what I’d always done, avoided being bogged down with commitment, dated voraciously, fucked like a man with no emotional attachment and then moved on. I’d done that before Colin. I’d done it after him until eventually I’d settled into a nice flow with Andreas. And now I was trying to do it again, but it left a sour, almost bitter aftertaste.