I AM AT DINNER with a tall, handsome blond man and I have told myself I will not sleep with him. We are eating at a small-plates restaurant because, in Los Angeles, you are legally required to go to a small-plates restaurant on your third date. I’m a little drunk because I really like the blond man, whose name is Will, and I want him to think I have a carefree personality, which is a lie. I have a very anxious, argumentative personality. Two Moscow Mules become three. I feel myself descending into drunken agreeableness. My outrage about normally hot-button topics fades. “Good for those Entourage guys for making a movie!” I hear myself saying. “I can’t wait to see what they’ve been cookin’ up all these years!” I am now a textbook great date. Thanks, alcohol!
At the end of the date, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. The back of my Alexander Wang dress is soaked through with nervous sweat, like I am testifying in front of Judge Judy and I definitely stole my ex-husband’s favorite dog. I’m so relieved that I decided to wear black for what feels like the first time in my life. I pat my forehead with a damp paper towel, look in the mirror, and say, “You are a strong, powerful woman with incredible self-discipline.” In the low glow of the bathroom light I seem resolute and kind of hot, actually, in an Olivia-Pope-being-tortured-for-state-secrets sort of way. I am so proud.
When I get back to the table, Will has already paid the check and stands as I approach. “Let’s go for a walk,” he says, matter-of-factly, resting his hand firmly on the small of my back. If he feels how damp my dress is, he doesn’t seem to care. “I want to see your place.”
Oh my God, I thought. I think I might be about to hook up with someone who works for the president of the United States.
May, a Year Earlier
I’ve attended some pretty glamorous events over the years, like the Costume Ball at the Met, the Golden Globes, and the Vanity Fair Oscar party. They are usually held at distinguished cultural institutions like the Met or the Annenberg Center—always beautiful spaces that are home to priceless works of art.
The first thing they do when a Hollywood party rents out the place is push all the art to the corner so it doesn’t get in the way. They have to do that so there’s room for a red carpet, a bar, a prime rib carving station, a photo booth, and, for some reason, an Acura parked inside, in the middle of the party floor. There’s always a parked Acura at every major Hollywood party. Who wants to see some boring Winslow Homer when Scarlett Johansson could be getting sliced prime rib while catching a glimpse of a brand-new Acura coupe?
I’m sorry to say that these parties are actually a little bit of a letdown. First of all, the lighting is usually so dim you can’t see anything, so you wonder why you even wore your expensive heels that are making your feet bleed when your gardening Crocs would’ve been more than fine. But the main reason the parties are a letdown is that I have this Cinderella idea that after spending hours getting ready, something is going to happen at the ball! But then, when you end up going to the ball, the best thing that happens is, say, you get a gift bag with some Lara Bars in it.
But one year, I became a somewhat frequent guest of the president of the United States, and it was like Cinderella.
Several springs ago, I went to New York for the Upfronts, where everyone in television gathers to hobnob with advertisers. The advertisers are usually clean-cut, skittish, fairly indistinguishable executives named Patricia or John. They had all been drinking since nine a.m. on the networks’ dime and were completely plastered. Patricia was emboldened to confess to me that she had never seen my show, but would I mind taking a photo with her because it would make her sister so jealous. I teach Patricia how to use the camera on her phone, she and I pose as Charlie’s Angels, and when she leaves she kisses me on the lips. That’s pretty much what I did for four hours, and it was actually kind of fun.
In the midst of all this, my publicist Alex texted me. She had received a call from a woman named Sarah Fisher, who worked for the president.
“The president of what?” I asked warily, immediately assuming it was the head of a tampon company who wanted me to Instagram a photo of me holding their goods during National Women’s Menstruation Week or something.
Alex texted back immediately: “Of the United States.” I almost dropped my phone. I excused myself from the Patricias and Johns and went to a quiet corner to call her.
She explained that Sarah Fisher was a huge fan of my book and my show, and, through Instagram, had seen that I was in New York. She was also in New York, traveling with the president for a fund-raiser at the Waldorf Astoria. Later, I would realize that Sarah was one of a small handful of people in President Obama’s inner circle and one of the most powerful people in DC. Sarah was calling to see if I would like to come by between events and “spend some time with the president.”
Spend some time with the president? Uh, sure, whatever that means! Was I to be presented to the president as a human sex gift, like Marilyn Monroe? I would do that! Would I be able to go to my hotel and change out of my high-waisted comfort briefs first? As I was fantasizing about my life as mistress to the president, I suddenly imagined Michelle Obama’s tall, perfectly proportioned body and thought, OK, that’s definitely not happening. Never picture First Lady Michelle Obama. She is the death of any presidential romance fantasy you might have.
“Yes! When does he want to see me?” I asked.
“Right now.”
Within ninety minutes, I found myself standing outside the Waldorf Astoria. The Waldorf—or “The ’Dorf,” which only I call it (and which I am hoping will take off, so please use it)—is an enormous old hotel in midtown Manhattan that is fancy in the way your great-aunt might like; that is to say, it looks exactly like the inside of the Titanic. I breezed in, wearing a bright-blue dress I’d been wearing for my press events. It wasn’t exactly right, but all of my other outfits were too “Mindy Kaling”—that is, best suited for a New Year’s Eve party sponsored by a men’s deodorant body spray.
I was somehow expecting that I would be escorted directly to the president, who would appoint me diplomat to some cool little country like French Zaire (I’m assuming that’s a place). Instead, I was stopped in the Waldorf lobby by a tall blond man in glasses. He introduced himself as Will and shook my hand firmly. Will had the pleasing, mild accent of someone who is not from New England or New York and was good-looking in a Methodist minister kind of way. After spending ten years in Los Angeles, where all the white people are Jewish, Will was actually exotic to me. He was also wearing a suit, which I rarely see on a man under forty years old. In my line of work, every man wears exactly one outfit: khakis, a Late Night with Jimmy Fallon T-shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt. If you don’t wear that, people think you are a Scientologist and no one will eat lunch with you.
Will made small talk with me in the elevator. He said he was from Tennessee. “Oh, like the song,” I said. He didn’t respond. After a beat, I added, “Now, that’s a song I haven’t heard in a while.” Another beat. “Great song, though,” I concluded.
It was the kind of babbling one does when they are at the first stages of a nervous crush. Oh, God. Do I have a nervous crush on this guy? I thought.
My perception of people in the White House has been shaped 100 percent by Aaron Sorkin. The West Wing and The American President were to blame for my feelings for this stranger. The idealism and adorability of Rob Lowe and Bradley Whitford had made me long for a civic-minded beau who is constantly making long, important speeches and taking principled stands. As a person who has to be enticed to vote by a sticker that says I VOTED, I’m drawn to people who have strong convictions, and not just about who’s the best Shark Tank shark. Here was Will, focused and quiet, probably full of eloquent monologues I just hadn’t heard yet. This, by the way, is the anatomy of a Mindy Kaling crush. Just bear a passing resemblance to a fictional romantic trope I like and I will love you forever. We’re all just trying to find the Mark Darcy of our workplace, aren’t we?
After babbling amiably with a silent Will, I followed him to an empty ballroom and he told me to have a seat. I noticed with horror that my phone was dead and, in a desperate tone used only by women begging for their child’s life, asked Will if he had a charger. How would I get a picture with the president with a dead phone? He politely said no and left. I waited there alone for forty-five minutes, growing increasingly nervous. Just when I thought I might sneak out to a bodega and buy a disposable camera, Will came back to check on me. He gave me a bottle of water and thanked me for being so patient. He also pulled a phone charger out of his pocket and handed it to me like contraband. I was so excited that I gave him a hug.
WILL: I had no idea this would make you so happy.
ME: It’s just that I was in the middle of a really important game of Candy Crush.
Will chuckled. A chuckle! He doesn’t hate me! And that’s historically all the encouragement I need! I saw my opening.
ME: You’re really helpful and nice. I bet you were like, class president.
WILL: Actually, I was. All four years of high school.
ME: This is cool. I’m meeting a lot of presidents today.
As Will was trying to get a handle on my B+ flirting, he got word that I would meet the president. That was a moment when I realized how cool my life is. I was trying to hit on a guy and was being interrupted by the president of the United States. We walked down a hallway, and President Obama emerged from a massive ballroom with Sarah, the woman who had arranged our meeting.
President Obama shook my hand and said, “I hear you like romantic comedies, like my wife.”
I almost fainted.
We spoke about movies and storytelling, and then he asked about my parents. I’m one of those people who is infatuated with her parents, so it was thrilling to talk about my mother with him and see him listen intently while I described their journey to this country. But mostly I just beamed at him and let him talk, because I knew this would be a story I tell my grandchildren. Who cares what I said? I forget some of the details of what we talked about, but I will never forget the feeling of being in his presence.
The official White House photographer took a photo of the two of us (didn’t need a disposable camera after all!) and Will escorted me back to the lobby of the Waldorf. We rode the elevator in happy silence.
“I could tell he liked you,” Will said. I deflected this comment, which is my habit upon receiving any kind of compliment. Will interrupted me and touched my arm. “No, stop. He did.”
There are times when I feel especially lucky that I have dark skin, because you can’t see me blush. This was one of those times. After Will walked me back to the lobby, I thanked him for the experience and told him to “email me anytime, for anything.” He smiled, and not a tight-lipped one either. He said he would, and I believed him.
June
The single best thing about working in a writers’ room is that you can disrupt the entire writing process to discuss and investigate your latest crush. My staff on The Mindy Project is composed of nine people in their twenties and thirties who have traded the prime of their adulthood for writing jokes on a show about a woman who believes “recycling makes America look poor.” And as their leader, I have learned one thing: their hard work must be rewarded with soul-replenishing gossip.
The hardest part of investigating a crush online was that I had deleted my Facebook account five years earlier when I had smartly realized that Facebook would mean an end to my productivity or ever putting on pants. Why go out when I could see pictures from my ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s family trip to Napa? So I did what any reasonable person would do: I made all of the other writers log in to their Facebook accounts to see if they could find Will. We quickly found him but saw that his account was set to private.
We were outraged. “Who the hell does this guy think he is? Harry Connick Jr.?!” we shouted. And then, like Katniss volunteering to be a tribute for her useless sister, Prim, one brave writer, Tracey Wigfield, said she would request Will’s friendship on Facebook so we could learn more about him while protecting my identity. I was moved beyond words, which might provide you a glimpse of how truly shallow I am.
Showrunner Matt Warburton asked, “Won’t he just look at where she works and figure out pretty easily that she’s friends with you?”
“Shut up, Matt!” I barked. I don’t need no logic! I have a crush!
Of course, Will didn’t accept Tracey’s friend request because he had no idea who she was.
And then, a month after I met him, out of the blue, Will emailed me. He said the president had enjoyed spending time with me, and asked for an address to send the photo of us. I replied a day later (to show that I was busy, which I was, but not busy enough to not reply immediately), and this kicked off an exchange that lasted more than a year.
Over email I learned that Will traveled everywhere with the president. I also learned that he was very funny, in a dry way. I have the opposite of a dry sense of humor, so I’m always impressed by it. My sense of humor is wet and loud and risqué, like topless day at the water park.
I have a terrible habit of impulsively sending text messages that reveal my true feelings and frighten people off, such as: “I like you so much it scares me.” So Jeremy Bronson, one of my closest friends, proofread my communication with Will. Jeremy has been doing that as long as I have been friends with him, so much so that if you ever text with me, there is a 70 percent chance you are actually texting with Jeremy.
Will and I developed a steady texting relationship, but he was always off solving problems for the president. He was one of the few guys I’ve met who is busier than I am. It was at once frustrating and totally sexy. One day I confessed that I’d had Tracey request his Facebook friendship. This charmed him, and the next day, Tracey raced into the writers’ room, excitedly announcing that Will had accepted her friend request. This unlocked a treasure trove of Will-related tidbits, like what city he was born in, that he loved The Daily Show and hiking and had gone to the University of Pennsylvania. Even though it was fairly generic and painted a picture of several hundreds of guys we knew, it felt like the most exciting day of my life.
February
Over the next six months, I discovered another benefit of my new friendship with Will: I began to receive invitations to incredible events in Washington, DC. I was invited to the White House Holiday Party, a luncheon for Asian American artists (I was excited to technically qualify as one), and the White House Easter Egg Roll to read stories to children (excited to be considered a person who doesn’t scare children). I could never attend anything because I was filming my show, but I paraded my invitations around the set so people could touch the fancy stationery.
And then one magical day, nine months after our meeting at the Waldorf, I got an email from the White House saying, in gorgeous presidential cursive: “The President of the United States invites you to a State Dinner honoring François Hollande, the President of France.”
It was a save the date for a state dinner!
I scrolled to the very unsexy second page, which instructed me, at my earliest convenience, to please provide this long list of incredibly personal information, including my social security number, federal tax identification number, driver’s license, and place of birth. It occurred to me that this might be the smartest identity-theft scam ever. But even if it was, I didn’t care, because what a glamorous scam! Like the Hollywood Film Awards!
The best part was that Will offered to give me a tour of the White House. I remember bursting into the writers’ room and telling everyone. They were excited about the state dinner, but their interest in Will had waned. Like with any good story, they needed a plot twist. Executive producer Charlie Grandy shrugged and said, “Please sleep with him or something before you come back. This story needs to move forward.” I nodded, understanding that I had a lot to do in DC.
My trip got off to a rocky start. My flight was delayed and I missed Will’s private tour of the White House. How was I going to have a sexy trip if I couldn’t even show up for things?!
My guest to dinner was my best friend, Jocelyn, who had taken the train down from New York. We forewent seeing any DC museums or national monuments to order cheeseburgers and watch Will & Grace in bed at our hotel, because we are real best friends, not lame fake friends trying to impress each other with how fascinated we are with culture and learning.
I’d hired a hair and makeup team to get us ready. They regularly did hair and makeup for a very famous African American actress, whom I’m dying to tell you about but I can’t. (How about this: if you ever run into me on the street I will tell you.) The whole time we were getting ready I was trying to get dirt on this actress but they revealed nothing, which drove me crazy, because celebrity secrets are more valuable than diamonds. The only thing I was able to sneak out of them was that the actress uses Preparation H on her face as a primer before makeup. I loved this so much that I insisted they do the same to me.
I have Preparation H smeared all over my face in these pictures. I have no idea what it does to the sphincter, but it keeps my makeup looking flawless.
As you are ushered to the receiving line to meet the president and First Lady, they announce you, My Fair Lady–style: “The Honorable So and So and his wife, Madeline.” Just before our turn, the aide asked me how I would describe Jocelyn’s and my relationship, and, of course, I prattled on about our backstory as if he were a therapist, not knowing he wanted a succinct answer. So our formal announcement was literally “Miss Mindy Kaling and her best friend from Dartmouth College, Miss Jocelyn Leavitt.”
I didn’t have time to feel too embarrassed, though, because all of a sudden we were talking to the Obamas. Here is the part of the story where I feel really cool. Instead of shaking my hand, as he was doing with everyone else on the receiving line, the president heard my name, lit up, and hugged me. He then said to his wife, “This is Mindy. Malia was reading her book in Hawaii.” My book! Malia Obama was reading my book! The one Amazon.com reviewer “My2Cents” called “sort of meh”! I was walking on air.
And then I saw Will.
Will stood next to and slightly behind the First Lady, dutiful and handsome in his dark suit. I was still beaming from my interaction with the Obamas, so when I saw him, I called out “Will!” and pulled him into a tight hug. From the way he reacted, I got the distinct feeling that you are not supposed to embrace the man standing to the right of the First Lady, but I didn’t care. He looked great, he smelled great, and I looked great, and smelled like my hotel’s tiny complimentary body lotion. So I impulsively topped the hug with a kiss on the cheek.
“I’m so sorry I missed the tour!” I said, very loudly, surprised how important it was to me that he know.
“Me too,” he answered, making such textbook-good eye contact that the hairs on my arm stood up.
For a moment we said nothing, just two wordless idiots smiling at each other, with the most important people in the world standing a foot away. The First Lady, now on to greeting the people next in line, glanced over at us with a curious look on her face. I realized it was time to leave, so I uttered my classic Mindy Kaling parting line: “Well, this was cool!” and Jocelyn thankfully pulled me away. I wonder if it was the First Lady who told Will he had lipstick on his cheek.
Jocelyn and I were shuttled by trolley to the dinner, the equivalent of the most beautiful tented wedding you have ever seen, set up in the shadow of the White House.
Stephen Colbert and his wife were seated in front of us on the shuttle. I tried to work up the courage to say hello to him, but I was too nervous, so I just gazed at the back of his head. I was so close I could’ve stroked it, lovingly. Should I have done it? It’s a close call.
(I should mention that Stephen was not only seated at the president’s table for dinner but was actually sitting on the other side of the First Lady herself. A year later, when I was a guest on The Colbert Report, I brought this up to Stephen shyly, backstage. He told me that before that dinner, he didn’t even know them. So, the president and First Lady just wanted to sit next to Stephen Colbert because, well, he’s Stephen fucking Colbert. Way to be, guy.)
The state dinner looked and felt as luxe and fancy as an SNL parody of a state dinner. It’s nuts. If you think about it, it is one of the only government-sponsored events where the décor and food are supposed to be so extravagant that the invited foreign head of state goes home and says, “Guys, you will not believe how they do dinners in America.” The salads were served in delicate glass horticulture bowls. The butter was molded into the shape of a tiny, intricate bow. It was not one of my usual Hollywood events, like GalStyle Weekly’s “Hot Gays Under Thirty” Awards. This was historic. This was the kind of place a girl could leave her glass slipper with the reasonable hope that a prince might track her down. Or, in my case, my Jimmy Choo size 39s with orthotic inserts.
We got drunk. The kind of drunk where you are eating off the dessert plate of someone very high up at the NSA and you’re not even worried they’re going to wiretap your email later.
I saw John Kerry talking to Bradley Cooper. I’m from Massachusetts and I’m friends with Ed Helms, so I figured I had hit the conversational jackpot with these two. I was drunk and feeling a little important, so I wandered over and interrupted them. “Hi! I’m Mindy Kaling. I’m from Massachusetts. Ed Helms was in The Hangover and was also on my old show, The Office,” I said cockily. By this time next year, John, Bradley, and I would be sipping hot cocoa in Teresa Heinz’s Idaho ski chalet. “So, we have him in common.”
“Yes,” Bradley responded. “I know Ed.”
I would give our interaction a solid B-minus.
Bradley Cooper later revealed on The View that he was not wearing underwear that night. Doesn’t that make this not-great photo a little sexier?
I sat back down next to Jocelyn, and Mary J. Blige began her performance. My drunken bravery streak continued, and I texted Will.
ME: Where are you? Mary J. Blige is singing. Elena Kagan looks hot as hell. How are you missing this?
He responded sweetly that he wished he was there and hoped I was having fun.
Having fun? WTF? Is he my aunt? Hours later, back at our hotel, Jocelyn and I dissected every detail of his texts. Had I been imagining that he was into me? Was my fondness for him completely one-sided? I felt foolish, like when I was eleven years old and wrote to Christian Slater’s agent telling him how much I loved him and would he let me be his intern-slash-girlfriend when I went to high school in three years? I never got a response.
I got texts from the writers asking what happened. “We’re engaged!” I wrote back. Then, quickly, “No we’re not. That was a sad joke. Nothing happened. Go back to work.”
April
A few months later, The New Yorker invited me to be a guest at their table at the White House Correspondents Dinner. I didn’t bother telling Will I was going, because, well, I had done that before. We were just friendly, platonic acquaintances, like me and Chelsea Handler.
But Will found out and texted me. He asked if he could finally take me on that tour of the White House and West Wing. I said yes.
It’s funny when you decide you don’t like someone. I am the kind of person who, if my feelings are unrequited, can completely detach from someone emotionally if I simply put my mind to it. That’s why I’m always saying I would be a great serial murderer.
That’s what I did with Will. It was like flipping a light switch. He was no longer a Washington, DC, crush on whom I had pinned my whimsical hopes and dreams. He was a pleasant and civic-minded tour guide from Tennessee. He didn’t seem as tall to me anymore. His accent was more unsophisticated than adorable. I could look at him and go “Meh.”
The tour was lovely and, to be honest, I was happy I was actually paying attention to it rather than to Will. The Oval Office, the Navy Mess Hall, those are all historic places that deserve not to be sullied by romantic motives. As I was leaving, he told me to text him after the dinner. I said I would, but I knew I wouldn’t. Light switch.
Attending the Correspondents Dinner as a guest of The New Yorker was a dream realized, especially since none of the editors touched any of the rolls in our artisanal bread basket, which meant I could have at ’em. While I chewed on my eleven brioche rolls, I saw the likes of Gen. David Petraeus, Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand, and that guy from Magic Mike, who also played a hot werewolf and was supposed to have a huge wang. It was an extremely glamorous night.
Just before two a.m. I got a text from Will asking if I wanted to “meet him for a drink.” We all know what two a.m. drinks mean. If I’m texting Chelsea Handler at two a.m., friendly acquaintance is going right out the window.
I didn’t respond and left for L.A. that morning.
May
Will came to L.A. in the spring for a week and wanted to see me. I no longer considered him a romantic option, but he was a well-connected DC person who could maybe make it so I didn’t have to pay my taxes. We ended up meeting at a bar the writers frequent, and ran into Jeremy and Matt, who joined us for a drink. That was such a great coincidence, because until that moment, I think they thought it was plausible I had made Will up. After that bar, Will and I headed to another bar. It was fun but it didn’t exactly feel like a date, and that was OK.
But then something happened and suddenly it did feel like a date, in a big way. We slipped into a cab to meet some of his friends at a dive bar across town. When the cab pulled away from the curb, he turned to me and said, “Put your seat belt on.”
“What? We’re in the backseat,” I replied. I never wear a seat belt in the backseat; I barely like doing it when I’m driving because it presses on my boobs funny. Instead of responding, Will slowly reached over, his face inches from mine, pulled my seat belt across me, his fingers grazing my body, and buckled it, completely serious. “It’s not safe,” he whispered. I could feel his warm breath on my face. I wanted him to kiss me so badly. At the next bar, I think I met his friends, I might have talked to them, I don’t really remember. All I thought about was him saying, “It’s not safe” as he put my seat belt on for me.
Then he dropped me off in a cab and we said goodbye in the car. No kiss, just a hug. A heartfelt hug coming from a straight man who has spent the evening drinking with you is like him buying a billboard in Times Square that says I AM NOT ATTRACTED TO YOU. I walked into my house, got into bed with all my clothes on, and cried.
At work the next day, people were excited. “Jeremy and Matt say Will exists!” they said, wanting to know details of our night together.
“He’s not interested. I think I just have a weird new male friend,” I announced to them, explaining my night. They booed.
And at that moment, I got a text. It was Will, on Air Force One, about to take off back to Washington:
I should’ve kissed you. That’s on me.
I stared at my phone, so angry I almost threw it across the room. This guy was driving me insane. What did I do to deserve this? I was just a friendly thirty-four-year-old TV actress looking for a boyfriend who didn’t have a neck tattoo. OK, fine, at this point he could even have a couple of Grateful Dead bears marching across his neck and I’d deal with it. What I didn’t need was some hot-and-cold long-distance flake wasting my time. It hurt my feelings and made me feel like something was wrong with me. I deleted all our texts and emails and didn’t respond further to any communication from him.
Then, more than a month later, on my birthday, a package arrived for me from Washington. It was a present from Will: a large box filled with treats he had selected especially for me. There was a comedy book by the comedian Don Novello, whom we had talked about on one of our dates; a huge box of chocolate-covered fruit from his favorite chocolatier in Seattle; amazing photos of the president, the First Lady, and me; and a handwritten note on White House stationery describing why he selected all the gifts and wishing me happy birthday. It was one of the more romantic gifts I’ve ever gotten.
My writing staff ate the chocolates in puzzled silence, none of us knowing what to make of this gesture. My assistant, Sonia, broke the silence by saying, “I think this is what they call mixed signals.” Sonia was right. This was 100 percent authentic, real mixed fuckin’ signals.
July, where this story started
Will (now renamed “Trouble Don’t Pick Up” in my phone) came to L.A. with the president and asked me to dinner. I listened to his message but didn’t return his call.
But then I kept thinking about him.
Well, maybe I could go, I thought, gazing at “Trouble Don’t Pick Up Missed Call.”
And then it became: Maybe I should go.
Why was I even entertaining this? Well, I don’t know why exactly. Maybe because, well, in spite of everything, I was still intrigued by Will. I’m not proud of it, and it’s a little embarrassing to write, but sometimes you like the idea of someone so much, you just want to do whatever it takes to make it work. And Will was so much better than the other guys I’d been on dates with. He was smart and accomplished, and he wasn’t competitive with me. Most important, he was genuine and his job was honorable. I didn’t know a lot of people whose job I could describe as “honorable,” and, well, I liked being around someone like that. And, it’s worth reminding you that Will was a handsome blond man, and how often do you see an actual adult blond man these days? He was basically a priceless orchid. So yeah, maybe I wanted to give him five or six more chances than the average guy I might date.
So, against my better judgment, I called Trouble Don’t Pick Up and said, “Sure.”
It had been two months since I had last seen Will. I told myself I wouldn’t sleep with him and expected that to be easy. Why shouldn’t it? The last time I saw him he had hugged me like my mailwoman Rita does when I give her her Christmas bonus. As it turned out, he was a little more attracted to me than Rita was.
So yeah, Will spent the night. The next morning when he was leaving, he was so shy and adorable in my foyer that when he left and I closed the door, I covered my mouth with my hand to muffle my crushed-out squeal.
AHHHHH YOU ARE SO CUTE YOU ARE SO FUCKING CUTE YOU ARE SO CUTE!
I was so into him. Sonia brought me a McDonald’s Extra Value Meal #1 (the meal she rewards me with after a late night of writing or, extremely rarely, a late night of passion). I was already concocting Will’s and my happy ending, in the way only a woman whose job it is to write romantic comedies can. We’d probably get engaged in a year, he’d become a senator, and I’d move to Washington, giving up my career to become a full-time political trophy wife. I’d learn the chronological order of the presidents and get really smart about the news. Just that slightly crazy, embarrassing stuff you think about the night after you first sleep with someone.
But as you probably guessed, since I am not currently the wife of a senator, it didn’t work out that way.
Will and I continued to text and email, and would try to see each other, but it never seemed to crystallize into anything more. Whenever he would visit L.A. with the president, I was shooting the show; whenever I would invite him to a party I was throwing, he was traveling. It felt to me like I was making more of an effort than he was, and when I sensed that, I pulled back, not returning his calls or texts because I felt hurt. But none of that mattered, because I knew the truth, which is if someone really wants to see you, they always find a way. Always. That hurt my heart, but I realized, unlike in past relationships when I was younger, it didn’t need to be dramatic. Will and I didn’t know each other that well; I couldn’t even remember if he had any siblings, or what month his birthday was. I knew I had the power to make this a big deal if I wanted to, but the truth is, I wasn’t in my twenties anymore—in a good way! Obviously there’s a part of all of us who wants to pull a full Courtney Love about every breakup—it’s so dramatic and makes you feel like: See?! You’ll remember me one way or another, dammit! But spending a lot of time and energy nursing a breakup is just not a good use of my time now. Which is too bad, because if you heard my haunting rendition of “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow” while I wept in the shower during a breakup, you would be moved as hell.
Sometimes a story just needs an ending, and I used to not be a creative enough person to think of an ending to a romantic story that isn’t a wedding or a death. This story didn’t end in fireworks, because the truth is, fireworks are something from my twenties. I could have made fireworks, but I chose to make a nuanced memory of a person who is neither a hero nor a villain in my life. All I had to do now was move on. In the words of both Mariah Carey and Taylor Swift, I knew I could shake it off. How could it not be true if both songs have the same name?
