It’s a Sunday night, arguably the most depressing time of the week, when I realize that Adam is never going to call. It’s been months since we talked and he’s obviously either completely psychotic, a pathological liar, or both. But since I have a column due tomorrow, I’m desperately trying to take all the anxiety and burgeoning depression I feel over being rejected by Adam and convert it into work obsession. I’d heard people in meetings talk about “trading one addiction for another,” so as soon as a thought about Adam pops up, I force myself to write about the Truth or Dare night, which seems oddly appropriate. Before I know it, I’ve written the beginning.
The bar for wild behavior had already been raised higher than it should have. Yet somewhere between making out with a girl and having the nether region of a guy I’d just met shoved in my face repeatedly, I realized that it was too late to turn back now.
I finish the column, describing my impromptu striptease and the horror I felt when I realized someone was watching it, ending with a line about how much Truth or Dare had changed since I was a kid.
As soon as I finish the piece, I realize that what I need to do to feel better is call Adam and find out what the hell happened. There’s probably a really good explanation for why he hasn’t called, I think. Maybe he lost my number or has been so crazed with his show premiering that he literally hasn’t had a free moment to get in touch but would be absolutely thrilled to hear my voice.
As I contemplate this while staring at the TV screen half watching The Surreal Life castmates throw plates at each other, a commercial comes on and I suddenly see Adam, in a three-piece suit and talking on a cell phone as he walks down the street, looking so good that I can’t believe I ever doubted his attractiveness. “The Agency,” that guy who seems to narrate every single commercial in the world blathers, “promises to be the hottest show of the season, says TV Guide.”
I’m so convinced that seeing his commercial is a sign I should call him that I pick up the phone almost subconsciously and am horribly disappointed when I get his voicemail. This isn’t what I’d imagined happening when I allowed myself to fantasize about calling him but I improvise, leaving a message that I diligently try to make sound both sweet and mellow. And then I wait.
And then, realizing I’m on the verge of driving myself mad, I call Stephanie and ask if she wants to go on a walk.