An hour later, after I’d schooled my date in pickleball (or so I decided and Cole was too gentlemanly to argue about since, even after a delightful couple named Glen and Jeannie from Gramercy Park demonstrated more patience than we deserved in trying to teach us, we still didn’t get it), we wandered through Central Park until we exited at Strawberry Fields on Central Park West.
(P.S. Pickleball is hard, and I am neither fit nor fierce enough to exist within its world.)
I just kept following his lead, having no idea where we were going and not caring one Ray Liotta.
Yes, I said “not caring one Ray Liotta.” That was our blind date couple’s first inside joke. It was strange being unable to make use of enough inside jokes to fill ten seasons of a sitcom, but when I said I didn’t care one iota about Breaking Bad, and he misheard me, a new sitcom began.
As we walked across Seventy-Second Street, I asked him what he did for a living. It felt a little risky, because of course his best friend knew he didn’t have a job at the moment. And his best friend was fully aware of the emotional landmine that existed within that topic. But to not ask would have been breaking the rules. Right? I’d chased off perfectly nice youngsters with this man I had just met. I’d traversed half of Manhattan with him. We’d taken countless ridiculous selfies together. And now we’d played pickleball under the watchful, bewildered, disappointed (though they were too kind to ever say it) tutelage of Glen and Jeannie while I attempted to maintain my propriety wearing a dress designed by Gwyneth Paltrow. (Maybe? I can’t honestly say I was clear about the role Gwyneth played in making the dress.) In many ways it felt a little too late to find out if he was a Chippendales dancer or bounty hunter or something.
“I’m a chef.”
“Ooh, really?” I asked as we passed the Dakota. “Are you any good?”
He gave this some serious consideration before answering, “Yeah, actually. I am. I’m really good.”
I bowed my head to keep my satisfied grin to myself. For so long he’d insisted he was just a big fish in the small pond of Adelaide Springs. He’d deflected praise by saying things like, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” But I knew how good he was, and every satisfied customer who’d ever eaten his food would only beg to differ.
“How’d you get started cooking? Is that just something you always did?”
“Sort of.” He looked ahead of us and then behind as we came to the intersection of Seventy-Second and Columbus Avenue, and then he gently placed his hand on my back to usher me across the crosswalk. “I was, um . . . Well, I guess my grandmother was my first teacher. And she taught me that food is love.” Our pace naturally slowed once we were on the other side of Columbus, walking against the majority of pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. “She used to tell me that when you didn’t know what else to do for someone, you should feed them. If they were hungry, feed them. Cold, feed them. Sick, feed them. And sometimes you just needed to feed them so they knew they weren’t alone.”
I smiled, remembering Eleanor. I hadn’t ever heard her say those exact words, but that was undoubtedly the code she had lived by. I couldn’t count the times she had gotten me to open up to her by plying me full of cookies, or the times she had comforted me with a bowlful of green chile stew.
“Were you raised by your grandmother?” I asked. And for whatever reason, it didn’t feel awkward. It was the natural next question.
And for whatever reason, he didn’t hesitate to answer it. “Mostly. Both of my grandparents, actually. My mom’s mom and stepdad.” I heard him release a contemplative breath as we walked side by side. “I don’t know why I said that. The clarification of stepdad, I mean. He was the only dad she ever really had.” He looked down at me and shrugged. “Sometimes the distinction seemed to matter to her, but I don’t think it ever did to him.”
“Why did it matter to her, do you think?”
“I don’t know. But I always thought it was kind of sad. Because I’m pretty sure the distinction didn’t matter to her when it came to how she felt about him. You know? He was her dad. But I think she always imagined that to him, she was only his stepdaughter. And I really don’t think he ever saw her as anything other than his daughter.” His voice was wistful. “And now he’s gone, and I guess I wonder if all the worries are sort of frozen in place, for the rest of time.”
I wanted to step in, knowing what I knew. I wanted to reassure him that Bill loved him and never thought of him as anything other than his grandson—because that was what we were really talking about, weren’t we? He could see that pain in Cassidy, and he knew the truth in her situation, and he probably even knew the truth in his own relationship with Bill. But now Bill was gone, and the questions remained. I wanted to help him not be frozen there. But I couldn’t do that today.
“Are you and your mom close?”
He chuckled softly. “I don’t know. It’s complicated, I guess.”
“Sorry. If you don’t want to talk about it—”
“No, it’s fine.” He nudged me gently with his elbow. “If you’re sure you want to hear all of this.”
A wave of nausea washed over me then. It was nothing major. Just an instant in which I felt clammy and had to focus on swallowing and breathing so I didn’t hurl onto the steps of a brownstone on the Upper West Side. But then it passed, as quickly as it had appeared, and I was left to take stock of what had caused it.
The way he had nudged me just then—it was something he did all the time. It was something we did to each other on a daily basis, probably. And, I mean, it’s not like I’m saying that was a special thing between us. It was just a nudge. Lots of friends nudge each other, I’m sure. I’m not claiming Cole and I had trademarked the elbow nudge and were going to sue Robin Thicke for elbow nudging Pharrell in the “Blurred Lines” video or anything. But it was so us. And right then, when he nudged me, it hadn’t felt like us.
Again . . . sanity disclaimer: It hadn’t really stopped feeling like us. We were playing a game. Conducting an experiment. Having a once-in-a-lifetime sort of day under unusual circumstances. At any moment I knew I could look at him and say, “Cole, I’m tired of this. I just need to hug my best friend,” and he wouldn’t hesitate to drop the pretense of being strangers and wrap his arms around me.
But when he nudged me as he was telling me his stories like couples in a new, exploratory relationship do, I’d felt something different for the first time. I hadn’t felt like the girl he’d known since we were both in diapers, nor had I felt like the woman he’d nearly kissed this morning. I’d felt like some random woman in the future, on her first date with Cole Kimball. Some new, real, heretofore unmet woman whom Cole would tell his stories to. Whom Cole would share his pain with. Whom Cole would spoil with amazing surprises and open doors for and confide in and occasionally nudge with his elbow.
The nausea was gone, and it was the fear of an unknown future and jealousy of a thus far nonexistent great love that I had to swallow down. “Of course I want to hear all of this.”
He looked ahead to the next intersection, just a few more rows of buildings away, and then stopped walking and pulled over to the side. He leaned his left shoulder against the beige bricks of an empty retail space, and I faced him, resting on my right arm just two or three feet in front of him.
“I’m adopted, right? And my mom . . . she’s great. Seriously, she’s a remarkable human being. I don’t know all that much about my birth situation—I’ve honestly never had much interest in knowing—but I gather it wasn’t so great. She saved me from . . . well, from who knows what.”
I knew not to interrupt the silence as he watched people pass.
“But it’s like that was her job. To save me from that other life. To bring me into a better one. And I’m so grateful she did that. But I’m pretty sure that was the end of the job for her. She didn’t want to be a mother. She just wanted to do her part to make the world better, one person at a time, and once I was all squared away, she could move on to the next.”
He scoffed and looked down at his feet. “What an awful thing, huh? Bless his heart, the poor little unwanted newborn who was given a home and loved and cared for . . .” He raised his eyes and met mine. “I’ve had a really great life so far, and I genuinely have nothing to complain about. I’m grateful for birth parents who, whatever the circumstances, made sure I had a chance at life, and I’m so grateful that my mother chose me—even if it was a choice between adopting a child or sending in a lot of money during the PBS pledge drive.”
He chuckled and I joined him as I wiped away a forming tear as discreetly as I could.
“And I’m definitely grateful for grandparents who gave me the most loving home and friends who . . . well, who were closer than family, and a weird little town of some pretty strange people who helped make life pretty much as good as it can be. I don’t know.” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes roughly. “I guess it’s just that I’m thirty-nine years old, and I suddenly don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my life. And I want to blame other people for that. Somewhere deep inside, I’m wishing I could blame other people for that. But I have no one to blame but myself. I think I’ve . . .” His voice trailed off, and he looked down at his boots again. “I think I’ve always felt like I should be grateful. I just needed to be grateful. And I was. I am. But—”
“But it’s hard to let yourself want anything when you’ve spent your entire life just counting your lucky stars for what you have.”
His eyes locked with mine again as he breathed, “Yeah.”
I offered him a half smile and just tried to stay present for him. To not think about how he had never said all of that to me before. At least not in that way. I guess if I’d been keeping better track—better records, maybe, to keep details and emotions from getting lost—the bits and pieces from an entire lifetime probably should have added up to knowing what he was feeling.
No . . . I did know. Knowledge wasn’t the problem. But when a conversation about his mom took place weeks or months apart from a low day when he was really missing Eleanor, and then another year passed before he said something wistful about loving Adelaide Springs but wondering what life might have been like if he’d been able to forge his own identity away from an entire population of people who knew more about his past than he had ever cared to learn . . . And then when his grandfather died and he was suddenly robbed of the life that, in his eyes, he’d been gifted with, and which it would have been disrespectful not to want . . . And when his best friend could only think of how much she would lose if he were to explore any other possibilities for himself . . .
No. Knowledge wasn’t the problem.
I reached out with the hand that was against the wall and wrapped my pinky and ring fingers around the same fingers of his as they dangled limp. “I know we don’t really know each other, but do you mind if I say something?”
Cole smirked and curled his fingers into mine. “Are you kidding? After I just spewed my whole life story at you on our first date? You can say whatever you want.”
I took a deep breath and looked down at our hands. “It sounds like there are a lot of people who really love you. And that makes sense. You seem to be a pretty great guy.” I raised my eyes and peeked at him through strands of hair cascading over my face, and he smiled warmly at me before reaching out to tuck the strands behind my ear. I leaned into the palm of his hand and lifted my chin. “And it sounds like you’ve spent a lot of time taking care of those people. Between your gratitude and believing that food is love, and . . .” I sniffed. “And all those things. But I’m pretty sure none of those people would forgive themselves if they, even accidentally, held you back. From . . . whatever. From whatever it is you want.”
“But that’s the thing, I guess. I have no idea what I want. Not really. I know I need something different, but as for what that may be . . .”
“And so that’s the thing. It’s time to figure it out. And I’m pretty sure the people who love you are still going to love you. And they’re going to cheer you on. And they’re going to be so proud . . .” I sniffed again and swallowed down as much of the emotion as I could. “They’re going to be proud of you. Whatever you do. Wherever you do it. You’re not betraying anyone by taking care of yourself for a change. I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what everyone who loves you would want you to do. It’s just that sometimes it’s easy to lose track of where we end and someone else begins, I think. When we’ve never really known anything else except who we are together.”
I knew I’d lost the blind-date thread. He knew it, too, if the smirky grin on his lips and the moisture shimmering in his eyes were any indication.
“Anyway, I’m rambling. Mostly I just want to say thank you for sharing that with me.”
“Well, you’re a really good listener. I couldn’t help myself.”
We stayed there a few seconds more, staring at each other until the awkwardness of being caught between not knowing what the blind-date version of us was supposed to do next and avoiding what the lifelong-friends version of us felt came naturally—hugs and food, most likely—became too much and we started laughing.
“Okay.” Cole gently squeezed my fingers in his and then dropped my hand and stood up straight. “Shall we continue on?” He looked at his watch. “We have a little more time until we need to be at our next time-specific destination.”
My eyes flew open. “Wow. So this really is an all-day thing you’ve got planned here.”
He grinned at me and then chuckled softly to himself. “Coming on kind of strong for a first date, aren’t I? I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “No. It’s great. Best first date I’ve ever been on.”
Best date, period. Maybe the very best day. Just when I thought Cole Kimball and I couldn’t get any better.
“Same here.” He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and eyed me inquisitively. “Are your feet doing okay?”
I glanced down at my pink high-tops and back again. “They’re great. Though, again, this wasn’t exactly the look I was going for.”
“This look works for you. Though, really . . .” He whistled soft and low through his teeth, and an appreciate gaze traveled up my bare legs and back to my eyes. “It’s difficult to imagine you wouldn’t look great in anything.”
I scoffed as we continued on Seventy-Second. “I don’t know about that. My wardrobe of choice is usually a little more . . .”
So, that ellipsis up there indicates that my words drifted off. Just dissipated into the air like vapor. Yeah . . . that wasn’t what happened as we reached the corner of Seventy-Second and Amsterdam Avenue and I spotted the Gray’s Papaya sign. My words just kind of stopped. My words and my breath and time itself all just kind of stopped.
I hurried around to the Amsterdam Avenue side of the corner building and pointed at the window. “Tom and Meg had a hot dog right there. They stood right there, on the other side of that glass, and ate a hot dog. This is where Kathleen told Joe she was meeting NY152 in Riverside Park. You know? At the end? Almost the end. Like, this was the build-up to ‘I wanted it to be you so badly.’”
I indulged in a little You’ve Got Mail freak-out and squealed right there in the middle of the sidewalk. Loudly enough that a passing group of tourists jumped and scurried down the street away from me. I called out, “Kathleen Kelly and Joe Fox ate a hot dog here!” as the only form of apology I could conjure. “Cole, do you remem—” Blind date. Blind date. Blind date. “I mean, have you ever seen You’ve Got Mail ?”
Who knows? Maybe this man I had just met had also been part of a group of adolescent friends who had convinced one of their mothers to drive across the snowy mountain pass to drop them off at the movie theater two hours away on the day after Christmas in 1998 so they could watch Prince of Egypt and A Bug’s Life back-to-back. And maybe when Prince of Egypt was sold out, my date’s friends had gone to see You’ve Got Mail instead. And maybe my date was such a good guy—I mean, he seemed really nice—that when the other three friends decided to skip A Bug’s Life and sneak into the R-rated Bride of Chucky instead, he decided to sit with his very best friend—who was a little younger and a lot more timid—through a repeat viewing of a romantic comedy he hadn’t wanted to see in the first place.
And maybe he and his best friend had also had endless, ongoing, running-gag sorts of jokes about You’ve Got Mail. Maybe it was a Christmas tradition for them to watch it. Every single year for more than half their lives at this point. Maybe through the years he had given her bouquets of freshly sharpened pencils and copies of the Shoe books by Noel Streatfeild (S-T-R-E-A-T-F-E-I-L-D). Maybe they still occasionally complimented things by saying they were as frothy as a triple latte, because that had been some reviewer’s quote on the VHS copy of the movie. And maybe he’d indulged in his friend’s silly attempts to recreate the song where Greg Kinnear sang about the horn sounding so forlorn, all while acting like he’d never cared much for that movie. I mean, sure . . . it was a long shot. But maybe he, too, had done all of that.
If a guy really loved his best friend, that was just the sort of stuff he might do.
I turned back to face him, and of course he was watching me and smiling. Of course he had his phone out, filming my joy for his personal archives as he had for nearly as long as I could remember, beginning with an old Panasonic VHS-C camcorder. And of course he had brought me here on purpose.
“I don’t even know what to say.” I balled my hands into fists to try to keep from running and tackling him in a hug. “Other than ‘Why are you filming me, you weirdo?’”
He laughed. “Admittedly what’s happening right now could raise some first-date red flags, if not for a few very important details.”
I crossed my arms and cocked my hip out. “I’m listening.”
“Well, number one, I took you for a You’ve Got Mail fan from the beginning. And you just confirmed my suspicions, so I’m doing okay so far.”
“True though that may be, I haven’t heard any solid justification for the voyeurism yet.”
He coughed out another laugh and then wiped the little bit of spit that had escaped from his mouth off of his phone and onto his pant leg. “Well, then you clearly aren’t the YGM devotee I credited you with being. Either that or you haven’t looked behind me yet.”
I looked across Amsterdam Avenue, but I didn’t see anything familiar. He tilted his chin the other way, to the other side of Seventy-Second Street. I noted an interesting-looking subway entrance. At least that’s what I assumed it was. And a sign that said Verdi Square, but that didn’t mean anything to me. Although . . . there was something sort of familiar about the tree in the corner of the fenced-in area, right where two sidewalks intersected . . .
In the nanosecond before my brain made the connection, Cole’s phone began blaring music at full volume.
“No way!” I squealed, my recognition and comprehension complete. I grabbed his hand and performed a dangerously felonious amount of jaywalking, pulling him behind me, leaving a trail of ecstatic giggles (me) and “Dreams” by The Cranberries (him).
Though it’s unfathomable to me, I suppose there might be some people in the world to whom all of that would mean nothing. People who (let’s call it like it is) have more going on in their lives than I did and hadn’t rewatched their five or six favorite movies literally to the point of having every line of dialogue and every note of the musical score memorized. But, again, I am not those people. The moment I heard the cymbal buildup at the beginning of “Dreams,” I was picturing Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan just missing each other again and again and again as they traversed the same paths and basically walked the same steps on their respective journeys to work on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. And the best shot of the whole sequence took place right where we were standing.
I caught my breath from the traffic-violating dash and stared with something akin to veneration at the spot where the sidewalk diverged. “Manhattan should rename this spot.”
“The intersection of Joe Fox Lane and Kathleen Kelly Boulevard?”
I slung my hand over his shoulder and sighed. “Lowest-hanging fruit of all time.”