Page 39 of All Our Almosts

As I look around for my shoes and bag, I can hear the sounds of Andy opening the refrigerator, sifting through its contents, and pulling out ingredients. A clink of bottles, the crinkle of a wrapper, a tap against the counter. Then the low sound of his voice, asking, “So… you’re gonna have sex with this guy?”

“Well,” I call towards the open door as I zip up my black boots, “I have to meet him first and then we’ll see. I don’t even know if he’ll want to. But that is kind of the whole point of dating. Okay, well, not the whole point of dating, but it’s certainly a major part of rebound dating which is my current vibe.” I step back into the kitchen, shoes and coat on, and Andy’s wide-eyed expression conveys a clear problem. “You’re looking at me like I’m crazy again. Is it the dress?” I smooth down the front nervously. “Tell me now before I leave and it’s too late.”

“No, no, yeah, totally, yeah,” he says. “The dress is fine. Just, you know, be careful.”

And it’s kind of cute. I don’t have brothers, but maybe this is what it would be like to have a brother looking out for me. It’s weirdly touching, actually.

“I’ll be fine. You helped me pick this guy out, remember? And it looks like you have an equally thrilling night planned with your… pickle, tofu, and grape jelly sandwich?”

He looks down at the counter where he does in fact have the ingredients for a pickle, tofu, and grape jelly sandwich. He shrugs. “The traditional meal of my people.”

“And I respect your heritage. Anyway, I have to go. Love you, enjoy your feast!”

His “Love you too” follows me as I shut the door.

11

The date is… fine.

It’s not bad. He’s not a jerk or anything, we just never click. The conversation drags and lulls and I wonder if I’m the boring one or if it’s him. Maybe it’s both.

By the time I start walking back home, I’m pretty convinced it’s a me-problem. Not that I think Patrick was a great catch that I fumbled or something, but I’m realizing I don’t actually know how to date anymore. I’m so used to being with the same person for years that I can’t remember all the romantic getting-to-know-you social mores. I could even be a bad kisser now, for all I know! And I have no way of assessing it because all I know is what Elliot liked, and any other experience is in the too-far-distant past to recall.

I have a detailed date debrief on the tip of my tongue when I get home, but Andy doesn’t seem to be around, so I call Lia instead.

“I very much doubt it was your fault,” she insists. Her voice is muffled by the wind—I caught her while taking her sweet bulldog Archie on his night walk.

“Yeah but you already like me. You’re biased.”

“I like you because you’re fun to be around. If you didn’t have fun tonight, it’s because he wasn’t fun.”

“I don’t know.” I belly flop onto my bed, still in my dress but too lazy to change. “Elliot always said I overpower conversations. Maybe that’s what happened, and I didn’t give the guy a chance to be interesting.”

“UGH,” Lia yells. “I fucking hate that guy. Sophie, everything Elliot ever said to you, you need to forget. He was just trying to bring you down because he knew you were too good for him.”

“Okay, nevermind. Undo. Unsubscribe. I don’t want to have this conversation again. Forget I brought him up.”

“Can I please just say one last thing, and then we can change the topic?”

I sigh in a completely overdramatic way. “Fine.”

“We all know I hated Elliot, and we can joke about that fact all day and night. But I’m not joking when I say that I genuinely think he hurt your self-esteem. He did everything in his power to make you feel undesirable for three years straight, and it’s normal that it’s taking a little while to build your confidence back after that.”

“He wasn’t that bad,” I say, but there’s no heart in it. Suddenly I’m exhausted.

“I just want you to know that you’re amazing, and I want you to be open to the right kind of guy when he comes along. Don’t settle for some boring guy from the internet just because he’s the first one to ask you out.”

“I’m not that desperate,” I reply.

But aren’t I? If Patrick asked me out again, would I say yes? It just seems so entitled, thinking I’m too good for a second date.

When Lia and I hang up, I peek back into the living room for Andy, but he’s still not there. In fact, I don’t see him at all before I fall asleep. It’s not until the following morning, when I stumble out of bed in a glamorous XXL Minnesota State Fair t-shirt, hair in a messy bun and sleep gunk in the corners of my eyes, that I see him again.

It’s earlier than I usually get up, but that’s what happens when your date ends at 8:30 and you’re in bed by 9:00. I walk out of my room mid-yawn, then yelp out loud when I spot something moving in the kitchen.

“Ah! Jesus, Andy, you scared me. I didn’t hear you get in. Where’d you go last night?”

He rotates to face me, then freezes stock-still. Only his eyes dart from my face, to my shirt, to the bedroom door.