How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel (8 page)

I wait patiently for his response. We all wait patiently, as no one is sure anymore if we are going to have a party or go home and cry. I start to assess my contacts in the room, and strategize in my mind about who I should approach first regarding hooking me up with my next position. Unfortunately, it keeps coming back to the same thing: they all heard my major gaffe. Hiring me, or even recommending me after that, would be a direct affront to my boss. It would jeopardize their relationship with him. It would be like passive-aggressively saying, “I don’t care that Samantha called you an asshole in front of everyone, because she was right. You are an asshole.” Who would want to make him think that? He’s a powerful guy, and most of the people here need him on their side in one way or another. No, they’re not gonna help me. It wouldn’t be wise. And I wouldn’t do it if I were them either.

So, I am completely beholden to what my boss decides in this moment. My entire career depends on his ability to feel empathy for me, which frankly, I’ve never found to be his strong suit.

Once the tension in the room has grown to a level that is almost unbearable, Henry finally gives in to breaking it.

“You seem remorseful, Samantha, and I believe that you didn’t really mean it.” The room lets out a communal sigh of relief. It’s looking good for me, until he continues, “But since it’s your birthday, I’m going to base my decision about your job security on whether or not you really can fix any problem.” I can. I think. I hope. What ridiculously impossible problem is he going to suggest?

“So,” he goes on, “did you meet the love of your life, last night?”

All eyes on me. I smile victoriously. The room begins to relax.

“If you stick around long enough, you might just meet him tonight!” I win!

“See everyone!” Henry announces to my co-workers, “this is the kind of go-getter attitude that puts you in a power position. I really wanted to fire Samantha right now, but I can’t because she’s just too good at what she does.”

Since these are most of the same people I called yesterday to set me up, they actually know what we’re talking about, and pretty much none of them can believe it. Several people chime in to ask if I met their guy, the one they sent. Other people chime in to ask how it’s possible, since their guy reported that I didn’t show up, and according to their source, “They couldn’t find a single person in the whole bar who was wearing purple.”

“I was there,” I reply to the room, “but the purple dress turned out to be more on the pink side, and the guy I met was random.” They all react by seemingly discussing amongst themselves who they sent, how great of a single guy he is, and how they wished they could find a great girl for him. This conversation gets the party started. Most of my unexpected guests get into it amongst themselves, while some of them take the opportunity to rush me to ask privately about this guy I met, starting, of course, with my parents.

My mom and dad want to know all about him. What do his parents do? Where is he from? Which political party does he belong to? What’s his last name?

“I don’t know. Seattle. What does it matter? Hollister,” I try to rattle off answers as quickly as they ask them.

“Oh, so he’s probably of English descent,” my father assesses. “The English usually have manners, so his parents probably raised him right.”

“That’s a lot to deduce, just from a last name, Dad,” I say, ready to move on to the other friends who are crowding around to ask me about John Hollister, and wish me a happy birthday.

I still feel a little anxious, like there’s something I’m forgetting to do, but when Darien Campbell comes over to say hi, I remember that I don’t have to go to the Chronicle after all. She hasn’t finished her book. She’s in town for her grandmother’s 80th birthday, which is a brunch being held tomorrow. And several of the people who would have reviewed her upcoming, not-yet-existent book, are in this room as we speak, so again, no need to go anywhere to get it to them, if it did exist, which it doesn’t. I can relax. As can Lacey, for that matter, who knew all along that she wouldn’t have to buy me an expensive birthday dinner. Now I’m wondering why she bothered mentioning that the restaurant we would go to should be inexpensive?

“I was trying to keep it real,” she explains, when I get around to asking her about it later, “for the surprise.” She’s right, I probably would’ve figured out something was up if she could suddenly afford to take me somewhere nice.

Overall, the party is a good time. There’s a nice buffet of finger foods, a bartender with a decent selection of wine, beer, and cocktails, and as the night goes on, some people even get up the nerve to dance.

I find out that it’s my parents who paid for it all, which is a relief, since I don’t want to be indebted to my boss any more than absolutely necessary. My parents are good people, but they probably realized that they wouldn’t have been invited to my party if I had planned it myself. Not because I don’t love them, only because I can allow myself to get a little wilder when they’re not around, and birthday parties still seem like an appropriate time to get buckwild. Especially this last one before I’m expected to become a responsible grown up for the rest of my life.

As the party goes on though, I’m finding that I’m not going buckwild. In fact, I’m having a hard time enjoying myself at all. My reason for this is not only incredibly bad, but also completely humiliating. It’s because my phone isn’t vibrating in my purse. John hasn’t called me yet. Here I am bragging about how awesome I am at getting everything I want. Meanwhile, I ignored all these nice people’s eligible bachelors for this man, and he doesn’t even have the decency to show up on my birthday?

Granted, I did see him this morning, so I shouldn’t get so greedy. And it’s not like he promised me he would call, he just said, “if” he finishes his stuff. And it’s kind of my own fault that I’m feeling this pressure right now, since I didn’t have to announce so confidently to everyone I know that he was coming, when we never really set that in stone…

Once or twice I feel a ghost-vibration coming from my phone, but when I check it, I find out that only my wishful thinking and prospective insanity remain. The more he doesn’t call, the more I can’t focus on catching up with the people who love me—or in some cases, have to act like they like me because it’s their job to be on good terms with me.

Lacey must’ve caught me checking my phone and looking disappointed as I put it away because she comes over to ask if I’m okay.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I half-lie and half-hope.

“He hasn’t called yet?” She can see right through my veneer of a positive attitude.

I keep it going anyway, “Well, at least if he doesn’t come, he won’t have to meet my parents so soon.” I laugh weakly, “I had no idea they would be here when I invited him to join along with us, but good luck convincing him of that!”

“Yeah, that’s the whole problem with your parents planning your party in the first place. My first thought when they told me their idea was, ‘But if you guys plan her surprise party, there won’t be anybody there for her to have birthday sex with!’ But don’t worry, I didn’t say it out loud.” I laugh.

“It’s okay. I already had birthday sex.”

“You did?” She seems more concerned than impressed, “You already slept with him?”

“Yeah. So?” Why is she so concerned about this?

“So you shouldn’t have given it up on the first night, Sam,” she scolds.

“You yourself just said I should have birthday sex!”

“I was joking. That was a joke. And it was only said in my mind.” I don’t get it. What’s the big deal about sleeping with the perfect man?

“You had sex with Marty!” I argue.

“Yeah, but that’s different. I don’t like the guy!” she explains, as if that should make sense to anybody.

Now I’m legitimately worried. Does this really matter? And why does it always fall on the woman to say no? It’s not like we don’t want it as much as they do. So why does it always fall on us to be good? Whatever “good” is.

“John and I are perfect for each other. You didn’t get a chance to hear about it yet, but the moment couldn’t have been more romantic. So why was I supposed to wait?” I try to calm my rapidly beating heart.

“I don’t know
why
you’re supposed to wait, but everybody knows that if you like a guy, you want him to stick around. And if you want him to stick around, you absolutely can not have sex with him until at least the third date.” Oh. Well that explains everything. Sometimes I just hate her.

Now I’m in a panic and I don’t even want to be here anymore. My energy and happiness feel like they’ve been zapped right out of my body.

Lacey picks up on my mood shift, and I know she feels partly responsible because she says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I probably don’t seem too encouraged by this because she adds, “He’ll call you. Some guys still call. If he’s as great as you say he is, he’ll call you. Just give him a week, before you panic. That’s the standard six-day maximum, plus one day to make sure he’s not calling.” She puts her arm around me trying to console me. It’s sweet even though it doesn’t really make me feel any better. She can tell, so she continues, “I mean, what I said isn’t even true. I had sex with Marty, and he’s called me a whole bunch of times already.”

Yeah! He didn’t care that she slept with him on the first night. I mean, technically, I guess it’s their second night, since they did meet at K-Bar that one time he mentioned that led to him basically stalking her there. But why does she get to be so lucky? Why isn’t John stalking me?! Or at least calling me…

How had I not even considered the option of him not calling? Until now, it had literally not even crossed my mind as a possibility. He’ll call. He’s gonna call. We had too much fun for him not to call. We were both there having the same experience, and it was incredible. Yeah, there’s no way he doesn’t call. I will be absolutely devastated if he doesn’t call.

Henry and his wife approach me, as they put on their coats. I guess they’re leaving. I look around and notice that the party is winding down. More people have left than I’d noticed while I was hanging out with the misery in my brain.

“So, where is this guy?” Henry asks accusingly.

I lower my head embarrassed, “I don’t know. I mean our plans for tonight were pretty tentative. But I really thought he’d make it.”

“Look Samantha,” he says almost sweetly, “I didn’t appreciate the things you said about me earlier.” Oh God, here comes the part where he fires me. “But I’m not gonna fire you for it,” he goes on. “I just said that to sound tough in front of everyone.”

I can understand that he doesn’t want his clients or employees to think he’s some wishy-washy pushover. And he does have major loyalty issues, which he’s always been very clear about, and which I had personally just breached with my comment about him.

And then, right when I start to think that maybe he’s not such a twisted guy, he sticks the knife into my heart and wiggles it around a little, “Anyway, I’m sure you’re feeling enough pain just from having failed.”

Coming from most people that would’ve been said compassionately, out of sympathy, to mean, “I’ve been there, I feel for you, and I hope things turn around for you soon.” Coming from Henry it sounds more like a warning, meaning, “Your days of getting a free pass around here are over. I forgive you, but I’ll never forget, so beware of crossing me again, because I’m watching you, and by the way, you’re not as fail-proof as you think. Happy Birthday.” Okay, so he said the “Happy Birthday” part out loud, but I know what he meant.

~

The next few days go by one slow second at a time. At work, I look at my phone to check for a call I may have missed. It’s 11:02. I should work. I look at my phone to check again. It’s 11:03. This is bad. I have to wait longer between checks. The next time I look it’s 11:08. It’s an improvement, although probably not one I should be proud of.

This continues after work. 5:16, 5:19, 5:24. And at home. 8:37, 8:43, 8:56—basically during every commercial break from the television shows I’m trying to distract myself with. I should really get a DVR!

But I’m not just eyeing the phone, I’m also looking him up on Google and on Facebook. Every day. What if something changes? What if he posts a status that mentions me. What if he posts a status that mentions his location. No. Don’t even think about it, Sam!

I’m in my office, looking at his Facebook page, and hovering my mouse over the add button, even though I have no intention of pressing it, when the door opens suddenly.

“What are you working on?” Henry asks.

I jump, startled, and accidentally click my mouse. Oh, shit. I just friended John. Five days into him not calling me. That looks desperate. He’s gonna think I’m cyber-stalking him! Worse, he’s gonna be right! That’s pretty much all I ever do anymore. Can this be undone? I suppose I could unfriend him. But that email Facebook sends to tell him that I want to be friends has probably already been launched. Now if I unfriend him, he’s gonna get the email, know I’m stalking him, click to ignore my friend request, and discover it’s not even there, at which point he’ll think that I deleted it because I don’t want him to find out that I’m obsessed with him, which will only make me look exponentially more obsessed than I am! Oh God, this is embarrassing. Why doesn’t Facebook have a prompt to ask, “Are you sure you want to friend this person?” They do that to ask if you’re sure you want to deactivate your account, which is an action that’s a hundred times less impulsive than friending some hot guy you just had magical sex with.

Well, if he’s not calling because he thinks I’m a loser, at least now he has confirmation.

Meanwhile, Henry has come here with a purpose, “Listen, Samantha,” he begins, “we all get to 30 with a list of things we didn’t accomplish on time. The people in this office aren’t judging you for that.” Aw. That’s kind of sweet, he’s trying to console me. Maybe Henry isn’t an asshole at all. Maybe he’s just one of those father figure types, who is really hard on his children because he wants to see them go above and beyond what the other PR children are capable of. He likes to push us and challenge us, but maybe it’s only because he cares.