Romance Is My Day Job (20 page)

Family. Now, there's another issue.

For a couple of months, I've mentioned “my friend Sam from high school” to my mother and Patrick, not expecting them to hop on board this potential train wreck. I would slip him into conversation in the usual way, as one might bring up an acquaintance. Certainly there's no mentionitis, as in I have to bring up Sam or pine over him with my relatives. I've cried wolf far too often. But when Sam books his flight and our relationship escalates, I have to be frank with my family. There may be a new man in my life. This whole romance may sound strange, but here it is. My brother's reaction is his usual diplomatic one: He shows support without giving an opinion. The poor guy has endured my many breakups, endless phone calls with me whining. What are the chances that this could work out? Very slim.

Carlos, my brother's boyfriend, is another story. He hasn't heard my tales before, the desperate phone calls. This darling man loves a good romance. He's sassy and has strong opinions. His eyes light up when he hears the details of me and Sam, the progression of our relationship from e-mail to phone to Skype to visit. But he's ready with advice like, “If he takes advantage of you, you kick him to the curb,” spoken in his thick Peruvian accent.

So Carlos has regularly asked me how things are going with Sam. Am I excited? Is he as cute now as he was in high school? He's even hotter, I answer. At least from what I see on the webcam.

My other gay best friend, Jose, who used to teach with me in Albuquerque, is also supportive and sends me uplifting e-mails, asking for details. In addition to the opportunity for salacious exhibitions via webcam, he's fascinated by my potentially becoming Jewish, like Charlotte from
Sex and the City
. I wish it worked this way since I've always loved the idea of having a religion. Jose continuously e-mails me positive messages. Did I show at least my breasts? Did we celebrate Yom Kippur via webcam?

I'll never tell.

As my mom and I get our manicure/pedicures, I drop in little details about Sam—that he's an academic, a Francophile, a bon vivant—but she doesn't really seem to be paying attention. She's listening though not that interested. He could be another Barry the Teacher, Superman the Finance Guy, Nathan the Spanker.

“I've invested too much. I can't go through it again,” she says. Losing a potential son-in-law has got to be painful, especially since she bought Barry the Teacher a very expensive tie from Barneys a few months before he broke up with me. Investing in Sam is not an option right now.

But then she calls me one Friday night in November, breathless.

“I was talking with Nancy . . . from the College Board . . . and [wheeze]
she knows Sam
! I told her my daughter has this friend who's coming to visit. He teaches French. ‘Do you know him?' I asked her.”

It turns out Nancy does know Sam from their days at Columbia and reassured my mother that he is a “great guy.”

How random is that?

Mom is now invested in an academic potential future son-in-law. In my book, Nancy is another one of those angels. She appeared at the right time and gave my mother the assurance I couldn't have provided.

After this, my mother Googles Dr. Sam like crazy, analyzes his scholarship, sees that Sam's got potential in his field as a Proust scholar, had a rough time in his marriage, dropped out of the circuit for a while to hide and start over, and now he's ready to reenter life.

In addition to Nici, my work BFF Melissa and childhood friend Rachel show interest in my budding romance. Suddenly, there is a whole army behind me. They want to know what happens next. How long did we talk last night? Boxers or briefs? Is he still a daredevil? After so much time on Skype, will we have the same chemistry in person? What if Sam moves in and does nothing? What if he takes advantage of me? What if it's just a fling that goes nowhere? What if he's a big lush and wants to rappel down buildings just for fun?

What if, indeed.

These are all questions I've thought myself—often. I'm not a moron. If Sam wants to steal my fortune, he's foolish since there's not much to take. If there are evil ulterior motives, so be it. I have nothing to lose. I'm not looking for marriage or babies. Bad things have already made their mark on me. He couldn't do much damage, and if he did, I'd pick myself up.

I'm not expecting miracles, but it's more fun if you can share these exciting moments. My friends are mostly with me. Except for Patrick. Though not unsupportive, he's cautious, and I don't blame him. We have a complicated relationship—95 percent loving siblings, 5 percent childhood ick. We've risen above the ick, to the point where as my father exited from his paternal role, Patrick took over.

He's the one who advises me on the big issues, the proud parent when I do something great. I want his approval more and more over the years. All this time, Patrick has been the most important man in my life. It should have been my father taking some of the slack, giving me those pep talks through my twenties and thirties—like
you're doing fine, maybe I'll come see you in the city, what are your friends like?
Patrick always took that time with me. Now I just hope he'll give his blessing on this last journey because, surely, I can't go through this emotional ordeal with anyone else ever again.

It's true love with Sam or single girl forever.

It's Wednesday, the day before I go to meet Sam at the airport. He arrives on Thursday night at eleven
P.M
. and I'm taking the A train to meet him at JFK. My boss approved my taking Friday and Monday off. Normally, I'd take this kind of exciting day off to have a nervous breakdown, but this time I don't. It doesn't seem fair to stay home again since I work from home on Wednesdays. What am I going to do all day on Thursday—watch romantic comedies, practice talking in the mirror, and get my nails done? No, I'm an adult. I can talk into the mirror after-hours. For now, I need a distraction, the romances on the page that pay my bills.

On Wednesday, I do my usual waking up late. There must be some homing device planted on me since I get a phone call from Lesley, one of my regular Resurfacers. It's a rule that the minute you're “taken,” you'll get a rash of signs asking, “Are you sure about this?”

Something is up with him, otherwise why would he call me? He knows all about Sam, that in a day I'll be cohabitating with this person for at least a week (or maybe permanently). Soon, Lesley won't be invited into the apartment anymore. We haven't fooled around in years so that isn't an issue. But is it improper for me to be friends with him?

From our talks, I get the feeling Sam doesn't like my friendships with men. Some seem to threaten him—like Lesley and Superman, both of whom keep in touch with me. But I'm so far beyond my exes, and, damn it, Lesley and I have been friends for eight years. Can't I even talk to him if I want to? Sam and I aren't married. We haven't even seen each other in person! No guilt.

Lesley and I go to the nearest coffee shop, where he tells me about the latest book that he's writing. Ah, there's the rub. He's almost done with it, this seven-hundred-page masterpiece. I'm a single girl with nothing better to do than grant him a massive favor. I usually don't mind when people give me stuff to read. It's my job, my passion. But when I notice the bizarre timing, I get apprehensive. I can smell a request, and I steer the conversation toward Sam and my monogamy. It gets steered back to making his book into a movie, and wouldn't it be cool if we could write a screenplay together?

It might be a cerebral hemorrhage that prompts me to invite Lesley to my apartment on Wednesday, to hang out, not do anything improper, but to look at photos, talk more about Sam. I have this feeling that inviting him over might be the wrong thing to do the day before Sam is due to arrive.

So, when Sam calls the night before he's about to leave, I'm both excited to see him and burdened with my faux pas. Our big moment is twenty-four hours away. He asks me about my day, and I'm terrible at keeping secrets.

“Lesley came over to talk about his new book. And then I did some editing, and then I went to the gym. . . .” Cover up the big event with minutiae. This shows how inconsequential Lesley's visit was. But I notice Sam is upset.

“You had your ex-boyfriend over the day before I come see you . . . ?”

“He's not an ex-
boyfriend
. Nothing's going on. He just came over. It's been platonic for years.”

“Don't you think that's crazy?”

Oh God, of course it is. I can see Sam wilting on the other side of the webcam. Did I just screw this up majorly? He has to know that his visit is the only thing I've looked forward to in years. Years. Not since I got to see all five original members of Duran Duran onstage at Madison Square Garden in 2005—a miraculous event. Meeting Sam is a miraculous event.

“I'm sorry.” I don't know what else to say. “It was the wrong thing to do. Please, I hope you'll still come tomorrow.”

The conversation is awkward and by the end, I wonder if he'll even show. I don't see how he wouldn't. We've said “I love you” so many times. He's not exactly perfect, and neither am I. Relationships are complicated, aren't they? All this and I'm not even into Lesley. We have a long history, but we both acknowledge that the spark is long gone. I want Sam.

After this conversation, I get angry. If Sam doesn't show, then he's a jerk and not worth my time. I made a stupid decision—I will make many in the future—but the lesson is that I'm, occasionally, dumb as rocks and too eager to please. When friends call me asking for things, even less-than-altruistic friends, I tend to get sucked in over and over. That's probably the worst Sam will encounter, those dumb-ass choices that don't move me forward. If he's threatened by a guy I barely had relations with, then it's not really about me.

I try to calm myself down, rationalize my fears, and sleep. But the truth is, I'm kind of a mess.

“Are you excited?” my friend Melissa asks in the office the next day. She's all smiles, hugging me. By now, she's firmly on Team Sam. Sure, she's seen the Facebook pictures of him, knows every piece of our correspondence.

Overnight, Sam seems to have forgiven me about Lesley. Maybe when he arrives, he'll be convinced I want him and no one else.

“Yeah.” It's hard to articulate how I feel. It's like this happy glow inside. This is what the romance novels show at the end of the book. These books leave readers with that glow. I feel the glow.

It's the kind of glow that doesn't feel strange or weird or misguided or red-flaggy. Just a glow. Yes, I'm still nervous as hell, but I know I'm moving in the right direction, no matter what happens. There should be a movie camera on me. Seriously, my poise is commendable. You should always go to work before a big event. The distraction alone is worth it.

I'm not sure how, but I go about my day in a normal manner even though this is not a normal day. I edit part of a book, give my assistant odds and ends, choke down yogurt for lunch (I can barely eat), and go to my editorial meeting.

During the meeting, we discuss books we've bought, and publishing and company news. At the end, we go around the room and mention something good that's happened. I usually try to be funny because otherwise I feel awkward. But this time when it's my turn, I say, “I'm about to see an old friend after twenty-six years and we're going to cohabitate.”

I know, crazy to spew like this to my colleagues. Everyone kind of knows the story, and I don't share that much about my personal life except in bursts at staff lunches or holiday parties or in moments of sheer paranoia. Melissa and my HR friend Sam know just about everything, though. Overall, my colleagues are happy for me, rooting for this to work, even though deep down, they may think I'm insane. It's like having an office of mama bears secretly pulling for your happiness.

After work, I dash home for my five hours of primping. I'm taking a few days off, and it's close to the holidays, so no one is around anyway. It's time for me to meet Sam.

My phone rings. Mom.

“We need a mani/pedi before your big meeting, don't you think?” Mom says.

She's the best. Suddenly, she's so excited for his arrival. We sit in the salon downstairs from my apartment building. I can tell she wants to be a fly on the wall. In some ways she is.

“So, maybe you and Sam would like to come over for a cappuccino tomorrow morning. Would you like that? Think about it,” she says, with the eyebrow raise.

Sure, Mom. Sam and I are going to spend our first night together, then come see you for a cappuccino in the morning. Oddly enough, Sam would enjoy this twisted offer. He's the type who can walk into a roomful of strangers and convince someone to wrestle him in a pool of mud.

With my nails red as sin, I'm alone for a while. My clothes are laid out: dark jeans, white sweater. I washed and straightened my hair and now have about two hours to kill.

The only thing that could calm me down is a movie. Something appropriate—not
Citizen Kane
—but something not completely awful, either. I can't watch a Julia movie because in my quest to be Julia, I've memorized every line of her movies.

This time, I need Sandra. I will honor those years I've spent in my bathrobe, whimpering about lost love. Also the girl who's started over a million times with a new person. I'm a bit repressed on the outside, but in my sweet little cave, I'm all emotion. I want to be accessible, that girl who doesn't need to be perfect. Sam will see the real me since I can only pull off perfection for an hour or two.

I go through my collection of DVDs and pull out
The Lake House,
a gift from Marie. I remember that I paid actual money to see it in a theater. What did I expect, the fireworks of
Speed
? No, but Keanu and Sandra are golden together on-screen. So much gorgeous brunette in one frame; they just fit.