Fun together, p.5
Fun Together, page 5
“What about Hannah? We were together for six months.” I didn’t bring her home to meet the family because . . . well, she might have a point there.
“Six months is nothing.”
“Half a year is not nothing.” It was long enough for it to sting when I saw her cuddled up to another guy at our favorite cocktail spot. I stood there in shock watching them before they noticed me. He was twirling his hand in her hair mindlessly, like it was something they did every day.
After I confronted her, she said she was sorry, but she’d been trying to find a way to end things with me because she didn’t think I was serious about her. Or about anything, really.
“You have no goals,” she’d said. “I need to be with someone who is driven and wants the same things I do.”
“I have goals,” I protested. “I want the things you want.”
She just shook her head as if she pitied me. “You have a terrible way of showing it then.”
It felt awful that she saw me that way, but did I do anything to disprove what she said? I don’t want to be the kind of guy who comes across that way to the person he’s with.
Maybe I should start dating seriously again. I had a brief fling with someone right when I got back, but it’s been months since I’ve gone on a date.
The thought of meeting someone new used to excite me. I’d live for those initial moments of learning and discovering, finding what they like or don’t. But I can’t help but feel a little exhausted at the prospect of another night spent swiping left or right, coming up with a clever opening line. If I meet someone now, I want it to be organic. Two hands accidentally brushing against each other as we both reach for the same avocado at the grocery store.
Or as I’m handed a vibrating box.
I wonder if Faye is single.
It’s a thought I’ve had several times since I saw her yesterday. A thought I need to stop having. I think I’d rather get back on Hinge than get back to nurturing a crush on someone I shouldn’t.
“Well, give me a plus one. I’m bringing someone.”
Surely, I can find someone that I’d like to bring to the party in the next month.
She raises her eyebrows. “Okay. What about Andrew?”
“What about him?”
“You think he would come? I’d love to catch up with him.”
“Aren’t you already dating someone? Dylan? David?”
“You know his name is Daniel,” she says, making herself another mimosa. “We broke up last night.” She says this so casually that it takes me a second to register it.
“Fuck, Eves. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
She sniffs. “I’m fine.” She puts on a tough face, but she was with him for a few years so there’s no way she feels as casual about it as she sounds.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She balls up the biscuit wrapper and shoves it in the paper bag. “Let’s see. Do you want to hear about how I saw him texting another girl while we were at the gym last night? Or how he had the nerve to break up with me because he said I’m just not meeting him where he’s at right now?”
“What does that even mean?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe it’s for the best, though.”
“Of course it’s for the best. But I should have been the one to end things with him. The fucking nerve of this guy.”
I want to laugh, but am smart enough to hold it in, at her only being upset about the breakup because she wasn’t in control of it.
At least that explains her above-average aggression during the tennis game.
“So, back to the party. I’ll send Andrew an invite just in case.”
“I think he’ll still be on his trip.” Which reminds me, I’m supposed to meet him in—“What time is it?”
She checks her phone. “Noon. Why?”
I hop up to grab my stuff. “I was supposed to be at Andrew’s place thirty minutes ago.” I’m taking care of his plants while he’s gone, and he wants to walk me through everything I need to do to keep them alive.
“Tell him I’ll send him an invite just in case!” Evie shouts as I jog to my car.
7
Eli
“This is a type of succulent. You shouldn’t need to water it too much, if at all.” Andrew nods to the binder in my hands. “You can reference page 15a for more details.”
I open the binder that contains instructions for each plant he owns. It includes diagrams, watering schedules, and even a frequently asked questions section for each plant. “15a. Got it.”
He moves the pot about a millimeter to the left and I start to sweat. Andrew cares about his plants like they’re his own flesh and blood. I know if I so much as let a single dead leaf appear on one of them that I might not only lose his friendship, but maybe my own life.
This binder needs to become my Bible, basically.
“If you have any questions, just message me. I’ve got international texting.”
“We should be fine,” I say, pretending to hug the giant—I flip through the binder to find which plant this is—fiddle leaf fig. I see the word temperamental bolded in red and almost regret offering to do this. But it will be fine. All part of the new responsible me. I’ve turned over a new leaf. Literally.
Andrew finishes his plant tour, and we make our way to his kitchen.
“I like your place,” I tell him. His apartment is one of those buildings that used to be a factory or something, so it has brick walls and tall ceilings with giant windows. “I bet your plants love all this natural light.”
It’s a real grown-up apartment, nothing like the places I’ve lived in the past few years. I guess this is the kind of place you can live when you have your shit together.
“Thanks. I like it here.” He opens the fridge and takes out a jug of almond milk and pours some into a glass. “Feel free to eat or drink whatever is in here whenever you stop by.”
I take a seat at one of the stools by his kitchen counter. “When you do you get back?”
I’ve sort of been hoping he’d ask if I wanted to stay here while he’s gone. That would temporarily solve my current problem of finding a place to live. It feels like too much to ask, and I’d just be freeloading on someone else again.
He takes a tub of protein powder out of a cabinet and spoons some into the cup. “About a month-ish.”
I’ve known Andrew for ten years now and if there’s one thing I know for a fact it’s that he doesn’t ever put “ish” at the end of anything.
Andrew and I met in eleventh grade, when I convinced a group of people to climb onto the roof of our high school one night after basketball practice. He was new on the team, having just moved to Raleigh that school year. There was a formality to him that was so out of place in a sixteen-year-old that I think a lot of the guys on the team didn’t really know what to do with him. He spent the entire first practice worrying over which play was which and where he was supposed to be on the court. I later found out that he hated playing, but his dad made him do it.
I remember thinking he seemed nice enough and always welcomed the challenge of corrupting someone like him in a harmless way. In a way that seemed harmless to me, anyway. I had a fearlessness that came with being young and stupid, operating under the belief that nothing bad could ever happen to me. I was always getting into some kind of trouble. Nothing major, but little infractions enough to annoy my parents, but not enough that I’d land myself in a serious situation.
Case in point, I had the bright idea that we should all climb onto the roof of our school. Why? Because, why not? I told him it was all part of the basketball team’s initiation.
“What if we get caught?” Andrew asked, stiffly clinging to the bottom of the ladder behind the utility room at the back of the school.
“We won’t,” I reassured him.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said before slowly following me up.
He echoes those words, standing frozen in the middle of his kitchen.
“Why do you look like you’re about to throw up that protein shake?”
He looks down at the drink in his hand, like he forgot he’d even made it. “Just nervous about my trip.”
“You seemed excited before. Why are you so nervous?” He’s always been so hyper-focused on work and moving up the corporate ladder that he’s probably on edge because he doesn’t know how to take a vacation.
“Yeah, but something’s changed,” he mumbles.
“What do you mean?”
He sighs and looks out the window above his sink. “You’ll question my sanity if I tell you.”
I lean forward, eager now to hear what’s going on. “Well now you have to tell me.”
“I don’t want to be late for my flight,” he says as he dumps the protein shake down the drain.
I check the time on my phone. “Your flight isn’t for five hours. What’s going on?”
“I’m meeting someone.”
“In Amsterdam?”
He nods his head. “Yeah, she’s from a town just outside of there.”
“Who is she?” This is even more exciting than I thought. A secret girlfriend. I didn’t know he had it him.
“Her name is Emma.”
“How did you meet her?”
He shakes his head and adjusts his glasses. “You’re going to laugh.”
“Let me guess. You accidentally ordered the wrong tulip bulbs, and she was the customer service rep you reached out to online, but now you’re scared because you’re going to get there and find out you’ve fallen in love with a chat bot.”
“How do you come up with this stuff? No, I didn’t fall in love with a chat bot.” He taps his fingertips on the countertop. “We met on the houseplants subreddit.”
“Wooing the ladies with your knowledge of rare moss varieties.”
He snorts. “Something like that.”
“I think that’s cool. Getting back on the horse. Taking the bull by the horns. Other animal-related motivational stuff.”
“Please, shut up.”
“Do you know what she looks like?” Not that looks are super important, but I’m sort of curious about this woman because since I’ve known him he’s only ever dated Faye. I wonder if she looks like Faye.
“Yeah, we’ve FaceTimed each other.”
“So, she’s pretty?”
“Yes, she’s pretty,” he says, exasperated.
“And she has a good personality?”
“Yes, she’s really smart and we have a lot in common.”
“So, if she’s pretty and cool, then why are you acting like you’re being forced to visit her against your will?”
“Because I feel ridiculous. Flying to a foreign country for someone I’ve only been talking to for a few months.”
“I think it sounds romantic, like something out of a movie.” Maybe I should take a page out of his book and forget the dating apps and scout out r/bakedgoods instead.
“So, you agree that I am trying to live out some cliché fantasy?”
“That’s not what I mean. What’s the worst that could happen?” When Andrew is spiraling like this, you have to talk him through a worst-case scenario.
“She murders me.”
Maybe that wasn’t the best line of questioning. “She won’t murder you. Just don’t touch any mysterious ferns or whatever you two are probably into.”
“I guess if it’s too awkward, I can just come back home.”
I already see him forming an escape plan. “Don’t talk yourself out of a potential great time before you even get there. If you’ve gotten good vibes from her so far, you should have nothing to worry about.”
“I guess you’re right. I need to stop overthinking it.”
“Does Faye know?” I blurt out the question before I even have a chance to think that it might a weird thing to ask.
“About?”
“About plant girl. Emma.”
“No. Do you think I should have told her?”
If I were Faye, would I want to know my ex was off to frolic in a field of tulips with his cute new Dutch girlfriend?
“I guess not. Are you two on good terms?”
“We still text sometimes. I saw her yesterday for the first time in a while. We didn’t talk too long, but we’re on as good of terms as we’re going to be, I think.”
On Friday afternoon she seemed a little tired, almost sad, to me. I think that’s why I wanted to make her laugh so badly and experience the satisfaction of distracting her for a few seconds.
“Just asking, since she and I are working together now. Don’t want to break some kind of code by talking to her.”
“There’s no code. I mean, it’s fine if you talk to her.”
“Do you think you two would ever work things out?” I’ve been wondering this ever since he told me they broke up. This is one detail I can’t stand not knowing anymore. Is this trip just his way of going off and experiencing something new, before he comes back and realizes what he needed was back here all along?
“No.” He pauses for a few seconds. “Or . . . I don’t know. Seeing her again . . . brought back some feelings. We’ll see how this trip goes.”
If he’s saying maybe, that means he might be keeping that option open. And that’s answer enough for me. I need to get my mind out of the Faye gutter.
My cap feels tight suddenly. I take it off to adjust it. “You’re good with me being friends with her?”
“Of course. She could probably use a friend. She doesn’t put herself out there much, you know?”
That’s what we’ll be, then. Friends.
I stand up, eager to get up and do something. “Ready to go?” I ask.
8
Faye
I walk into Alexis’s office on Monday morning to discover that something isn’t right.
Alexis is in her late thirties—fairly young for a VP of Marketing—but she has the soul of an eccentric villain, with a girlboss twist. She follows Lean In like a playbook, her platinum blonde bob is somehow always the perfect length, and she wears nothing but monochromatic pant suits. She’s assertive, and hates clutter, small talk, and children. I’ve never seen her laugh at a joke or cry or do anything that isn’t proper and above board.
Which is why I almost don’t compute what I’m seeing because I have no context for it.
You know those massage areas in airports, where you’re sort of sitting but sort of leaning down in those weird little chairs? Well, Alexis is face down in one of those right in the middle of her office. Today’s pant suit is navy blue and behind her is a very tall middle-aged man with slicked back salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a white linen lounge set and a very determined expression. He’s entirely focused on the massage he’s currently providing Alexis’s shoulders.
“Oop, so sorry!”
She keeps her head down in the face hole. “Faye? I’m glad you’ve finally made it in.”
It’s 8:30, and the office opens at nine.
But I know I need to apologize anyway because it just makes her easier to deal with. I perk up into my “work voice,” cheery enough that people like to work with me, but not so cheery that my coworkers think I’m some kind of corporate robot that cannot be trusted. “Sorry, you know how crazy Monday morning traffic is.”
She lifts her head up, piercing blue eyes communicating that no, she does not understand why I’m unable to wield traffic to my commands. She probably operates motor vehicles like she’s Moses parting the sea of cars in her BMW.
“Come on in. I want you to meet Conrad.”
I walk into her office and sit in one of the faux leather chairs in front of her desk, wondering why I need to meet this man. Wondering why she had her door wide open for just anyone to walk in on this scene.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Faye.” The chair squeaks as I cross my legs. I’ve always hated these chairs because they’re the color of a sinus infection and are super uncomfortable.
He grunts out a barely audible, “I’m Conrad,” but doesn’t look over at me.
“You two are going to be working together on the initiative I told you about on Friday.”
I don’t tell her that she didn’t give me any details on this initiative, but I’ve learned it’s best to never accuse her of not doing something. “Can you remind what the objectives are for that? I’d like to make sure I understand the outcomes you’d like to achieve.” Alexis loves words like “objectives” and “outcomes.”
“Our quarterly employee survey results were awful, with responses indicating that stress levels are high. I’m heading up a new self-care initiative.” She nods up. “So, we’re bringing in Conrad.”
“To do . . . massages?”
The man in question grunts again, never once taking his eyes off Alexis’s shoulders.
“I’m doing a trial run this morning. You can work with Conrad on scheduling a day for him to come in and give a tutorial on the massage thing I had you test over the weekend.”
“He’s going to do tutorials . . . on the . . . massager?”
“Yes, I was thinking we could do ten-minute individual massage slots and then do a group class on the massager.”
“A group . . .”
At this point I’m wondering about her mental health because she seems to have taken the words self-care to a whole new level. Why can’t we do what every other company would do and just give everyone a ten percent off voucher to a local med spa or something? Now I have to put together a plan for an actual masseuse to come into a professional office environment and touch all my coworkers. And guide us along in a group session for how to use the massagers?
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I don’t really know how else to confirm this is what she wants without coming out and saying that the company would likely be sued for even giving me that massager, much less handing them out to my coworkers and encouraging them to practice a little self-care with them . . . at the office.
She ignores my question and asks, “Did you test it over the weekend?”
