Romance Is My Day Job (21 page)

I pop in the DVD and the waterworks begin immediately, and thank goodness I have ample mascara and Pond's cold cream to help apply and reapply my makeup. Sandy (I can call her that, can't I, since we're imaginary best friends?) doesn't smile through most of the movie. For some reason, she and Keanu connect over the bridge of time and write these highly literate letters to each other. They present their best selves on paper while toiling through their mundane real lives. Sandy is a doctor who feels too much. Keanu works construction but is an architect, too. His father, Christopher Plummer, is a block of ice and eventually dies, which makes Keanu sad. Sandy comforts him. They discover, too, that they did meet earlier, though this seems like a contrivance. How would you ever forget kissing Keanu or trying to save his life? If you see Keanu, you remember him for always.

But the Paul McCartney song “This Never Happened Before” and that last kiss have me blubbering like never before. The movie mirrors a lot of what Sam and I have gone through over the past four months, and it captures my mood. By the last scene, I'm a howling mess because Sandy is finally happy. She's not wearing a bathrobe anymore—just an awesome red coat that stands out in the tall, dry grass. Keanu practically mauls her because he's waited for her for so long.

This is the big last scene of
my
movie. I can't believe it. The moment I've waited for my entire life. Not my wedding. Not having babies or owning property but the deep sense that
this is it.
My heart belongs to Sam. Finally, I get to see my Prince Charming.

I'm on my way,
my brother texts me half an hour later once I've cleaned myself up. I'd planned on taking a train to JFK, but Patrick, surprisingly, offered to drive me.

Usually when I have a huge event, I am nervous, like sick nervous, want-to-stay-home nervous, sometimes cancel-at-the-last-minute nervous, or I just suffer while trying to remain present. Unlike those other times, I feel great, ready to meet my destiny. It's easy for me to leave my apartment and rush outside.

Patrick swings by somewhere around nine thirty
P.M
. He's smiling, that hesitation in him gone. This feels right, like the father driving his kid to a date, giving me away.

He doesn't give me fatherly advice. We don't cry over the fatefulness of this whole experience. He just drives, plays music, and distracts me. Again, the future isn't here yet. He could be driving me to meet a friend with whom I'll connect and then go back to my old life.

“Have fun! Let me know what happens!”

“I will! Wish me luck!”

“It'll be great. And if he hurts you, I'll cut him,” he says before dropping me off at the terminal and air-kissing me on the cheeks.

My brother is not the type to drive people to the airport in New York City. Public transportation is just too efficient. He's super busy and doesn't have time for this. It's a big deal to me that he would go out of his way for me on this potentially strange night. Patrick has been there through many important moments, especially the bad relationships. He's listened patiently to repetitious tirades with me asking, “Do you think he likes me?” He's met a parade of fools, even sort of liked a few of them. He's taken me out when I've felt poorly. He's let me off the hook when he shouldn't have since he has a life, too. He's told me point-blank when he's been worried about me. Also, like a parent, he's trusted me to figure out my own problems and met me at the other end of hell.

My beloved brother—that quiet yet expressive boy who put on plays for the entire neighborhood—grew into a strong man. At the end of my life, I can see us hanging out in our walkers at the same nursing home. I'm lucky in so many ways.

And now it's my turn to chase a dream.

JFK is a funny place past eleven
P.M
. There isn't as much frenetic activity, but people are still traveling, navigating jet lag and the jarring nature of country-hopping. I wait by the walkway, gasping as groups of people exit, searching for loved ones or the bathrooms. Sam could be anywhere. He has to go through customs first, which takes a long time. I brought a book with me,
Eat, Pray, Love
, but can't read a single word. Instead, I text my brother over and over again:
Not here yet.

I have “This Never Happened Before,” that Paul McCartney song, in my head. This kind of romance hasn't happened to me before, for sure. I have gone on many, many dates, but rushing to the airport to meet someone who feels this right—never.

Eleven thirty passes. Even eleven forty-five.

The crowd thins even more. Not so many travelers coming through the terminal anymore. He might have missed his connection in London. I'm sure his flight has already arrived. In fact, I know it has. Maybe something happened on the way. He got stopped at customs—one more obstacle for us.

After twenty-six years, it may not happen. I've long since forgotten the fact that Sam and I never knew each other in high school. There was one dance and that picture we took together. We discussed those memories, though they feel distant, like amusing artifacts we have in common. What's happening now is more colorful. The stakes feel high. I should be more nervous since I might be going home alone in my Skyline car.

Suddenly, I see one lone guy in the distance, apart from the other travelers. He's wearing a striped sweater that I recognize. The short curly hair from the webcam sessions. The olive skin, thin physique. He's coming closer and I know it's him.

He sees me, smiles.

There is no rush into my arms. No songs playing in my head or quickening of my heart.

In fact, it's very strange.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says before we hug. And not that crushing hug one might expect between a couple separated by an ocean for four long, excruciating months. This isn't the Keanu-Sandra moment at the end of
The Lake House
. There's no kiss. Maybe it doesn't feel natural since, well, we don't know each other in the flesh.

“Wow,” he says. “You're three-dimensional.”

I smile appropriately, noticing how dazed he looks. On the webcam, he came alive, smiled, spoke animatedly, and provoked me. JFK-Sam-in-the-flesh is reserved, maybe tired. He just traveled for the past fourteen hours. Perfectly normal.

“Do you need to use the restroom before we go to the car?” I ask. So romantic.

“Yeah.” He goes to the men's room and I wait on one of the seats. Talk about anticlimactic. But God, I feel so much. I'm a WASP, which means I have forty years of buried feelings. My ulcer will reopen. Or a stroke, right here in JFK.

Sam is so handsome in person. It's possible that I was just a distraction to get him through those last few months in Switzerland. Or that he just needs a place to stay before he goes to Florida. If I think about it too much, I'll start crying. Four months of contact, and I'm a basket case. The truth is that he may not feel the same way. The whole Lesley thing messed us up. He's probably overwhelmed by it all and just wants to go home. This is the problem with believing in romance. Reality is so disappointing. At least I only wasted four months. Now to figure out how to get through the next week with Sam.

I should play it cool, act like a good hostess who just wants to have fun in her old age. It should be high on my radar that he could spill the beans to people at Taft—not that I'm in close touch with anyone, but I don't want to have a reputation. I'm paranoid. Note to self: Be like Mom, who always makes the best out of uncomfortable situations.

As he emerges from the bathroom, we continue to stare at each other as if we're both from outer space. He really is better-looking in person. Like I could hug him again. All those hours of talking and talking into the night. Now he's here. This will be a painful week because he is just that cute.

“Let's go to the car,” I say. Since he's barely touched me and definitely didn't kiss me, it's obvious he's not attracted to me. Not everyone is. This was a giant miscalculation but not fatal.

We get into the big car and our driver commands our ship speedily across the streets. It's wintry and damp, though no snow yet. The weekend is supposed to get a downpour and I already warned Sam to bring a winter coat, as if he wasn't coming from Switzerland.

The car takes us over the highway on the smoothest ride ever through late-night New York. I wonder what the hell is happening. Who is this stranger with me in the car? I know so much about him, but he seems almost bashful. It's obvious that he doesn't like me
that
way, I just know he doesn't.

But one gesture can change everything. Sam moves in closer to me, puts his hand on my leg, his head on my shoulder. Now I
know
he likes me. It's a slice of webcam Sam. The leg touch is a dead giveaway, and those butterflies are stirring inside me again, along with relief. He likes me. The conversation may be slow to start, but I imagine he's exhausted so I stay quiet and don't force it. He's coming home with me. Hand still on my leg.

The car sets us in front of the building in Chelsea. I help him with his giant suitcases and backpack. We go to the elevator and take it to the sixth floor. We smile at each other, discuss his long trip quietly. It's close to one in the morning.

He's not so talkative, very different from Webcam Sam, even Taft Sam.

I take out the key and open the door to the apartment. It's pitch-black and I'm tempted not to turn on the light, just like in a sexy thriller. But I'm a reasonable person. The cat must be hiding behind the couch now that he hears this strange noise, this new presence.

“You said you had a one-bedroom,” Sam comments, smiling and joking just like he did on the webcam, as he wheels in his luggage. “You lied to me.”

“I did not.”

He's smiling, fidgeting with himself; he doesn't know quite what to do. This is my Keanu-Sandra moment, so after four long months of talking to him, never touching him, I go over and kiss him.

A romantic heroine usually doesn't initiate the kiss, but again, I have nothing to lose. And in personal encounters, I have this sense that my boy is shy. In romance, that first kiss causes fireworks and waves of ecstasy that make the heroine's womb contract. I don't experience those exact sensations, but the second I kiss (maul) Sam, I know I want more, to the point where I practically lock him in my apartment from the outside so he can't leave. What about those dating rules I'm supposed to obey? I'll admit to a little amnesia. If I have to ruin a relationship, I'll have as much fun as possible first.

Romance novels contain juicy conflict on every page. The hero and heroine take a break from the angst to have sex or eat a meal (usually a “garden salad,” protein, “crusty bread,” and lots of iced tea—who knew? No veganism because that's too fussy. Sadly, the heroine will go for the apple instead of cake—and sometimes we have to hate her). After these happy commercials, the characters grapple with their mommy or daddy issues, lost love, feelings of inferiority, family trauma—basically, all those humanizing things.

Most of the conflict Sam and I have is the usual stuff, like are we too screwed up, and will this end? I don't want it to, it doesn't feel temporary, but, of course, I worry. And because I can't lose such a divine catch, I vow to look gorgeous at all times—put on my face, wear flattering clothes, and—gasp—straighten my hair, a process that takes hours. This goes out the window fast thanks to my studio apartment. He sees the raccoon eyes when I emerge from the shower. I see a snoring corpse when he sleeps with his mouth wide-open. We can't hide.

I take a break from reading so much romance and delve into two happy-making books:
Eat, Pray, Love
by Elizabeth Gilbert and
The Happiness Project
by Gretchen Rubin. I started Gilbert's book earlier but never got around to finishing. Now I'm devouring every word and feeling inspired. The same with the Rubin. For the most part, they both urge readers to chill out and follow the bliss.

Speaking of bliss, I normally wouldn't recommend moving in on the first date. My circumstances with Sam are unique, so I let many rules slide. After several days, I'm fairly sure that he's staying with me indefinitely. Though he has numerous couches where he can crash, I want him on
my
couch.

Our exit strategy is such that he can disappear at the first sign of trouble. He's a popular guy, can find friends even in remote areas of the globe. I have no doubt he's the type who loves being with others. Will he adore living with me, snuggling while watching TV, cooking dinner, doing laundry together, and taking walks around the neighborhood? Sam isn't a hermit like me and enjoys the company of others. I seem to have the opposite problem of so many—I'm used to being by myself. The adjustment is huge, for both of us.

I love living alone and have avoided the roommate situation. No one is snoring or having sex in the next room, there's no coordination of bills, no one fights over whose food is in the fridge or the messy toilet issues. At my age, I'm petrified to live with a man. My father and brother were neat, took care of their hygiene, but plenty of people are slobs behind closed doors (like me). I've lived alone for so long that the odds aren't good that this will work.

Our first night and day have gone swimmingly. We're happy to see each other, and, like most nauseating couples, we have to show how fabulous we are together. Should we go have a cappuccino at Mom's? Of course, Sam insists. Meeting the parents on day number two would have given my past boyfriends hives. Not Sam.

We trudge over five whole blocks to Horatio Street in the West Village. Here we go—this could end everything. I've introduced Sam to my entire family via pictures and anecdotes, so he knows what's coming. We walk down the hall and open the apartment door to an airy, light room.

“Why, hello, Sam. Nice to meet you,” Mom says in her unique way. She's incredibly charming from the first second and makes him a frothy cappuccino.

I keep hoping Sam will fall under her spell, because he hasn't had a mother for a good thirty years, and my mother is game to expand her brood.

Then Sam and my stepfather lock eyes. Yes,
that
stepfather, the curmudgeon who barks at dogs and people, loves his mysteries, and is stubborn. Time stands still as my new roommate goes to shake the hand of this befuddling intellectual historian. My stepfather doesn't smile often, but this time he does. Maybe it's the love he sees in Sam's eyes or that Sam actually engages him in conversation. In fact, Sam hangs on Don's every word and the connection builds from there.

It's a little twisted, this man-love. I almost start laughing outright at the strange hetero mating dance between men. Sam keeps watching my stepfather as if he's a
Sports Illustrated
model, a beguiling creature you don't quite get but want to keep looking at. Sure, the man is a genius, but he's also a giant grumpus. What's the appeal?

“You don't understand. He just draws you in,” Sam says as we walk home.

“You're in love with him.”

“I've finally met the right person,” Sam says.

I'm fairly sure at this point that Sam is a little deranged, but I can handle this. We return to our domesticity.

 • • • 

The most mystifying habit I notice right away is that Sam doesn't eat. The first few days, we hang out on the couch. I swallow my penchant for bad television and read alongside him. This will be good for me. No more crappy reality TV. But then I pull out my bag of M&M's and offer him some.

“No, I don't have much of a sweet tooth,” he says.

Uh, yeah, me too. I feel deep shame over my sugar addiction. How in the hell am I going to order pancakes every Sunday? Scarf that ice cream at eleven
P.M
. right before I go to bed? Perhaps I could restrict my junk-food habit to the afternoons—like secretly, when he's not around. What would Elizabeth Gilbert say to this? I can't be on a starvation diet. I'm a girl. I've tried this before and it never works.

The hours go by on that first weekend. Mealtimes pass. Sam sits all skinny on the couch, reading smart books. No
People
magazine for him, so I hide mine behind the bookshelf. He can't even tell the difference between Julia Roberts and Sandra Bullock, for God's sake. The man wasn't in this country for the
Sex and the City
craze either, which leaves us with little in common. Well, I can fix that. I put on the first episode of the first season. But the minute he hears that music, sees Sarah Jessica Parker in a tutu, his face is awash with disdain. He can't bear the cackling, the chatter, the shopping, the stuff most of us girls adore. So, the potential love of my life doesn't do anything that I like to do: eat, watch bad television. He might be more like Liz in
Eat, Pray, Love
, after all—a lover of travel, an observer of culture, a flaneur through marvelous sites.

“Maybe we should get some fresh air,” he suggests on the second day of our new lovers' weekend.

This is the part I've dreaded—the outing, the walking around for hours—and if I keep up with his not-eating, I'll die. Low blood sugar makes me insane. Let's face it, M&M's are not lunch. (They should be.) While I feel better when I eat well, I can't stomach the idea of a carrot nibblet.

This worry creates a snowball effect of panic, but I keep a bland smile on my face. “Sure. Let's go!”

I'm still sporting my perfect makeup and hair, though I have dialed back wearing contact lenses. Even over our long-distance courtship, he did see that I am incredibly nearsighted and don't wear contacts all the time.

Overnight, the snow must have come down, blanketing the city as we were sleeping. It's almost as if Christmas arrived just for Sam (who is Jewish). We go outside and the snow is deep, to the point where there are snowbanks all over Manhattan. Surely Sam and I won't walk far. Maybe a few blocks, then turn around. We're old, after all. Of course, I conveniently forget that Sam spent the semester climbing mountains and therefore has excellent endurance. That and not eating make him an enigma.

Bundled up in our snow gear, we trudge through the snow, and for several blocks, I'm fine. We won't be long out here in the white winter wonderland. It's freezing out, my tootsies are already numb, and in my head, my diva complaining has begun. But then I remember my BFF Rachel, who is pregnant for the first time. We grew up together and now she's embarking on this new journey (without an epidural). That must be hard. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton spends half her life on airplanes and meeting people, being out and about, eating bad food, and trying to live on fumes. She wouldn't be a wimp about walking a few blocks. Really, I'm so spoiled.

We wind up walking two miles to Central Park. Low blood sugar has hit, thanks to Sam's manorexia and my trying to keep up with his no-eating regimen. He goes over to get some cider, which I'm not into. Summoning my inner Julia, I remain stoic and sparkling, not complaining once (maybe a couple of times). I just want for him to think I'm a cheerful girl, up for anything—which I'm not, let's face it.

I do enjoy the moment, though, relish that happiness that will build if I keep up with Gretchen Rubin's maxim to carve out time to do what makes me happy (I even make lists, as she suggests). I like being outside. This snowy weather is heaven to me. I like and love Sam. The bottom line is that I'm with the man of my dreams. We're soaking up the sun and lovely snowy weather. It's a gorgeous day even if he just threw a snowball at me. I'm such a lucky girl. A year ago, I was in such a different place.

Sam and I take pictures. In each one, I have a big smile on my face and I feel it clear through. We frolic in the snow, laugh a lot, and take the subway home. By the time we arrive back in Chelsea, I'm ravenous. There's no time to waste with this not-eating thing. Sam also gives up his manorexia and we order greasy burgers and fries.

The next hurdle is unveiling my shelf of DVDs (I'll leave the Duran Duran stuff for another time, when he's locked in). Though I hide the more embarrassing ones, he's bound to discover my obsession with Steven Seagal movies, romantic comedies,
Queer as Folk
,
The L Word
, and 95 percent of Julia Roberts's repertoire.

I start out slow, convince him to watch a benign romantic comedy. Being on his best behavior, he is amenable to watching
Maid in Manhattan
. I love my Jennifer Lopez in movies, so he has to adore her, too. No reason why he shouldn't since she's infectious and her smile lights up those somber halls in the hotel where she works as a maid (the romance tropes and stereotypes are cringe-worthy, but it's J.Lo and I have to watch).

Although Sam seems interested in the movie, he asks after twenty minutes, “Wasn't this nominated for an Oscar?”

Ha ha, so funny.

But he succumbs to J.Lo's magic. I look over and see tears running down his cheeks just as Jennifer gets fired from her job cleaning Ralph Fiennes's hotel room and defiantly tells her mother she's not going to clean houses.

Total wuss. I might be able to do this. Finally, we find a show we both love,
The Closer
, which oddly enough stars my brother's friend (my former embarrassing crush from
Equal Justice
) Jon Tenney as Kyra Sedgwick's long-suffering boyfriend. Each time JT comes on the screen, Sam screams out, “Jon Tenney! He's so hunkalicious!”

Lesson learned: Never tell someone everything about your life. . . .

 • • • 

By the end of our first week together, it's clear that Sam will stay longer. We get along great but disagree enough to keep things interesting. The original plan was for Sam to leave on Christmas Eve, but now he will experience my family during the holidays.

Christmastime is special to the Smith/Kelleys because it's Patrick's birthday and there is a present exchange that can only be described as wrapping-paper carnage. We're gathering on Christmas Eve, with another family dinner the next day. I'm not sure how Patrick does it, but he manages to keep his birthday going for weeks, with a minimum of two parties to celebrate his arrival into the world.

I should be worried about Sam and Patrick meeting for the first time. I want them to like each other, but I'm too used to Patrick's guardedness. He doesn't want anyone to hurt me, which I understand. I haven't had great judgment in the past. In contrast, Carlos already loves Sam, so I rely on his gentle coaxing to win over my brother.

On the day itself, Sam and I accidentally both wear blue and we don't notice until we get to my mom's apartment. As we walk in the door, Don looks up from his latest mystery. He puts his book aside to stand, smiles, and gets up to shake Sam's hand. That's what people in love do. It's clear that Don and Sam have a special connection that I'll never understand.

I know that as we walk home, Sam will talk about Don for the rest of the evening: “Did you notice how Don lovingly put the salt around his margarita?” or “I like how he tells Bonnie no and then does what she says. Did you see that?” He's terribly infatuated. Not a day goes by without his asking about Don, his health, his interests.

Patrick and Carlos are usually late, but once they come in, I can feel electricity—not tension as with other times when I've brought people home, but a sense that this is the best person I could possibly introduce to my family.