Nate, thankfully, was the low point . . . but it didn’t get much better. A copywriter for an ad agency spent the whole date complaining about his ex (“I think she was bipolar,” he said). A rabbi, funny and charming, spat tiny chunks of food when he talked. A banker rhapsodized about the amazing vacation he’d just taken with his mom. When he showed me pictures of the two of them together, with Mom in a bikini, her arm around his waist, I feigned an appointment and told him that I had to go.
It wasn’t always awful. I had a few second and third dates that fizzled out painlessly. I met nice guys to whom I was not attracted; attractive guys who weren’t especially nice. No one made me feel passionate, no one even had me wanting to know him better, to hear about his childhood pets and his first girlfriend and what he wanted his life to be like.
Finally, at Amy’s insistence, I agreed to meet one of her friends. “He’s a little bit older,” Amy cautioned.
I raised an eyebrow. “How old?”
“My age.”
“Ancient.”
Amy threw a packet of paper clips at my head. “You’ll like him. He’s a do-gooder. Did Teach for America, then the Peace Corps, then AmeriCorps.”
“So, lots of America, lots of corps. What’s he do now?”
“He went to law school, but he’s been working as an editor.”
“What’s he edit?”
Amy paused. I crossed my arms over my chest. “What is it?”
“The last time we talked, he was editing a magazine for urban farmers.”
“Oh, no. Come on. Do I look like someone who wants to be around goats?”
“I don’t think he actually has goats, he’s just running a magazine for people who do.”
“That’s not any better! He’s probably got a chicken coop in his living room,” I said.
“He can’t be worse than the Spitting Rabbi.”
“If he uses the word artisanal, I’m leaving.”
“That sounds fair.”
“Also ‘curated.’ None of that. No curation.”
“Fine.”
“And he’s never been married? What’s the story there?”
Amy shrugged. “Sometimes there’s not a story except ‘he just didn’t meet the right girl.’ ”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “But I’m oh for eight. If this is a bust, you owe me dinner at Shun Lee.”
On Friday night, I did my hair, wriggled into my date dress, and arrived early at my favorite wine bar so I could watch him come through the door. The place served a “grown-up grilled cheese” that I’d decided was the sandwich of the gods, made with homemade sourdough bread and three different cheeses. Twelve bucks for a sandwich? I’d heard Andy complaining in my head the first time I’d ordered it. Nobody’s making you pay for it, I told him. Now go away.
The door opened and, maybe because I’d been thinking about him, for one desperate half second I imagined it would be Andy; Andy, come to his senses, Andy, come to rescue me from men who spat or obsessed about their exes or took their mothers to couples’ resorts. But of course it wasn’t Andy, it was Jay Kravitz, who had shiny brown hair and a generous nose and a nice smile. He held out his hand, saying, “It’s Rachel, right?”
“Rachel. Right.” He wasn’t especially handsome, but his smile improved his looks, and he had a nice firm handshake, and smelled good, like he used just the right amount of some delicious cologne. He pulled out the chair at our table for two, sat down across from me, and looked at me more closely, his expression warm and thoughtful. Hmm, I thought to myself as I felt something inside me shifting. At the very least, he’d gotten my attention.
“What would you like? Just drinks, or can I talk you into splitting a sandwich?”
I wanted a grilled cheese so badly I was fighting the urge to snatch one off the plate that had just been set in front of the man at the next table, but I said, “How about we just do drinks? I’m actually meeting someone at seven.” A few years ago a book called The Rules had become the single girl’s bible, and rule number one was never to be too available. If you wanted a man to think of you as a potential wife, you should never okay a last-minute assignation. You had to make him wait, make him chase, let him think that you had suitors lined up and vying for your time. Having no actual plans, I thought that I’d call Amy, who’d be finishing work, to see if she could meet me for a debrief; or I could just have a latte at the Starbucks down the street.
“Is it another guy? It’s another guy, isn’t it?” Jay pretended to sulk. When I didn’t answer, he said, “Tell you what. You meet him, and I’ll read my paper, and if it’s a no-go you come back here and we’ll have dinner.”