Him: I don’t remember wearing flannel. Since I’ve already revealed that I’m an asshole, what with the winky face and the blatant and inappropriate request, I should probably admit that I don’t even buy my own clothes. My mom and sisters still shop for me.
Me: Don’t feel bad. Oliver is the same. The only clothing interest he has is workout gear.
Him: I have a friend, Ian, who has a personal shopper. Is that more manly?
Me: So he has to pay someone to do what your mom and sisters do? I don’t think that’s more manly. More expensive, but not more manly. Is that important?
Him: Being manly? Yes. I grunt in the morning and five times at night to inject the right amount of testosterone into my system.
Me: Grunting is the key to manliness?
Him: It’s one of the keys. Also belching, scratching of the balls, being able to spit—not spray—actually spit.
Me: I don’t think I like manliness. Can we revisit the flannel? Maybe you should look into it. I bet you’d look good in flannel.
Him: I shave. Daily. I think you have to have a beard to look good in flannel. Also, you are required to be holding an axe. I prefer guns. Besides, all my manliness is done in private.
If I were braver, I’d take that innuendo-laden statement and launch into something sexy and provocative such as: “Not an exhibitionist?” Or, “What else do you like to do in private?” But I’m not. Plus, I want him to keep texting me. I want him to text me forever. I want—oh, what am I even thinking?
I can’t even open the door. The idea of Jake Tanner in my apartment terrifies me. It’s one thing to joke and flirt via innocent message bubbles, but normal people want face-to-face contact, skin-to-skin contact.
Him: Did my keys to manhood scare you off? Manliness also requires you to recognize a good Scotch, know how to kiss, and know that you drive a woman home after an evening out. No matter how late or early it is. Is that better?
He’s so sweet. He probably does wear flannel and because of that, I text him the truth.
Me: I want you to come over. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to open the door.
Him: There are things I can do without coming inside.
Me: But not as effective for you.
Him: It helps to have eyes on the inside to see exactly what we’re dealing with.
Me: What if I can’t open the door?
Him: Then you don’t open the door and I deal.
A wave of emotion swamps me—part gratitude and part yearning. This man, with whom I’ve only exchanged written messages, is killing me with his humor, his understanding, and most of all, his kindness.
Me: Why are you so kind?
Him: As opposed to what? Making you feel bad? Seems to me that you have a lot on your plate without me adding guilt to your fight against anxiety.
I decide right then and there I don’t care if Jake wears flannel, if he’s mean to small children, if he forgets Mother’s Day, and if he uses the horn too much when he drives. He’s perfect and I’m half in love with him already. Of course it will never go anywhere. Because I live inside, and every other normal person is outside.
I wish I was okay with my current status—that I didn’t long for human interaction. It would make life so much easier. Then I could look in the mirror without disgust. I could take my fear and wrap it around me like a warm comfortable blanket. I could stop wanting what I probably can never have—a real relationship with someone like Jake.
But the part of me that hates my fear? It wants out and now it wants Jake. That part drives me to type: Come over tomorrow.
CHAPTER FIVE
JAKE
The next day, I drive down to Tribeca early enough that there’s still street parking available. The seven-story brick condo complex the Grahams live in isn’t much to look at from the outside, but given that Graham just signed a five-year, $145 million deal this summer, I’m guessing the inside is much more interesting. Security consists of one doorman and no visible exterior cameras, which doesn’t surprise me. Cameras require someone to actually look at the tape, and a complex like this is too small to have on-site management. The company that owns and manages this property is probably down in the Financial District.
“I’m here to see Oliver Graham,” I lie to the doorman. He’s young, 20 to 25 years old, with enough gel in his hair to style an entire boy band. It’s easy to peg him as an aspiring actor or model. I want to see how simple it is to get inside.
“You need to sign in,” he says, swinging a ledger book toward me.
“Did I see you in The Lion King? You look familiar.” I push the ledger to the side.
He takes up the invitation immediately. Excited that someone, anyone, has recognized him, he leans forward and his elbow pushes the ledger farther down the marble-topped reception desk.
“No, but I have been in a couple off-Broadway shows.” He rattles off the names of them. I haven’t even heard of the theaters he names let alone the plays. My youngest sister would. She’s pretty artsy.
“Why don’t you give me a flyer?” I invite and close the ledger. He doesn’t notice because he’s too busy digging under the desk for a piece of promotional material.
“Here you go. We’re doing a reinvention of Waiting for Godot, only the characters have been transformed into animals. So it’s like a cross between J. K. Rowling’s Fantastic Beasts and Death of a Salesman.”
I nod like I would ever want to see something like that. “Sounds good, man.”
“So you a friend of Mr. Graham’s?” From his skeptical expression, I must not look like Graham visitor material. He takes in my boots, jeans, and T-shirt. I have a nylon jacket despite the early spring heat because I’m carrying. I’m always carrying.
“Business.” Graham’s visitors are probably leggier, shorter, and sporting much longer hair. Mine is still military-short. Some parts of the army can’t ever be carved out of me. I can grow a beard and leave my bed a rumpled mess, but the minute my hair touches my collar, I start to get itchy.