The best man, Harm (Harm?), is a corporate lawyer, nice-looking if notably more conservative than your usual type, but he’s single, and he’s smiling down the aisle with you like it’s his wedding, and all during the ceremony he smiles at you from the other side of the chuppah; he’s got the wedding bug, and it’s that I could marry that girl look, which you’ve seen a time or two before, that pretty much renders him altogether physically unattractive. After dinner he asks you to dance, then if you’d like to have dinner sometime, and you agree, mostly because it’s a weak moment. You’re moving into this headspace of Maybe this is the best I’ll ever do, although usually this is a thought that comes with a mediocre or bad choice, and here in front of you is an attractive law partner who wears cologne and combs his hair. You’re not looking for a poverty-stricken drug addict, but you are 100 percent certain that you will never fall in love with a guy like this. The kicker is that you feel altogether shitty about it. You should want a guy like this. Doesn’t everyone? Time is running out. Right? Isn’t it? But his name is Harm.
You lost track hours earlier of how much champagne you’ve had, but it’s a lot, even though you’re not falling over. Nina has failed to pay proper attention to you, instead bustling around to every table to greet each guest. When she takes a brief break to sit down for the toast, you tell her not to worry about saying hi to everyone again, that’s what the receiving line was for. Well, Mrs. D
told me I have to say hello to each table. You don’t even know half those people. Meanwhile I’m sitting here by myself like a lump. Nina is far too kind to agree with you on that one, doesn’t even think it, goes straight into problem-solving mode by pointing out how Harm is obviously smitten and why not get to know him? He’s not my type, Nina. But who is? This is as stern as words ever get from Nina, but they’re not even intended as such. She’s asking from a genuine place, as though perhaps she might help you find him right now from among the guests here tonight. But you miss this completely. I think I’m going to go home, you say. No, no, you can’t, we haven’t even cut the cake, plus I’ve been planning to toss the bouquet right to you! All you can do is shake your head. If you stay, you’ll cry, and you don’t cry. Not for people to see. Now, of course, Nina is about to cry, so you tell her you’re sorry, champagne doesn’t agree with you and you should just call it a day.
Harm puts you in a taxi, calls the next day for the following Saturday night, as is supposed to be the rule; even though he is dying to go out with you as soon as he possibly can, he does everything by the book.
You hate that book. It’s not even a book. When he calls, you mean to let the answering machine pick up, but knock the phone off the receiver by mistake. Hello? Betsy? you hear from the general area of the floor, so you pull the phone back up even though your head is throbbing.
Date night, he comes to pick you up for dinner bearing a bouquet of flowers that look like he yanked them right out of a Van Gogh. You don’t have a vase because you don’t get flowers. You have a slightly burnt coffeepot. He’s wearing a navy blazer and khakis, you’ve got on jeans and an oversized sweater from the Gap. It’s not like he’s in formalwear and you’re in a potato sack, but that’s the effect. To him, because you’re on the arty side, you’re practically exotic; that only adds to it for him.
Harm orders a bottle of red wine with dinner, not your favorite, but it helps with the conversation, which dries up not long after where are you from, how many brothers and sisters do you have and such, and a second bottle is ordered before dinner is over, which makes him the tiniest bit more attractive, and the only reason you don’t drink it all is that you figure if you leave some in the bottle he won’t report back to Nina that you drank too much, which in truth is no danger at all, all he sees when he looks at you is the woman of his dreams. The booze allows you to let him kiss you, to think, Well, maybe he’s not so bad, he likes you, give him a chance; you agree to go out again the next night for a movie; he picks you up again, tries to hold your hand in the movies; all you can think about is how to slip your hand out of his, how it’s too soft and small in yours, almost like a child’s hand, but not in a good way, just not right; you formulate an entire thesis in your head around why the feel of his hand is more than enough evidence that he’s not the right guy, why didn’t you get popcorn or candy so your hands would have something else to do, why did you agree to a second date, how are you going to break it off without hurting his feelings. You have never felt such immense relief as you do when he says he has a busy work week ahead, but that he should at least have time for drinks on Wednesday, and you agree to this because it’s free drinks, and because the least you can do is tell him in person that you don’t want to see him anymore. Maybe by Wednesday you’ll be able to make up an excuse that sounds like a good enough reason besides his hands being too small. (That this shouldn’t be a legitimate type of reason makes no sense; if a shirt or sweater were too small, you’d take it back, and no one would get upset about it. I’m sorry, your hands just don’t fit me. Oh, okay then. I might know someone the right size.)
Harm tries to pick you up on Wednesday, but you insist on meeting at the All State, arriving early enough to have a pre-drink drink, which you hope will increase your courage but instead works to soften your judgment again; he looks at you so sweetly when he walks in, you want to like him, or a guy like him, you really do, things would be so much easier if you did, this guy would be so happy to support you financially, and you could just write or do whatever you decided you wanted to do next until you figured it out, or didn’t. The All State is the perfect place for an ending. It’s dark, grungy, you can get a big mug of beer, try to say nice things to make up for crushing his hope, and that will be the end of that. It doesn’t go quite like that, of course, even though it’s barely been more than a couple of weeks, his plan is to tell you he’s falling for you. He’s wanted to tell you since your first date, but hadn’t wanted to scare you off, doesn’t know that scared doesn’t have anything to do with it for you, or at least that’s what you think, anyway; you find it in you to bring up the subject, to say I’m not looking to get serious, which is an epic lie (His name is Harm. You can only figure it’s short for Harmless. You just can’t.), and he looks disappointed but says he’s happy to take it slow, which you maybe could have anticipated, but you are committed to not taking it at all, and you say things like You’re such a sweet guy, and he says things like I could have seen us spending our lives together, and he looks like he’s trying hard not to cry, and you hate yourself. He offers to walk you home, he’s crushed, knows he won’t see you again, and you say no, it’s only three blocks, though you don’t mention that you want to stop at the deli for a bag of Milanos and more beer. Before turning away, you see in his eyes that he would have done about anything you’d wanted, tried to be about anything you’d wanted, if only you’d asked, and you are now entirely sure that you will be punished for this by forces unknown. You grab two bags of Milanos and a six-pack and finish all of it off at home. Alone. Again.