I think I just went on my last first date.
I read the line again and again and then tiptoed over to my bed, as if a sudden move might make the expansive feeling in my chest disappear. I put my head on my pillow. I’d waited all these years for a chance to build a relationship with someone without drama, doubt, alcoholism, or protective eyewear. Now that opportunity was sitting in my in-box.
I put my hands over my heart—my beautiful, scored heart.
38
I waited for John to get drunk and urinate on me, but he didn’t like alcohol. He didn’t play video games, have a wife, or follow strict religious rules. When he told stories about growing up in LA, I listened for signs he was enmeshed with his mother or subconsciously enraged with his father, but he didn’t appear to be anything other than emotionally steady and hardworking. There seemed to be no extreme elements in his personality. He worked out, but moderately; he had a corporate law job that required long hours, but he worked only as hard as the task required; he watched his finances, but wasn’t cheap. I braced to be bored by his stability, for my body to curl into itself like a winter leaf. But being with John was like eating a perfectly seared piece of Arctic char, rosemary roasted potatoes, and grilled asparagus. Filling, tasty, nourishing. My tastes had changed, and John was delicious. He made me feel like I could stretch out like a starfish, bursting with life.
“There has to be a catch,” I said to Dr. Rosen and my groups. “How did I go from Brandon to this in just a few weeks?” I thought you had to wait months after a breakup to find a healthy relationship. “Is he my rebound guy?”
“Ask him about his past relationships—whether he had them and how they ended,” Dr. Rosen said. “You might see evidence that he’s afraid of commitment.”
Lorne groaned. “Don’t do that. Guys don’t want to discuss ‘fear of commitment.’ ”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be super casual when I bring it up.”
That night, John started a fire after dinner while I huddled under a white wool blanket. He settled next to me on the couch and closed his eyes—he’d worked past midnight the night before.
I threw off the blanket and faced him. “Have you had any long-term girlfriends?”
He opened one eye and looked at me. “We’re going there right now?”
“I’m wondering if you’ve ever…”
“Been serious with anyone?”
“Right. Like committed, and if so, what happened?”
“Is this a test?”
I nodded. He laughed in his good-natured way and then described his two serious girlfriends. One from right after college, and one from a few years later. He described both women as good people whom he would probably still be friends with if they weren’t ex-girlfriends. The first relationship fizzled because she cheated on him, and there was too much drama. In the second, they broke up because they were too much alike.
“It wasn’t exciting to be with someone who thought and acted just like I did.”
While I might bring him more drama than he had a taste for, we didn’t have to worry that we were too much alike. I wasn’t moderate about anything, and I spun through more emotions in an hour than he did in a month.
During the second week of dating, John and I were parked in front of my building, kissing—neither of us wanting to say good-bye for the night. I was seized by the impulse to confess.
“I go to twelve-step recovery meetings for an eating disorder. I also go to group therapy three times a week. If you don’t like the sound of that, then we should part ways right now. And I don’t keep secrets from my group, so don’t even ask. They’re going to know the size of your penis and whether you flip me during sex.” I braced for a tense negotiation.
“The flip thing sounds like a good story.” No signs of angst on John’s part.
“I’m serious about the group thing.”
He shrugged. “Talk about whatever you need to in therapy.”
“And I don’t suck dirty dick, like ever.”
“Duly noted.” He smiled like what else you got?
I put my hand on his cheek. Where did he come from?
We kissed again, but then John pulled away and looked down at his hands. His expression was serious.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I already knew about your therapy and your twelve-step meetings.”
“What? How?”
“I read some of your essays. The ones you saved on the Skadden system.”
Oh my God, I’d forgotten about those. Sometimes, while waiting—occasionally for hours—for partners to get back to me with edits on a brief, I’d write essays, scraps of stories. Stuff about growing up in Texas, going to Catholic school, and anecdotes about group therapy. I saved the writing under my name on the firm system with deceiving titles like “Tate Billing Information” or “Tate Litigation File.” I thought they were well-hidden Easter eggs.
“You found those?”
He blushed. “I wanted to know more about you.”
“By reading ‘Tate Billing Info’?”
“It worked.”
We went back to kissing. But then I stopped us again. My conscience ached like a sore muscle.
“I saw Turandot with my ex three nights before I saw it with you.”
Surprise spread across his face. “But you acted like you didn’t know anything about it.” Before the opera, John invited me over to his house to present a PowerPoint he’d prepared about Puccini’s life and the plot of Turandot. He’d added a cartoon video of Puccini’s car accident right before he completed Madama Butterfly. I’d been utterly enchanted by the work he’d put into educating me on the opera so I could enjoy it as much as he did. I wasn’t about to raise my hand and tell him I’d just seen it from the fourth row.
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“It takes a lot to rattle me.”
“Have I?”
“Almost.”
After three weeks of dating, I got up
