Has Anyone Seen My Pants? (2 page)

A couple of days after we got back from Catalina Island, I sold a TV show based on my first book. This, obviously, was a very big deal to me. It’s not an easy thing to do, selling a show, and it was a dream of mine. Now, it’s not like there’s a guarantee that the show you sell is going to end up on television, but it’s one of many steps and it’s definitely one worth celebrating. So, I decided that Patrick and I, along with my friend Jackie and her boyfriend, Brandon, needed to go out and do just that.

I told Patrick to be at my house at seven p.m.; I had ordered a car to pick us up shortly after. I was going all out for this. I was even wearing a new dress; so was Jackie. This was a big night for me and she knew it. So when Patrick arrived around seven forty-five p.m. wearing a T-shirt that said “Who Farted?” I stared at him in disbelief.

“What?” he asked, completely clueless. “I didn’t know we were dressing up!”

“You didn’t have to dress up, you could have just not worn that!” I said, almost in tears. “What are you, in some kind of Dumb T-shirt of the Month Club or something?”

“It’s just a T-shirt,” he responded, still clueless.

He was right, it was just a T-shirt—a T-shirt that said “Who Farted?” on it, and he was a forty-year-old man. I suddenly found myself longing for another “I Love Bacon” T-shirt.

“Do you want him to wear Brandon’s shirt?” Jackie asked, referring to her boyfriend, who was wearing a nice button-down shirt like a normal adult male.

“Wait, then what will I wear?” Brandon asked in a panic.

“I guess the ‘Who Farted?’ shirt,” Jackie answered, clearly not having thought things through.

“No, no,” I interrupted. “Brandon isn’t going to have to go out in public in that shirt just because Patrick is a moron.”

“I’m right here,” Patrick said.

“Yeah. You’re right here.
Wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Who Farted?’ on it and we’re going to a nice restaurant.
So, guess what? You don’t get to be offended right now.”

“Jesus, what’s the big deal?” he asked, dead serious.

“The big deal is: it’s Sarah’s night, a special night, and you showed up wearing something her thirteen-year-old nephew wouldn’t even wear,” Jackie said, her voice raised.

“Her nephew would
love
this shirt,” Patrick snapped back.

“
That’s
your defense?” I asked.

“Look, I’m sorry. Jesus. I’ll wear my jacket and I won’t unzip it. Okay?” he said, relenting.

“Whatever, yes. Fine,” I said. The car had now been waiting for us for close to an hour and I just wanted to get to the restaurant and order a giant martini. “But if you unzip it even
for a second I’ll kill you. Like even if your jacket catches on fire you can’t take it off—you just have to sit in it and burn to death. And you’ll deserve to.”

We finally made it to the restaurant and Patrick kept his jacket zipped as promised. But throughout dinner he kept looking at his phone, which I hate. I know we all spend too much time on our phones now, but when you’re out to dinner, unless you’re waiting for an important phone call from your family or your job—which Patrick was not—put your fucking phone away.

“Why do you keep looking at your phone?” I asked him while Jackie and Brandon stepped outside to have a cigarette.

“What? I don’t.”

“Yes you do. Constantly. It’s rude.”

“What is with you tonight?” he asked me.

“What is with
me
tonight? With
me
?”

“Oh, here we go . . . ,” Patrick said in the world’s most condescending tone.

“Yeah, here we go,” I repeated. “Here’s what is
with me
, you asshole: Tonight was important to me. I have been busting my ass for years and selling this show is a huge deal and I wanted to celebrate with people I care about, but one of them showed up forty-five minutes late wearing a wacky T-shirt and has been texting God knows who during the entire meal.”

“You were much easier to get along with when you were just a bartender,” Patrick replied.

I was stunned. But at the same time, I wasn’t. Things were different this time around for us. It didn’t work out the first
time, but that was more because he wasn’t ready to settle down and be in a relationship and I was. This time the problem was that I’d grown up and he hadn’t.

When the night ended, Patrick came home with me. He was hammered, of course, so when we walked in the door, he immediately passed out. I put on eight layers of pajamas because I didn’t want him to wake up and think I wanted to have sex with him. I pretty much hated him at this point, and I knew with all the alcohol he’d consumed he’d never have the energy to get that many pairs of bottoms off of me. When I crawled into bed, I noticed his phone lying out on the nightstand. It was beckoning me.

I know, I
know
.
“If you go looking for something, you’ll find it,” or “Don’t go looking for something if you don’t want to find it,” or whatever that saying is that guilty people who have shit to hide always say . . . I
know
. But he had been acting really weird all night on that phone and the last thing in the world he would ever do was be honest with me. So, if I wanted to know what he was up to, I was going to have to find out for myself.

He was texting his slutty, meth-addicted ex-girlfriend. So, if you still have any problem with my going through his phone, I’m right and you’re wrong.

I shook him awake, hard. When he woke up, I was sweating either out of anger, or because I was wearing eight layers of clothes.

“What the fuck? Why did you wake me up? And why are you so sweaty?”

“So you were texting
her
? That’s what you were doing all night . . . on
my
night? My night to celebrate? Texting a whore?”

“You went through my—”

“Save it. Yes, I went through your phone. In the future, if you don’t want someone to do that, don’t make your passcode your fucking birth date. Seriously, even your passcode is an idiot.”

“It isn’t what you think . . .” Patrick started to defend himself.

“What do I think? Huh? Tell me what I think.”

“Are you wearing multiple pairs of pajamas?”

“Stop trying to distract me. Why were you texting her? You told her you’d meet her at your house tomorrow afternoon.
Why?
”

“Like I said, it isn’t what you—”

“Just answer the fucking question!”

“I’m trying to, but you keep interrupting me.”

He had a point. But I was fuming.

“Fine, go ahead. Tell me why you were meeting her tomorrow.”

“You know how I’m leaving in two days for New Jersey? And you know how I have that huge fear of flying? Well, she has Xanax. She always has Xanax, and I need some to get through the flight.”

“She also always has meth,” I retorted. I did know he was going back home to New Jersey for the weekend and I did know he had a huge fear of flying. But
come on
.

“Sarah, I swear to you, I wasn’t going to do anything with her. She was going to drop off the Xanax and that was it.”

Even if he was telling the truth, it didn’t matter. This is a woman who stole from him and then filed false charges against him. I don’t care if she shits Xanax—she wasn’t someone he should have been talking to. And that’s when it hit me: I didn’t want him talking to her, but he didn’t mind talking to her. He didn’t mind that she was basically a prostitute who had trashed his life for a significant amount of time. He still needed someone to save.

“Patrick, you know who else has Xanax? Doctors. You can go tell a doctor about your flying problem and they’ll write you a big fat prescription for Xanax. Trust me, I’ve done it and I’m not even afraid of flying—I just really like Xanax.”

“Yeah, but then I would have had to make an appointment and go to a doctor—”

“You have time to go to the doctor! You have more time than anybody in the world to go to the doctor. In fact, you have time to go to the doctor on behalf of everybody in the world!”

“What does that mean?” he asked.

I was too exhausted to explain anything to him. “It means this is over. That’s what it means,” I said, and I meant it.

“Wait, so you don’t want to see me anymore just because I needed to get some Xanax?”

“If that’s the story you have to tell yourself, then yes. This whole thing is over because you needed a Xanax.” And with that, I kicked him out and never spoke to him again.

I had so much more to say but I knew it would fall on deaf ears. The truth was, I didn’t want people like his ex-girlfriend in my life. And if I were with him, by default, she’d be in my life. I think if someone steals from you, then tries to get you thrown in jail, they aren’t really a fun hang, but maybe that’s just me. At the end of the day, his texting her or not wasn’t even the real problem. The problem was that Patrick was stuck at the maturity level of a twenty-one-year-old. He just wanted to drink, sleep, and repeat. Our relationship was certainly a nice distraction for me after coming out of a relationship that had ceased to know the meaning of fun for so many months. But when it started to distract me from what was important, the fun ended there. Relationship-wise, I had gone from one extreme to the other and I was pretty sure what I really wanted lay somewhere in the middle.

So that was that. I had rebounded right into another relationship and now that was over and I was finally really, truly single. After he left, I sat on my bed and tried to cry but the tears just wouldn’t come.

Why am I not sad?
I wondered.
Shouldn’t I feel sad?

I popped in
The Notebook
, which always makes me cry, even when I’m deliriously happy. But still the tears wouldn’t come. Instead, every time Ryan Gosling came on the screen I just got super horny.

The next morning, I woke up to find a bag of some of my favorite things from Whole Foods on my doorstep with a note from Ryan (my ex, not Gosling), telling me he knew I was really busy and he hoped I was taking care of myself. I know
it sounds like a lovely gesture, and it would have been about eighteen months before, but now it was just annoying.
Why are the guys I date all so annoying?

“Did you get my gift?” a text from Ryan asked me about a half hour later.

“Yes. Thank you, that was really thoughtful,” I lied.

“I just know you’re so busy, I hope you’re taking care of yourself.”

“Yeah, that’s what your note said,” I responded.

“Ouch,” he replied, and then went silent.

Two days later I got a text from him asking me to meet him for coffee. I was getting tired of saying no but I still didn’t want to say yes.

“I’m sorry,” I wrote back. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“It’s just coffee, Sarah.”

“Is it?”

“I promise. Just coffee.”

“And you won’t talk about getting back together or anything like that?”

“I promise.”

“And you won’t send me an e-mail two hours later saying we should get back together or anything like that either?”

“I promise. Just coffee. I just want to see you and catch up. That’s all.”

I decided to go have coffee with him. Maybe he needed this. Maybe this would make him stop romanticizing our dead relationship.

We met at a bar by my house that fancies itself a tavern. Ryan ordered a light beer and some sort of quinoa salad. I ordered a margarita and a steak that I didn’t even really want, in hopes that since he was a vegan now he’d be turned off by my meat-eating ways.

Much to my surprise, we had a pleasant time. There were no sparks, no regrets, and no mushy feelings. We just talked and it was fine and I even remembered why we used to be such good friends. He talked about how he went skydiving and how I should try it, and I talked about how I never ever wanted to go skydiving and how I hate it when people that have gone skydiving try to tell other people they should go.

“Planes are for staying inside of when they’re in the air,” I explained.

Then he showed me a picture of him mid-skydive—not a good look for anyone’s face.

We are so not right for each other
, I mused happily.

On my way home, I thought about how glad I was that I met him that afternoon and how it seemed like maybe we would be able to be friends down the road. I felt good.

That is, until about two hours later when I got an e-mail from Ryan. Remember a few paragraphs ago when he promised not to do this? Well, it turns out I was the only one who didn’t feel regrets during our afternoon together.

His e-mail was sweet, thoughtful, and completely enraging. He posed a “hypothetical”: What if I’d wandered into that bar today and met him but we had never met before? Would I have
given him my number? Would I be willing to go out on a date with this “stranger” I’d just had a nice conversation with?

I’m sure some of you reading this think that sounds really romantic and you think I should’ve e-mailed him back and given this “stranger” one more shot. But you’re wrong. We weren’t strangers and this wasn’t a rom-com starring Julia Roberts and whichever English actor you want to place in the other role.

See, his pleas didn’t make me feel bad this time—they just pissed me off. During the five years we were together, I stood by him after he broke up with me and got back together with an ex-girlfriend he was hung up on—more than once. I flew to the East Coast multiple times to hang out with his family, one time at an
indoor water park
(gross). I went skiing with him one Christmas and I fucking hate skiing; I prefer the ocean. I don’t want any of that snow nonsense when I’m trying to relax. In those five years, he came home to Arkansas with me one time and we never once went on a beach vacation. What I’m saying is: I tried. I put my time in. I was done. We didn’t work.

And now that I had finally really walked away from him, I was happy and he wasn’t. But it wasn’t fair of him to keep hounding me and it certainly wasn’t up to me to make him feel better about the fact that he’d lost me. I really, really wanted to tell him to fuck off. I wanted to scream, “I don’t love you anymore! Is that what you need to hear?” at the top of my lungs. But I didn’t have that in me, because I did love him once. So instead I said something along the lines of: