How to Meet Cute Boys (3 page)

Kiki and I got two free drinks and she chugged hers while I winced my way through mine. We decided to do a lap. We hit the
massage room first, where Kiki got a five-minute neck rub. Opted against the tattoo parlor, which was being patronized by
the Gwen Stefani/Orange County/wallet-chain crowd, and headed to the next floor. If there was one good thing to say about
the party, it’s that there were boys, boys, and more boys. Not that I intended to actually try to talk to any of them. My
secret hope was that a cute guy would try to talk to me.

We grabbed another tequila martini from a nearby cocktail waitress and made for the fortune-telling room. I usually avoided
fortune-tellers. What if they tell you you’re going to die in a terrible boating tragedy or go bankrupt or something? But
I was curious to see if she thought I’d ever meet The One. The One I go to places like this looking for. Now, I know that
a huge, impersonal party can’t really be the right place to find true love. Nevertheless, I keep RSVPing, hoping that, one
night, yes, maybe tonight, I’ll have RSVP’d my way right into an earth-shattering romance.

I got in line.
Jack would give me so much shit for this,
I thought. He didn’t believe in fortune-telling—would have hated this party, too. Of course, he was a financial planner.

As of two months ago, Jack and I were still living together. It was like being married—except not. Because we didn’t want
to have kids (not yet, anyway), and we still liked to meet friends out at a bar and get bombed now and then. On the other
hand, it was generally assumed we’d get married eventually, and the sex had a predictable but comfortable bent. On the surface,
everything was great. Jack was making a pretty good living; I’d left the local freebie I was writing for and gotten a new
gig as a
Filly
writer. Jack asked me to move in and I did. But every time I wanted to go out with my friends alone, he would make these
annoying little remarks. Like, “Have fun hanging out with the other fashionistas, dahling.”

“I work at a fashion magazine now, Jack,” I’d say. “Besides, it’s just a party, like any other party. The only one who takes
it seriously is you.”

But then I’d always feel bad and invite him to come along. He’d throw it in my face, saying, “No, just
go
. Have a
fabulous
time.”

I finally did just go. From his Santa Monica duplex—which I always felt was like living in the land of the multiplying baby
strollers anyway—all the way to Silver Lake, which is forty-five minutes and a million light-years away. To Jack, it was the
ultimate betrayal. I invited him out to see my new apartment, hoping we could at least be friends, but he refused. When I
gave him my address so he could forward my mail, he said, “Oh, aren’t you
so cool
.”

The one-bedroom I took was small, but it had hardwood floors and a view of the hills. I tossed the Pottery Barn crap Jack
insisted I take half of, bought a couple of Eames chairs from a used-furniture store, and got a nice minimalist vibe going.
The neighborhood had coffee shops you could walk to, art galleries, independent bookstores, and quirky bars on practically
every corner. There were things to do.

But then, well, sure, a little bit of fear started to creep in. I couldn’t figure out what people who weren’t in a relationship
did with their spare time. Watching television alone was an excruciating experience—I started turning down the sound real
low so the neighbors wouldn’t hear it and feel sorry for me. It occurred to me that Jack was like this piece of driftwood—a
small, resentful piece, fine—but he’d kept me afloat. Without him, I was just bobbing along, getting tossed this way and that,
not sinking, but not really swimming, either.

I was almost at the front of the line for the fortune-telling lady. I turned to ask Kiki what she thought about fortune-tellers.
Charlatans? Clairvoyant? But she was preoccupied with people-watching—scanning the crowd looking for Edward. Probably terrified
that he was there, yet somehow downtrodden by the fact that he didn’t seem to be. Kiki caught me staring at her and mouthed
the words,
“Kill me now.”

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“HEY YOU GUYS OH MY GOD IT’S SO GOOD TO SEE YOU WHAT’S UP DO YOU HAVE A LIGHT I CAN’T FIND MY FUCKING LIGHTER THOSE PEARLS
ARE GENIUS!” It was Steph,
Filly
’s publicist, a stick-thin party thrower/socialite, who, because she spent most of her evenings at events where music was
blasting and chitchat was rampant, did her own brand of yell talk and could never focus on one topic. Jack used to call her
“Minnie Mouth.”

“Hey, Steph. I’m good. Take these matches. Thank you,” I said.

“DID YOU GUYS HAVE ANY TROUBLE AT THE DOOR THE LIST IS ALL FUCKED UP CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW MANY CUTE GUYS THERE ARE HERE OH
MY GOD I SAW THIS GUY WHO I AM SO IN LOVE WITH HE’S AN ACTOR BUT MY FRIEND SAYS HE’S ALSO A DRUG DEALER AND I CAN’T DECIDE
IF THAT’S BAD WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

I let Kiki take this one. “It was hectic, but we got in,” she said. “If you really like him then it’s probably okay.” She
shot me a
he’s-a-drug-dealer?
look. “But you should probably find out if he’s, you know, the right guy for you.”

“TOTALLY I SO HEAR YOU WAIT OH MY GOD J’AI IS HERE SHE’S SUCH A FUCKING GENIUS I HAVE TO TALK TO HER AND SEE IF I CAN GET
AN APPOINTMENT MY EYEBROWS ARE A DISASTER BYE-BYE DAHLINGS!”

HER AND SEE IF I CAN GET AN APPOINTMENT MY EYEBROWS ARE A DISASTER BYE-BYE DAHLINGS!

We watched Steph cut her way expertly down the stairwell and thrust herself in the path of an eyebrow shaper who, thanks to
journalists like myself, is now a celebrity complete with first-name-only recognition. Like Madonna.

It was my turn. I walked into the dimly lit motel room, and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the candlelight. I made
out the fortune-teller waving me toward an empty upholstered chair. I sat at the table, which was covered with glittery scarves,
but the presence of two double beds with green and blue comforters and a cheap-looking nightstand sort of detracted from the
gypsy ambience. Not to mention that my fortune-teller, who introduced herself as Olivia, looked bored out of her turban. She
told me to shuffle the tarot cards; then she laid them out on the table, the bangles on her arms making a fake-gold clinking
sound.

“This one,” Olivia said, taking a swig of bottled water, “says you are a creative person whose strengths lie in the arts.”

Flattering, but not exactly what I had in mind.

“This one says there will be a big change for someone close to you. Maybe family.”

Unlikely—my mother dated so often that a new guy could hardly constitute a big change, and Audrey was in a perma relationship
with the Commando.

“This one”—she pointed to another—“says you recently had your heart broken, but you’re starting to realize that it’s all for
the best.”

No kidding.

“Is there a question you want to ask?” Olivia looked at me and yawned.

Suddenly I realized how pathetic my question really was: Would I ever fall madly in love? Would I ever want to give someone
everything I had? Would I ever want to share everything, want him to touch everything, want to tell him everything? They were
probably the same questions everyone asked. What the fortune-teller should do was start taking down everybody’s phone number
and become a matchmaker instead. I shook my head. “No, no questions. Thank you, though.”

Olivia was too tired to put up a fight, so she just shrugged, giving me an incriminating,
it’s-not-my-fault-you-didn’t-come-prepared
look. I felt like I’d wasted her valuable psychic energy, so I put four dollars in the tip jar—my valet money—and met Kiki
outside.

“How was it?” she said.

“I’m good at the arts, I’ve had my heart broken, blah blah blah. Are you going in?”

Kiki peered into the gloom at Olivia lighting a cigarette off a candle and hesitated. “No, forget it. I can’t face the future,”
she said. “Let’s go get another drink and obliterate it instead.”

With our territory staked out at the bar so we wouldn’t have to wait in line for refills, Kiki finally went there. “I’m never
going to meet anyone again,” she said.

“Of course you are,” I said.

“I don’t think so. Seriously. I don’t even have the energy to try anymore. Edward took the will right out of me.”

“Kiki, you can’t give up because of Mrs. Doubtfire.”

She raised her eyebrows at me, like,
Quoi?

“He was so hairy he looked like Robin Williams on Rogaine.”

“Good one,” she said. But it wasn’t the direct hit I was hoping for.

“Look, meeting cute boys is easy.” I bobbed my head up and down like one of those little nodding dolls. “All you have to do
is find someone you might be into, and put yourself in his way. If he’s into you, too, you’ll strike up a conversation.”

“Really.” She raised an eyebrow. “Quoting our own articles, are we?”

“A, it was your idea. And, B, you edited it, so supposedly you agreed with it.”

“All right, then.” She took a look around the courtyard.
“Show me.”

“What, now?”

“Yeah!” She gave me a playful shove toward the masses. “Do it now!”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Ben, lemme ask you something.” Kiki leaned back in her chair and studied me. “Why do you think I keep assigning you those
dating stories?”

“I give up. Why?”

“Because if I didn’t,
you’d never go out on a date
.”

“Bullshit.”

“Bull
true
. You broke up with Jack, but instead of getting busy you just go to parties and watch me and Nina flirt with everyone. So
I figured, you’re a good reporter, if I give you an assignment, I know you’ll do it. And you do. But then you sit at home,
right, type type typing away. Never do this; always do that …”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She was dissing my stuff.

“What?” she said. “I’m not saying I don’t love your articles. Look, think of this as fact checking. You claim the techniques
in your article work, so show me. Go meet a cute guy.”

Okay, so I was just saying that stuff to make her feel better. And I was a little peeved that she’d called me on it but …
Well,
I figured,
maybe if I humiliate myself it will cheer her up
. And in terms of my not trying, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve picked up guys post-Jack. Ashton, for one. In a way.

“Ben?” Kiki said. “Are you going?”

“Yes,”
I snapped. “Jesus, Kiki. You’re being really pushy, you know that?”

She just smiled and waved me on.

I didn’t seem to have much of a choice, so I insisted we do another lap. I needed time to strategize while I picked out my
prey. At first I didn’t see anybody. There was this one devastatingly cute boy standing off to the side, over by the motel
soda machine. Nothing like Jack. Jack’s style was conservative, button-down, premature male pattern baldness. This guy was
tall and very thin, pure Hugo Boss. I got a little closer so I could get a better look. His hair was perfectly mussed and
just gritty enough to be cool. Kind of a dark blond color. He had huge brown eyes that were wide and looked innocent, but
also …
self-aware,
if you know what I mean. And maybe just a little aloof. He was like that sexy, self-possessed high school senior you know
you’re not supposed to be attracted to but you are. And he had full lips that were just … Well, I could think of a lot of
really dirty things to do with those lips. I mean, those lips could be a novel in and of themselves. He was just standing
there, alone, yet perfectly at ease.
How does he do it?
I wondered. He was
beautiful
.