The Awesome Girl's Guide to Dating Extraordinary Men (22 page)

“Apparently, they were all set to cast me, but he didn’t want there to be a conflict of interest when he asked me out,” Nicole explained after I arrived at the apartment that her fiancé and she were now sharing in the East Village.

The apartment was large and stuffed with first-edition books and mid-twentieth-century artwork. Apparently, Graham—that was her fiancé’s name—had inherited the apartment from a great aunt. Graham’s mother was Jewish, and his father was black. His parents had met at Hamilton College during a non-school-sanctioned meeting of the Revolutionary Communist Youth Brigade. Both the RCYB and his parents’ marriage had dissolved by now, but Graham had been able to keep the spoils of both sides of his ancestry. He seemed very cool and of-the-people when he introduced himself to me over dinner at Degustation, an impressively hip tapas bar within walking distance of his and Nicole’s apartment. But he had also used family and old private school connections to work his way up the career ladder, managing to become a steadily working commercial director by the age of thirty-eight.

He hadn’t dated much before meeting Nicole because he had always been too focused on his career. “But one day, we’re casting this commercial and in walks your sister. There was something about her. I loved her vibe. She seemed so happy and carefree, even though she probably could have used the job.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying that Nicole was probably “so happy and carefree” because she knew her little sister would bail her out if she didn’t book the commercial.

Graham and Nicole glowed together at the restaurant, holding hands over the table, the large diamond in her engagement ring gleaming under the restaurant’s lights. Because Graham was left-handed, they could hold on to each other throughout dinner. And when I went for my credit card after the bill came, Nicole said, “Stop it, sis. You know we’ve got this.”

“You know we’ve got this,” she said, like she had ever treated me to dinner in my entire life. And she said “we” like she and Graham were already married.

Furthermore, Nicole was pregnant. Graham had been upfront about wanting children from the beginning of their relationship, and they’d been talking about getting engaged anyway, so Nicole had stopped taking birth control with Graham’s consent—a plan I would have heartily advised her against if she’d told me. But
voila
, they got pregnant. Graham made it official with a ring, and he even found an abandoned Friday opening at the Lighthouse at Chelsea Pier (the original groom had gotten cold feet) for the ceremony. And now they were planning a small wedding for late July. According to Nicole, they needed to do it soon, so she wouldn’t be showing when she walked down the aisle. Her laughter positively twinkled when she said this.

And that was why I had come to New York in June, to help my sister (who I hadn’t even known was dating someone seriously) find a dress.

“Sorry about what I said on the phone the other night,” I said when Nicole showed me to the guest room after dinner with Graham. She looked so comfortable in the role of Manhattan wife-to-be, in her pencil skirt and
sleeveless satin blouse, as if this acting stuff had been something to pass the time until she met the handsome, rich, and intelligent man of her dreams.

“That’s okay,” Nicole said, gracious as a party hostess. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

But that was it. I had meant it. I had meant every single word about Nicole needing to get her act together. I just hadn’t expected her to actually do it.

My sister had found the right man, and thanks to his connections, she was booking all kinds of commercials now, even though she didn’t really need the money and was already talking about “taking a long break” from acting once the baby came.

I barely got through the weekend of dress shopping with my sister, who didn’t even look at price tags before picking wedding gowns to try on. The dress she ended up choosing cost fifteen thousand dollars. I started to point out that fifteen thousand dollars would bear greater fruit throughout the course of their marriage if they invested that money as opposed to spending it on a dress Nicole would wear once. But the first rule of dispensing money advice is that the person you’re giving it to has to be poorer than you. And Nicole, in her new designer wardrobe and wearing an even more expensive and swingier weave, wasn’t that anymore. So I kept my mouth shut and tried not to choke on my own bitterness.

Because even though I had done everything right and Nicole had done everything wrong, Nicole was the one getting married and about to welcome a child. Nicole, of all people, had become the sterling example of black love. How was that fair?

Perhaps irrationally, my thoughts skittered to Thursday, who’d been a shameless ho since college. Her stand-up routine was vulgar and distasteful. She had daddy issues out the wazoo. She dressed like a dang hippie. She wasn’t entirely right in the head. And yet her very first stab at a healthy relationship had netted her a decent boyfriend.
Her very first one.
How was that fair?

I obsessed about this on my flight back to L.A. How was it that both Nicole and Thursday, two of the most ridiculous people I knew, had managed to land stable relationships?

Obviously, good men preferred neurotic basket cases like them as opposed to strong, capable women like me. And I was sick of it. Sick of dating men who didn’t appreciate me. Sick of getting used only to be passed over for women who, despite years in the workforce, hadn’t even made it into the mid-five-figure range. Even the good guys had awful taste in women, and I couldn’t take it anymore.

I made a decision as my JetBlue flight landed at the Burbank Airport. From now on I would date my Career exclusively. My Career paid me compliments and my Career appreciated me. My Career never asked me for loans or got mad if I missed its birthday party. And if I committed to my Career, the most rewarding Love I had ever known, then unlike my relationship with Marcus and my friendship with Thursday, at least I’d have something to show for it. I’d be named a partner by December. That, I swore to myself.

RISA

O
ne day … one day I was going to rock an arena, and The One would be there and she would see me in a new light. Her knees would quiver because my guitar sounded so good, her nipples would harden because she would be surrounded by a crowd of girls who would do anything to get with me, her pussy would get wet because she’d know that she was the only girl I really wanted. She’d call her family and she’d tell them that she is in love with Risa Merriweather. She’d say, “Yes, Risa’s a girl. She’s a woman, actually. The only woman I have ever loved.” And if they threatened to shut her out, she would say, “That’s fine.” Then she would come to me backstage, and I would kiss her with the electricity of the music still coursing through me. And she’d know she did the right thing, because she might have liked pretending to be a good little straight girl, but no one would ever love her as fucking much as I did.

However, it was kind of fucking hard to get to the arena level when I was being ghettoized in stupid Black History Month. I needed a closer release date and I needed one this year. So I thought on it. Then I thought on it some more. Then I called Sharita because I couldn’t come up with anything by myself.

She was in New York with her sister and happier than usual that I called. She said she could use the distraction. “Have you tried talking to the label?” she asked.

“Yeah, but I can only make my feelings so known before I get tagged as ‘difficult.’”

“Then it sounds like they need an incentive to put the album out earlier. Maybe if it coordinated with some event. Could you put together a tour or something for the fall?”

“No, they’ve already got a college tour scheduled for the fall with Ipso! Facto!, Homer & Marge, and Yes, We Are Trying To Cute You To Death. I asked if Supa Dupa could jump on, but they said that’s not the vibe they’re going for. They act like they’re all alternative at Gravestone, but it’s such a young white-guy club over there, it’s not even funny.”

“Hmm …” I could just see Sharita on the other side of the phone, turning over the problem in her head. “Well, when I wanted to get noticed by the president of my accounting firm, I joined his wife’s book club. I pretended it was a total coincidence and like I was all surprised to see her there. Then I agreed with everything she said and even backed her up with arguments from the book. It only took about two months for the president to ‘realize’ what an asset I was to the firm and give me a promotion to senior accountant.”

“Wow,” I said, truly impressed. “That’s, like, the most boring intrigue I’ve ever heard.”

“Laugh if you want, Risa,” she said. “But often the most direct path to the guy in charge is through his wife.”

I got off the phone shaking my head because Sharita had been no help at all, but then I started thinking about it. Maybe she had a point. I got out my laptop and did some research.

Ipso! Facto! was the most successful band on the tour and therefore the ones that got to decide who went out on the road with them. Three of the guys seemed to go through reality starlets like water. But the lead singer had been dating the same woman for three years. And get this—she was an artist. Not a recording artist, but an artist-artist, like with paint.

Now this was important, because almost all fine artists are genetically wired to swing both ways until the age of twenty-eight. Don’t ask me why, it’s a fact. And another important point: bi chicks loved my ass. I mean, check out my stats: tall, strong personality, broody as hell—total dream dyke. If The Lead Singer’s Girlfriend was within age range, I might have an in.

I clicked more links connected to her name and found out she graduated from CalArts two years ago. Which would make her twenty-four. “Gotcha!” I smiled and called Thursday.

“Hey! What’s up?” she said. Like Sharita, she sounded a little too excited to get my call.

“Yo, I’m about to text you an address for this event I want to go to. Meet me there at eight, okay?”

“For what?” she asked, sounding a little less excited to be on the phone with me now.

“Does it matter? It’s free, and it’s not like you have a job or anything.”

“I’ve learned to ask questions,” she answered dryly. “The last time I met you no-questions-asked, I woke up in a closet in some random RISD dorm room.”

“It was a couple of tabs of ecstasy,” I said. “You always tell that story like I let you get roofied or something.”

“Are you going to explain what the event is or not?”

“It’s an art show. You’ll like it.”

“Does this have anything to do with The One?” She took my answering silence as a confirmation. “Oh my God, why are you like Wile E. Coyote with this ex, forever hatching questionable plans to get her back?”

“I’m so close. Okay? Closer than I’ve ever been before. This isn’t the usual bullshit—”

“I worry that you’re always doing this stuff to win her back when she’s not doing anything to get you back. It’s kind of like what Davie Farrell says about applying the golden rule to love. Shouldn’t both of you be trying to make this relationship work? Why are you always the only one trying to get back together?”

“Thursday … don’t. I don’t want to have this argument with you again. Just be cool and meet me, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll come. But only because it’s free, and also because I’m bored to death and sadly have nothing better to do,” she said. “But I want to go on record as not approving of this latest plan to get with a woman who obviously doesn’t appreciate you the way you appreciate her.”

“Fine,” I say. “Whatever. See you at eight.”

I tell you what, I believe in Karma. So no matter who pisses you off, or who you have to dump, try to be as upstanding a dating citizen as you can be. And definitely don’t scheme. Take it from me, schemes are no good, and even the cleverest ones will eventually bite you in the butt.

—
The Awesome Girl’s Guide to Dating Extraordinary Men
by Davie Farrell

RISA

W
ell, that was easy.

That’s what I think after I get the call that I’ve been invited along on Gravestone’s “Hide Your Frat Boys” tour as a “special guest” of Ipso! Facto!