Things I can’t Explain (4 page)

Frickin' Norm. Let me take a moment here to give you the low-down on that failed entanglement:

Met him. Loved him (mostly his looks, which are Ashton Kutcher–esque), dated him, moved in with him, realized it was a ginormous mistake, and dumped him. Norm seemed great at the beginning, but once I made the commitment to him he became an emotional and financial parasite. In three short months he went from holding doors open for me to wordlessly leaving his dirty socks on the kitchen counter to wash.

The “entrepreneur” part to which my father is referring would be All Decked Out, the custom skate deck company Norm dreamed of establishing.

He got as far as pulling together seven layers of veneer and mixing a bucket of Gorilla Glue in the middle of our apartment. I rolled up my sleeves to dig in and help, but when his left hand and right foreleg got stuck in the wooden layers sopping with fast-drying glue, I knew we were in trouble. My foot almost got caught in the sticky stuff when I tried to pry him off. It was like a bad game of permanent Twister. Ripping the hair off the side of his right leg almost hurt me as much as it hurt him, especially when I had to listen to his baby-like screams. I could tell Norm was traumatized when he planted himself permanently on the sofa (video-game controller in hand), saying he needed “think time” to reconsider his career goals.

It wasn't like the rest of our time together was so peachy. So when Non-performin' Norman started hanging out late at night with all sorts of bogus excuses, I knew it was time to cut my losses. Au revoir, Norm!

It seems to me when I think about it now, I would have never gotten involved with Norm, except it was right after things fell apart with Sam.

Who's Sam? He's my childhood friend, homie, and ladder-wielding best bud. Sam had the endearing habit of throwing an extension ladder against my house and climbing in and out of my bedroom window anytime of the day or night throughout our formative years, a groundbreaking innovation in parental avoidance that made it amazingly easy for us to hang out whenever we wanted. I know that sounds pretty salacious, but it wasn't.

As you'd expect, Sam's ladder technique was a major source of controversy in the neighborhood and among my friends at school, who thought it was kind of outrageous that he could get away with it. No one believed that we were
just friends
as in “a boy who is a friend and not a ‘boyfriend.'”

A friend is someone you're close to and have feelings for, but not
those
kinds of feelings. In other words, a friend is someone you haven't had sex with, and back in those days, remarkably, that wasn't on our minds.

Sam and I never fought except once—the night we went out on a test date, Sam's idea, and it was a miserable fail. It was good, it was bad, and by the end—when we kissed—it was ugly. “The Good-Night Kiss of Death,” we used to call it.

I never told Sam, but I was secretly insulted after that kiss. First of all, I was unprepared. Second, I never thought risking a good friendship for a kiss was worth it. Third, I like to think I'm a good kisser, but I didn't even have a chance to try. Post-kiss, I was totally confused, and his words stung me.

Sam didn't understand. Although he had those “more than a friend” feelings
before
he kissed me, I had those same feelings
after
we kissed, and that made me pause. If we had kissed again, who knows where it would have gone?

Who am I kidding? I know exactly where it would have gone.

“It felt like I was kissing my sister, if I had a sister,” he had said, and I almost never forgave him for saying it. That was the only time I ever considered shoving that ladder off my windowsill regardless of the consequences. But I held back.

Instead, we friend-zoned each other pretty permanently.

Fortunately my parents were totally oblivious to Sam's ladder. Don't ask me how. I think it's because Marshall never did any work around the house or in the garden and he's pretty oblivious in general. I suspect Mom knew, she just didn't want to deal with it because—well, Sam and I were just friends and she could tell.

After our miscued date faded from memory, Sam once again became the human equivalent of a golden-rayed sunrise or slow-burning sunset. Total Zen. It was impossible to feel anything other than relaxed around Sam.

He was … my soul mate.

There, I said it. He wasn't just the person I could spend the rest of my life with. He was the person I couldn't imagine spending my life
without
. Sam Anders was the one person who knew me so well that it used to scare the crap out of me.

Everybody but me knew we'd get together eventually. It was glorious, it was beautiful, it was unforgettable, and when that summer ended, it was over. We never had one single fight or argument or even heart-to-heart about where we were going. If he walked in today I think we'd kiss and jump each other's bones, as if not a day had passed.

But as far as I can tell, he's gone, which feels so wrong. That was not how it was supposed to turn out. I can't help wondering if I screwed up.

Who knows? Is it possible that even soul mates aren't meant to be together?

If I'm being honest about Norm, I was on the rebound. I made the mistake of falling for the first gorgeous skater dude who reminded me of Sam. Clearly, I was hoping for Sam 2.0. Pretty textbook, I suppose. Maybe next time I'll go for someone in finance.

Prying Norm from his self-inflicted Gorilla Glue debacle opened my eyes to our hopeless relationship. I realized I could get stuck too, so I told Norm it was over.

His response?

“I think you're just trying to ruin our relationship.” Almost instantly, I realized that breaking up with Norm was only the beginning.

I packed up and answered a roommate ad for a cozy little walk-up office conversion in FiDi. The roommate, Felice, turned out to be a real creepster of the
Single White Female
variety, but she thankfully decided to throw in the towel on making it in the Big City and moved back with her mom and dad in Scarsdale. Phew! Real-life nightmare stalker movie avoided. Not having a roommate is unbelievably awesome and hey, I'm only two months behind on my rent. Unfortunately, moving across town, not returning Norm's phone calls, and completely withholding my affection was apparently too subtle a hint for old Norm. He hasn't been able to mentally process the breakup.

Just last month I had a temp job at an office in Times Square. As I was leaving for home, walking just behind the TKTS booth beneath the big red glass stairway, Norm jumped out of nowhere and dropped to his knees in front of me and hundreds of total strangers. Everyone started cheering and I couldn't figure out why until I looked up at the massive digital screen over American Eagle. There was Norm at my knees, proposing, holding up some kind of Cracker Jack ring. We were on a screen big enough for everyone in New York City to see. I turned away, pretending I didn't know him. When the crowd started to boo, I thought they would lynch me. Like always, I found myself wondering what Sam would think.

“Well, Clarissa, do you want to give him a call?” I hear Mom say.

“Who?” I ask, wondering if she's added mind reading to her repertoire. After all, who knows where Sam is right now.

“Your boyfriend,” Mom adds, snapping her fingers in front of my face, shattering my far-flung musings. “Why don't you give him a call…?”

“My boyfriend?” I ask.

“We have just enough time to eat an early dinner and get to know him a little bit,” Dad says, checking his watch.

Right, I remember, I'm in the midst of a surprise parental guest appearance.

“Well, see, I
would
, but…” I sputter.
Think fast, Clarissa, think.

“But what?” prompts Dad. The look in his eyes is so sad. Dad seems to be spinning in some psychological hamster wheel of anticipated disappointment. I can't take it.

“But…”

Maybe it's the creative spirits that haunt this beloved place, or maybe it's me wanting to make my dear ol' dad happy, but I am suddenly inspired.

“But I don't have to!” Before I lose my nerve, I dash around to the opposite side of the coffee cart and throw my arms around CCG.

“Because … here he is. This is him. This is…” Time freezes as I realize I have no legitimate way to introduce him. I mean, he's the guy I refer to with a three-letter acronym because I don't know his name. My mouth is open and it feels like it's been that way for weeks, looking over to CCG in desperation and back over to my parents and back to CCG, cluelessly lost in time, sinking fast.

Fortunately, for a naturally shy and quiet person, CCG seems to have a knack for thinking on his feet. Without missing a beat (or stopping to ask why we've suddenly gone from fingers brushing to full embrace), he smiles.

“I've been wanting to meet Clarissa's parents for a while now,” he says, breaking my awkward
Twilight Zone
moment. “I'm Nick,” he adds and extends his hand to my father.

“Nick!” cries my mother. “It's lovely to meet you.”

“I thought you told us his name was Norm,” Dad whispers to me.

He's right. I did.

'Cause it was.

So I improvise …

“Uh, well, Norm was actually just my pet name for him,” I explain feebly, “because, ya know, he was the guy I
norm
ally spent time with. And then of course, he came to represent the
norm
by which I judged all other guys and …
normally
I…”

Nick cuts me off with a wink. “I think they get it, hon,” he says easily. “But, yeah, she just calls me Nick now.”

“Oh, well, glad to know you, son,” Marshall says, making everyone a bit uncomfortable. This “son” thing is classic Marshall Darling lingo. He called the bully who beat up Ferguson on the school bus “son.” That's the guy who kinda became my first boyfriend—aka Clifford Spleenhurfer. Dad called the paperboy “son” even after the kid grew up and went to college, got married, had three kids, came back home, and sold my dad a home insurance policy. He's called guys working at the gas station “son,” no matter what their ages are, even when they're older than he is. But Nick is a grown man, not to mention a perfect stranger.

Even though I'm cringing, CCG doesn't appear to be put off by it. In fact, he looks as though he finds it charming. Truth be told, I find CCG totally charming. If this were a romance novel, he'd have swept in on a white stallion instead of a coffee cart, but this is reality and the bottom line is he came to my rescue when I needed him.

And here's the best part:

His name is Nick. Now I know.

In a New York minute, my most cherished micro-relationship has massively leveled up.

 

CHAPTER
4

We hit the streets of the Big City, and my dad is downright giddy over my ability to hail a cab. After eight years here, it's no big deal, but my Ohio-born-and-bred father sees it as a major accomplishment. He actually snaps a picture of me with my arm up in the air to show everyone back home.

Humiliation, party of one?

Three seconds later a yellow cab minivan skids to a halt at the curb, and CCG—wait, make that Nick—opens the sliding door and allows the three Darlings to step in ahead of him. I make an invisible checkmark in an invisible box next to the word
gentleman
on an invisible list inside my head.

Dad and Nick take the far back and Mom and I settle into the middle seat. If this weren't so nerve-racking, it would actually be cute.

“Where to?” the cabbie demands.

“How about the place where you two had your first date?” Mom suggests. “It was an Indian place. I remember it sounding so great.”

“Indian food?” Dad gives Nick an exaggerated elbow to ribs. “Well, now, let's not get ‘curried' away!”