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ONE
When They First Met, Love Was Afoot." That was the New York Times wedding announcement headline my best friend Paige had jokingly imagined for Greg, my ex-boyfriend, the podiatrist, and me even though we were never engaged nor had we even remotely discussed getting married one day. Our actual wedding, in my head, wasn't exactly planned out because I don't really have that gay-wedding-planning gene, but it probably would've been a super-casual affair for three hundred and fifty of our closest friends and family on Pier Sixty overlooking the Hudson River, with Greg and me wearing tuxes while we had our first dance together as husbands to "This Charming Man" by the Smiths. Okay, maybe I thought about it a tiny bit.
This increasingly distant memory pops into my mind right now because, like a tourist, I'm standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk on Twenty-Third and Eighth on a hot summer Thursday evening, grinning at a text from Greg. I feel a tiny warm tingle in my undercarriage as I reply, Yep.
Oh, I didn't tell you? I'm still seeing my ex for sex. Wait-is that a Rascal Flatts song? Right before entering the subway on my way home from work, Greg texted, Free before dinner? which is code for "hook up," so maybe after we do the sex, we'll grab a bite at Pepe Giallo, our once favorite Italian restaurant in West Chelsea that we'd been going to since we first met eight years ago. (In fact, it's where we had our first date.) Then, over a bottle of red wine and plates of deliciously gooey chicken Parm, he'll admit he misses us and say he desperately wants to get back together.
Greg asks to meet at six thirty, in forty-five minutes, which means I'm early, so I slip into a diner called the Rail Line. It used to be called Moonstruck Diner, and I imagine they wanted to name it the High Line Diner, after the nearby High Line elevated park, but couldn't get legal clearance, so they ended up with this weird, off-brand name.
I take a seat at the counter and order an old-fashioned along with a basket of bread and butter. There's nothing weirder-or more fun-than ordering a cocktail at a diner. It's like the opposite of ordering chicken nuggets at some fancy French restaurant.
Scanning the room full of silver-haired early birders, I spot an extremely handsome fella sitting alone in a booth, texting, waiting for either his food or a companion. Occasionally, he looks up from his phone and eyes me. Doesn't he know I'm about to have complicated relations with my ex-boyfriend? I'm taken, sir.
My seen-it-all Polish server makes me the strongest old-fashioned I've ever had, and I love it as I tear into the stale bread, butter a piece and look up again, noticing Cutie in a Booth is still staring at me. This time I really clock him. He seems slightly younger than me, definitely more chiseled and somehow more New Yorky. But then, that's pretty much everyone in this city. I also notice he has a June-in-New York sun-kissed face and looks like the kind of sophisticated urbanite who wouldn't be caught dead in a mediocre diner. Unlike me. Mediocre diners give me life.
I decide to smile. I may be in an unhealthy relationship with my ex, but I'm not dead inside. Now he squints at me. Did I do the smile wrong? Was I creepy? A grizzled server probably named Margie or Bernice arrives at his booth and takes his order. Now they both look at me. Was I that obvious? A sudden thought occurs to me, so I look over my shoulder and realize he'd been reading the chalkboard of tonight's specials the entire time. He was literally looking right through me. He probably didn't think I looked as good as "Virginia Ham Steak," and he'd be correct.
Knowing that Greg doesn't like when I'm late, I finish my drink, forget the guy in the booth and leave. I arrive at Greg's place at exactly six thirty as his not-so-friendly doorman, Dario from Staten Island, who's dressed in a tight, all-black suit like a mean bouncer at a high-end gentlemen's club, lets me in. I still can't believe Greg moved into this crazy upscale building-designed by the British-Iraqi starchitect Zaha Hadid, he always likes to remind me-after we broke up. It's incredibly cool but expensive, and I don't get why you'd want to pay this much to overlook the High Line, filled with tourists staring up at you, wondering why you'd want to pay this much to look down at them.
Dr. Greg has his own private, extremely successful practice as a foot doctor in Tribeca. He always knew he wanted to become a podiatrist, even in high school, he told me. I'd always thought this was an interesting quirk, and his nerdy but compassionate determination to treat strangers' toenail fungus was one of the many reasons I was drawn to him. Some people may assume a person wanting to professionally hold feet all day has some kind of foot fetish, but it's more like Greg is one with a foot and a foot is one with Greg. He just "gets" feet the same way Cesar Millan gets dogs. Greg is New York City's number one foot whisperer.
The elevator plops me right into Greg's apartment. His own private entrance. No common hallway up in this piece. Adele's "When We Were Young" plays on his Sonos speakers with the irony right on cue. I don't see Greg anywhere. I just see his overpriced sofas and chairs and coffee tables and modern art he bought at auction all staring at me like I can't afford them, which I can't. Except for a nice-looking bottle of chilled rosé and two wine glasses sitting there, his envious all-marble kitchen is empty too. Wanting to ride my diner cocktail buzz, I sidle up to the Carrara kitchen island, pull out his high-tech wine opener and go to town opening the bottle. I'd prefer an ice-cold beer on this hot summer night, but Greg is signaling he wants to be romantic, so I don't mind hitting the pink vino-
"Stop!" Greg enters, scaring the crap out of me and simultaneously turning me on in his half-unbuttoned white dress shirt. Something looks different about his slightly exposed chest, but I'm not sure what.
"Why? It's chilled," I say. No hellos. No kisses. No "how are yous."
"I'm sort of saving it for later," Greg says with a slight smile. And slowly, I realize something that I've tried not to think of since we broke up. He's seeing someone new. Greg and I are no longer together. We're free to see other people and have been for a year. I guess this is my life now. Don't mind me while I slip into a warm bath of heavy denial.
Any jealousy I have immediately disappears as Greg grabs the wine opener from me, sets it gently on the marble and then starts mauling my mouth with his. There is nothing greater than kissing Greg. It's pure masculine warmth sizzling with electricity. But tonight feels off. It's animalistic, impassionate and rushed. Cold. We don't even move to his giant Hästens king-sized bed-made with the finest horsehair, Greg likes to remind me-as I unbutton Greg's shirt right there in the kitchen. That's when it hits me what's different about him. He shaved his chest hair? I've never seen or felt this on him before. It's already started to grow back as rough stubble, and I can't help but wonder who this new guy is that has such power over the usually very hairy Dr. Greg.
Quickly after he's naked and my pants are unbuttoned, I'm watching Greg watch himself pleasure both of us in the reflection of his glass refrigerator door, and I suddenly realize he's gone full Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. Even weirder is that I'm enjoying his transformation, but then it's over before I even know it. He finishes. I don't.
Fuck.
"Doing anything this weekend?" he asks me, completely bulldozing past what just happened and moving as far away from me as possible. No snuggling here. We're officially fuck buddies.
"That was incredible. How was it for you?" I say.
"Hysterical," he says as he moves the bottle opener next to the wine glasses in a perfectly straight line like he's a goddamned footman lining up silverware at Downton Abbey. I give him a look. A look he should recognize from torturing each other romantically for the last year plus.
"What. I'm just . . . I have something tonight," he says.
"A date?" I ask.
"Sure. I guess you can call it that." Way to keep me in suspense.
I'm going to ignore this for now, so I say, "I like the chest stubble." I don't really. "You seem . . . more ripped . . . or something. Massive pec action." Massive pec action? That might be the dumbest, shallowest thing I've ever said out loud, but maybe if I appeal to his superficial side, he'll call off his date with Mr. Whomever and have dinner with me, cuddle, and ask me to spend the night, increasing our chances for that coveted New York Times wedding paragraph.
"Thanks. I've been hitting the gym hard. Braydon has me waking up at five a.m. to do CrossFit. It's kicking my ass." Braydon? He sounds twelve. With all his gym talk and, I assume, dating younger guys, Greg is inching into self-parody-level gay, but he's still the Greg I once fell in love with underneath the newly acquired gym bod.
"You look great," I say. "Are you and Brandon-" I purposely butcher his name.
"Braydon. I'm seeing him after this but didn't want to be too horny."
"Got it." That explains it. "Are you guys, like . . . a thing?"
"I dunno. It's whatever for now." He seems unsure of moving on from me, which is why this is such torture. Or maybe he's just softening the blow of seeing new people.
"Cool for you." I meant to say, "Good for you," but it came out "Cool for you," so I'll go with it. I try to keep our conversation moving forward, but I can tell he just wants me to leave. He gives me the final hint by wiping down his countertop even though it's spotless, like a bartender pushing out the last drunk of the night. I wouldn't be surprised if he starts counting tips and putting the kitchen chairs upside down on the table.
"Keys, phone, wallet?" Greg recites, not even pretending to subtly throw me out now. I go through the motions of checking my pockets for all my personal belongings even though I know they're in all the right places. Then I just stare at him as he puts his clothes back on, waiting for I don't know what. But nothing comes.
The elevator dings and I'm deposited back into the building's lobby, where Dario the doorman scowls at me as if he knows what just happened. Even though we've never had one conversation ever, for some reason I feel like Dario has known every detail of my relationship with Greg. Either that or my quick visits make him suspect I'm a drug dealer.
Hookup apps aren't exactly my thing. I'm the rarity fishing for an LTR in our modern-day technology hellscape that's mostly shirtless torsos belonging to guys soliciting sex. I've probably downloaded and immediately deleted Grindr about a dozen times, but tonight as I walk back to my apartment, I'm thinking about how my ex has someone new and all I have is my phone, which is sounding pretty good right now.
I like to use the time climbing the six stories to my apartment wisely, so while I shuffle upstairs, I download Scruff. I've never tried it before, but peeking at the photos, I've gathered it's a slightly older, hairier version of Grindr. Like me.
People can't believe I live in a six-story walk-up. On the plus side, it's in the heart of the West Village on Grove Street above a mystery bookshop, it's rent stabilized, I pay a dollar fifty a month, and I live down the street from my best friend Paige, whom I see or talk to every day.
Oh. Remember how I said I talk to Paige every day? After checking my phone, I notice our last text exchange was over a week ago, and it suddenly occurs to me that she might be missing.
TWO
Press the Call Button for Help." Every morning as I stare at this sign while temporarily trapped in the elevator on the way to my soul-melting job, I can't help but think it's the perfect metaphor for my tragicomic life. Especially right now: I'm surrounded by what seems like sixteen people all standing perfectly still, crammed in this moving veal pen. I'm the only person not staring at my phone. Three women are holding offensively giant Starbucks coffees. Two straight guys are listening to competing hip-hop songs on their AirPods. And the mouth breather behind me reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke and a hint of something that's possibly expired cottage cheese.
Help.
We stop on every floor until there are five of us left. I'm squeezed in the middle, while the remaining four stand in each corner, like dots on a pair of dice. The dots file out until I'm the last one of the morning sheeple to exit on the twenty-seventh floor and I remember that I'm soaking wet as my eight-year-old pair of New Balance sneakers-still holding up quite nicely, if you ask me-squeak down the linoleum. Not only is it two hundred degrees on this summer Friday and I'm profusely sweating, but it's also raining. And I forgot an umbrella.
I'm on an eerily quiet floor in the HR department, which thankfully doesn't have a receptionist. Probably the only perk of my job is that no one can see me come or go. No Carol behind a desk flipping through an old People magazine judging me when I'm running late. No Stephen with a Long Island accent to wish me a happy hump day. No Roz with plum-colored hair asking, "Hot enough for ya?" while playing online Scrabble and chewing her nicotine gum. Just a giant high-tech video wall that screams benser + powell advertising with an intermittent, floating generic word salad that includes "Creative Storytelling," "Diversity Works" and "Globally Iconic." Beyond the blinding wall of light is a lobby bigger than five of my apartments combined that's always empty and deadly quiet, overlooking an impressive view of the Hudson River.
