Baby Proof

A few days later, right before another date with Anders, I got out of the shower and noticed a blinking red light on my answering machine. Even though we hadn’t talked in nearly three months, I knew right away it was Paulwhich marks the closest thing I’ve ever had to a psychic moment. I hit the play button, and sure enough, it was Paul, drunk and rambling about how he really hoped that I was well. It was hardly an “I miss you like crazy and wish I had moved to New York with you” sort of message, but still, he was calling me on a Friday night while drinking, something I had, with Jess’s resolve, managed not to do. I listened to the message twice and then made myself delete it, fighting the urge to save it for further analysis. (Jess is gifted at reading between the lines and interpreting things like drunken voice-mail messages, perhaps because she had left her fair share up to that point. Then again, who doesn’t drink and dial in their early twenties?) I had serious pangs as I erased Paul’s familiar husky voice, but mostly I just felt proud of myself. I was a well-adjusted young urbanite dating a European with longish hair and a ferocious serve. I was so over my college boyfriend.

So in keeping with my image, I saw to it that Anders and I had a blast that night. We ate at El Teddy’s, my favorite Mexican restaurant (one that has since closed) in Tribeca and got wasted on margaritas on the rocks with salt, which made me feel sophisticated with every sip as I only drank frozen margaritas in college. Then we met up with Anders’s friends, mostly fellow tennis players, and danced at a velvet-rope club in SoHo. Anders was a great dancer, but didn’t take himself at all seriously. Every once in a while he’d break into his hilariously manic “running man” dance. He cracked me up and made me feel buoyant, in a way you can only feel in the aftermath of true misery.

Then something very strange happened. Back at Anders’s apartment, as we were having sex for only the second time, I found myself thinking about Paul’s message. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I was crying. I told myself that it was just the margaritas. I reminded myself that I was happy. I prayed that the moment would pass quickly and that Anders’s room was dark enough for my tears to go undetected. But no such luck. Seconds later, I felt Anders freeze over me. He gently touched my cheek. “Are you crying?” he asked, sounding more horrified than worried. He didn’t wait for an answer, just sat up, snapped on the light, and gave me a fearful look. I told him I was sorry. He hugged me and said, “Don’t be.” Then he asked me questions, about what was wrong, about why was I sad, had he done something wrong? I told him I wasn’t that sad, just drunk and tired. He pressed me on it, so I told him all about Paul, what had changed in our relationship, his unwillingness to move to New York, how I still sometimes missed him when I heard certain songs, all the typical post-relationship melodrama. I even told Anders about Paul’s message earlier that night, how I had deleted it after only listening twice. I apologized along the way, and Anders was an excellent sport. He said it was fine, and at my insistence, shared some of his own stories of past loves.

Of course I was embarrassed to have cried during sex, but in my mind, Anders and I had crossed a threshold together, and the night had taken on an important, almost cathartic quality. I was finally ready to move on from Paul. The next morning, Anders kissed me good-bye, with no sign of a problem. I returned home and told Jess that I finally felt like I was completely over Paul, and that I was ready to take things to the next level with Anders. The only problem was Anders apparently didn’t feel the same because he never called me again. Of course I never called him again, either. But it was pretty clear who was blowing off whom. It always is.

I still cringe when I think about that night and wonder what would have happened had I not cried in the middle of sex. Not that I think Anders and I were meant to be together or anything crazy like that. I just think that I screwed up what could have turned into a more significant relationship, or at least a lasting friendship.

With all of this in mind, I decide that I’m certainly not about to make the same mistake with Richard. I never want to cry during sex again (unless it is that goodBen once moved me to tears). I want the lines to stay clear. I know I’ll think about Ben for a long time to come, but I’d strongly prefer if those thoughts did not transpire in the sack with another man. I don’t want to taint my fragile start with Richard. Not that there is anything particularly fragile about my relationship with Richard, it’s just that by definition, all starts are fragile.

Then, just as I think I’m moving beyond the rough patch, I get something in the mail that messes with my head all over again. I recognize Annie’s handwriting immediately and feel a stab of guilt for not returning her recent calls or accepting her invitations for lunch. Annie and Ray are the only friends caught in the divorce crossfire, the only couple who is impossible for either Ben or me to fully claim. Everyone else is either more my friend or more his friend and we have an unspoken deal where I stay away from his friends and he steers clear of mine. It’s a respect thing. I am thinking all of this as I open the envelope, expecting a note of some sort. Annie is big on sending notes for no reason and often laments that the age of e-mail is eviscerating the art of letter-writing. But the correspondence is not a note; it is an invitation to Raymond Jr.‘s baptism.

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