Turns out my date was a black belt, and what I should have done was not engage and move on. Like a duck, let it roll off my back. Peacefully extracting oneself from the drama and toxicity instead of throwing kindling on the fire. After we walked away, she showed me self-defense moves on the sidewalk. Demonstrating how, even though small, I could fuck someone up. She flipped me over her back (gently), twisted my arm, made me submit. It was comforting knowing skills were available to me that, despite my size, could render an attacker useless. Educational foreplay! Lifesaving foreplay!
We checked into the Bowery Hotel. It was all so different from being with Ryan. It was thrilling, in fact, a scene in a movie I never thought could play out in real life. With Ryan, we once asked for a cot at the front desk of a hotel when only a room with a single bed was available. With Paula, we would have separate hotel rooms because she was my assistant. What odd things to do, when this way was a possibility, I thought.
We sat in the room at a tiny table and talked more. Thick velvet drapes were pushed aside, leaving the old, large windows visible. The city lights filtered in.
“I like your cadence,” she said.
Time paused. I swallowed her words, feeling them at the base of my throat, the vibration traveled down. Her voice, smooth and clear with bedroom eyes that I wanted in.
She leaned forward in her chair. Placing her hand on my leg, she kissed me and I kissed her back. We were soon in the bed and stayed there until the morning light greeted us. Awkward at first, as it always is, struggling with buttons, subtle tumbles while removing tight jeans, bodies reading each other, working to connect, to sync, to find that flow. It felt spontaneous and safe and, most important, open. A new world.
We fell asleep, but not for very long. Shockingly, we awakened hungover and hungry. Checking out, I dropped off the golden key with its red tassel at the front desk and said goodbye, and we left in search of food. We found a place around the corner from the hotel for breakfast, a hip, rustic restaurant in a basement on Bond Street.
My first out breakfast with a girl.
Rad.
This used to feel impossible.
Blood sugar up, caffeine in the veins, our new destination was McNally Jackson Books, an independent bookstore on Prince Street in SoHo, only a five-minute walk away. She wanted to get me a book, Maggie Nelson’s Bluets. This would be the first time I read Maggie Nelson. Bluets, a contemplation of Nelson’s love of the color blue, feels impossible to categorize—nonfiction, a mixture of memoir, heartbreak, history, philosophy, theory—all of it seamlessly strung together through poetry and prose. It’s staggering, heart opening. It was the perfect book to receive then and there.
It started to rain, but that did not stop us. We continued walking and talking until we found ourselves on the other side of Manhattan in the West Village. She suggested a coffee at the now closed Cafe Gitane in the Jane Hotel, a historic hotel on the corner of Jane and West. The café was charming and chill, with a black-and-white checkered floor underfoot. It had a Parisian vibe, intermixed with unique decor choices, such as an alligator on the wall. I sipped an Americano, my stomach could only handle half. This was the moment we both started to fade, fatigue catching up, we finally brought the date to a close. We stood, said goodbye. And she kissed me. Right there in the café. A first.
These moments were beautiful, however complicated, for their significance in my life.
But the first person I really fell for after having my heart broken was Kate Mara. She had a boyfriend at the time, the lovely and talented Max Minghella. I met them both at a small dinner. That first night, I didn’t think much of it. Kate was charming and gorgeous, of course, but she was sitting next to her boyfriend. Mostly, I was eager to follow up with Max, hoping he’d accept a role in a film I was producing and acting in. But then I met Kate a second time.
It was awards season, and a friend, Kiwi Smith, was throwing a party at her house in Los Feliz for Adèle Exarchopoulos, the star of Blue Is the Warmest Colour. This is something people do during awards season, they have parties for people and films, inviting members of the Academy, hoping the support will lead to votes. These were the kinds of things I went to every night in dresses and heels and makeup, where older men sat too close and were too drunk and said through beading sweat, “Your dreams are coming true.”
This party for Adèle Exarchopoulos wasn’t like that though, it was genuine and sincere, like Kiwi. It was to celebrate an actor, an unforgettable performance, to welcome her in a time that must have been overwhelming. In a city that will suck you dry, it was an alcove, not a trap.
I’d been broken up with Ryan for only a few months maybe. We slept together occasionally after breaking up. Of course, it was too complicated and painful, but I kept convincing myself and her that it was totally chill. It’s okay, we can just be present with each other, I’m fine, I want what is best for you and me … a bunch of bullshit. I was a complete mess until it stopped. We hadn’t talked in a while.
I missed her something awful. Her smell, that mix of sweat and sunscreen, her smile, the way she moved her hands, how they danced with her thoughts, her brain, her laugh, her elusiveness, her eyebrows, her work ethic, her curiosities, her lips, her sounds, her art, her neck—how it stretched, her nerdiness, her wonder. Her eyes, the way she looked at me. I missed every single damn thing, and I couldn’t stop, it wouldn’t stop. I was desperate to forget.
“Above all, I want to stop missing you,” writes Maggie Nelson in Bluets.
I, too, wanted to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind that shit right out of me.
I arrived at Kiwi’s, walked through her entryway with its high ceilings and impressive staircase, her smaller, Gothic-esque dining room and her narrow, bright, and beautifully designed kitchen into the backyard. It was bustling with partygoers, with catering and professional bartenders. I scanned the space. Confirmed. I’d be flying solo with my heartbreak, none of my friends at the party knew I had been with Ryan, including Kiwi. I prayed Ryan would not show, despite being the only person I wanted to see. Not sure I can fake it tonight.
Kate was standing in a circle of partygoers, chatting, organic. She held a glass of red wine in her right hand. Her profile got me, that jaw. Welcoming me warmly, with a look in her eye I didn’t remember from the dinner before, she invited me in. She seemed looser, but not because of the alcohol. Her wine moved about her glass as she spoke, and I wondered if you could consider the liquid’s movement inertia. I reminded myself that she had a boyfriend. When she started flirting with me, I thought it was a joke. Regardless of the boyfriend, I could never imagine Kate Mara would want me.
We bantered back and forth, overtly flirtatious. I kept looking over my shoulder at Max, who was close by.
“Oh, he doesn’t care,” Kate said, noticing.
“Well, come over then, and I’ll make you a tofu scramble in the morning.” Now only half joking.
She laughed, I could make her laugh. We stood near, shoulders brushing.
Gulp. I looked to Max again.
Our conversation naturally came to a close, the flow and movement of the guests created a shift in migratory patterns. I found myself on the other end of the yard, having a cigarette on a long wooden bench, making basic chitchat with people I had never met. High from the flirtation, but assuming it was nothing, back to boring small talk.
During a moment of pause, completing the last couple puffs, the cigarette having burned to its logo, a man approached. He looked familiar.
“Hi!” the man said enthusiastically while he sat down next to me without asking. “You’re one of Ryan’s best friends, right?! I’m Matt!”
I looked at him, puzzled. He looked back with a big, annoying, goofy smile. And then it clicked. Something in me sunk, I just knew.
“Oh, are you two…?” I said, gesturing with my hand, implying together.
“Yeah! Oh, she didn’t mention?”
Fist. To. The. Gut. Ears. Ring. Heart. Stop. Now.
Breath.
“Oh, I didn’t um … how long have you…?” (same hand gesture).
“One month! I’m in love with her, she’s in love with me.” His body bounced on the bench. “Have you ever been in love?”
I looked to the ground, the world moved away like a k-hole.
Who the fuck asks that?
He kept speaking. He sounded like the adults in Peanuts.
I tried to not cry, to offer a smile, not too much though, and periodically, I gave a tiny nod.
“Where is she? She coming tonight?” I asked without looking.
“Nah, she was exhausted from meetings all day, she’s on her way to my place now.”
Fist. To. The. Gut. Ears. Ring. Heart. Stop. Now.
Breath.
“Sorry, I have to go to the bathroom. Nice to meet you, I’m sure I’ll see you around.” I left him there, basking in his euphoria—as vivid and vibrant as his tie-dye hoodie.
Panic swelling, vision blurred, no one at the party to turn to, I ran into the small half bath on the main floor. I sat on the toilet and immediately started shitting. I felt it in every part of my body. The grief, the shame. Dirt swept under the rug, left behind, but not fully disposed of.