The summer is getting shorter and our reading list keeps getting longer. Though we still aren’t ready to part with the summer weather, we’re definitely gearing up to read Amanda Stauffer’s novel, Match Made in Manhattan. The main character in the book is already hyper relatable, seeing as she’s confused, lonely and just trying to navigate her love life.
In this exclusive chapter reveal, Alison finally takes the risk and downloads a dating app, and it she goes on some ~adventures~ in her dating ventures. From getting dumped before the first kiss, wearing a HAZMAT suit on another and going on a date with an undercover federal agent, Alison’s dating experience help her become open-minded and allow her to scrap her perfect bae checklist.
“Wait—what?” I bolt upright from my chaise longue. Stay calm, I coach myself. Deep breath. Deep breath. “I just don’t . . .” Dave sighs, sips his margarita, picks up a nacho, and shrugs his shoulders. “I just don’t think it’s necessary right now.” “‘Necessary’? ‘Right now’?” I repeat his words back to him, with a little more heat than intended. “We’re talking about five months from now. We’re talking about five months from now, three and a half years into a relationship.” Oops. I didn’t intend to whine either. “I know. But.” He stares at the nacho platter. “Why don’t we just wait until we’re married? I don’t think there’s any reason we have to do it before we’re married.” I sniff quietly, trying to clear my filling tear ducts. It’s New Year’s Day, the last night of vacation, and we’re having dinner on the beach. Until thirty seconds ago, we’d been planning to move in together when my lease expires in June. Deep breath. Until now, except for fleeting thoughts about getting engaged, usually precipitated by the engagement announcements of friends, I’d never felt in any hurry to massage the relationship in any particular direction. It’s comfortable, we love each other, and I figured we’d get married someday. The logistics of how or why previously hadn’t felt important, and I’d never felt the need to set a timeline, laminate it, and stick it on the fridge. (I actually have a friend whose girlfriend—now wife—did this.) But this about-face on a move-in plan hatched nearly a year ago feels not only like an insult but also like a giant step backward. I grit my teeth to hold back tears. Deep breath. Deep breath.
Without intending to, we spent the next week hashing out the reasons to break up and the reasons not to. Dave kept making the case that he loved me! And he loved our relationship! So we should stay together! . . . Just not live together. One morning I’d say I needed a night off to think; that afternoon, he’d text me asking if I wanted to grab dinner. And out of force of habit, or a naïve hope that his position would change, I’d find myself in his kitchen after work. And each night, we calmly, amicably, rationally debated the future of our relationship. My eyes would water. His voice would crack. Yet while he pled his case, I found myself tuning him out, psyching myself up to do what I knew needed to be done: if it’s not going to work after three-plus years, it’s never going to work. It was sad and draining. But in a way, that week of romantic purgatory gave me clarity, and all those interior-monologue pep talks gave me confidence: You can do it! Life will go on. Now three weeks later, for the first time, at twenty-seven years old, I am a single New Yorker. When I ultimately allowed my rational side to take over, Dave’s broken promises made breaking up with him a fairly cut-and-dried decision. Because there was no deception, no wondering what if I’d done x, y, or z differently, and really no regrets—other than having stayed in the relationship for perhaps one year too long (that is if I could have discerned that this wasn’t to be The Relationship with a capital R)—there isn’t much point in licking my wounds. Instead I need to pull myself together, dust myself off, and ask: What now?
***
I’ve never been on a first date. I didn’t pique the interest of many boys in high school, and in college, I was fortunate enough to have my meet cute on a freshman orientation backpacking trip, which sparked a fouryear relationship with a really stellar guy. Throughout college I had a wide circle of kindhearted, intelligent, funny, and attractive guy friends; when my college relationship ended around graduation, some of them, like Dave, naturally morphed into dating prospects. But with friends, before even going on a “date,” you’ve both (hopefully) weighed the pros and cons of dating and decided you’re into it, lest you risk damaging the friendship . . . and that means it’s really not a first date at all: no first impressions to be made, red flags already flying in the open, minimal high jinks, et cetera.
Until now I haven’t had to worry about what kind of signal I’m sending out. I haven’t debated which blouse will communicate that I’m classy but casual, nor have I obsessed over how high my heels should be or how much makeup to put on. For the last three years, I showed up at Dave’s apartment after work in paint-splattered, chemical-stained jeans and company-emblazoned polos. Before Dave, my college boyfriend Scott lived so close by I sometimes walked over to his apartment in my flannel pajama pants. I’ve spent countless hours perched on the edge of the bathtub, chatting with Cassie and Nicole as they curled their hair, applied their smoky eyes, and primped for their dates in our tiny tiled bathroom. I suppose it’s my turn now to learn how to make a smoky eye? Dave and I, Scott and I, we were pals. They knew what I looked like. And they knew what I was like. I didn’t have to brainstorm topics of conversation or worry I might say the wrong thing. So now, in the last third of my twenties—most people’s dating prime—I’ve had two three-plus-year relationships, two or three mini-relationships, and not one blind date, setup, or genuine first date. And I haven’t the foggiest clue as to what a typical date looks like. But of paramount importance, it’s high time I figure out how to find people to date—assuming I want to branch out beyond the alumni population of my college. The world is big and I am small. Where do I begin?
***
Nicole swipes at her screen and tosses it to me. I snort with laughter at
the profiles before me.
“Come on, I’m way too prudish for Tinder. Can you picture me
bringing home random dudes?”
“I haven’t brought home that many random dudes, have I?”
“Yeah, but, I think there’s an expectation there that things will
move faster physically than . . . my slowpoke pace.”
“What about Hinge?”
“Assuming I don’t want to date any more college classmates, I
should probably cast a wider net, no?”
Nicole reads aloud from Match.com’s homepage: “‘If you don’t find
someone special during your initial six-month subscription, we will
give you an additional six months at no additional cost to you to continue
your search.’”
My cursor hovers over the Subscribe button.
“I think you’re really going to like it, Ali,” Nicole coaxes.
One hundred and fifty dollars for six months, nay, a potential year
of possibilities and new horizons doesn’t sound like a bad deal. Right?
“Please let me help craft your profile?” she begs. “There is literally
nothing I’d rather do with my evening.”
With Nicole looking over my shoulder, I begin to type.
In My Own Words:
What can I say that distinguishes me from every other girl on this site?
Let’s play a little game called “Two Truths and a Lie:”
1. I once medaled in the women’s lightweight division of the World Championship Wild Hog Catching Contest in Sabinal, TX.
2. I have a cameo appearance in not one, but two music videos: one for U2 and one for Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. If you squint, you can see me!
3. I have a pet hermit crab named Poseidon.
My Interests:
I’m an architectural conservator, which means that I spend my days donning latex gloves and wielding scalpels and syringes, attempting to save historic buildings one paint chip at a time. When I’m not working, I like to glassblow, bake cakes, soufflés, and all manner of desserts that require a blowtorch, and/or seek out BYOB restaurants with my friends. I’ll never turn down a run along the East River, a walk through Central Park, a mojito, an adventure, or chocolate-covered anything.
About My Date:
I am looking for someone who is intellectually curious, has a big heart, and can make me laugh. Bonus points if you won’t protest when I try to drag you to screenings of Italian neorealist cinema or to the barbecue festival in Madison Square Park, even though I fully acknowledge that it is overcrowded and far too touristy (but still, so fun!). I look at Nicole, who gives me a thumbs-up. “Alright,” she says. “Let’s publish this thing and let Match.com work its magic.”
Ready. Set. Post.
**************************************************************************
Before our second date, I decided to do a little digging on Dan. Given that his username is Nadatsoca, it didn’t take a cryptologist to determine that his full name is Dan Acosta. Based on just that keyword search, I found out that he works for Honeywell’s industrial technology, went to
Princeton, posts too many photos of the city skyline on Instagram, and overuses the hashtag #nofilter. Working backward through his public profile on Facebook, I can pinpoint the day he and his last girlfriend broke up and see pictures of her. She looks like she stepped out of a Pearl Jam-groupie beauty pageant with bleached blonde hair, leather pants, and leopard-print everything. Maybe she hurt him so badly he’s seeking her polar opposite? Even barring that, the gold cross he wore around his neck at Auction House, his Facebook profile photo displaying him shirtless, steering a boat, with a bottle of Captain Morgan in hand . . . something tells me that soul mates we are not.
Over dinner at Maz Mezcal, Dan tells me about his close-knit enormous family and band of thirty cousins. He tells me he’s half Puerto Rican (“Oh, I thought you might be Irish.”—“I get that a lot.”) and that he grew up on Latin cuisine. “Do you want another round?” Dan asks, when the waiter comes by to check in.
“I will if you will.”
I like talking to Dan and his piercing blue eyes. But I’m kind of over dating people who I have no future with. When our drinks arrive, I take a sip of liquid courage and begin, “You seem like a fun guy. So, do you want to play a game? My friend Paige and I have this thing we call the ‘three-martini question.’. . . When you’ve had three martinis, and you’re a little more . . . open? . . . you get to throw caution to the wind and ask really probing questions that you might normally save for awkward conversations further down the road. I know we don’t have martinis per se, but . . . can I tweak that and ask you a three-margarita question?”
“I don’t know that I’d say this sounds like a fun game necessarily, but I’m up for it if you are. . . . This means I get to ask, too, right?” I nod.
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Okay. So.” I take another sip of my margarita. “You wear a cross
around your neck.”
He nods.
“Which I take to mean that you are religious.”
He nods.
“Do you go to church?”
He nods.
“Like, on your own? Or only with family?”
He looks at the ceiling and ponders this. “Honestly? Only with
family.”
“But it’s important to you,” I state, and he nods. “So . . . can I
ask why you’re on a second date with a half-Protestant, half-Jew who,
according to her Match.com profile, is a self-professed agnostic?” I
smile.
He nods, as if to himself. “I’m not gonna lie, you’re the first
non-Catholic girl I’ve gone out with.”
“Because normally that’s a deal breaker?”
He nods a few times, again to himself. Then says, “Yeah.”
“So. Are you going to . . . just . . . throw your religious morals out
the window here? Or . . . was this just an experiment in crossing over
to the dark side?” I smile.
“No. Not that,” he says, nodding. “You know, I thought about it.
It’s not like I ignored that detail or missed it. . . . I just, I guess over the
years, I’ve decided that there are more important things.”
“Okay.”
“Would it be a deal breaker for you? That I’m Catholic?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Keep in mind my parents both diluted
their own religious backgrounds through an interfaith marriage. . . .”
“Does it bother you at all, though?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I just figured if you were going to turn around and say, ‘Ehh, forget it, I can only marry a Catholic,’ I’d rather throw in the towel now.” I add quickly, “Not that I want to marry you. I don’t want to marry you.” I feel my cheeks flushing again. I really need to start speaking more slowly so my brain can keep up with my mouth. I hang my head in embarrassment and sip on my margarita without looking up.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to ask until at least the third date.” He
smiles. “Okay. So, my turn?”
I nod.
“Why are you on here? Match, I mean.”
“Really? That’s your question? That’s not a three-martini question.
That’s, like, a sober coffee-date question.”
“Well . . .”
“That’s easy.” I give him a quick summary of my serious relationships, explain my need to branch out beyond the population of my college graduating class, the same unintentional script I’ve been spewing off since January.
He nods. “Cool, that makes sense.”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t everyone use websites or apps or platforms
these days? Tinder, Bumble. . . . What about you? Why are you on?”
“I don’t have that many friends in New York, so I feel like my circle’s
kind of small.”
“From Princeton? I find that hard to believe . . .”
“Well, right out of college everyone was here. But at this point, most people have left. . . . So when the girlfriend I lived with,” I get a mental picture of Nikki with her black choker necklace and fishnet tights, then try to abolish this picture from my mind, “and I broke up . . . I took a while to get over it. And then moved to New York. And then needed a way to meet people.” “Did she go to Princeton, your last girlfriend?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“No.”
“So how did you meet?”
“It started from a random hookup.”
“Huh. Really?”
“Yeah, I woke up in the morning and she was gone, but she’d written her number in lipstick on my mirror.”
That is one classy chick! “Wait, seriously?”
He nods.
And you are on a date with me because . . .? “How long were you
together?”
“About five years.”
“And you said you lived together. . . . Why did it end?” He looks taken aback, and although he’s right—this question may have been a bit too probing for date number two—I wave my margarita glass in my hand. “Three-margarita question.”
He smiles. “Honestly?”
I nod.
“I proposed and she said no.”
And suddenly, all the feelings I’ve been grappling with come back at once, and my heart aches. For Dan this time, though. “I’m so sorry, Dan,” I say softly.
“No, it’s fine,” he says confidently. “But, you know, when you live together for multiple years and propose and get rejected, you’ve kind of got no choice but to pick up and move on.”
I nod. “That’s terrible. Did she explain it? Her reasoning?”
“Kind of. Not really. She said she didn’t feel ready to settle down.”
“But isn’t living together kind of settling down anyway? I feel like
the marriage license is just the ribbon on the box or something.”
“I agree. But that’s what she said.”
“So I imagine you didn’t stay friends?”
“No. But it’s kind of a funny story. We both moved out, and two
months later, she calls me, asks to come over, and tells me that it was
the biggest mistake of her life and she’s been . . . I don’t know . . . devastated
ever since . . . and she asks me to get back together and to get
married.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said no.” He shrugs.
“Why’d you say no?”
“I don’t know. I think maybe it was a combination of things. I spent so long being angry at her, you can’t just shove that aside and get over it. Also, during the time that I was angry, I spent a lot of time thinking about all the things that were wrong with her. Or with the relationship.”
“No, but mostly with her,” I say, half-smiling, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Come on, you’d be right to. I’m not judging.”
“Well, yeah. Mostly all the things that were wrong with her.” He
twirls his fork and watches it. “So, this time I said no.”
“That must have been confusing. And hard.” I nod, then he nods. “I’m sorry.”
He blinks hard and shakes his head as if clearing it of these thoughts.
“Whoa, your three-martini questions can get deep.”
“Yeah, I’ve never actually had them be that deep before.” I laugh.
“Usually it’s dumb stuff like, ‘I kind of think you’re hitting on me. Are
you hitting on me?’ Or,” I add quickly, “that’s how Paige always uses
it at least.”
Dan gets up to go to the bathroom. While he’s gone, I check my phone. When Dan sits back down at the table, his demeanor seems to have changed. It’s not that he’s not being nice, or polite; he is, but he seems a little off, a little distracted perhaps? He walks me home after dinner, we hug goodbye, and he asks if I want to get together later in the week. I say yes and head inside. I open up my laptop and go back to Dan’s Facebook page to take a closer look at this heartbreaker ex-girlfriend. And there, on his wall, is a new message from her:
September 12 at 9:23 p.m.
Hey Danny. You must be done with school by now. Was thinking about you and just wanted to say congratulations! You deserve it. xx
Posted today at 9:23 p.m. Aha! He must have received this notification on his phone when he got up to go to the bathroom. Which explains his distractedness from that point forward. How completely bizarre that without him ever telling me so much as her name, or his own last name, the Internet has enabled me to tease out Dan’s emotional hangups. Also, why doesn’t the girl use email or text for this kind of thing?
Match Made in Manhattan by Amanda Stauffer is available for purchase now.