Since I’ll be spending the better part of my day schlepping boxes, this episode is going to be super brief. I want to talk about meet-cutes.
You all know I’m a sucker for a good meet-cute. I mean, they’re a beloved staple in romance. The best ones involve the spilling of a scalding-hot beverage, or a near-death experience. Sometimes it even verges into meet-ugly territory, where they dawdle in mutual loathing and delightfully petty prejudice for half the book. That is . . . until they discover each other’s emotional sides and fall head over heels in love.
[Tara waits impatiently at an intersection and stares into the camera of her brand-new phone, brow cocked.]
Thanks to the internet—don’t even get me started on online dating—real-life meet-cutes are DEAD and I’m in mourning. In today’s harsh world, any stranger, no matter how beautiful, who makes eye contact for longer than a few consecutive seconds most definitely has nefarious intentions and will mug you in broad daylight. I speak from experience.
Is all hope lost once you hit thirty? I’m beginning to think so. If anyone would like to prove me wrong with some adorable, real-life meet-cute stories, I’m all ears.
COMMENTS:
I met my husband online. We’ve been happily married for ten years. Meet-cutes are overrated.
Tara, I completely agree with you. I’m waiting for my in-person meet-cute too. Preferably in between rows of dusty mahogany shelves in a public library.
* * *
? ? ?
EVERYTHING IS FINE. EVERYTHING IS FINE.
I mentally repeat that phrase as I haul myself up the stairwell to my new apartment. To my new life.
It’s fine that I got mugged. It’s fine that I’ll need to cancel all my credit cards. It’s fine that I had to buy a new phone. It’s fine that I’m moving into a new apartment, sight unseen. It’s fine that it boasts a chronically broken elevator, even though I’m a staunch proponent of a sedentary lifestyle. IT’S ALL FINE.
When I reach the third flight, I take a momentary lean against the wobbly handrail, balancing my heart-shaped throw pillows. In between wheezes, I force my mouth into a smile, a trick I use to reset when I’m spiraling into a negativity vortex.
There’s no reason to hate on my brand-new digs. It may not be the Ritz, but from what I’ve seen of the run-down, orange-tiled entryway and probably haunted concrete stairwell, it’s the nicest place I can afford on the direct subway line to the hospital that isn’t a roach-infested basement apartment. And Scott was charitable enough to leave me his gently used bedroom furniture, free of charge.
As I press on and upward, I remind myself change is good. This move is more than just the apartment. It’s a new chapter of my life. A chance to start anew, after eight months of wallowing, mourning the life I was supposed to have with my ex-fiancé, Seth.
This time last year, I was blissfully engaged, planning an elaborate Cinderella-inspired dream wedding from the comfort of our Beacon Hill condo. Then, six months before the wedding, Seth decided the season finale of Survivor was as good a time as any to pick a dramatic fight, concluding he “couldn’t tolerate me anymore.”
The tribe had spoken.
Seth Reinhart would be the tenth man to break my heart.
Starting my life over was a trip, to say the least. But after months of therapy and star-fishing on Crystal’s floor, I’ve finally come into my own.
I’ve embraced a morsel of change, starting with a bold haircut (a long blunt bob). My bookstagram and BookTok accounts—niche corners of the internet where literature-obsessed folks bond over books—are thriving. I’ve secured my trusted inner social circle of exactly two—my sister and Mel—the respective Carrie and Samantha to my Charlotte (even though we’re all probably Miranda).
Maybe this year I’ll surprise everyone and take up a new hobby, like looming, archery, or mountain biking. Seth always resented my lack of hobbies, aside from reading. Maybe I’ll purchase a succulent, or seven, and name them after the von Trapp children from The Sound of Music.
I’m reinvigorated with endless possibilities by the time I reach unit 404. So much so, I open the unlocked apartment door with triple the force necessary, like a pro dancer taking center stage, making an impassioned entrance into my shiny new life.
The moment I enter, it’s clear that this new chapter is no improvement from the last. In fact, it’s worse.
Before me is a magnificently muscled, entirely naked, tattooed man bending an auburn-haired woman over the kitchen island.
Welcome home, Tara.
? chapter two
THINGS GO TITS up from there. Literally.
I let out a bloodcurdling screech from the depths of my gut, tossing my throw pillows in the air. The auburn-haired woman yelps, endeavoring to cover at least half her enviably ample bosom. The tattooed man curses and dives for cover behind the butcher block island, like a World War I soldier under siege in the muddy trenches.
But it’s too late for me. I saw it.
The penis belonging to my new roommate, Trevor Metcalfe.
It’s not like I expected to cross the threshold into a Sex and the City–worthy life of fabulous riches, cosmos, whirlwind romance, and girlfriends who are readily available to drop their lives at a moment’s notice whenever disaster strikes. But I was not expecting this.
Normally, I wouldn’t entertain the prospect of moving in with a stranger. But the rent was cheap, I have student debt, and anywhere was preferable to my parents’ place, where I’d be forced to compete for attention with Hillary, Mom’s ankle-biting, narcissistic Chihuahua. Besides, Trevor is Scott’s best friend and coworker at the firehouse. I figured it was safe to trust my soon-to-be brother-in-law, but apparently you can’t trust family.
You’ll never see each other with your shift work. It’ll be the same as living alone, Scott had assured me.
The illusion of living alone seemed plausible, given that my and Trevor’s conflicting shift schedules prevented us from meeting prior to today. I rotate between day and night shift every two weeks, and apparently, so does he. So far, we’ve only exchanged a couple of texts, which consist of my request for the dimensions of my new room for my bookshelf. No small talk.
The topless woman gapes at me, justifiably peeved I interrupted her Big O. Aside from disappearing into the void, I do the next best, highly logical thing: mumble a vague yet sincere apology, cover my eyes, and sprint away in the only direction possible—down a short hallway.
“This is fine. It’s all fine,” I mutter, taking refuge through the first door on the right. I slam it shut, savoring the relative coolness of the door against my searing skin.
As a nurse, I see genitals aplenty, particularly during my stint in the ER before I transferred to the neonatal ward. But making eye contact with a live human (a mega-ripped human, to be precise) in the throes of passion a mere ten feet away is a first.
When slowing my breath becomes a herculean task, I try a technique my therapist taught me. Take in your surroundings. Note everything logically, with no judgment.
I’m in a tiny, outdated bathroom. It’s white from floor to ceiling, save for a plush navy-blue towel hanging behind the door and the matching hand towel next to the sink, both probably belonging to a man with a nice, sizable— Nope. We’re not going there. Focus, Tara.
Cracked yet clean ceramic subway tiles adorn the wall in the gleaming glass shower. For a bathroom formerly shared by Scott and Trevor, two thirtysomething men, it’s impossibly clean. I run my index finger along the rim of the smooth porcelain sink. It’s spotless. Not a stray man hair or glob of dried toothpaste to be found.
Weak and weary, I park myself on the porcelain throne. I should probably commence a new search for another place to live, but the very prospect of probing the bowels of Craigslist prompts a heaving gag. Instead, I self–eye bleach to videos of baby farm animals until my feet lose all circulation.
I know I have to go out and face the music at some point. But like a coward, I delay the inevitable by FaceTiming Mel.
She answers immediately, preening her ultra-lush lash extensions. She’s a curvy influencer, like Crystal, except instead of fitness, Mel’s specialty is fashion and beauty and all things aesthetically pleasing. Today, a shimmery purple shadow sweeps across her eyelids, accentuating her dark eyes. Her contour is also on point, showcasing her bone structure. She’s so stunning, it’s frankly offensive.
Based on the floor-to-ceiling window behind her, she’s at home in her bougie apartment in the theater district. “Where the hell are you?” she asks.
“I’m hiding in my new bathroom,” I whisper.
“Why are we whispering?” She lowers her voice conspiratorially.
“Because. I just walked in on my new roommate. Naked.”