Page 34 of Come Back to Bed
8
Bernadette
That. Poor. Guy.
That poor, poor guy.
I can’t stop thinking about how sad and confused and vulnerable he looked as soon as he saw his ex-girlfriend with another man. Those sad eyes. All that time, I’d been thinking he was a dick, but he was just protecting his heart because he’s sad. I can’t stop thinking about those sad, sad eyes.
I also can’t stop thinking about how insanely beautiful that Vanessa was. I mean, what’s the story there? They must have just stared at themselves in the mirror all the time and congratulated themselves on how gorgeous they were. A couple of years ago, I briefly dated a guy who was into football, and went to a Super Bowl party with him. I am quite certain that Vanessa was in a Super Bowl commercial eating a burger in a bikini on the beach. I swore off burgers and bikinis then and there.
I just wish I hadn’t seen Matt looking so sad. It’s no fun hating him when I know that he has actual human feelings. I don’t want to pester him with questions and push him to share his feelings with me, I just want to make him feel better. I want to put my arms around him and sing him Adele songs and bake him brownies. Well, I want toorderbrownies to be delivered to him. I could actually feel my own heart breaking when I looked at his face. It was not a good feeling. It was terrible.
I touch the side of my mouth, where his thumb pressed against me for one second and it felt like his whole body was touching my whole body and gosh darnit that was the best damn hot dog I’ve ever had.
I need to stay away from him.
Or…
Or!
Or maybe we can be friends.
I can do that.
“You can do what?”
Tommy’s voice startles me out of my interior monologue.
“Huh?”
“You just said ‘I can do that.’”
“I did? I said that out loud?”
“Girl—I sent you to the bar to get us a bottle ten minutes ago and I find you here polishing off a glass of wine and talking to yourself. You need to get out more.”
I am out. I am out on a Saturday night. I came out to see my best friend in an off-Broadway play, and now we’re celebrating with drinks at the bar in the Public Theater and I’m sitting here thinking about my neighbor. I was thinking about him so much all afternoon, I didn’t even get around to doing laundry because I wanted to be home in case he felt like talking. Apparently, he did not feel like talking but he did feel like blaring Led Zeppelin while doing lord knows what (but probably push-ups and crunches) and then he calmly played some pretty guitar songs for his dog.
So now my apartment is really clean, my delicate unmentionables are hand-washed, but I don’t have my usual going-out outfits to wear. This is why I am currently wearing a ridiculously tight cardigan over a camisole and the skinny jeans that I usually only wear to fancy parties because they cost over two hundred dollars. And I’m still thinking about my neighbor, instead of my wonderful best friend, whose talent I am here to celebrate.
That is why I need to stay away from Matt McGovern, Esq.
“Yes,” I say to Tommy. “Thank you for getting me out. Did I mention how brilliant you were and how handsome you are and how proud of you I am?”
“Yes, did I mention we’re all waiting for that bottle of wine?”
“I ordered it and paid for it. Someone’s supposed to bring it out.”
“So why aren’t you back at the table with us? If you’re sitting here thinking about Sebastian Smith, I swear to God—”
“I’m not! Shhh! Don’t say his name so loud! I’m not thinking about him. If you must know, I was thinking about my neighbor.”
He screws up his face. “The sexed-up retired lady?”
“No. Her nephew. He’s been staying there for the past month. She’s in Europe. He’s only there until he finds a new place for him and his dog, and I love his dog, but he’s a total asshole lawyer who sometimes turns out to be kind of nice. However.”
“Oh my God. What’s his name?”
