Two Glasses of Chardonnay, Three Lattes and a Bottle of Pedialyte

I pat down every pocket I have for what must be the tenth time.

Nothing.

Did I leave my keys in the car? No. They aren't in the pocket of my cardigan either, despite checking it three separate times as if persistence might magically produce them.

The sun is already punishing me. My hangover is evolving into a full-blown anxiety attack.

I cannot lose my keys again.

The girls will kill me.

"Hi, babe!"

It's Nina.

She's one of our sales associates—the kind of relentlessly cheerful person you can only tolerate before noon if you're emotionally stable. Unfortunately for both of us, I'm not.

"How's your day going?"

I look at her with the only expression I'm capable of producing: equal parts shut the fuck up and please save my life.

"Oh..." she says, immediately clocking me. "You're hungover."

I nod.

"I've got Pedialyte. Hummus. Pita. Baby carrots."

God bless that woman.

As she's listing the contents of what appears to be a survivalist backpack, I've managed to empty my tote onto the sidewalk.

Wallet.

Notebook.

Lipbalm.

Three receipts I have absolutely no use for.

And finally—

My keys.

Exactly where I left them.

I unlock the door and make a beeline for the back office bathroom.

I only throw up once.

Honestly, it's not even an impressive amount. Just the gallon of water I'd chugged before flying up the 110, foolishly believing hydration could erase the previous twelve hours.

When it's over, I stay where I am.

Sitting on the windowless bathroom floor, I find myself developing an entirely new appreciation for the cleaning crew. They do exceptional work. The tile is spotless. Immaculate, even.

I ease myself onto my back before rolling onto my side, pressing my cheek against the cool floor.

It feels incredible.

Better than my bed.

Better than the expensive mattress in the beautiful home I left an hour ago.

I slowly turn my head from one side to the other, chasing every inch of cool tile like a dog trying to find the cold spot on the kitchen floor.

It's embarrassing how comforting it is.

After what feels like forever—and somehow no time at all—I manage to pull myself upright.

My phone lights up in my hand.

One unread message.

Marcus.

That can wait.

Can it? Ugh. 

I lift up my phone and open the message.

Excited for tonight. Let me know when you’re off work.

I throw up again.

How do people fall in love? How do they meet someone on a Tuesday and by Friday they're rearranging their lives around them. How they leave a first date convinced they've found something worth protecting.

I understand attraction.

I understand obsession.

I understand the intoxicating high of convincing yourself that this stranger might be different from the last one.

But that feeling always leaves.

It fades somewhere between the second date and the first real conversation. The fantasy gives way to the person, and the person has never been enough to keep me there.

People always say, When you know, you know. What happens when you never do?

***

My second glass of Chardonnay is finally doing what three lattes and a bottle of Pedialyte couldn't.

The hangover is gone… well not gone, it’s developed into a migraine.

Marcus is talking. Something about a movie he's producing. Or maybe it's a movie his friend is producing. Either way, I'm only pretending to listen.

I can't stop looking at his glasses.

They're thick, tortoiseshell Tom Fords that somehow make him look both distinguished and vaguely infantile.

Like a very wealthy adult baby.

Everything about him is immaculate. His hair. His beard. His perfectly pressed slacks. He even smells faintly of baby powder.

I become completely convinced that beneath those tailored trousers he's wearing a Pampers Pull-Up.

I’ve never been less attracted to a human being.

How the fuck have I slept with this man?

What makes someone love someone?

I could love Marcus.

I should love Marcus

He’s nice. He’s successful. He’s smart, funny, all those other things that people list when they’re listing good qualities about a person. 

The question is what the fuck is wrong with me.

I take another sip of my chardonnay and nod at Marcus to make it seem like I’m listening.

Is it because he wants to take care of me? Is it because we’ve never had a screaming match ending with me storming down Santa Monica Boulevard and slamming the door of an Uber in his face? Do I need drama in order for a relationship to work?

Is it because I don’t have the need to test the relationship by picking a fight to see if he’ll stay?

Is it because I’m fully confident that he’s all in?

What if I've confused instability for intimacy?

How long can I let this go on before he realizes that my heart isn’t in it? I’m just rolling with the punches right now. I’m just going through the motions and he doesn’t even realize it. 

“This isn’t working.”

Marcus stops mid-sentence. 

He blinks at me, the confusion settling across his face before the words do, probably because I just interrupted a long story I wasn’t listening to.

"What did you say?"

Maybe that's it.

Maybe this whole time I've been waiting to feel something without realizing I was never really here.

I've been nodding at the right moments. Laughing when it seemed appropriate. Ordering another glass of wine. Playing the part of someone's boyfriend while my mind wandered somewhere else entirely.

How could he ever listen to me?

I haven't said a thing.

He never had an opportunity.

Never stood a chance.

“I’m sorry.”

Maybe that's how people fall in love.

They let themselves be seen.

Not the polished version. Not the funny version. Not the one that's charming after two glasses of Chardonnay.

The real one.

The insecure one. The selfish one. The frightened one. The one that's convinced it'll eventually be too much.

And then, somehow, another person sees all of it…

...and stays.

Horrifying.

For a long time, I convinced myself I was afraid of ending up alone.

Maybe that's why I've spent so much of my life making sure no one ever had the chance.