Mismatched in Manhattan: the perfect feel-good romantic comedy for 2020 Read online

  Jude stands up and this time manages to pull her chair back for her.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  He sits down and smiles at her. “I get it now,” he says over-enthusiastically, gesturing toward her head. “Undersea!”

  “Um … yeah,” Bree says, but she looks like she’s thinking about nothing except placing the dunce cap on his head.

  The date does not last much longer than that. Suddenly, Bree isn’t so hungry anymore, Jude has finished his flight, and I’m hearing murmurings of “that was fun,” with no talk of a further date.

  Crap.

  Jude comes back to join me at the bar once he’s seen Bree out. He orders a water, since he’s apparently already filled his beer carb quota for the day. I order a Jameson on the rocks.

  “If nothing else, that Wil Belgian Wheaton beer might be a contender for the quest,” Jude says. “It was pretty tasty.”

  “It’s not over yet,” I reply. “We can still salvage this.”

  “You think?” Jude asks as he squeezes the lemon into his water. Then he shrugs. “I don’t know. Remember what you said about efficiency? Maybe we should just move on.”

  “I don’t think so,” I reply almost immediately, even though, normally, if my client wasn’t feeling it on the first date, I would 100 percent agree with exactly what Jude is saying. There are plenty of profiles in the sea, especially for a guy like him, and my job is to keep my clients from wasting their time.

  But that’s the thing. I don’t feel like Bree is a waste of time. Sure, this wasn’t the most amazing date in the history of romance or anything, and maybe the sort of story they’d have to embellish if it got to the point where they were telling their grandkids about it (on the other hand, maybe it’d be hilarious: the hairdo that almost wiped out their existence). But it could also just be one mediocre date; everything I’ve seen and read of Bree so far makes me think she’s worth another shot. I tell Jude so.

  “All right,” Jude says. “But I’ll be honest: I’m not sure she thinks I’m worth another shot.”

  “Let me think on that,” I tell him. “If that’s true, I’ll come up with something to make her change her mind.”

  “You’re the expert,” Jude says, raising his glass to me.

  That night, when I get home, it’s to the welcome sight of solo Dylan on the couch with a tray of chips and salsa on his lap as he watches Shark Tank.

  “Where’s Charles?” I ask, hoping the answer is something along the lines of “gone forever.”

  “Having dinner with a former student, one of his mentees,” Dylan says.

  Okay, fine. I have to admit that’s a better answer. Charles and I may not get along, but I’d be totally blind not to realize that he and Dylan are crazy about each other. And if there’s one thing I’ve always been, it’s a hopeless romantic.

  Here’s where I butt up against this problem again: Regular Miles isn’t here and I’m genuinely not sure I want him to return. Because being a hopeless romantic meant that I left myself so wide open that I got my heart pummeled, steamrolled, and left for dead.

  On the other hand, being totally cynical about love has thrown me for a loop too. I don’t feel like myself; I feel like a version of me that’s consistently seeing the world through a smear of Vaseline. Nothing is clear and I can hardly trust any of my own senses. That’s no way to live, especially for a New Yorker who needs to be constantly vigilant lest they sit on something unidentifiable and sticky on a suspiciously open subway seat.

  I join Dylan on the couch and he offers me a chip, which I take, trying to chew above the tray so that I don’t add crumbs to the aggravation of my interminable stay.

  “I think Barbara is going to snatch this guy up,” Dylan says, gesturing to the TV.

  “Maybe. Or Kevin,” I reply.

  “Ugh. I hope not. He deserves better.” Dylan has obviously bought into the villainous portrayal of the investor nicknamed Mr. Wonderful.

  Maybe that’s the answer. I can be a Shark—an investor in the game of love, but not personally involved. I have the perfect job for it too. I’m not just constantly on the sidelines watching other people’s great romances; I’m a real architect of them. I provide the seed money, so to speak. And if I do my job and tend to it properly, I can watch something blossom without being in personal danger if the crop fails.

  I don’t need to be Regular Miles. I can be Miles 2.0.

  And I think that Bree and Jude are the perfect couple to have a stake in.

  CHAPTER 10

  To: Special Edition Peeps

  From: Clifford Jenkins

  Re: Results-Oriented Mindset

  This is going to sound waaaaay more corporate than you’re used to, and I admit it’s not how I usually roll, but hear me out, K? The truth is, between the mole, the launch of Puck and Run (working title, gotta laugh!), and what feels like an onslaught of frivolous lawsuits (it’s how we know we’re top dog, so I’m not worried), I wasn’t prepared for the folks over at TIT CENTRAL to place a money-back guarantee on the front of their site. Who does that, right? Love is a many splendored thing, and cannot be rushed, and cannot be forced. They’re obviously cynics who think emotions can be quantified by coinage, and that is NOT the Sweet Nothings way.

  Still, we’d be foolish not to clap back. So, I’ve devised a compromise. As of next week, our clients will have the option of changing ghostwriters if they believe their needs are not being met. Unfortunately, this means the original ghostwriter won’t be paid, because we can’t ask our clients to pay twice if they’re not seeing results. On the plus side, this new biz model will doubtless attract more clients than we can handle, so ultimately, it’s a HUGE WIN for the Sweet Nothings family!

  Peace always,

  Cliff

  ZOEY

  I think Bree ghosted me.

  It’s been three days since her date with Jude, and she hasn’t responded to a single message I sent asking her about it. I’m freaking out.

  If the job interview I had on the phone yesterday for a script coverage position had gone better, I wouldn’t care so much, but it ended with the ultimate backhanded compliment: “We’re just afraid you’re overqualified and wouldn’t be happy here.”

  I’m not sure what I could have done to convince them I don’t mind running errands and answering phones. I mean, I did it for eight years just fine; I don’t see why I can’t keep doing it.

  Then this morning I got a reply to a résumé I sent out six weeks ago. No greeting, no reminder of which company it was. Just:

  It says here you worked for a script doctor. Do they give out PhDs for that?

  When I sent back an explanation of the term, I got this in return:

  I’m surprised you didn’t get the joke. I thought jokes were your “thing.” Anyway, we aren’t hiring.

  I’m so flustered by the brush-off and lack of money coming in that I can’t focus on the script I’m supposed to be writing. I’ve been stalled on page two for weeks, changing the main characters’ names and redoing their opening dialogue until I don’t even know what the story’s about anymore, assuming I ever did.

  I know Mary would never kick me out of this apartment, but the idea of telling her I couldn’t hack it in the city, considering she gave me every possible advantage, makes me sick to my stomach. After Bree looked so astonished by my address, I researched the building’s history. Turns out I should be paying nearly four grand for this tiny room, which is NONSENSE, but it means Mary’s more generous than I realized; if I can’t cobble together the monthly rent at 70 percent off, I don’t deserve to live here. Let someone who knows what the hell they’re doing take it over from me.

  Because bad news always comes in threes, now Clifford is threatening to renege on my pay for what I thought had been a slam-dunk ghosting job! I need to find out what happened. Voice mails and IMs aren’t working, so I decide to log in to Bree’s account with Game, Set, Match and search for answers on my own. She hasn’t given me permission to do that si
nce I last saw her, but she hasn’t NOT given me permission, either.

  Maybe it’s good news I haven’t heard from her. Maybe she and Jude are so loved up they don’t have time for anything else. I’ll hop in, skim a bunch of gooey missives—I bet Jude gives great gooey—and invoice Clifford for another success story.

  Username: TheDuchessB

  Password: 1374552x9992080

  The login or password you entered is incorrect.

  I roll my eyes. That’s because it’s a bunch of random numbers that correspond to some type of Undersea map coordinates. I double-check it and type again, slowly and carefully.

  The login or password you entered is incorrect.

  I grit my teeth and make a third attempt.

  The moment I hit enter, the screen goes black and a single yellow tennis ball smashes into a cartoon player’s face. His eye swells up and a few of his teeth fall out. Charming.

  Then a message in white text appears:

  Please contact an Admin to restore your access. Bye!

  Oh shit! How long will she be locked out?

  I’m reeling from the implications when my e-mail inbox dings. The message is from Clifford and it’s a video. Just what I fucking need! At least I’m at home where no one can witness this lunacy. I click on it and cover my eyes, watching through the sliver of space allowed by my fingers. When does he have time to make these?

  Oh, he had fun with this one.

  The video depicts Ariana Grande singing and dancing, but her face has been sloppily covered with Bree’s profile pic. Ariana’s brown ponytail shoots out the top of Bree’s head, not unlike the party pylon hairdo, come to think of it. She (and the Weeknd, because Clifford’s obsession continues) sing that if I want to keep them, I need to love them harder. Then Clifford walks toward me in front of a white screen.

  “Here’s the sitch-a-roo. Your client filled out a customer survey, and she gave you a”—he cringes—“one out of five for user satisfaction. That’s almost the worst possible outcome.”

  What’s the worst one? Murder?

  “Not everyone’s compatible, but this goes beyond that.”

  No shit! Is my boot compatible with your jugular?

  It’s really tough for me to fathom how Bree’s meeting with Jude could have turned into a bad date. I set her up perfectly; all she had to do was show up and chat about her favorite topic, and she would’ve been off to the fricking races. Jude and I connected. If it went wrong, it’s not because of me.

  I shut off Clifford’s message (right after I hear him say, “Ruh-Roh! Mayday! Mayday!”) and pace the length of my $4,000-a-month room. I only take six steps before I’m forced to turn around.

  This is bad. This is really bad.

  I scroll through my address book, and pause at Aisha’s name. I need to vent about Clifford, and who better? She’ll understand like no one else. But then I hesitate.

  A) It’s Friday night; she’s probably out.

  B) If I let on what a big pile of fail I am at my job, she’ll never refer me to her other company.

  I scroll further and tap call.

  “Starry Eyes Retirement, Ruby speaking.”

  “Hi Ruby,” I say, trying to sound cheerful over the lump in my throat. “Is my grandma around? It’s Zoey.”

  “It’s Friday, so she’s at karaoke bingo tonight. Want me to have her call you back? It won’t be until eleven …”

  “No, that’s okay … Tell her I hope she wiped the floor with Doris.”

  I hang up and stare at the walls of my apartment. My eighty-year-old grandmother has more of a social life than I do. I’m happy for her—she deserves it—but I miss her and I miss my old self, the self I used to be, when things made sense and my schedule never deviated.

  Wake at six, breakfast in front of the TV, take the 10 to the 405 to the 101, work with Mary all day, take the 101 to the 405 to the 10, home, dinner in front of the TV (unless I stayed late and had dinner with Mary), asleep by eleven, repeat.

  If I didn’t get out much, it didn’t matter; in Los Angeles, there were always people around. I never had to think about it. Nick the weed dealer and I could sneak off alone whenever he dropped by Mary’s, so it wasn’t like I needed to date. Mary herself threw house parties constantly, and included me as a guest, not an employee. I was always welcome. Part of the group. Never looked down upon.

  Maybe that’s what my fear of NYC is all about. Here, I feel unwelcome.

  Now I have way too much time on my hands and no one to share it with.

  Okay. Let’s think. What would Mary say about tonight’s events?

  There’s one surefire way to find out. It’s only six p.m. in California, not that that’s good or bad; arbitrary concepts like “time” don’t mean much to Mary.

  A voice picks up on the fourth ring.

  “Mary, Fuck, Kill, how may I direct your call?” says a smooth male voice.

  Stunned, I hang up. My heart beats triple time in my chest. I feel light-headed, and my arms and fingers tingle, the way they always did after a ten-hour day typing. I’m having phantom tendinitis pains from a job I haven’t held in months.

  Tears fill my eyes. I’m so stupid. I should have known.

  She’s replaced me.

  She’s replaced me with someone who doesn’t choke on the name of the company.

  I wipe my eyes and shake my head. She told me I was the best assistant she ever had, and I guess I thought that meant she wouldn’t be using an assistant anymore. That after me, she’d just, I don’t know, muddle through or something. Focus on adapting her memoir for the stage like she’d always planned to.

  Talk about ridiculous. I was her assistant, not her partner, even if she did ask my opinion on the scripts and let me pitch jokes. Just because she gave me an associate title, just because she sent her car service around to pick me up when I had the flu so she could look after me in her guest room and feed me matzo ball soup from Canter’s Deli, and just because she took me and Nana to Catalina Island for Nana’s birthday, and just because I thought … I thought …

  Okay, get a grip.

  After answering her correspondence for eight years and editing her dictation, you know her almost better than you know herself. So. What would Mary say about Bree? Probably something along the lines of, “When life hands you lemons, make Amaretto Sours.”

  Preach. I don’t have the ingredients for that, but I do have half a bottle of week-old Riesling. I yank the fridge open and take a fortifying chug straight out of the bottle. It shivers sweetly all the way down. Mask of bravery in place, I FaceTime Bree. I feel no shame or guilt. It’s after hours, so I’m not bothering her at work, and she owes me an explanation.

  Bree appears on my screen, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry,” she squeals. “Hiiiiii.”

  “Hi,” I answer, stone-faced. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Are you in trouble? I’m sorry about the survey, but it kept popping up on my screen and the only way to get rid of it was to fill it out. Besides, it was the truth! That date sucked complete ass.”

  As opposed to partial ass? “You know, Bree,” I say slowly, so I don’t explode, “I’m honestly surprised to hear that. Can you walk me through it, please? I want to understand what went wrong.”

  “He doesn’t eat. He only wanted to drink, which you knew was a deal-breaker for me. It could not have been more awk. And he didn’t even, like, register the frigging unbelievable accuracy of my hair. I DON’T DO IT FOR EVERYONE, YOU KNOW.”

  “Yet I can’t help but notice you seem to have put it up that way again.” My teeth are clenched so tightly it’s a miracle she can tell what I’m saying.

  She sniffs and lightly touches her coif, half of it off-screen. “There’s a Blu-ray party at midnight tonight,” she responds huffily. “It’s a re-release of the director’s cut with eighteen seconds of never-before-seen footage.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry it went poorly, I really am. Did you …” I close my eyes briefly. “Find another gho
stwriter?”

  “No,” she says. “I didn’t know that I could.”

  “You can’t,” I say quickly. Not until next week, Clifford said. I still have a chance to turn this around. “I get that you’re mad, and I apologize profusely for misjudging what would happen. Was there anything you did like about him? Anything we can work with?”

  “He’s ripped,” she admitted. “And he’s got great eyes, and a killer accent …”

  I can’t help smiling. I bet he does. “Oh, yeah?”

  “I think he felt bad that he bombed so hard because he sent me something this morning.”

  I brighten. “Was it flowers? A note? Can I see?”

  “There’s nothing to see. You can hear it, though. It’s an audio file. I only listened to the beginning, because it looks long.”

  “Doyouwantmetolistentoitforyou?” I sputter.

  If she says yes, I’m still her ghostwriter. If she says yes, I can still make rent. Besides, I’d like to hear his “killer accent” for myself.

  She shrugs. “I guess …”

  “I’ll report back in the morning, okay? Send it over and have fun with your … um, new eighteen seconds of film—oh, and you might be locked out of Game, Set, Match for a while, but I’m on top of it.”

  “Should we maybe just start over? Find a new match? This is exhausting.”

  I pretend I don’t hear. “I’ll fill you in first thing tomorrow—or, should I give you until noon so you can sleep in?”

  “Noon’s good.”

  “’Kthanksbye!”

  The file arrives and I download it to my phone and put my earbuds in.

  There are so many ways of communicating online. Facebook, Twitter, IMs, DMs, chatrooms, match services, IG, text, and all they seem to do is increase the distance between us. In that respect, recording one’s voice for a private listening session seems almost … quaint.

  I love it.

  “Right. Okay. So, I’ve always been a fan of those articles in airplane magazines, the ones that do a spread on a city, with an article about ‘Three Perfect Days in Toronto’ and that. I don’t fly often, mostly just to Glasgow and back every other year, but I always take the magazines home with me. I like to think I’ve amassed a collection so if I ever do find myself in certain cities, I’ll have a plan in place, a perfect three days. And I got to thinking, in New York City, every neighborhood, every single one, has its own vibe, something about it that’s unlike any other neighborhood. I wish someone would put together a guide to them, a microcosm version—one perfect day. But so far, I don’t think anyone has, so I thought I’d take a crack at it. My contribution to this is a walking tour that starts in Hell’s Kitchen but takes you to my favorite place in all of New York. If all goes well, I hope it shows you something that you haven’t noticed before. And if you end up loving this place as much as I do, maybe we could check it out together sometime.”