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

  She looked elated. I’d gotten the ring off her Pinterest page, so I knew she liked it. And when she said yes, the whole restaurant burst out into applause. The maître d’ even led everyone in a toast to us.

  Looking back on it now, I wonder if that’s what really made Jordan so happy. The fact that there were people to approve of her big moment, like the real-life version of social media likes. I think it’s quite possible that Jordan smiled more at the people applauding us than the person kneeling in front of her. Dylan, on the other hand, hadn’t cared how his boyfriend proposed. He just wanted Charles.

  I sigh as I pick up the crumpled Metro page, not really expecting to find anything there. (I mean, honestly, who lists housing in an actual newspaper anymore?) Sure enough, it’s a few room shares with a questionable number of roommates, a $7500/month studio on the Upper West Side, and one ad that I’m not sure should be categorized as a sublet or a missed connection. “Roommate wanted: the brunette in the lemon-print dress that took the A train at 5:16 p.m. on Tuesday. You wear that dress every day; I will make you lemon pancakes every morning. Southern-facing windows, private bathroom (though you’re also welcome to share my jacuzzi tub). You pay half for cable and Internet.” Either way, I’m considering reporting it for sheer creep factor.

  But then one listing catches my eye. It’s a building in the East Village, on Avenue A. Actually, I think it’s across the street from Café Crudité. I Google the address. Yup. It’s a 650-square-foot one-bedroom for … this can’t be right. $900 a month?

  Obviously a scam.

  Also. The ad rhymes:

  So you want to live in Alphabet City …

  All you have to do is be witty.

  Just have a sit,

  And answer me this,

  Make the words pretty, not sh*tty.

  And then it’s followed by an honest-to-God essay question. So maybe it’s just some rich, eccentric leprechaun who wants to fill his building up with a certain type of person. That actually makes the price slightly more plausible.

  Then I read the question: “If you had to pick one fictional character to be for the rest of your life, who would it be? And why?”

  I let out a snort that actually shakes the pen display behind me.

  Well, that’s easy. Harry from When Harry Met Sally. For one, he’s not too far off the mark from myself: snarky, slightly embittered, thirty-something New York guy. But with the added bonus that my beautiful, smart best friend eventually realizes she’s madly in love with me. Plus I’d get to read as a white dude for once. Win/win.

  Look, I don’t really know if this ad is legit. But if there’s one thing I can do, it’s write, especially this essay. So might as well, right?

  I stand up, grab one of the pens from behind me, and a notebook from one aisle over. I pay for them, and then head right back to the Post-it aisle where I settle in to wax poetic about eating at Katz’s, singing electronic-store karaoke, and delivering zingers about the dance of the white man’s overbite.

  CHAPTER 12

  To: The All-Star Lineup

  From: Clifford Jenkins

  Re: Out of the office all week

  i’m in and out of depositions at the mo, can’t get online much but it’s all good, will update in the a.m., in the meantime send good vibes to the courthouse (the one in lil jamaica, NOT throgs neck) i am killin’ it and may even get a copy of the videotape to inspire you all

  C

  ZOEY

  It’s been raining on and off all morning. The air outside Café Crudité is thick with humidity, as though the streets and buildings have Saran Wrap stretched around them, trapping a layer of heat and garbage and smoke over our heads. By ducking under canopies on my walk over, I managed to arrive in a relatively dry state, with zero competition for the big table.

  It’s only nine a.m., but when the downpour starts, and a slash of lightning crackles through the air, it looks and feels like midnight. Unsurprisingly, the place fills up with people who appear mildly traumatized.

  Despite Clifford’s assurance that he’s “killin’ it” at depositions, his e-mail has me feeling mildly traumatized myself. If Bree and Jude work out—and I’m torn between wanting that and not wanting that—the Sweet Nothings’s check better not bounce. I’m not as panicked about this as I might have been a few days ago, though. For one thing, Clifford’s e-mails all tend to blow over, and for another, I’m still buzzing from the hike Jude sent me on and all the wonderful things I saw along the High Line.

  Thunder rumbles overhead, the door flies open again, and about eight more people shove their way inside, huddled and shivering.

  Miles is among them. He wears an Adidas track jacket (black, with two white stripes down the sleeves and two red stripes at the cuffs) over a soft-looking, gray pocket tee and skinny, dark blue jeans that cling to his fit body. His face is clean-shaven, and his hair is damp and dripping from the rain.

  In short, he’s cute AF.

  An observation I’ll be taking to the grave.

  He runs a hand through his thick brown locks, pulling them away from his eyes and inadvertently giving himself a side part.

  Stop looking at him, I order myself.

  The floor’s slippery and the last one in, an older woman whose glasses are fogged up, almost takes a spill. Miles holds his arm in front of her like a bar so she can steady herself. She nods gratefully to him and he nods back, guiding her ahead of him in line.

  Hmm. Downright chivalrous. Quite the opposite of his behavior with me. Which one is the true Miles? Angry shouter, or courteous caregiver?

  The café is so crowded now that every table may as well be the Big Table—they’re all coveted, and tension fills the room as it dawns on the customers in line that soon, there will be nowhere to sit. They can’t go back outside, though. Orders and names are shouted, hot drinks are dispensed, and the air vibrates with the hum of people shifting into and around one another, arguing about where to sit. Any second now a fight may break out.

  “… But I’m waiting for a friend,” a middle-aged woman protests when a soaking, uninvited guest plops down in one of the few unoccupied seats remaining.

  “When they get here, I’ll leave,” the interloper snaps. “But there’s nowhere else to …”

  “Double up, folks. Make it work,” Evelynn booms, hoisting a gallon of oat milk onto the counter.

  Instinctively my gaze swings back to Miles. I stare, hard, and wait for him to meet my gaze. When he does, I jerk my chin toward the chair opposite me. He’s not nearly as wet as the late-comers, and since I’m being forced to double up I’d rather it be with a mostly dry person.

  Miles peers behind him and from side to side, unable to fathom a universe in which I would invite him over. He points to himself, a questioning look on his face.

  “Yes, you,” I shout.

  He wastes no time bringing his drink over and depositing his annoying messenger bag made of tarp. Today it probably saved his computer.

  “Thanks.”

  “Better ‘the devil you know,’ right?” I ask. “Besides, I’m in a good mood today.”

  He glances at my plate of biscotti and I yank it closer to me. “Not THAT good a mood,” I clarify.

  He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t going to—”

  “My generosity extends as far as my paycheck.”

  “Starving artist?”

  “Sort of. You too?”

  It would explain why he spends all day on his laptop. He’s probably a novelist. One of those guys who writes a book from a woman’s POV and then swims through an ocean of praise about how sensitive he is.

  He nods. “Okay if I clear this?” He motions to my collection of notebooks and papers. “Set it on the bench next to you or something?”

  “Sure.”

  We reach for my leather-bound notebook, a gift from Nana, at the same time. Our fingers brush and the contact makes my stomach flutter, which is flat-out wrong. I inhale sharply and pretend it didn’t happen. He doesn’t seem
to notice, just lifts my notebook and pens and hands them to me to make room for his laptop. I can’t help but notice how artistic his fingers look—and then I notice something catastrophic: a loose sheet of paper has fallen out of my notebook and flutters to the floor. He bends over to get it.

  “Don’t!”

  He sighs. “What is wrong with you? I’m just picking it up.”

  “Give it to me—” I waggle my fingers impatiently. My strange reaction has piqued his curiosity.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  He holds up the paper and squints at it.

  “It’s private,” I insist.

  “Is this a …” He turns it sideways and my cheeks get so hot I may burst into flames. People could gather around me to keep warm.

  “It’s a tally,” I say, hoping to hasten him along. “Just a tally, nothing important—”

  He won’t be deterred or hurried. “‘Table Champion,’” he reads aloud, “with dates and initials—who’s MHH?”

  “No one,” I stutter. “What? I don’t know.”

  He tries and fails to muffle his laughter. “Did you … make a chart for which of us gets the table each day?”

  “MHH,” I grit out. “Miles. High. Hair.”

  His hand flies up to his hair, and it’s my turn to smirk.

  “Miles-High Hair?” he repeats, looking hurt. “Me, Miles? How do you know my name?”

  “‘It knows my name!’” I shriek sarcastically.

  He sets the tally between us and sits down. His legs are so long he has to tuck his knees flush under the table or they’ll invade my space. “How do you know my name?”

  “They only say it every day when your order’s up.”

  “Only someone who’d been listening for it would notice, though.”

  “You’re right; you caught me. I just had to find out the name of the stranger who YELLED AT ME for no reason.”

  He cringes. “In my defense, that was one of the worst days of my life.”

  “Me being a tiny bit greedy was one of the worst days of your life?” I retort. “Can we switch lives, please?”

  “No, the bad stuff went down before I came to the café. You being a lot greedy was the last straw.”

  “You can sit here,” I mutter. “But that doesn’t mean we need to talk.”

  “You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” he says simultaneously.

  I clear my throat. “Zoey Abot.”

  Silence. We look at each other for a second, as though waiting to see if the other will hold out their hand for a shake. Neither of us does. I think about the way our hands touched earlier and decide it’s for the best. It’s been a freakish enough encounter already.

  “My miles-high hair doesn’t just happen, you know,” he says amiably. “I have to have had a particularly atrocious night of sleep.”

  “What happened last night, then?”

  “Ouch. Guess I walked right into that one. Why do you keep a tally of who wins the table?”

  “I wanted to see if there was a pattern. Days you didn’t show up, so I wouldn’t have to race here. I’m winning, by the way. Sixty-five percent of the time.”

  “You must be proud.”

  “Which begs the question, why do you keep coming here, when I’m so clearly dominating the competition?”

  “A) I couldn’t care less who gets the table. The fact that you do says way more about you than it does about me.”

  The other tables are comically bad. What a liar! He cares. He cares so hard. I can feel my blood pressure rise, just looking at his smug face while he talks.

  “And B) Free Wi-Fi, usually no big crowds, and I don’t have to worry about gorging on junk food because they don’t sell any. Speaking of, I think we should order something.”

  Strangely enough, I agree. It’ll fend off the vultures and keep us safe from Evelynn, who might otherwise kick us out into the storm to make way for customers who actually eat.

  “I think you’re right. No kale muffins, though.”

  “Pool our resources?” he suggests.

  Two starving artists empty every pocket, purse, and wallet, placing our wrinkled dollar bills and a handful of coins onto the table. Miles systematically organizes them and announces that between us, we’ve got $14.87.

  “There’s only one item on the menu we can afford,” I point out. “Black bean and quinoa bowl it is,” he says, snapping the menu shut.

  “I’ve never tried it.”

  “Me neither. It looks pretty good, though.”

  He orders it and returns the menu to the holder on the counter.

  More silence. I should ignore him and get back to work. But what he said a moment ago gnaws at me. My writer-brain is curious, eager to collect a story that might be useful for a character one day. The odds that he’ll tell me something juicy are slim, but it’s worth a shot.

  “You said it was one of the worst days of your life. Personally, or professionally?” I ask.

  “Both. Times ten.”

  Now I’m dying to know. I tilt my head in a manner that’s intended to convey openness and warmth. He takes the bait:

  “I’d just found out my fiancée was pregnant and I wasn’t the dad.”

  My mouth falls open.

  “Want to guess who the dad is?” he says, loudly.

  “I … I’m so sorry—”

  “Yoga Doug. YOGA DOUG. And who can afford therapy, right? I mean, I was actually considering starting an anonymous Twitter account so I could air out my grievances into the void. You know, for free.”

  I almost smile despite myself. “That sucks. Yoga Doug sounds like a Yoga Douche. Still doesn’t excuse your behavior toward a stranger, but I understand it better …”

  “What about your behavior?” he protests. “Demanding way more than your allotment of snacks? Ordering me around like you owned the place? What was that all about?”

  I was hangry and I hate it here would sound pathetic, especially in contrast to what he’d been dealing with that day, so I shrug, which is very mature of me.

  “Like I said, I’m in a better mood today,” I say. “As it turns out, some New Yorkers are extremely thoughtful. None of the ones at this table, mind you, but—a new friend, he, um, showed me around and gave me some advice on great restaurants. Really took the time to think about what I might like.”

  Minimal Bluff. But who cares, it’s not like I’ll ever be talking to Miles again. Barring another flash flood, perhaps, but even then, I’ll think twice.

  “A friend?” he repeats. “Or a ‘friend’ trying to take advantage of your naïve transplant status from Swamptown, USA?”

  What on earth is he babbling about? “Swamptown? Where is it you think I’m from?”

  And why has he formed an opinion about it either way?

  He leans back in his chair. “If I had to guess, I’d say Florida.” I gasp. “Get out.” I point to the door. “I rescind your invitation.”

  He stands, stunned. “What did I … ?”

  “Sit down.”

  He does, looking perplexed. “To be fair, your outfit’s a little—eccentric … to put it mildly …”

  “Who cares about my outfit! Do I look like someone who would tolerate hanging chads?”

  “That’s a little before our time.”

  “It’s still a topic of conversation among my friends.”

  “How old are your friends?”

  “Ancient. For the record, I’m from California,” I sniff proudly. “The Best Coast.”

  “That’s debatable. Aren’t you about two seconds from falling into the sea or getting blown up by nuclear weapons? In between throwing yourselves bloated award shows every weekend, that is.” He does an obnoxious little song-and-dance from his seat. “‘Hooray for Hollywood’ …”

  “You seem nice, Miles,” I snap. “This has been oodles of fun.”

  “What can I say? I’m in a good mood, too. Found myself a new apartment, in a sick location, for an e
ven sicker price.”

  “That is good news,” I pipe up. “The other side of town, is it, near an entirely different café?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t mind either way—considering my sixty-five-percent success rate”—I tap the tabletop lovingly—“but you’d be better off. I was only thinking of you.”

  Evelynn brings the black bean and quinoa bowl over. She stares at us for a moment, then says drily, “You guys finally figured out you could share the table, huh? What did it take, three weeks?”

  “Ask Zoey here. She keeps a record.”

  “We’re only sharing it for today,” I correct her. “Inclement weather and all.”

  Her expression doesn’t change. “Uh-huh.”

  She leaves, and Miles and I peer down at the bowl of food we’re apparently sharing.

  “Can we have a separate bowl?” I call to Evelynn’s back, which stiffens.

  We await her return in silence, but when she swings by our table again, she’s empty-handed. Wordless, she lifts the bowl up to reveal a plate underneath and pivots away again.

  “It’s smaller than I expected,” Miles remarks.

  “$14.87 doesn’t buy what it used to.”

  I scoop approximately half the quinoa onto the plate.

  “I know we discussed your greed earlier, but could you at least try to make it equal?” Miles asks.

  “What are you talking about, your portion is clearly larger,” I respond.

  There’s a gleam of humor in his eye. “Does Evelynn need to come back and intervene?”

  “That sounds like the title song in a musical. ‘Intervene, Evelynn!’” I sing, to the tune of “Hello, Dolly.” What is happening?! He just sang “Hooray for Hollywood” and now I’m channeling Broadway? Whatever, who cares.

  He shifts the bowl and the plate so they’re side by side and peers skeptically at them. I can’t stop an annoyed snort from escaping.

  “For fuck’s sake, pick one,” I gripe.

  He slides the plate closer to him and pushes the bowl at me.

  “Ladies first.”

  “What am I, your food taster? Seeing if it’s poisoned?”