Finding a date for Will proves just as challenging as I thought it would be. I ask around the other secretaries at work and they all are attached or have plans for Friday. And this is me presenting Will as a cute lawyer. If they figured out he was in a wheelchair, I would probably get slapped or something.
By Wednesday night, I’m getting desperate. This entire date with Jude seems contingent on me finding a second girl for Will. Jude even called me and told me he can’t wait to see me and he’s dying to meet the girl I’ve picked out for his best mate. I don’t know what to do. I’m tempted to start checking the craigslist personal ads.
After Jude calls, I sit on the bed in my room, searching my email address book, trying to figure out if there’s anyone I’ve missed who might possibly be interested in a blind date. While I search, I’ve got the television on, watching an old episode of Friends. I’ve literally seen every episode of Friends half a dozen times, so I sometimes like to keep it on in the background, like having an old friend around. Also, I love Rachel’s hair and I just like to look at her. (I’m not a lesbian or anything.)
I’m exhausted from my day at work. It was a particularly awful day. My boss Harvey (who still makes me call him Mr. Peterson after four years together) was in rare form. He’s one of those guys who thinks it’s somehow appropriate to ask me questions about my love life, and I can’t slap a sexual harassment lawsuit on him, mostly because real people don’t actually do that very often. The worst part, I think, is looking at him. He always wears a gray suit that looks very expensive yet still manages not to fit him very well. He’s not so much fat as just kind of doughy, almost like he still has his baby fat. Also, he’s been balding as long as I’ve known him and has always sported a forward comb-over, meaning he combs his hair forward almost into bangs. After years of this cringe-worthy comb-over, he recently decided to shave his head completely. In general, I think going totally bald is preferable to a bad comb-over, but I feel like I have to make an exception for Harvey. His head is too small and odd shaped, and it’s somehow too shiny. It hurts my eyes.
Anyway, the random task Harvey gave me today was to pick up some medications for his mother at the drug store. Sounds simple, right? Not in my job description, but fine. Except while I’m in the store, he calls me on the phone. “Libby,” he said, “I need you to get one more thing.”
At that point, I was just happy he called me while I was in the store and not when I was five feet away from his office on my way back. “Sure, Mr. Peterson,” I said. “What do you need?”
“My mother needs a pack of incontinence briefs.”
“A… what?”
“You know,” Harvey said. “Like Poise or Depends. Whichever brand you like.”
Right. So that’s how I ended up on line at the drug store, clutching a huge package of adult diapers. I could see everyone in the store staring at me, thinking I was probably incontinent or something. By the time I got back to work, I was ready to give him the finger and tell him where he could shove this shitty job, but he was in a meeting and by the time he got out, I had calmed down significantly.
So in summary, I hate my job. But I guess for the time being, I’m stuck buying food for his dog (who inexplicably likes cat food) and cleaning his jumbo fish tank.
I'm trying my best not to think about cat food or fishtanks or adult diapers when I hear thumping on my door and jump off the bed to open it. Since I have about a foot of space between my bed and the wall, I stub my toe in the process and am hopping around like I’m trying to make it rain by the time I open the door to see my roommate Martha standing before me, appearing pissed off.
“I’m trying to study,” Martha says, looking pointedly at the television.
If the television were any quieter, it would be on mute. I grit my teeth. “Sorry.”
“Also,” Martha looks at the tiny lamp on my dresser and the computer on my bed, “you know our electric bill was really high last month. If you’ve got the TV and the computer on, why do you need a lamp on? It’s not like you’re reading.”
Really, I want to reach out and strangle Martha. But suddenly, it occurs to me: Martha is a girl. Martha clearly doesn’t have a date for Friday night or any time in the near future, far future, or ever. This might be the answer to my problems.
I give Martha a critical once-over. She’s not pretty, that’s for sure. She’s overweight, for starters. I can’t guess her weight, but if you had a spectrum where a starving Somalian kid was at one end and one of those morbidly obese guys who needs medical assistance to roll over in bed was at the other end, Martha would probably be in the middle, or just barely on the side of the morbidly obese guy. She also has zero sense of style. She always wears these baggy pants that drag on the ground and sweaters that are just too bulky and don’t look good on anyone. Also, she squints a lot, which makes her look constantly pissed off. Or maybe she really is just constantly pissed off.
I want to say that Will is much too good for someone like Martha. He’s reasonably cute, he’s an attorney, and he actually seems pretty nice and funny. And he can cook. But the reality is that I think Martha might be the best he’s going to get. That’s if I can convince her.
“Martha,” I say. “What are you doing Friday night?”
“Studying,” Martha replies instantly. “So if you’re going to be having friends over—”
“No, actually,” I say. “The thing is, there’s this guy, and I was just wondering if… well, you might be interested…”
Martha’s eyes widen. Now that she’s not all squinty, I decide she really isn’t completely terrible looking. “Are you serious?” she says.
I nod, encouraged by her response. “I think you’d really like him, actually.” Based on how well I know Martha, which is, of course, not at all.
I can see her turning the idea over in her mind, probably thinking about how long it’s been since she’s had a date. “What’s he like?”
“Oh, he’s great,” I say enthusiastically. “He’s a lawyer and he’s really funny and… and smart…”
“How come you’re not going out with him then?”
“Well, I’ve got a date already,” I say. “He’s the roommate of my boyfriend.” Okay, Jude isn’t actually my boyfriend yet. But that’s just a technicality.
“What’s his name?”
“William. Will.”
“What’s his last name?”
Oh hell, what was the name on the lobby intercom? I think for a second and it comes to me. “Caplan.”
Martha thinks a little more. “What does he look like?” she asks.
“He’s very cute,” I say.
Martha looks skeptical. “Is he short?”
“No,” I say. Probably not, but who knows?
“Does he have all his hair?”
“Yes, definitely,” I say. “Great head of hair.”
“Do you have a picture?” she asks.
“A… a picture?”
“Like… is he on Facebook?”
“Probably,” I say, before I can stop myself.
Everyone is on Facebook these days. So yes, there’s a good chance Will has a page. And any member can usually look at the profile photo. But the question is, what does Will look like in his profile photo? If there’s a full length shot of him in his wheelchair, Martha is going to march right out of here.
“Can we look?” Martha asks, glancing at my computer.
“Sure,” I say, cursing to myself. I get on my laptop, log into Facebook and type “William Caplan” into the search field. I hold my breath as I press enter.
“Oh,” I hear Martha say. “Is that him? He…. looks pretty nice.”
I look at Will’s photo. It’s just from the shoulders up, probably taken within the last year. He’s smiling and looking directly into the camera.
“I told you,” I say, hoping she won’t notice that my hands are shaking.
“Okay, I guess I can go out with him,” Martha says. She’s smiling. I can’t remember in the two years I’ve been living here having ever seen Martha smile before.
“Wonderful,” I say.
Now I know what you’re going to say. I probably should have mentioned to Martha that Will is in a wheelchair. That I’m being selfish because I just want her to go on this date and I don’t care whether they actually hit it off. But really, if you think about it, I’m being completely unselfish. If I tell Martha that Will is disabled, she’ll freak out and probably never go out with him. And then they’ll miss out on a chance for what might possibly be true love. So really, I’m fostering true love. I’m sort of like Cupid.
Plus I just really want Martha to go out on this date.
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I’m so excited that I call Jude that night to tell him that we’re all set for Friday. He gave me his landline only, saying that he mainly uses his cell phone for work. I dial the number and hear Will’s voice on the other line. I’m slightly disappointed, but actually, it’s just as well. Will’s the one I’m setting up, after all.
“I’ve got a girlfriend who will be joining us on Friday,” I tell Will.
“Oh,” he says. He doesn’t sound nearly as excited as Martha did.
“I think you’ll really like her,” I say.
Will says something that sounds kind of like, “Huh.”
“Don’t you want to know her name?” I ask.
“I guess so,” Will says.
“Her name is Martha.”
“Sexy.”
I laugh. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“I’ve been set up a lot.”
“And?”
“It’s always bad.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
“Maybe this will be the one time it’s not bad,” I say, knowing it probably won’t.
“You really think so?”
“Sure, why not?”
This time, Will laughs. He has a really nice, cute laugh. “All right, Libby. I believe you.”
“Well, keep an open mind,” I say.
“All the really great girls go for Jude,” he says. “They always have.”
I smile to myself, because I get that he’s implying that I’m a great girl. It makes me happy to hear him say this, not only because he’s Jude’s roommate, but I’m deciding more and more that I really like Will. He’s someone that I’d like to be friends with. Maybe we can catch the next superhero movie together.
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When I was younger, like in my early twenties, I used to talk to my mother every day. We used to chat about this and that, like we were girlfriends or something. It was great.
Then I think when I turned 25, that changed. My mother got married when she was 24, so she started to worry that I was going to be an old maid. And now that I’m nearly 30, she’s reached the point of hysteria. “Libby, when will you get married?” “Libby, why do you always date men that are so awful?” “Libby, don’t you want to have children?”
Needless to say, I don’t talk to her as much these days.
But I’m willing to pick up the phone for her once a week and allow her to quiz me on my social life. Which was dismal for a little while, but now seems to be picking up momentum. Obviously, she doesn’t want to hear that I’ve had sex twice with a guy I’ve known two days, but at least there exists a man in my life. And I think this man has potential.
“His name is Jude,” I tell my mother. “He’s from England.”
“England?” She’s immediately suspicious. “Is he going back there?”
“No,” I say. “He’s lived here for ages. Went to law school here.”
“Oh,” she says. “Well, that could be all right, I guess. Englishmen are nice, I think. Does he have bad teeth? Isn’t that what they say?”
“No, he has great teeth.” And a great ass too. And impeccable pecs.
“He’s not one of those awful heartthrob types, like… like, oh, you know who I mean… that English fellow who’s in all the movies…”
This is a game my mother and I always play. She gives me vague clues about some celebrity and I have to figure out who she’s talking about. “Colin Firth?”
“No, the one who got caught with the prostitute.”
“Hugh Grant?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
I shake my head at the phone. “He’s not like Hugh Grant. He’s… very charismatic.”
“Hugh Grant is charismatic.”
I sigh. “Look, I’ve got to go, Mom.”
“All right,” she says reluctantly. “But, Libby, please do me one favor. Just don’t go to bed with him too soon. I know you think I’m a fuddy duddy, but men don’t respect you if you just hop in bed with them. Make him wait a bit.”
“I will,” I lie.
It’s not entirely a lie though. I’m going to make him wait till next weekend. Although really, that’s only because he hasn’t called me. If he phoned me this minute and said, “Libby, I desire you,” I would be at his apartment in an instant.
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On Friday evening at about five o’clock, I find that Martha has already dressed herself for the date. She’s wearing this ugly lime green blouse that makes her look about fifty years old, and a matronly skirt that hits her calves at exactly the right place to make them look as wide as possible.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” I ask.
Martha kneads her hands together nervously. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it…” I hate it. “I just think… well, don’t you have any clothes that are… sexier?”
Martha gives me this blank look. Great.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in Martha’s bedroom with half her wardrobe splayed out on the bed, which takes up surprisingly little space. Martha’s eyebrows (which badly need plucking) are knitted together. I have to admit, unlike Will, she seems really anxious about the date. I wonder how long it’s been since ol’ Martha has been out with a guy. I guess Will’s photo impressed her.
I pick out a cream-colored fitted shirt for her and I pair it with a silk scarf from my own closet. I spent forever trying to figure out what to do with her lower half. All her skirts are awful and her pants are all “Mom pants” with high waists and absolutely no shape. Finally, I pull a flower print skirt from the back of her closet that is a bit tight on her, but really the best option. Even though Martha doesn’t even close to fit in my clothes (I don’t mean this to be insulting, it’s just a fact), we have the same shoe size, so I lend her a pair of my strappy pumps to complete the outfit.
I then take her to the bathroom to do her make-up. I keep it pretty subtle, with some rose-colored lipstick and I try to give her eyes a bit of smokiness. By the time we’re done, I’m racing to get myself showered, dressed, and do my own make-up. I spent a good ten minutes staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out what would make me look less like Kirsten Dunst, who Jude apparently hates with a passion.
Will’s got a car, so Jude told me they’d come pick us up. He calls me at eight (well, 8:15) and we come downstairs, Martha tripping in my pumps, which are probably way too high for her. We climb into Will’s shiny new Toyota, and I immediately spot the hand controls. I had been wondering how he drove without using his legs. I don’t think Martha notices thought. She probably thinks he has a manual transmission or something.
“This is Martha,” I introduce her to the boys. “Martha, this is Jude and… Will.”
“Lovely to meet you, Martha,” Jude says, and he kisses her hand, which I think is a bit much. But at least I know I’m not jealous of Martha.
“Hi, Martha,” Will says, turning around in his seat. Martha’s eyes light up and it’s pretty obvious she likes the way he looks.
“So where are we headed for dinner?” I ask.
“That’s a surprise,” Jude says, grinning handsomely. God, I could just look at this man all day.
I’m excited about where we’re going for dinner, although I’m considerably less excited when I notice that we’re driving over the bridge into Brooklyn. I hate Brooklyn. “Where are we going?” I speak up.
“Don’t you trust me, love?” Jude says.
“We could just eat in Manhattan,” Will says. “It might be easier. I could turn around.”
“Just drive, Will,” Jude says. “We’ll be there any minute.”
“There” ends up being a Jamaican restaurant that I suspect is very spicy based on the drawings of fire and chili peppers all over the sign. I’m not sure why we needed to travel all the way to Brooklyn for a Jamaican restaurant, but Jude seems very enthusiastic about the place.
“You’re going to thank me,” Jude says. “When this place is written up in the Times, it will be the trendiest restaurant in the city and you’ll have been there first.”
“It looks wonderful,” Martha says. I can’t get over how pleasant my roommate is being. I didn’t know she had it in her. She must really have it bad for Will. I told you, I’m like Cupid.
“Jude, can you get my chair out of the trunk?” Will asks.
“Sure, mate,” Jude says. He hops out of the car as Martha flashes me a confused look.
“Why do we need to bring chairs?” she asks.
Will turns his head and flashes me this really pained look. He knows I didn’t tell her about the wheelchair.
Okay, seriously, this isn’t my fault. I couldn’t tell her because she would never have gone out on the date. Will has to realize that. And she actually does like him, so probably now that she’s seen him, the wheelchair won’t even matter to her.
Jude gets the wheelchair out from the trunk and Will transfers into it in one smooth movement. I guessed right about him not being able to move his legs, because I see him pulling them into the legrests using his hands. I glance at Martha who’s white like a sheet. “Oh, I…” she stammers. “I didn’t realize…”
Martha starts eying the car and suddenly I realize exactly what Will meant when he said he wanted me to get a girl who wouldn’t walk out on him. He wanted me to find a girl who was okay with him being in a wheelchair and who wasn’t going to freak out and try to run. I had completely betrayed him in my eagerness to get another date with Jude.
I’m an awful person.
Unfortunately for Martha, she’s stuck in Brooklyn with no means of escape short of calling a cab and paying a stiff cab fee that she probably can’t afford on her grad school salary. I can tell by the look on her face that if it were possible for her to take off, she’d be gone. I guess beggars can be choosers.
“Shall we?” Jude asks, taking me by the arm. The second he touches me, my entire body tingles. Why is Jude able to do this to me to consistently?
Martha lags way behind us as we head into the restaurant. As soon as we get inside, my jaw drops open. I think I’ve figured out why Jude likes this place. The waitresses, all caramel-colored beauties, are basically dressed in thong bikinis. I look at Will, who’s apparently never been here before either, because I notice his mouth hanging open, mirroring mine. Martha just looks miserable.
Jude tries to pull out my chair for me, but Martha yanks me by the arm before I can sit. “I need to use the restroom,” she says.
“I think it’s over there,” I say, even though I know she doesn’t actually need to use the restroom.
“Can you come with me, Libby?” she asks through gritted teeth. I consider refusing, but I’m worried she’ll physically drag me across the restaurant by my ear, so I excuse myself and follow her to the restroom.
Once we’re alone, Martha lets loose her fury. “Libby,” she snaps, “why didn’t you tell me that Will is in a wheelchair?”
I try to think of a believable answer. I thought I already told you. I didn’t think it would matter. Finally, I come up with: “You didn’t ask.”
Martha just stares at me. “I want a cab to go home.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“I’m not going on a date with some weird, retarded, crippled guy,” Martha practically spits as she says the words.
“Look,” I say, “he’s not weird or retarded or…” Well, he is crippled. “He’s a nice guy, Martha. He’ll be really hurt if you leave.”
“It’s your fault, Libby,” she says. “You should have told me the truth.”
She’s right, of course. If someone had done the same thing to me, I probably would have been really pissed off. But maybe I can appeal to Martha’s better nature and maybe she’ll even wind up hitting it off with Will.
“Will is a great guy,” I say. “He is a lawyer like I said. And… and he’s really funny and nice and…”
Martha’s face is impassive.
“If you stay, you can keep my scarf,” I say.
Martha fingers the silk scarf I lent her for the date tonight. I could tell she loved that scarf. It was actually pretty expensive and I adore it too, but it’s worth the sacrifice. I’d feel awful if she walked out on Will. He doesn’t deserve that.
“Fine,” she says.
Martha tells me she needs another minute in the bathroom, so I come out to see Will waiting alone at our table. At first, I think Jude has gone to the bathroom too, but then I see him talking to one of the scantily clad waitresses. I try not to be bothered by this sight as I settle back into my seat.
“So did you convince her to stay?” Will asks me.
I blush. “She doesn’t—”
“Please,” Will says, shaking his head. “I told you, I’ve been set up a lot. And it’s always bad. You figured she wouldn’t go if you told her I can’t walk. So you omitted that information.”
He caught me. Damn. At least he doesn’t seem too terribly angry about the whole thing. If I were him, I probably would be.
“It’s okay, Libby,” he says. “If I got upset every time something like this happened, well, I’d be upset a lot. Let’s make a deal though? I forgive you for this and you never set me up again.”
He holds out his hand and I smile as I reach out to shake it. His palm is rough but his hand feels warm and comforting somehow wrapped around my much smaller hand.
“So,” he says, grinning at me. “What did you offer her? Cash? A month of cleaning her bathroom?”
“A scarf,” I say, blushing.
“A scarf.” He nods in approval. “Good. Very resourceful.”
I’m worried things will be very awkward when Martha returns, but luckily, it isn’t at all. For that, I have to thank Jude, who is practically oozing charisma from every pore of his body. He engages us in chatter about the latest movies, politics, and then enthralls us with stories about his recent trip to Turkey. The three of us barely have to talk at all, held captive by Jude’s mesmerizing British accent.
What I love most is that Jude keeps one arm slung across my shoulders and never passes up an excuse to touch or kiss me. He does flirt with the waitresses a bit, but I think it’s clear to everyone in the restaurant that we’re an item.
“Why did you come here from England, Jude?” Martha asks, because even she’s taken in by my new boyfriend’s charm.
“Ran out of ladies in London,” Jude says, cracking a smile. He’s joking. Obviously.
“Where are you from, Libby?” Will asks me.
I hesitate. I like people to think I’m a native of the city. But I don’t like to outright lie.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Upstate, right?” I’m amazed. “Yes, how’d you know?”
“I recognize the accent,” he says. I hadn’t realized I had any sort of accent. “I’m from upstate, originally. Utica.”
“Syracuse,” I say.
“Neighbors,” he says, grinning. Jude is looking at us blankly because he probably has no clue where either Utica or Syracuse is. “I couldn’t stand all the snow. Had to get the hell out of there. How long have you lived in the city?”
“Five years,” I say. I glance over at Martha, who’s toying with her napkin. I try to figure out if she’s said a word to Will all evening. I don’t think she has. “Martha, how long have you lived around here?”
“About three years,” Martha says vaguely. She seems totally uninterested in talking to us now that Jude isn’t part of the conversation.
I’m about to ask Martha where she’s from, when Will says, “I’ll bet you haven’t even done any of the touristy stuff.”
At first I’m hopeful he’s talking to Martha, but then I realize he’s looking at me. “Sort of,” I say.
“Museum of Modern Art?”
“Uh, no.”
“Natural History Museum?”
“Not really.”
“The Met?”
“Guess not.”
“Bronx zoo?”
I laugh now. “I think I’m a little old for the zoo,” I say without thinking. I didn’t want to imply in front of Jude that I was old or anything. When I’m talking to Will, it’s easy, comfortable. I don’t feel like he’s someone I need to impress. Even though I only met him a week ago, he almost feels like an old friend.
“You would love the zoo,” Will says.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.”
“And you’re a zoo aficionado, I suppose.”
“I am the zoo fucking master,” Will says, grinning.
An idea hits me. “Will, why don’t you take Martha to the zoo tomorrow?”
Martha gets this horrified look on her face. “No, I… I’m busy tomorrow.”
“Well, what about Sunday?” I ask. “Sunday’s a perfect zoo day.”
“I’m busy Sunday too,” she says.
I don’t give up so easily though. “How about next weekend?”
“I’m busy,” Martha says through her teeth.
There’s an awkward silence at the table. I guess true love isn’t going to blossom between Will and Martha any time soon. I flash Will an apologetic look, but he doesn’t seem very upset. Actually, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he doesn’t care one bit that Martha has no interest in him.