I don’t mind splitting the bill at all. That’s not the problem. I like animals. But I have never envisioned myself as Mrs. Dr. Dolittle.
Our conversation doesn’t take off because I’m stuck on his eleven pets. But mainly the pig. I badly want to be invited over to pet it. But I also don’t want to live with it or any of its feathered, scaled, or furry roommates. I don’t even want to make eye contact with the scaled ones.
After mediocre conversation over good salads, I dig cash from my wallet and leave it on the table, then stand with my hand extended. “It was nice to meet you, Brandt. I don’t want to make you late for your next patient.”
He shakes my hand with less enthusiasm than when we met, and I think he knows I won’t return any future messages.
I walk home, the whole time thinking about potbelly pigs. I got my mom a dog for Christmas. Maybe I can convince her to adopt a potbelly pig for me to visit every year. But beyond that, I won’t be petting any owned by a medium-cute veterinarian in Brooklyn.
Natalie texts me two days later.
NATALIE:Did you go out with the vet?
TABITHA:Yes. Would marry him but he owns 11 pets. In an apartment.
NATALIE:So his place smells like a pet store? Tragic.
TABITHA:I’ll never know.
NATALIE:Know who has no pets? Sawyer.
I don’t dignify that with a reply. But it does make me think about him, and even as I start humming “Hamster Dance,”I realize I haven’t heard from him in almost three days.
I haven’t been the first to text, but I always answer. I’m almost itchy to ping him and see what he’s up to, but I resist. I’d have to add a whole new step to my list, like going for a five-mile run every time I text first.
I have two more bad dates under my belt before I finally hear from him. The first was the real estate agent, who turned out to have lied about his height in his profile. He’s an inch shorter than me. That’s not a big deal, but the lying is. I can’t do the work it takes to put us on a level playing field if he’s starting from such an insecure place.
The second, a news producer, has to reschedule with me twice because of breaking news. I should have seen it coming, but when he has to cut our date short because he gets an urgent call about a mayoral scandal brewing, I tell him not to worry about it, but promptly erase his number when I get home.
I admire being committed to your work; I don’t have any interest in being dumped for it multiple times a week. I don’t like him well enough to work that hard.
Then there’s the whole issue of how none of them measure up to Sawyer. None of them are as funny. None of them are as easy to be around. None of them make my breathing shallow just by smiling at me.
When Monday rolls around again, I make my pilgrimage, notebook in hand, to Lookout Hill where I claim my bench and study my list.
Am I “happy with my life as it is”? Because I’ve said that a whole lot in the last two weeks, and as busy as I’ve been, I can’t say I’m happier than when I started this list. Also, I’m sick of the freaking “Hamster Dance.” Death to all hamsters.
I take a deep breath. I don’t mean that. I only mean death to all hamsters who sing that song.
I’ve got two plays left, according to my list. I’ll start my macrame class on Thursday, but somehow, I don’t think it’s going to be the magic cure I’m looking for.
Which means it’s time to start thinking about a therapist. I have one I like. Jane. She helped me when I was coping with my dad’s illness, but I haven’t seen her in almost a year, since he started getting better. But I text to see if she can fit me in anytime soon.
As I think about the conversation we’re going to have, I can already imagine how I’ll explain about my Sawyer fixation, the plan I’ve made, and…why it’s failing. And I know there’s one other text I need to send. I compose it then pace my apartment for an hour before I do.
TABITHA:Hey, Sawyer. Been thinking. Probably doesn’t make sense for us to text. Still cool with seeing you at Ben/Nat/Juniper stuff. Be well.
It’s awkward and the sign-off is stupid, but I’m never going to truly get him off my mind if I’m always waiting for another text from him.
Sawyer never answers back.
It’s for the best.
Chapter 27
Present
“Youdidwhat?”
