Romance Is My Day Job (18 page)

“So how about I move in with you and father your children?” Sam asks in one of our phone calls.

No man has ever said this to me before. I'll be all lighthearted like a Marie heroine.

“Sure, go ahead, Sam. I have room in my studio. As for kids, you might want to find someone younger.” I'm half joking but want to get it out on the table in case he has wild fantasies about impregnating me. I've seen too many friends my age suffer through infertility. I'm a little ambivalent about having children.

“I'm sure we'll make it work.”

While filled with humor and not entirely serious, this is how the rush of love begins from an ocean away—with long phone calls. It could be that we're easing our loneliness. What else does he have aside from this good girl willing to listen to him? The guy has left Israel to teach high schoolers in a remote part of Switzerland. How lonely must that be at night? I'm probably the closest thing he has to a girlfriend. And if he's taken, well, that would be cruel.

These kinds of what-ifs would have killed me ten years ago. I'd stew for ages, eventually sabotaging the entire thing. But now, I keep an open mind. Maybe yes, maybe no. As I walk down the halls at work, I wonder who would want to know about this latest budding love interest. We're not really a thing, but there's more going on than just casual friendship. He calls me every day and we talk for hours. That's not
nothing
. And you've gotta tell your girlfriends all the details, don't you?

Someone.

I can't tell my married, pregnant friend Rachel, whom I've known since diapers. We share a lot about our personal lives, but she has enough to think about, and this kind of nonsense is trivial. Mom and Patrick—no. I've used up my boyfriend coupons with them.

My friend Melissa is one of my best buddies in the office. She might like this story—or beginning of a story. I tend to tell her 95 percent of what I'm doing. The other 5 percent is too mundane, even for me. Melissa would describe herself as a nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn, and that's exactly what she is: friendly, fun, and single like me. She's got this gorgeous wavy brown hair, dark eyes, and that Snow White complexion many of us—mostly me—would kill for. We are both addicted to makeup and used to go out a lot more, but the older I've gotten, the lazier I've become about leaving my apartment. Melissa likes to do things. She's someone I could tell.

But I also don't know if it's important enough. Melissa has the huge job of managing many of our Christian books. I can't bother her with too much of this, the fact that I'm about to burst open . . . sort of. Maybe I won't make a big deal about it until it
is
a big deal.

Sooner than I expect, Sam and I talk seriously about visiting each other. It's only logical. When you talk to someone this much, shouldn't you follow through with a visit? On this issue, I don't budge. I won't fly to Switzerland. He has to come to me. Maybe in December when his semester is done and he has some time off. Should he get a hotel or are we grown-up enough to be in the same room for a few days—without losing (too much of) my virtue?

I go off the rails from my Marie Ferrarella romance and invite him to stay. I know this may be a terrible idea. But am I ready to meet him in person after so little time? Of course. Especially since I don't believe it's really happening, that we're slowly falling in love with each other over Skype. This will end with me crying over computer solitaire and Kim and Kourtney stuffing their faces with In-N-Out Burger while driving the Escalade to Kmart. Our special friendship could go to hell with one false move, one misunderstanding via e-mail, one lovely Swiss Miss who seduces him with her blond braids. Sam's glowing praise for me doesn't sink in, but why not follow this through to the end?

So now that we're talking visiting, maybe I should mention Sam to a few more people. With the gradual disintegration of my mental faculties (Buddha says we're always dying), I may have strayed from the sane path. People might be horrified by what I'm doing. Most of all, I don't want to bore anyone. But there's one person who wouldn't be bored by my latest romantic intrigue. I contact Nici, my BFF from Taft, the girl who turned me on to Harlequin romances in the first place. She's also responsible for my obsession with Duran Duran. She and I have kept in touch through the years, but not like we used to. She met her husband in college and married him in her twenties, and they went on to have three boys. Though we haven't seen each other in a while, she and I have one of those friendships that picks up where they leave off, though we mostly operate as if we're still in high school. I compose a careful message to her and detail this new friendship with Sam, how it's escalating into a relationship that will soon involve a visit. Within minutes, she answers:

To:
Patience

From:
Nici

PATIENCE!!! THIS IS SO ROMANTIC!

HOLY SHIT!

I hope you are savoring the giddiness . . . you should revel in it no matter where the story goes; joy and excitement are feelings worth dancing around in. And honey, you are so damn funny. I have the feeling he sits at his computer grinning like an idiot when he reads your messages. I have the feeling his heart pounds when he dials your number. I have the feeling he falls asleep thinking about seeing you, and thinking about how hard it is to wait.

I would gladly be a reference; he can contact me ANY time and I will sing your praises. What are the odds of this? I don't see how either of you could NOT be excited at the thought of finding each other!

As your friend who loves you a ridiculous amount, I am feeling great love for Sam right now, for being wise enough to recognize what a treasure you are, and for being brave enough to boldly speak his heart, and not let you slip away from him. I am a total sap, a hopeless romantic and wishing on every star I see that you both get a happily ever after. Never give up on that idea!

Love you to pieces. Nici

I know Nici is probably planning our wedding and I love her for it. She knew Sam as a good guy, reminded me of his putting his butt through a window and getting stitches. Plus, as I might have mentioned, she's the true romantic in my group of friends, much more than I could ever hope to be. Because I read so much romance, I don't have a clue what's truly romantic and what's nonsense. She nails it for me.

The best part about Nici's e-mail is that she remembers Sam clearly, verifies that he is, in fact, a worthy investment, even if it's just friendship. But I know deep down, this is much more than friendship. We don't define what's happening, like say, “Let's date,” or “Let's be exclusive.” I don't dare venture those questions again. For once, I just wait and see what will unfold. It could be nothing. It could be something great.

 • • • 

“Maybe we could see each other on camera, I mean over the computer,” Sam suggests one night.

This sounds very porn-ish to me. It's absurd that I'm slowly turning into a prude. I just don't like to see naked people anymore. Maybe I need to up my omega-3 or go to Mama Gena's School of Womanly Arts. Webcam indeed. Just recently Peter Cook, Christie Brinkley's husband, was caught doing many dirty things over a webcam. Really, all this time alone has made me ninety years old. So what if he wants to exhibit body parts or see mine? I can end the video call if I feel uncomfortable. That's the best thing about long-distance.

The idea that he could be a perv doesn't stop me from immediately running to J & R to get my own webcam. It's late September, and I can already tell that the end of 2009 will be an interesting one. What a way to go into the holiday season, a mere six months after Superman's disappearance.

On the first night using the webcam, I go into the bathroom and fix myself up. White T-shirt, jeans, straight hair, lots of makeup. This is just like preparing for a date, though I don't feel sick to my stomach this time. It's not as if I want Sam to see what I really look like, with the blond eyelashes and my Casper the Friendly Ghost complexion. At the allotted time, I go over to the desk, test the camera, and wait for the call.

Finally, it comes, that exciting buzz and flicker of a screen. I'm going to experience a moving Sam, a body to go with the voice. I see black at first, then his room snaps into focus, technology in motion. His place is dark, though I see his familiar features exactly as I've imagined from his Facebook pictures. The nose, the expressive eyes, the short curly hair and wide smile.

“There she is!”

My insides vibrate with excitement over the connection. For several minutes, we just look at each other and laugh, like kids discovering a new toy. Can we talk and look at each other at the same time? Indeed we can. In fact, we don't stop talking for a good two hours, during which he takes his laptop into the bathroom while he pees.

Pees in front of me on our first webcam date.

I don't see body parts, but I hear the whizzing in stereo. At first I think,
He's doing it. He's peeing in front of me. I'm in a Bill Murray movie. Who does this?
Ewww. He's a little strange, but not enough for me to end the call. From my experience, guys cross into
that
territory often, and it fits with the Sam I knew in high school.

In fact, Sam's pea-size bladder doesn't stop me from taking a risk of my own. I decide to cancel all my dating profiles, even the paid ones, like Match, Chemistry, and eHarmony. I lose at least $200 because the enrollments are nonrefundable. I resign from these sites for myself. For Sam. Well, mostly for me. The relief is palpable.

I even break a girl rule and tell him what I've done. It's not pressure so much as a statement of my commitment. If he's scared off, then he's not the person for me, especially with his public urination. I don't expect him to suddenly declare his love, but this correspondence is a
thing
. It feels wrong for me to date other people. He shouldn't either, or, at least, I don't want to get my hopes up, invest all this time if he's going to date a mademoiselle on the bunny slopes of Switzerland. It seems important that I tell him as much, to let him know that I'm serious about us.

“In the interest of full disclosure, I had rejoined eHarmony, Match, and Chemistry a few weeks ago, when we weren't in touch,” I confess.

I can see Sam react. He nods, the wheels turning in his mind. Will this girl be a cheater—after all this effort?

“But I canceled all of them,” I add.

Sam smiles. “Did you get a refund?”

“No.”

He becomes even more animated; his face gets closer to the screen. “How much did you lose?”

“About two hundred dollars. At least.”

His eyes look glossy and he glances off to the side. His face changes and when he looks back, I notice his eyes are filled with tears.

“You gave up all that money for me . . .”

I start to laugh. Most guys would be horrified by this. And if Sam were a girl, he'd cry over my commitment to him. Sam is different. He is deeply moved by my financial sacrifice. Throwing away my precious dollars touched his heart.

I explain that it feels wrong for me to date other guys. I don't want to date period, but I'm willing to see what comes next. In between his peeing, we continue discussing our families, our checkered pasts, funny stuff in our daily lives. We don't delve too much into the serious issues, though I know it's only a matter of time. There's a reason why we're in our current situations.

There's a reason why this is moving fast.

Is it just loneliness or could there be something more? In a Marie Ferrarella book, there would be this special conflict, an obstacle that keeps us apart. Our big external obstacle is the distance, the lack of common ground aside from high school.

The easy resolution of internal conflict is why romance novels often don't seem real to me (probably why I love reading them). The heroine is an orphan but manages to conquer her abandonment issues to trust in the hero. All it takes is true love, and she's healed. Perhaps the hero was beaten by his drunk father but, with the heroine's love, can accept her embrace.

From my experience, it doesn't work this way. Problems linger no matter how happy you are. Love helps, but it's a transient friend, ebbing and flowing. I can only rely on myself for those really awful moments. Plus, I have no idea anymore how to rely on someone every day. To me, everyone is in danger of leaving. Especially Sam.

While he brightens my day, I don't see happily ever after. So what is there left to lose? This is why we start telling each other everything.

He confides in me about his mother's death, how this affected his family. Sam grew up in Miami with two brothers, one who is seven years older and another who is severely disabled. Sam's father lives and breathes selling insurance. Sam's mother had been ill for years, which made the brothers fend for themselves in some ways. Though the father is a loving, warm man, raising three boys couldn't have been easy.

After high school, Sam did some college-hopping and wound up graduating from Columbia, with a focus on French literature. He met his wife at Columbia and they married in his late twenties, though he knew almost immediately that he'd done the wrong thing. I knew from the beginning that Sam was divorced and I didn't think much of it, especially since they didn't have children. In many ways, his experience sounds like a “starter” marriage, where the husband and wife get together young and learn how incompatible they are in their thirties. But I could tell Sam was a little shell-shocked by what he'd endured, getting his first teaching job in Israel with a new wife and experiencing a tumultuous downward spiral in his relationship. Toward the end of his marriage, living and teaching in Israel, Sam was waking up with thirteen cats and the knowledge that he had to extricate himself from a terrible situation.