April 27, 2020
"Oooh, don't stop," Rebecca moans, arching her back off the couch.
"Feel good?"
She sighs, "Yeah, right there. A little harder."
"Like this?"
Nathaniel applies more pressure right where she's aching for it. She tips her head back and her toes curl in pleasure.
"You're sooo good at this," she croons.
"Am I?" he asks, coy, gleaning his own satisfaction from watching her squirm.
"Why did you keep this talent a secret from me?"
"You never asked," he replies, shooting her a devilish grin.
He digs his thumb deeper into the ball of her foot and she groans, "I am never wearing heels to work ever again. It's not like working behind a desk. I'm on my feet all day long."
Rebecca's always been skeptical of reflexology, but he may make her a believer. Every time his fingers find a new spot to massage, it sends little pleasure signals throughout her body, from the tip of her scalp down to...other places.
So, on second thought, maybe she's willing to suffer through some high-heeled shifts at Rebetzel's if she's guaranteed the world's most arousing foot massage at the end of it.
"I'm convinced a man invented them," she adds.
He switches to her other foot and kneads at her arch, causing a new rash of goosebumps to spread like wildfire up her arm. She's draped luxuriously across the full length of the couch with her feet propped up in Nathaniel's lap, relegating him to a single cushion on the opposite end. The commercials on TV drone on in the background. An ad for allergy medication. A thirty-second promo for the newest crime procedural. But all she can register is his fingers, strong and deft, manipulating her muscles in ways that feel downright sinful.
"Did you see what I bought?" she asks and points over her shoulder to the keyboard in the dining area. On its stand sits a bright blue paperback book, Dear Evan Hansen: Easy Piano Selections. "Not only did you give me the best birthday gift ever, but it has also inspired me to practice more. Once I learn the parts, maybe you can sing along while I play," she suggests, wiggling her eyebrows at him.
"I hope you're joking," he chuckles.
"We could perform a song at the next open mic!"
"Oh god no," he scoffs.
Rebecca pouts her lips.
"Oh, here we go," he says when The Bachelor returns from the break. He picks up the remote control from where it's docked on the arm of the couch and turns up the volume.
For reasons she can't quite pinpoint, the season finale has Nathaniel set on edge. Prior to the foot massage, he couldn't keep his hands still. He drummed his fingers restlessly against his thighs, passed the remote back and forth between his hands, and compulsively swirled the wine around in his glass. Finally, she couldn't take the fidgeting anymore and plopped her feet into his lap in an attempt at distraction. But even now, he seems too riveted by the outcome of the show to completely disengage.
"Here's the moment of truth," Rebecca says, "Whoever gets out of the limo first is getting dumped."
"How do you know?"
"Because they can't end the show with a breakup. They have to end it with the happily ever after. Duh."
The first camera shot is a black stretch limo slowing to a stop. Cut to an aerial shot of the beach where Kyle is waiting under a trellis next to a podium with a single red rose atop its surface. He's dressed in a navy suit and striped tie, his forehead perspiring from a fatal combination of heat, humidity, and nerves. His stance is wider than normal and his clasped hands hang down loose in front of his lap. Back at the limo, the door opens and a foot encased in a strappy silver stiletto emerges from the door.
Nathaniel sucks in a breath and holds it. Much to Rebecca's disappointment, he stops rubbing her feet and rests his hands so they engulf her ankles.
The camera pans up to show a flowing pale yellow dress that cinches at the waist. A few more inches reveal long, curled blonde hair.
Jenna.
Her face is heartbreakingly confident, full of hope and excitement for what she thinks will be a romantic proposal.
Nathaniel sharply exhales out his nose. Momentarily breaking his focus on the screen, his eyes dart back down to her feet and he resumes his ministrations, applying even harder pressure than before.
"Jenna, this whole journey has been amazing. We've had so much fun with you. And obviously there's chemistry between us. Lots of it."
Jenna beams.
Knowing she's about to get her heart broken makes his speech all the more painful to watch, yet neither Rebecca nor Nathaniel can tear their eyes away.
"But I can't get down on one knee today," Kyle continues, "There's someone I have stronger feelings for and I have a deeper connection with her. I'm so sorry."
Cut to Jenna's face falling, crumbling.
"But please know I've cherished our time together. I really have."
In that moment, it hits Rebecca like the softball that hit her between the eyes in seventh grade gym class why Nathaniel has been Jenna's one-man cheerleading squad the entire season. Up until this point, she had assumed it was because Jenna is so quintessentially his type. Or, at least, she's Rebecca's perception of his type based on the endless parade of leggy blondes he's shown her on Stranger Arranger.
But it's not the attraction. It's not her beauty or her charm or her quick wit. It's not even that she and Kyle have an undeniable spark between them.
It's because he is Jenna.
She's a lethal combination of smart and sexy. Lithe and tall. Born into a wealthy West Coast family. She's practically his female doppelgänger.
What Rebecca has gathered from her own Dian Fossey style behavioral observations is that Nathaniel has been striking out in the love department lately. Though, she suspects his difficulties are more about his own pickiness and high standards than rejection. Still, watching his proxy get dumped on national TV can't be encouraging. Despite his efforts to mask his disappointment over the string of failed dates, acting performatively blasé about it most of the time, she can tell he longs for his own happy ending just as much as anyone.
"We don't have to watch the rest of this," she says, breaking the silence, "We know how it ends."
He swallows and fixes his face into a neutral expression. "Don't you want to see your happily ever after? Or, theirs, I mean."
Her happily ever after.
Not long ago, she would have considered this episodic love story a big ol' neon sign from the universe. She's always been susceptible to all kinds of magical thinking and old habits die hard. Or not at all. Believing in signs and destiny and meant to be (not-to-mention columns) are practically part of her biological makeup.
If she had watched this episode after her three dates, would she have made a different choice, songwriting be damned? Suddenly it all comes into stark focus, the show practically screaming at her through its millions of pixels: Choose Greg!
Because you don't choose a Jenna. Privileged, pretty, perfect-on-paper Jenna is the obstacle in the rom-com, not the end game.
And you don't choose a Nathaniel.
He's the Daniel Cleaver. The Mr. Big. The Conrad Birdie. The freaking Benjamin Coffin the third. He's every rich, handsome, womanizer asshole the lead actress has to kick to the curb in order to discover her true love.
Rebecca glances over at him and he's blankly staring at the coffee table, lost in thought. Every square inch where their bodies connect, he's pulled taut with tension. His hands. His legs. Even his jaw is stiff.
"I'm going to get some more wine," he says with no preamble, lifting both her ankles from his lap and moving them to the side so he can stand up, "Want some?"
"Sure, thanks," she replies and hands him her own glass.
Rebecca sits up, swerving around to watch him, tucking one leg underneath her.
"Sorry about Jenna," she says as he pours the wine, "I know you liked her."
He shrugs, non-committal.
"You know, she may become The Bachelorette," she offers as consolation, "Then you can watch twenty-five guys fall all over themselves for her."
Nathaniel tilts his head to the side in confusion as he's unfamiliar with the show's machinations. "Huh," he says, somewhat buoyed by the notion.
Valencia and Beth's wedding invitation, which is pinned onto Rebecca's fridge with a magnet, catches his eye. Valencia's pulled out all the stops for the wedding and even managed to make the invitation a first-class affair, with elegant scripted gold lettering.
He leans in to study it and says, "I wanted to tell you I've been practicing my funk face for the wedding." He turns toward her and bites his lower lip, swiveling his hips while carefully balancing his wine glass to avoid spilling. "Jealous of these moves?" he jokes and attempts a body roll that ends up disjointed and awkward.
She smiles with faint appreciation but doesn't laugh.
"What's wrong?" he asks, "You look upset."
"There's something I need to talk to you about. About the wedding," she says, solemnly, rising from the couch and joining him in the kitchen. She faces him from the opposite side of the kitchen island, gripping the counter's edge with both hands.
Time to bite the bullet. Rip the band-aid off, Rebecca.
"Greg asked me to go with him to the wedding. As a real date. A date-date. A romantic-type date."
Nathaniel's eyes drop and he says softly, "Oh."
She had expected at least a hint of surprise at the news, but he doesn't seem the least bit shocked. Only disappointed.
"When did this happen?" he asks.
"Yesterday. He called me. But I didn't give him an answer yet. I wanted to talk to you first."
"Did he know that we were -"
"No. At least, I don't think so. I highly doubt he would have asked if he did."
He nods in agreement. "Well, it's okay. I understand. You should go with him."
His reaction, or rather non-reaction, frustrates the hell out of her. Not that she wanted an argument or to hurt him, but his resignation and apathy rattle her in a way she didn't anticipate.
"You don't seem very surprised by this at all," she says.
Nathaniel says nothing for a beat and she can tell he's holding something back.
"What? What is it?" she prods, "Just say it."
"White Josh told me that Greg still likes you. At your birthday party."
Stunned, she takes an involuntary step back away from the counter and wonders at how many other people knew about this little revelation before she did. She did have an inkling Greg may have some lingering feelings, but she didn't think he was the type to tell other people while leaving her in the dark.
For the first time in their new-found friendship, she feels a small sting of betrayal. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I'm not involved in your love life. It's none of my business."
Her forehead wrinkles with consternation. "What? You tell me about your dates," she counters.
"That's different."
"How is that different?"
"Because they're strangers. You don't know them. They're not -"
On the TV screen across the room, over Rebecca's shoulder, Kyle is on one knee proposing to Brooke. Nathaniel's eyes drop, downcast, into his wine glass and he licks his lips. A series of microexpressions flash across his face and she catches them all in rapid succession - hurt to confusion to defeat, sticking the final dismount to anger.
"Just go with Greg," Nathaniel says, annoyance imbued in each word, "I don't even know why we're bothering to talk about this. You're just going to do whatever you want anyway."
"So you don't care then," she says as more of a statement than a question.
"Do you want me to care?"
Rebecca opens her mouth to speak but then hesitates. Does she?
"Wow," Nathaniel exhales, shaking his head, "You are unbelievable, you know that?"
"What?"
"You don't see what you're doing?"
"What am I doing?"
"You are pitting Greg and I against each other."
"No, no, I am not doing that," she says, her voice trailing up so high she's not fooling anyone, even herself.
"Is it so ingrained in you that you don't even realize you're doing it?"
He crosses his arms protectively in front of him, guarding his chest. This conversation has clearly struck a chord - a dissonant one - within him.
Rebecca's hackles are raising, an angry heat blooming in her breast. Her heartbeat hammers quick and hard beneath her skin, threatening to burst right out of her chest. The words begin deep in her gut and bubble up and out of her, boiling over in an indignant eruption. "Why are you being such a self-righteous jerk right now?"
Nathaniel's mouth falls open. Finally, there's the shock she wanted.
But she's not the only one in this room well-versed in lashing out.
His voice borders on hoarse with the heft of his emotions, "I'm the jerk in this situation? I'm the jerk. I have been nothing but a good friend to you since I've been back. And now, you want me to fight for your attention? I am not doing that. Not as a friend. Not as anything else. So go to the wedding with Greg and have a great time. Let him fall in love with you all over again so when the moment comes that he lets his guard down, you can reject him and break his fucking heart. You're good at that."
All the air zaps straight out of her lungs like she's suddenly been vacuum sealed. The full weight of his words sit heavy in her chest and she can feel hot tears sting at the back of her eyes. He knows just how to hurt her and what buttons to press, but what she hates even more is how there's a kernel of truth in those words she doesn't want to face.
It takes mere seconds for her defensiveness switch to flip on. When she's attacked, her body goes into survival mode. If someone tries to knock you down, knock them down even harder.
Fight and/or flight. Usually in that order.
"You're one to make judgments about my relationships, Nathaniel. Need I remind you of the eight months you spent cheating on your girlfriend because you can't keep your dick in your pants? And now that you're single, you're running around, fucking anything with a vagina and a heartbeat. You may need to move back to L.A. soon because you've already fucked everyone here."
He tries to interrupt, "I'm not hav-"
But she's not even close to ready to let him respond and jumps in, "And, guess what, they don't love you. And, just like Mona, you will never love them because you will never love anyone more than your own reflection."
Her eyes bug out and she's panting with fury as she grips the counter with both hands, her knuckles turning white. She waits for him to return her diatribe with the full force of his own anger. He's done it before and she's ready for it.
But instead, he simply nods, slow and measured. "Wow," he whispers, more to himself than to her.
His quiet sadness overlayed with hurt is truly worse than any verbal assault he could have committed. Immediately regret sets in, gnawing away at her insides.
"OK then," he says, with finality, like he's made a decision. He rounds the counter and walks past her, heading straight for the front door.
She whips around and watches him walk away from her and it triggers the worst combination of physical and emotional impulses. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. She wants to tear her own hair out. But mostly, she wants him to do literally anything else besides leave her right now.
When he reaches for the doorknob, she screws her eyes shut because she cannot stand to watch it happen.
She waits for the inevitable sounds to come. The click of the lock. The twist of the doorknob. The slam of the door.
But none of it comes.
"Rebecca," he murmurs, "look at me."
She opens her eyes. His hand is no longer on the doorknob and he's gazing back at her with so much undeserved compassion it's hard to breathe.
"Ask me," he says, his voice low.
"Ask you what?"
"Ask me to stay. Ask me to stay and fight with you."
"Nathaniel," she whispers and breaks eye contact because it's all too much. The gentleness in his face. The softness in his voice. The way he's pushing her.
She swallows and can barely choke out the words, "Stay. Please. Stay and fight with me."
Nathaniel exhales in relief and takes a few steps toward her. "I don't really want to fight with you."
When he says it, so soft and loving, it's like a balloon of tension, which had been steadily growing larger and larger as they argued, suddenly pops.
"I don't want to fight with you either," she says, a tear escaping from her right eye.
He takes another tentative step toward her and opens his arms and she rushes into them, throwing both of hers around his neck. With her clad only in socks, it's almost impossible to reach him so he bends at the knees, stooping low to be able to scoop her up.
"I'm sorry," she says, pressing her chest hard against him, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."
"I'm sorry too."
"Don't leave."
"I'm not. I'm not leaving," he murmurs into her hair as he rubs his hands over her back.
And she believes him.
She can't recall a man ever stating it so simple and plain, so matter-of-fact. I'm not leaving. They may be the three most comforting words she's ever heard. And it's even more comforting to feel it physically, in the way he's holding her so secure in his arms.
No matter how many mistakes they've made, one thing she's never doubted is the strength and force of his feelings for her. When they first met, she never would have guessed they had that in common. Yet, he loves and hates and cares so deeply it rivals her own emotional intensity.
He's seen every part of her. The bad. The good. The oh-my-god-why-does-anyone-still-talk-to-me. Not to mention, he's certainly seen every part of her physically. There's nothing left to hide. And he's still here. He's not leaving.
"You're right. I was a self-righteous jerk," he says.
She chuckles and hugs him even tighter around his shoulders. "Yeah, but I was too," she admits. She wonders if she could live here, her nose buried in this patch of his neck, for the rest of time.
"I just want you to be happy," he whispers, "OK? Do whatever you want to do."
"I want to go with you," she blurts out, before even consciously realizing it's true.
He pulls away and searches her face. "What?"
She wipes away some residual moisture underneath her eyes. "I think...I think maybe I wanted you to talk me out of it. Out of going with Greg."
Nathaniel's brow furrows in genuine confusion. "Why?"
"There's a lot you don't know about my history with Greg," she says with a sigh, "When he asked me, my first thought was of Jayma's wedding."
"That's Josh's sister?"
"Yeah. Greg and I went together, as a date. I won't get into the details but it was the worst night you could possibly imagine."
Nathaniel raises an eyebrow, signally skepticism. "How bad could it possibly be?"
"Well, let's see. In addition to some pretty standard bad date stuff - he didn't dress appropriately and refused to dance with me - I also had sex with his best friend on top of a classic car after he passed out drunk at the bar. Oh, and he got a DUI. Would you consider that a bad night?"
His eyes widen. "Uh, wow."
"Yeah. Not either of our most shining moments."
He scratches at the side of his head with his pointer finger. "So, uh, you don't want to go with him because of some bad wedding karma?"
"My point is I had this weird, PTSD-style flashback of that night when we talked, and I thought that's what was keeping me from saying yes right away."
"But it's not."
She shakes her head and continues on, processing her feelings extemporaneously out loud, "You know, Greg has always seemed like the healthy choice. He's smart and funny and successful. Real husband material. He takes his recovery seriously. All my friends have literally told me You're meant to be with Greg."
"I'm sensing a but."
She worries her lower lip with her teeth as she tries to diagnose exactly what the but is.
"The more I think about him and our relationship, the more I think we're just not compatible. Maybe we never were," she says with a hint of sadness.
Saying it out loud for the first time makes it seem so obvious now. And saying it for another person to hear, unleashing it into existence, makes it real to her in a way she didn't want to acknowledge before this.
"When it comes to him, I've always thought more with my head than my heart. My head says it's the right choice, but my heart… Sorry, wow, I am rambling a lot. Is any of this making sense?"
Nathaniel nods, listening closely, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It's such a simple gesture, his signature touch, and yet it never fails to make her melt into a puddle with the way it makes her feel so cherished and so heard. He could do it a million times and its effect on her would never diminish.
"It makes complete sense," he says.
"A year ago, when I distanced myself from you guys, he told me he wouldn't wait. The fact that he hasn't dated anyone and now he's asking me out makes me wonder if he was being truthful back then. I don't know how I feel about that. Maybe I shouldn't be talking to you about this. Is this weird?"
He shakes his head. "It's ok. You can tell me these things."
She reaches out and offers both her hands to him and he gladly takes them. "Thank you for listening," she says, "This is probably going to sound really cheesy, but sometimes I feel like...you really see me."
"I try to," he says, softly.
"Me too."
Rebecca glances at the TV and After the Final Rose, the aftershow, has begun. Kyle and Brooke are seated on a couch across from the host. They answer a litany of questions together, all while tightly holding hands and gazing lovingly at each other.
"Want to watch the rest of this?" she asks. She figures they've had enough heaviness for one night. Nothing like some mindless TV to lighten the mood.
He returns to his spot at the end of the couch, but she feels an invisible yet strong magnetic pull to be close to him. She places a throw pillow in his lap and lies her head down on it, tucking her body as flush to his as she can manage. Without wasting a beat, his hand finds the nape of her neck and he tenderly strokes her hair with a rhythmic pulse so steady it eventually lulls her into a light sleep.
In the liminal space between consciousness and sleep, she dreams that they're in her bed, her head resting peacefully against his chest as it puffs up and down with each breath. The vision fills her with an overwhelming sense of peace and solace she never seems to be able to capture during her waking hours.
When it's time for Nathaniel to go home, he rouses her by saying her name and gently rocking her shoulder back and forth. This time, when he walks to the door, she no longer feels the pain of someone abandoning her — only the distant ache of knowing that, unlike her dream, her side of the bed will be empty tonight.
Later, as she drifts off to sleep cuddling Ruth Gator Ginsberg, one leg slung over her plush tail, she imagines it's his t-shirt she's nuzzling instead of the lifeless green stuffing. Yearning is such a Victorian word, entirely too melodramatic for her modern day sensibilities. And yet, it's the only word she can conjure for the pang in her heart from absence.
She burrows her nose further into her inanimate partner and concentrates on clearing her mind of these errant thoughts. She cannot allow herself to dwell on them and all their weighty implications.
Because they've finally cleared the slate and started over in a way she never thought was possible.
Because they're finally real, true friends.
And because you don't choose a Nathaniel.