What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan?

We had met four years ago, freshman year of college at Rutgers when my roommate Dasha had introduced us. We clicked instantly and became fast friends, bonding over our mutual hatred of our economics professor and our love for Dashboard Confessional’s music. Even though the economics class would be the only class we would take together, me being a combined Biological Sciences/Psychology major, and him being a Communications major, we still made it a point to spend nearly every day together. At this time, four years ago, I was still involved with my high-school sweetheart and didn’t think of Nicholas as more than just a good buddy. By the time we finished undergrad, I came to think of him as one of my best friends. It wasn’t until one rainy Friday night two years ago when Nicholas insisted on coming over to talk and said that it was extremely important. He refused to tell me any details over the phone, which only made me imagine the worst. I was so nervous from his evasiveness, figuring something horrible had happened, that I immediately grabbed and hugged him when he arrived that evening. I nervously looked him up and down for some sort of clue as to what was going on. He quickly realized my frantic state and let out a chuckle.

“It’s nothing bad, Amalia,” he said, leading me to the couch. “I’m sorry I scared you. I just had to talk to you in person, and it had to be now.”

Dying of anticipation, I put my hands on his shoulders and commanded, “Tell me now.”

He took my hands off his shoulders and held on to them tightly, all the while keeping strong eye contact. Taken aback by this gesture, I was beginning to feel nervous. He let go of my left hand and stroked my out-grown bangs away from my face.

Without breaking eye contact, he said “I know we’ve been friends for a long time.” Nicholas paused and finally broke eye contact. He sheepishly looked down at the floor, almost too embarrassed or afraid to continue with his obviously well-prepared speech.

I opened my mouth to break the silence when he said, “But I’m crazy about you, and I have been since the first time I saw you.”

My initial reaction was to bypass this type of emotionally charged contact with a joke, but I was too stunned to deflect with my usual sarcasm. Nicholas then proceeded to proverbially pour his heart out to me, recapping every moment of the first day we met, from the smell of the perfume I had on, right down to the green laces in my sneakers, and everything in between. He ended his pontification perfectly, declaring the words that every girl longs to hear from a man.

He cupped my face in his hands and softly said, “Amalia, you’re the one”.

I was petrified. No one had ever told me I was “the one”, and certainly never with such conviction and confidence that Nicholas had presented. He spoke as if the alternative, me not being “the one”, was impossible. After taking a few days to think about this proposal, of him and I taking a huge leap into a full-blown relationship that could end badly, ultimately causing us to never speak again, I decided it was worth the risk if it meant I got to be with someone who loved me so intensely. It was now two years later, and I had never felt happier.

Remembering that night only made me feel more relieved and comforted by his familiar presence when he walked over to me tonight.

“I come bearing gifts!” he said as he excitedly reached into a plastic Duane Reade bag.

I wrapped the blanket around me and sank a little lower into the couch, fully preparing myself to be taken care of. Even with his cap on, I could see that Nicholas’s dark hair had grown out well past the point of needing a haircut, but somehow it only made him look sexier.

“Nyquil, tissues, organic green tea, and Vitamin C,” he proudly presented as he systematically placed the contents of the bag in a line on my coffee table.

After emptying the contents of the bag, he took off his hat and threw it on the table, revealing his perfectly straight, gorgeous jet-black hair. He then leaned over me and put his hand on my forehead; his hands were always warm and comforting. I immediately closed my eyes in reaction to the warm rush of what I could only recognize as love. True love that formed when you knew someone perfectly for years before you even began dating them, not the kind of quick lust that was elicited when a near-stranger offers you a lozenge. Having been raised by an atheist mother, the notion of faith to me was as well received as believing in the tooth fairy. However, when it came to Nicholas, the cynical, black-and-white realist that had been ingrained in me from an early age seemed to disappear. I firmly believed that we were meant to be soul-mates. I opened my eyes and stared into his. His eyes were by far his best feature. They were perfectly round and impossibly wide and youthful, a light chestnut color with flakes of deep brown, which masculinized an otherwise feminine trait.

“Hi, baby,” I purred dreamily, slipping further into bliss. His strong arms were exactly what I needed to fall into after a day of feeling awful.

“Hello, darling,” he answered sweetly, stroking my hair and pulling me closer to him.

I could smell his Acqua di Gio cologne, and I was convinced it was the greatest scent in nature. I could feel him breathing as he gently put my heavy head on his chest. All of the chaos and stress of the previous day had vanished. This was exactly what I needed. I felt the warm envelopment of sleep coming.

“Tell me you love me,” he whispered as he pushed my hair off of my face.

I smiled, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. Before I could even take a swig of Nyquil, I was out.

Chapter 3

Dirty Blondes

“You’re a damn idiot,” Cassie rolled her eyes as she tried to flag down the bartender at Oliver’s Tavern.

Except her nasty comment wasn’t directly at the cute, hipster bartender, it was directed at me.

“You’ve been in love with Michael since the first day you met him, I remember you going on and on about how he made you shake his hand,” she said, annoyed at both me and now the hipster.

Cassandra was not used to not getting her way, or in this case, her order taken. She was growing increasingly annoyed at the bartender for not paying attention to her despite her best efforts.

I looked around the bar. I couldn’t help but notice the place was overly crowded for a Thursday evening, containing mostly an older scene. I checked my watch; it wasn’t even nine, way too early for this kind of crowd. Even through all of the yuppie noise, I could hear Third Eye Blind’s “Semi-Charmed Life” playing over the speakers and had a brief flashback to summer camp. In the left corner of the room I noticed a group of four good-looking men in suits, probably bankers, laughing too loudly. Finally, the exasperated bartender appeared in front of us.

Before he could even ask what we wanted, Cassandra said, “It’s about time! Gin and tonic, and not any of that cheap well shit. Make sure you put Tanqueray in there.” she commanded without even looking up, “I can tell the difference.”

A little embarrassed by her tenacity I said sheepishly, “Jack and Coke. Please.” Adding the please as an attempt to soften the experience and minimize the chances of spit being in her drink in addition to her high-class gin.

He made the drinks in record time and slammed them down in front of us, spilling a good amount of mine onto the bar, but thankfully missing any of my clothes.

“I mean,” she started in again as she plucked the lime out of her drink and dropped it onto the bar, “I can’t believe you haven’t done anything about this sooner.”

She sipped her drink and then finally met my gaze. I suddenly felt very alert.

“Woah, wait a minute, I’m not doing anything. What are you talking about?” I said, a little confused by her vigilant attitude.

She looked at me, straw in mouth, and cocked her head to the side as if to say “You know what I mean.”

“Cass, Michael and I are just friends.” I said calmly, hoping to disarm the attack that I knew was coming. Clearly not buying it, Cassandra let out a laugh, but it sounded more like a snort. “Sure, he’s a good-looking guy, but I’m not doing anything! For starters, I have a boyfriend who I love.” I pressed my hands to my chest, watching as she shook her head at me.

Even though Cassandra was my best friend, she had only met Nicholas a handful of times and for some reason unbeknownst to me, she wasn’t his biggest fan. I believed her disdain for him had something to do with the first time they met. He had made a joke about her name; I couldn’t recall the details since I was already three or four drinks in when the misunderstanding happened, but the whole ordeal had left a bad taste in Cassie’s mouth.

“Secondly,” I said and then paused to take a sip of my drink. I suddenly felt a strong relief from the alcohol that was in front of me, “Michael has a girlfriend, in case you had forgotten.”

“Hello! Who lives in Phoenix!” she practically shouted, at the same time as the bartender walked by. He shot us a look, and then smiled politely.

“That bartender’s pretty cute; you shouldn’t be such a bitch to him,” I muttered.

“Don’t try to change the subject, Amy!” she said, now grinning. She held up one finger and shook her head. Her blonde hair bounced from side to side.

She was the only person on earth who could get away with calling me Amy. After all, Amy is in no way short for Amalia, but in eighth-grade gym class she decided my actual name was too much of a mouthful and has been calling me Amy ever since. She could obviously tell I was not amused by this conversation, so she finally pulled back.

“Fine,” she said, softening. “I am sorry I even so much as implied that you could do better than Nicholas Anderson.” She crossed her legs and started looking around the bar, as if this conversation was suddenly boring her.

I shook my head and clapped in front of her face to regain her attention. “It’s not a question of doing better, Cass. I love Nick, he’s my boyfriend. Michael is in a relationship and regardless of geography he and Marge seem to be doing fine, so moving on!” I said in a self-declaring rant, and then downed the rest of my drink.

Cassandra, not knowing when to leave well enough alone concluded with, “Marge, ugh! I even hate her name.”

“We’re moving on!”

Now I was the one practically yelling.

We both looked at each other and burst out laughing. We’ve been friends for ten years and had never gotten into a real fight. Sure there were moments when we would get short with each other, but it always ended with a laugh, knowing how ridiculous we sounded. She flipped her short, golden hair back, and gave me a light punch on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” someone said from behind us.

I turned around to a very well-dressed man in what I assumed was an expensive, and well-tailored, suit. It was one of the laughing bankers from the corner. I noticed he had grayish eyes and recalled earlier that day in class, when I had learned how rare that physical trait was. All in all, a good-looking man.

“Are you sisters?” he asked as he leaned in a little closer to us.

When he came closer I could tell he was older than Cassie and I, definitely late twenties or possibly even thirty. I turned to Cassandra, expecting her to answer with some quick retort, but she just sat there, staring at the guy. I felt the need to jump in.

“No, sorry. We’re not sisters,” I offered, not really sure why I felt the need to apologize, but he seemed completely disinterested in what I had to say and continued looking at Cassandra.

She finally recovered from her swoon and said, “That’s right, we’re not sisters. People always ask us if we’re related, though, because we have the same hair color.”

I loosely grabbed a handful of Cassandra’s, barely shoulder-length, hair and held it up to my own in an attempt to justify this comment. My hair was about five inches longer than her hair, hanging down the middle of my back. Despite this difference, the coloring was virtually the same.

“Dirty blondes?” he smirked.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at him. Anyone over the age of 18 should never make a joke that pedestrian. He barely noticed my dismay.

“Bryce Peterson,” he said. I work for Ernst and Young, in accounting”.

Bryce took a sip of his beer and then continued, “I just started working there this week, so a few of my buddies and I are out celebrating. What are your names? What do you do?”

I thought it was odd that he offered up his credentials without us even asking. Also, his questions were directed at both of us, but it seemed clear he was only interested in Cassandra’s answer. I felt relieved; I had enough problems with men right now. For example, I couldn’t get the thought of Michael’s soft graze against my arm out of my mind. Something so insignificant was suddenly the main focus of most of my thoughts. I couldn’t tell Cassandra, she’d never let me hear the end of it. Besides, I felt guilty for ever feeling this way.

“Hello there, Bryce. My name is Cassandra de Luca and I work for Prestige magazine,” she said proudly, although it was clear he had never heard of the publication.

Cassandra had just been promoted from intern to publications assistant. I still wasn’t entirely sure what her job entailed. “Um hi, I’m Amalia Hastings,” I uttered, giving a little wave to Cassandra and Bryce, who appeared to be in a staring contest at this point.

“I’m studying Biology and Behavioral Sciences at NYU; decided to go for my Master’s,” I continued, but it was no use, the attention was clearly not on me.

I checked my watch again, nine-thirty. If I left now, I might actually be able to get a good night’s sleep. I decided to let Cassandra and Bryce talk and call it a night.

“Okay Cassie, have a good night,” I called to her and grabbed my purse. “Nice meeting you, Bryce.”

“Yeah, sure. Goodnight,” she mumbled, seemingly mesmerized by her new crush.

I laughed to myself and then made my way to the door. The cool, crisp fall air felt great when I got outside. It was refreshing after coming out of the stuffy, crowded bar. I smiled and thought about how lucky I was to be living in this city. I started to make my way down Barrow Street when I heard something. It sounded like a twig snapping. The type of sound you hear in a horror movie just before the damsel in distress gets stabbed.

“Amalia?” a voice called. My heart started pounding faster, and this time I couldn’t blame it on illness.

“Yes?” I called out. The figure came closer to me and was now in focus. He stood there, smiling and I felt a little dizzy. I took a deep breath and finally spoke, “Hi, Michael.”

Chapter 4

I’m all yours

“Thank God you cooked!” I clapped as I walked into Nicholas’s studio apartment.

His place was dimly lit, all of the lights were off except for the overhead light in the kitchen.

“Oh, were you hungry? I think I may have some leftovers in the fridge,” Nicholas replied jokingly, wryly smiling.

I dropped my purse onto the bed and kicked off my new ballet flats I had just picked up at Necessary Clothing. My bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor, but it felt good after the nine-block walk. I walked over to Nicholas and kissed him hello.

“Ha! You are hilarious,” I smiled. “Thanks for agreeing to eat dinner at five like a senior citizen. I wanted to make sure I got to see you today and my class is going to end late tonight.”

“Honey, of course! Besides if I didn’t cook for you, you’d most likely die of malnutrition. After all, one cannot survive on pasta and whiskey alone. Why do most of your classes start so late anyway?” he asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

I was waiting for him to become irritated with my always having to run off to class or to the library, but he never did. Nick was the perfect boyfriend; patient, understanding, and insanely cute. I watched him cooking for me and I think I fell a little more in love with him.

“Um, I assume it’s because most people work until about five or so; so they schedule most graduate level classes at six-thirty or seven,” I replied, stroking his hair.

I motioned to him for a hug and placed my head on his chest; my head fit perfectly under his chin, making me feel safe.

“And I don’t only survive on pasta and whiskey,” I insisted. “There’s also scotch and dark chocolate to consider.”

He gave me a wink and a quick kiss on the forehead. I crossed over to the fridge and grabbed myself a bottle of water, suddenly feeling warm.

“So, how did last night go?” he asked, catching me off guard.

“It went fine.” I answered quickly. “Cassandra met a guy named Bryce something and I started to feel like a third wheel, so I just headed home early.”

I felt guilty for lying and couldn’t look at him as I answered. I turned to walk out of the kitchen when he grabbed my arm and passionately pulled me towards him, my face less than an inch from his.

“You’re burning,” I whispered, before he could kiss me.

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused.

I sheepishly replied, “The chicken, it’s burning.”

I bit my bottom lip and looked up at Nick. After all of this time I was still intensely attracted to him. Whenever I caught a glimpse of those big, gorgeous eyes, I could feel myself melt a little.

Nicholas twisted the knob on the stove, turning off the flame. I let out a small laugh and realized I probably wasn’t going to be eating dinner tonight. Then without saying another word he lifted me up and carried me onto the bed. Carefully placing me down, he began removing my clothes while kissing me tenderly. His mouth enveloping mine, sending goosebumps down my back. He quickly peeled off his shirt and jeans, and threw them on the floor. He then stopped and began to look me up and down, admiring every inch of my body. I thought about how lucky I was to have a boyfriend who was so into me, and how I never had to be self-conscious around him. He placed his hand under my chin and looked deeply into my eyes. I felt a surreal moment of tranquility and said, “Take me, I’m all yours.” He began kissing my neck, and then my stomach, and then came back up to my lips.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” I said jokingly.

“The microwave works,” he said seductively smiling back at me. “We can reheat it.”

I never did make it to class that night. Instead, Nicholas and I finally got around to eating dinner after an amazing hour in bed, opened a bottle of Merlot, and then re-watched our favorite movie, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, for what had to be the twentieth time. I glanced at the clock; it was a little past midnight. Nick and I had gone to bed about forty minutes ago and he had quickly slipped into a blissful coma-like state. I on the other hand, was wide awake. I felt an overabundance of guilt as I looked over at Nick, because for the past half hour all I could think about was Michael. More specifically, the run-in he and I had last night as I was leaving Oliver’s Tavern. I turned on my back and replayed last night’s scene in my mind.

“Heading home?” Michael had asked. As soon as he spoke I felt a shiver of excitement rush through my body.

“Yeah. I’m beat,” I answered, trying to sound as casual as possible.

I felt the need to keep the conversation going, but a cold gust of air hit my face and made it impossible to think of something charming to say. I glanced down the street behind Michael and I noticed a young couple walking by. Their arms were linked as they made their way into a subway entrance. I wondered if they were in a relationship, or merely a second date.

“So, um. What are you doing in this neighborhood, alone?”

I knew Michael lived in midtown, East 60th street; not exactly close by.

“I just left a friend’s apartment, they live nearby. I needed to walk for a bit and clear my head.”

I felt a sense of worry and intrigue, as if he wasn’t telling me something important, his usual composed and refined disposition seemed a little shaky.

“Are you alright? I mean, do you want some company?” I asked as I reached out to touch his arm.

“I was just going to head back to my apartment, why don’t you come over for a drink and you can tell me what’s bothering you?”

Shit! What was I doing inviting him back to my apartment, at night? I couldn’t stop myself, though; it was as if my mind had no control over my speech. I was suddenly eager to help Michael in any way I could, and apparently that meant inviting him back to my apartment.

“I—” he started. Then he paused for a minute, and I silently braced myself for rejection. “Amalia, I would love to come in for a drink. I could really use someone to talk to.”

“Great!” I said, a little too eagerly. “I mean, that’s cool. Let’s get going.” I tried to sound more composed, motioning toward the crosswalk.

He smiled and moved a bit closer to me. I immediately went weak at the knees. In all of my anxiety, I hadn’t noticed how great he looked until right now. Michael always dressed well but for some reason I took extra notice of his fitted black button-down shirt, dark denim jeans free of distress of any kind, and loafers to pull the look together. I realized I was still staring at him when he pulled me in for a hug.

“Thank you, Amalia. You’re a great friend,” he whispered.

I felt strong sense of disappointment and a little foolish as he let go of me. A friend? A buddy? Is that all Michael thought of me as? More importantly, why did I care so much?

Chapter 5

Olivia

“Oh my gosh how many times do I have to say this to you? Nothing happened!” I said for what had to be the third time in five minutes. Olivia and I had decided to grab a drink at Fat Black Pussy Cat after class that evening, and Cassandra insisted on coming along. Michael and Alex also jumped on the idea to drink away Dr. Van der Stein’s lecture on organic chemistry, and were meeting us soon. “Non capisco! I just don’t understand you!” Cassandra threw her arms up and shook her head at me, her chandelier earrings bouncing from side to side.

“Woah, was that English?” Olivia said with a huge smile on her face, obviously entertained by Cassandra’s latest outburst.

“Please don’t encourage her, Olivia,” I buried my face in my hands.

“You have this good-looking guy, alone in your apartment,” Cassandra continued to berate me, ignoring Olivia’s question. But before she could finish, I interrupted.

I held up my right hand. “Christina was home, we were not alone,” I said declaratively, as if that was some sort of justification for my lie.

“Oh really? Was she in the living room with the two of you? Or was she once again cooped up in her bedroom reading some obscure novel and being completely antisocial?” Cassandra cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

“Jeeze!” I shook my head.” First you attack me, now Christina?”

Olivia just sat there in silent bewilderment, her light-brown eyes as wide as possible. She had met Cassie several times before but was still confused by her boisterous demeanor. Olivia was the polar opposite of Cassandra and I. Being that we were both from Staten Island, Cassie and I prided ourselves on being loud, outspoken, and at times bitchy. Olivia on the other hand was from Providence, Rhode Island. Having only moved to New York four months ago, she was still quiet, polite, very shy, and free of any New York City-style dialect. She had attended college at the University of Florida. No city experience what-so-ever. Olivia had “newcomer writer” all over her. The only unpolished thing she did was smoke Newports. I found it to be very uncharacteristic of her, but it did give her a little bit of an edge. However, despite their differences, the two got along famously, as if they balanced each other out.