Choose Your Own Disaster Read online

  While he’s out mollifying the valet with $5 bills and reparking the car, you check your phone, reread the one-page menu, and avoid eye contact with the man eating alone a few seats down. He must know that you two are having an illicit dinner. Everything about this screams midlife-crisis-with-precocious-college-kid. You’re practically that Josh Radnor movie.

  Married Guy returns, the magic of the evening shaken a bit, but nothing that can’t be restored by a few glasses of wine and a parade of dishes with descriptive words like compote and frisée and reduction.

  “See how the wine seems to stick to the glass?” Married Guy says, demonstrating by swirling his red wine for you. “Those are the legs of the wine, where it comes down. See?”

  You do see.

  “So before you sip, you’re supposed to smell the wine, get a full appreciation for its body and its taste. The majority of taste is smell anyway,” he informs you.

  You smell, and you taste, swirling it on your tongue in the most sophisticated manner you can. Married Guy goes first.

  “It’s almost piney. Like a burnt fire. But I taste plum, and maybe even some anise.”

  You didn’t taste any of that. “I feel like the strategy for wine tasting,” you say, “is just naming three random things. First a fruit, then a type of wood, and then a random object. Okay, like, I taste…cherries…and…oak…and…clay.”

  “Hah,” Married Guy says, but not actually laughing.

  It’s more fun to talk about yourselves anyway, to wonder in murmured whispers in ears whether the man sitting at the end of the bar knows you two are having an affair. You run your hand up his thigh so far you can feel his erection through his pants.

  Dinner consists of dishes brought one after another, each announced by a waiter as he delivers it like he’s presenting a member of the royal family.

  You’re asking questions, steering the conversation as far as you can go without driving off the cliff. Do you think you’re going to have kids? Do you love your wife? When did you know you loved her? When did you know you wanted to get married? And then, when did you fall in love with me?

  The answers are benign, only made exciting by his voice, by the fact you’re talking about them, together, in public, at all.

  The check paid (more than you spend on groceries in a month), you rise from the stool and brace yourself against Married Guy’s arm. Does the man in the corner give you a look of disappointment or are you just imagining things?

  Maybe he asks if you want to go back to his hotel, or maybe he just drives. Your hands are groping one another in the car like blind, desperate creatures.

  You make your way through the lobby, telling yourself to feel like Julia Roberts alongside Richard Gere in Runaway Bride and not Julia Roberts alongside Richard Gere in Pretty Woman and you’re in his room and you’re in his bed and you’re watching a movie because neither of you wanted to be the first one to lean in and kiss the other and you’re just so, so sleepy from all the wine, wishing you could fall asleep but also wishing that you could be more awake for this, your last and only night with Married Guy, when he leans in and kisses you, a little sloppy and a little awkward and pulls himself on top and inside of you.

  It’s fine. He comes quicker than you expected. You get nowhere close. But still, in the morning when you’re getting dressed, you think, Fuck it, and try to drive off the cliff.

  “Come to Europe with me,” you say. “I’m leaving for three months after graduation. We’ll spend every day in museums and restaurants and live there forever.” As you form it, the plan becomes more and more desirable.

  “If only I could,” Married Guy says mournfully.

  “But you can,” you say. “Leave it all. Move to Europe with me.” You scroll through the things that might be holding him back: his job? He can get a new one. His apartment? Sell it. His wife? He already slept with me. Get a divorce. “Let’s do it. Run away with me.”

  “That sounds very, very nice,” he says, pulling on a black dress sock (men getting dressed after illicit affairs are always pulling on black dress socks), “but alas.”

  His apathy infuriates you. You are willing to give him everything, your entire life, an adventure, and he’s stuck in whatever lameness of the spirit has turned him into a thirtysomething sleeping with a college student. “Come on,” you say again, already fully aware that you’ve crossed into desperate, that your efforts at persuasion are making you into a petulant child. “Hot chocolate in Paris, writing all afternoon on the Seine…” You aren’t even planning on going to France, but the vision seems romantic.

  Married Guy kisses you on the head. “You’re going to have a really great time. I’m envious of you.”

  You don’t have to be envious, you almost shout. You could come! But there’s nothing left. No point. He drops you off at your apartment building, and you spend the day in bed, listening to the songs he sent you back when it seemed like he would’ve done anything to have you.

  Go back here.

  WHICH EUROPEAN CITY SHOULD YOU GO TO WHILE YOU’RE IN DEEP DENIAL ABOUT NEEDING TO ENTER THE REAL WORLD?

  1. What’s your favorite time of day?

  A. Dawn, when the birds are chirping and the grass is laced with dew and woodland creatures are there to help you get dressed like you’re a Disney princess. (Is this what dawn is like?)

  B. Two in the afternoon. Prime napping hours.

  2. What’s the best way to experience another culture?

  A. Making local friends who will show you where on the river all of the kids hang out because you’re allowed to legally drink alcohol outside here.

  B. Museums? Honestly, talking, let alone drinking in public, with random strangers is your personal nightmare. Are you supposed to just…go up to people? People who already have friends? It seems like planning to “meet new people” is a good strategy to end up “eating alone and looking like someone stood you up.”

  3. Which food is most appealing to eat for every meal?

  A. Blood sausage, which sounds like the punchline of a terrible Popsicle stick joke about a vampire’s favorite brunch food.

  B. Chicken wings, because even in Europe you want everyone to know that you’re not sophisticated enough to avoid getting barbecue sauce on your pants.

  4. You’re walking down the street and you see $100 just lying on the sidewalk with no one around who could have dropped it. What do you do?

  A. Give it to a homeless person, or give it to the police.

  B. Yeah, sure maybe you’re supposed to bring it to the police or whatever, but you found $100 on the ground. Of course you just pocket it. Not to be selfish or greedy, but come on, you just found $100! You shouldn’t have to feel bad about this, Quiz. Stop being a jerk, Quiz.

  5. What gift would you want the most for your birthday?

  A. A donation to your favorite charity.

  B. What did we say before about making us feel bad about ourselves, Quiz? Stop being a holier-than-thou jerk. A leather jacket, okay? I want a really cool, nice leather jacket.

  If you answered mostly As

  You’re going to London. Enjoy the land of Queen and Cumberbatch.

  Turn here.

  If you answered mostly Bs

  You’re going to Edinburgh. All you really know about Scotland is that J. K. Rowling lives there and David Tennant is from there, and honestly, that’s more than enough.

  Turn here.

  You’re sharing a hostel room with three dark, vaguely male blob shapes of indeterminate European descent. It’s too dark to make out exactly who they are (the light in the hostel room is off because at least one of the dark, male blobs seems to be napping). You have already fucked up your European vacation by eating a bag of Jelly Babies from the vending machine in the hostel lobby too quickly, which you justified to yourself (poorly) by thinking, “I’m in the UK! Jelly Babies are not a thing in the United States! They eat them in Doctor Who. I’m allowed to binge based on this paper-thin excuse.” And now you feel bloated an
d unattractive, shiny with sweat like a baby hippo, and your stomach oscillates between pain and nausea. You want to curl up into a ball and wait for your body to digest all the evidence of what you just did.

  Your friend who you were traveling with has gone off to a club. Even under the best of circumstances, you hate clubs, and though maybe the aphrodisiac of “You’re on a Eurotrip!” might have motivated you under different circumstances, nothing could compel you to put on something tight and spend the night standing around with too-loud music blaring when you’re already one (or two) full bags of Jelly Babies in. Have a good time, you said. I’m not feeling well. See you in the morning.

  And now you’re alone, on your aching stomach, fat and self-loathing, in a city where you should be having fun and adventures when really you’re just lying on a bottom bunk in a dark hostel room.

  So you do what any girl does when she’s desperate for attention and a connection to the outside world but unwilling to get out from under her covers: You log on to Tinder and update your profile with your most flattering pictures and an American flag emoji, and write as your description: “American girl, just passing through.”

  The magic of Tinder is, between uses, you always forget how god-awful it is. There’s the inevitable parade of meatheads posing in front of dirty mirrors, the guys who think sunglasses are a replacement for a personality, the ones posing with a sedated tiger, the wannabe stockbroker types in shiny suits. And then on the off chance you find someone who looks halfway reasonable, you match with them, only for the first message to be something laden with the worst of all keyboard iconography: the smiley face with a tongue sticking out. Tinder is fun as a game, a please-please-choose-me, a chance to experience the brief thrill of talking faux-intimately to a stranger with whom you’ll never interact again.

  You want to go out, you do. You want to do something. Your stomach is feeling better. It’s 7:30 at night and you’re looking down the gun at an entire evening of being lonely.

  You migrate to the hostel bar but it’s more or less abandoned. You order a drink and stare at your phone. There’s a notification from Tinder. From a cute boy you hadn’t really spent much time on, with dark curly hair and kind eyes and a profile that reveals he likes literature. “This might not mean anything to you,” he wrote, “and if it doesn’t, just ignore it.”

  “Try me,” you type back.

  “I’m currently getting my MFA in creative writing,” the text bubble replies.

  You grin, alone, staring at your phone. He, this strange boy in a foreign country, knows you from Twitter, knows you started a joke Twitter account making fun of boys like him, boys who like David Foster Wallace and get their MFA in creative writing.

  You want to type back a thousand exclamation marks, a heart, a kiss, an orgasm. You settle for a smiley face. “I won’t hold it against you,” you say. And you talk a little longer with this boy, whose name is Rory.

  “What are you doing right now?” you write. “Want to get a drink?”

  He does. And you do. You tell him where your hostel is, and he names a bar a block or two away. He’ll meet you in an hour.

  You try your best to get ready, you really do—brushing your travel-matted hair, smearing on whatever concealer hasn’t yet melted in your purse to cover the pimples brought on by stress and sugar, pulling on the most slimming clothes you brought. Still, when you’re waiting outside the bar, and he’s one minute, then two minutes, and then five minutes late, you begin to wonder if he’s even coming at all. Or, even worse, the nightmare scenario: whether he came, saw you standing outside, and left because you’re so much more hideous in person.

  Every boy that walks by could be him. You crane your neck and restrain yourself from shouting, “Rory?” at every brunette who passes. You check inside the bar, and then step outside again. One boy looks promising, but then he walks past. Oh God, he’s going to just leave, isn’t he? Are you that much worse than your profile pictures? The boy who looked promising is back in front of the bar, but he’s not looking at you.

  “Rory?” you try.

  It’s him. It’s him, actually here. A little shorter than you imagined, but very cute in those thick-framed hipster glasses. Hellos are exchanged, and an awkward hug. You two enter the bar, side by side.

  The bar is actually a neon-glowing pseudo-club, with pulsing music, ripped leather stools, and advertisements for evenings featuring names like “DJ Snakeyez” and “MC TITZ.”

  “Do you maybe want to go somewhere a bit more quiet?” you ask. He does, and the two of you walk, talking about books mostly, until you find a bar that looks like a teashop, all chintz and doilies.

  Under his winter coat, he’s wearing a knit sweater like he’s goddamn Ron Weasley and carrying a canvas bag holding said books. He is better read than you, that much is immediately obvious, but he doesn’t showboat about it. He seems very keen on impressing you, and you find that endearing. He is shy in a typical British way, looking down, apologizing, blushing, smiling. He answers the impertinent questions you ask from the side of his mouth. You like him immediately.

  When he walks you back to your hostel, the two of you kiss before you enter, and you’re surprised: You thought he didn’t like you, or at least wasn’t attracted to you. He must have just gone on this date with you because you were the girl he knew from the Internet. But the way he’s kissing you now is so urgent and so innocent that it makes you really want him for the first time, not just in the abstract but in the hold me, keep your hand on the back of my head, put as much surface area of your body as possible on mine and keep goddamn kissing me.

  “You know,” he says to his shoes, “if you wanted, you could come back to my place.”

  “Oh, Rory,” you say, and you know immediately, as if someone spoiled the ending of the night for you, that you don’t end up going to his place.

  He kisses you again. He does it well. He wants you to go back to his place. The tubes don’t run this late. “We could just take the night bus,” he says.

  What do you do?

  A. Go back to his place with him. Come on, you’re only in Europe once.*

  Turn here.

  B. Tell Rory good night and go back to your hostel.

  Turn here.

  You regret your decision the moment you and Rory sit down on the night bus. You’re side by side, legs bobbing, staring out the darkened window, sharing the bus with only a few subdued drunks and a group of teenage girls hunched over their phones. The drive takes longer than you wish it would—every extra minute is another one you’ll have to repay in the morning, to get back to your friend in the hostel at a reasonable hour, to let her know you’re okay. You already told her that you were feeling better, that you met up with a friend and you’re staying over at his place (“Rory, what’s your address? Just in case”) but she hasn’t responded yet. What if she gets back to the hostel and assumes you’re lost or kidnapped? What if you actually ARE lost or kidnapped? You glance at Rory but he only offers you a shy smile back and touches your leg. This is okay. You’re being adventurous. No one gets hurt by being adventurous.

  Except, it would seem, you.

  Early this very afternoon, a piano delivery was scheduled to take place in North London for a television composer of mild renown who lived on a building’s second floor. Upon realizing the stairwell was far too narrow to accommodate a grand piano, the movers engineered a rather ingenious hinge-and-pulley system to lift the piano up through the second-floor window. The piano was hoisted magnificently into the air only for the movers and the television composer of mild renown to realize with disappointment that the second-floor window was too small for the piano to fit through as well. Without additional instructions and with no other plan of action, the piano movers simply left, keeping the piano hoisted in the air so it would be, at least temporarily, safe from thieves and roving pianists until they could come back the next morning and figure out a way to actually get it inside.

  While walking down the row of fl
ats to reach where Rory is living, you are crushed by a falling piano that neither you nor Rory saw hovering above the walk like the sword of Damocles.

  Your final thought is, I hope someone goes through all of my old essays and fiction and publishes a book that rockets to bestseller status on the wings of my tragic backstory. They don’t, but Rory ends up writing a very moving short story about the experience.

  THE END

  Or go back here.

  It’s just all too much, thinking about going to a stranger’s apartment by bus, having to come back in the morning—torture. Everything with Rory is almost exactly perfect, as if you’d conjured him—he’s British, he’s cute, he’s literary, he’s British—but you don’t want to run away with him.

  “I have my friend in the hostel, and I can’t just leave her,” you say.

  “Yes, you can,” Rory counters, and he’s right, you know; you just could. You could say yes and go and work it all out in the morning but the stress and anxiety of the next day, at least in your imagination, is already pressing down on your body.

  “I can’t,” you say. And you two kiss again, a little bit more, with a little less fire. “But,” you say, “I’m not leaving London until Monday, if you wanted to hang out tomorrow or something.”

  “Yeah,” Rory says. “Yeah, let’s do that. I had plans to hang out with a friend—”

  “Bring him,” you offer. “I’m traveling with a friend from high school. We’ll all hang out. It’ll be fun.” It might be completely awkward and terrible, but meeting locals is what the protagonists of Disney channel movies and YA novels are always doing. This will just be another fun adventure. You’ll get some friends to show you the town on Vespas. “It’ll be great,” you say, with finality, and kiss Rory once again, almost on the lips but mostly on the cheek. You both give each other an awkward half-wave as you finally walk inside.