Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(33)

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about here, Phoebe,” Sandy says. “It sounds like tonight will be a casual get-together and a perfect opportunity for you to hang out with Finn outside of work in a low-stakes environment.” I nod, eager to believe her. “In fact,” she starts, “I can’t imagine a more perfect situation. You can really make tonight whatever you want it to be.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I mean”—Sandy scoots to the front of her chair, inching closer to me as if she’s about to let me in on a delicious piece of gossip—“you can spend the night talking to Finn, getting to know him better, or you can pass him off to one of your friends. You could even stick him in another booth with his roommate and ignore him.”

I take a second to go through each of those scenarios in my head, mentally weighing the pros and cons of every option.

“The choice is yours, Phoebe. You have all the control.”

I have all the control.

A thousand-pound weight lifts off my shoulders when she says that. “But I want you to think about what it is that you want, and how there are choices you can make and things you can do that will help you get there, and things that won’t.”

I immediately think of the list that’s resting at my feet in my bag.

“That reminds me,” I tell her, reaching down to grab it from my bag.

“Oh, great!” Sandy exclaims as she claps her hands together, her gold and silver mismatched bangles jingling. She’s expecting me to pull out the list of my accomplishments, but hopefully she’ll like this even better.

I hold the laminated paper out in front of Sandy and watch her expression shift from excitement to confusion while she processes the list in front of her.

“I reworked your assignment,” I tell her. “It’s a checklist of tasks. The more of them I do, the higher my chances are of having sex.”

She takes her time with each bullet point. The silence in the room while she reads is deafening.

When I finally can’t take it anymore, I ask, “Well?”

“I worry, Phoebe,” she starts, and I feel the disappointment seeping into my every pore, “that you’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”

I blink. I will not cry again.

“I’m so tired of feeling stuck, Sandy.”

She of all people should know that.

“I have to push myself out of my comfort zone. That’s what this list is about. I’m doing it scared.”

I’m suddenly overcome by an acute awareness that I may be the only woman my age who requires a laminated checklist to talk to a man, and for the first time since I had the idea to make it, I feel a sense of deep shame.

But a list has never failed me before, and it won’t now.

I swallow any lingering feelings of embarrassment, and channel them into the frustration I’m feeling toward Sandy. “I thought you’d be excited that I’m finally putting myself out there. These are all choices that can get me closer to what I want. Like you just said.”

“I am definitely excited by the idea of you putting yourself out there,” she responds. “I think the list is great, Phoebe. I love the idea of you using it as a way to try things that are out of your comfort zone. But what if you left it at that? Some big moments, like losing your virginity, or falling in love for the first time, are meant to happen without a deadline. Everyone moves at their own pace, on their own timeline. I’m worried that using this list as a means to an end might put more pressure on a situation that’s already stressful for you.”

I reach over and take the list from Sandy. The list is a sacred text, and if she doesn’t appreciate it, I don’t want her looking at it anymore. I don’t even want to talk about it with her anymore.

“Unless you’re about to be thirty, in which case, it’s time for a laminated list and a hard deadline.”

Sandy follows my gaze to the cat clock, and before she can ask if she’ll see me before the wedding, I beat her to it.

“I’ll see you next week, after the wedding.” I can’t believe it’s already coming up this weekend.

“Fabulous!” She claps. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.” Barbara follows at my feet while Sandy walks me to the door. “Good luck tonight,” she says as I make my way out of her office and into the hallway. “And remember, you are in control. You know exactly what you want, and I have faith that you’ll do what it takes to get it.”

She looks me in the eye with an intensity I haven’t seen from her before.

“Now go get it, Phoebe.”

She closes the door.



* * *



—

“Finn will be here in twenty minutes,” I say casually while standing at the head of our booth, too wired to sit down in the empty space next to Jonathan. I didn’t text the group earlier because I knew they’d get overexcited, and I didn’t want to make it a big deal.

Because it’s not a big deal.

Because it’s not a date.

Everyone starts talking at the same time, and I can make out a few whats and hows and maybe one holy shit from Alex.

“He’s coming here?” Jonathan looks concerned.

“It’s not a big deal,” I tell them, because the more I say it out loud, the more I start to believe it. “He lives close by and has always wanted to come here. And he’s bringing his roommate. It’s casual.”