Romantic Comedy(75)
Really, I had been completely silenced. I had never been on the receiving end of this kind of—well, I didn’t even know what it was. An admonition? A declaration? An encomium? None of it was clearly wrong; much of it was heart-stoppingly flattering; a small but significant portion was humiliating.
“I’m not sure what to say,” I said.
“I love you, Sally,” he said. “For you to suggest that I’m ashamed of you—you’re not just insulting yourself. You’re insulting me.”
He loved me? He loved me! Or had he loved me five minutes earlier but changed his mind since then because of what I’d said since we’d left the parking lot? “For what it’s worth,” I said, “I think it’s easier to dismiss entrenched dating patterns when you can date anyone you want.”
He said nothing.
“Setting aside The Danny Horst Rule as a generalization,” I continued, “I guess the thing I don’t understand is that you can do better than me. You can find someone prettier.”
He was looking at me with a not-warm expression. “Is that a question I’m supposed to answer?”
“Please.”
“Will you at least acknowledge how fucked-up it is that first you accuse me of not thinking you’re attractive enough to date, and after I tell you that’s not true, you ask why I’m not dating someone better-looking?”
“You just admitted that you liked me at first because you could tell I didn’t think you were smart. What’s that Groucho Marx line about not wanting to belong to any club that would have you as a member?”
He turned his head so he was gazing out the windshield again. “There’s a picture of the cast and crew of TNO taken every year on the main stage, right? I’m sure I’ve seen it online or in a magazine. And if I was looking at that, would I pick you out from everyone else and say, ‘That’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen’？ If I’m being honest, no. But human beings aren’t static images. We’re dynamic and kinetic, and it’s like I said before—right away, I wanted to talk to you, and every time I’ve talked to you since I’ve always wanted to keep talking to you.”
That I didn’t feel completely uninsulted by his admission that I wasn’t the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen meant—what? That I’d nursed some private hope that he thought I was? Either because he had unusual taste or because I’d been holding on to the belief that, as with many a romantic comedy heroine, I was far more beautiful than I realized? At the same time, I didn’t feel the impulse to cling to the insult as I might have when I was younger; I appreciated his candor. I said, “Do you know what sapiosexual means?”
“No.”
“It means being attracted to someone’s brain.”
“I am attracted to your brain,” he said. “But I’m also attracted to the rest of you.” We both were quiet for a few seconds, then he said, “When you told me that thing about swearing off dating at TNO because Elliot rejected you, a part of me was like, Thank God for that. Even though your decision seems over the top, if you hadn’t made it, you’d probably be married to another writer. But now I wonder if it’s a cautionary tale about how you want to stew in your aloneness. Because, sure, I’m discreet when I’m dating someone new in order to avoid media drama, but I’m not the one who’s into secret hookups as a way of life.”
“Why would I want to stew in my aloneness?”
“Because you’re scared.”
“What am I scared of?”
“Getting hurt. Knowing another person really well and another person knowing you really well. Feelings you can’t make fun of. Interactions that go on for long enough that they maybe turn a little awkward or a little tedious instead of ending after ten minutes with a zinger.”
“If you’re referring to TNO sketches, they’re more like five minutes. Ten minutes is an eternity on TV.”
He looked at me then said, “Okay, Sally,” and turned on the ignition.
“I love you, too,” I blurted out.
“Do you?” His brow was furrowed.
“The truth is that I can’t believe you exist. I’ve never known anyone with the combination of qualities you have. You’re so deeply nice and so humble and so insightful in this very non-show-offy way. And even though your fame does fuck with my head, I really respect your creativity and talent and work ethic. Sometimes I feel silly expressing this to you because I’m the fifty-million-and-first person to say it, but I do think your songs are beautiful. And spending time with you, it is fun and great. Everything you said, I feel that, too, that I loved being around you at TNO and I loved emailing with you and I loved talking to you on the phone and I love—” I paused but then I made myself say it. “I love when we make love. It’s definitely different from anything I’ve ever experienced. And I can’t believe that we met and I get to be the person who’s eating dinner with you and hiking with you and being naked with you. For that matter, that I’m the person who just looks up and there you are in the same room with me, and, yes, you are smoking hot. And how unique and incredible you are does make me kind of karmically or existentially terrified. Because how could anyone deserve you, let alone me? But I’m also really grateful because I always wanted to feel disbelief at my own luck. At my romantic luck, I mean, not my luck related to Nigel giving me a career break.”