Page 23 of Sunny Side Up

I’d written back that, first of all, I’d experienced this my whole life.

I’d been there. Totally got it. I also told her that, look, we all are guilty of overstepping into the lives of loved ones, whether it’s because we’re worried about their health or their career or their love life or whatever we perceive the issue is.

Sometimes those concerns are legit; sometimes they’re about our own projections.

But ultimately, even if she were a chain-smoking carnivore who never left the couch and drank more wine than water, she had every right to impose a “My body, my business” policy with her family.

“Next time they say something,” I wrote, “tell them, ‘Thanks for your concern. My doctor and I have it under control. I am no longer taking advice, suggestions, or questions about my body at this time. Or ever.’”

The reactions were wild . Rampant fighting in the comments.

A lot of people saying I was what was wrong with America, that it was irresponsible of me to give out this kind of advice.

I was somehow able to ignore it all, because the people on my side—the people who mattered—were flooding my email inbox, Substack, and Instagram DMs with affirmations and gratitude, both for sticking up for them and for seeing them.

It was all so humbling.

“I have to tell you,” said Noor, “the world needs this body stuff. But right now, I need more of your dating life! What’s going on with the Wedding Date Deadline?”

I groaned. “The apps are bleak. I think I’ve decided to temporarily put that on hold. Can’t one of you be my date?”

“Nope,” said Noor. “On a wedding hiatus for at least two years. Boundary setting, baby.”

“I don’t know the day or time, but I can guarantee you Ezra has already canceled watching the kids, so, no,” said Brooke.

“I bet you I could find you a wedding date if you let me take over your dating apps,” said Noor. “A fresh perspective! You’re probably experiencing Swiping Burnout. It happens. Hand me your phone.”

“No way,” I said, pulling my phone off the table and placing it onto my chest. “Too many nudes on here. I don’t need you seeing all that.”

“Yours or others?!” asked Brooke.

“Both!”

Noor beckoned for the phone with her hand. “Oh come on . I won’t look through your pictures. Swear to god I just want to see who you’ve already matched with on Bumble and send a few conversation starters. That’s it. Pleaaaaaaase?”

“Fine,” I resolved.

Noor was immediately transfixed, like a toddler with an iPad, while Brooke and I ordered another round of drinks for the table, plus the Polo Bar Brownie and three spoons.

I said goodbye to Brooke and Noor on my usual First Wives Club high.

We left in three respective taxis, laughing, hugging, one-more-thing -ing.

But as the streets ticked down in numbers, so too did my mood.

On the street corners, bombarding my peace at every red light, people held hands, made out, dry humped (no exaggeration, against a lamp post on Forty-Fifth and Fifth), argued in front of restaurants in that way you do when you’re simultaneously in love and tired from work.

Ugh. Instagram was even worse: tribute post after tribute post from people declaring their love to their “forever Valentine.” A bad gamble on the driver’s part—a valiant attempt to get out of deadlocked traffic by Bryant Park—resulted in us getting stuck smack in the middle of Times Square, where some sort of televised flash-mob couples square dance was taking place.

By Madison Square Garden, I was desperate enough to check Tinder, where I was greeted by a very concerning-looking dick pic.

Like, Sir, please send that to a doctor instead .

I deleted Tinder for good, then and there.

By the time we hit WeChe, I was full-on wallowing in single self-pity.

Maybe it was the martinis. Why me, why not me .

Etc. I would have annoyed myself if I weren’t so intent on being miserable.

But then.

As I jingled my keys in the lock of my building, I looked up into my lobby and saw him. The mailman. Holding flowers.

“Oh my god,” I called out, not caring that my voice was suddenly three octaves higher and more girly than I’d ever sounded. Finally, the Nora Ephron movie was starring me . “You brought me flowers ?!” I called out.

Dennis’s face immediately went red. “Oh, err, sorry.” He put the flowers down. “I was just moving them over so I could get to the mailboxes.”

Oh. My. God. What was wrong with me ? And what was this now, the third time Dennis had encountered me mid-crisis? He must have thought I was completely unhinged.

Standing under the fluorescent lights of my lobby, there was only one thing to do: burst out laughing.

One of those laughs that uses every muscle in your body, that leaves you hoarse and gasping, tears in your eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Of course they’re not for me,” I told him as I caught my breath.

“I’ve been saying the same thing,” Dennis said, laughing now, too. “Seeing as it’s”—he checked his watch—“10 p.m. and I’m just now finishing work. Why does anyone still send physical Valentine’s Day cards? What’s wrong with a text and a dinner? Why does there need to be so much mail ?”

I must have looked ridiculous, but delirium was clearly contagious. We were both cracking up now. “I’ve never hated Valentine’s Day more in my life.”

“Me neitha,” Dennis said. “Except the ovatime’s great.” He winked. Those thick, peppered bits of Queens accent made my heart speed up.

“So you’re officially off the clock for tonight?” I asked, surprising myself. “Can I buy you a drink at least? Ice cream? One final attempt to save Valentine’s Day for us?”

He looked at me, fidgeting with the jacket of his uniform. “Yeah, I think I’d like that very much,” he said.

I knew a locals’ spot like War Horse would be empty on Valentine’s Day, so I immediately headed in that direction.

When Dennis realized where we were going, he lit up.

It was his favorite bar, too. As we settled onto a pair of worn-in brown leather barstools, coats off, I studied him a bit more closely.

Dennis was a big guy. Burly. And he clearly ran hot: Every time I’d run into him that winter, he’d been in his slate-blue USPS uniform shorts— shorts —with his navy socks pulled up like a lacrosse player’s half-calves, his winter coat wide open.

Fortunately, this gave me the opportunity to eye his thick, muscular arms and legs.

It made me wonder what his chest looked like.

… Which then made me imagine the way it would feel to have his arms wrapped around me, heating up my wind-chilled skin against his bearlike warmth.

I decided that underneath his short-sleeved uniform shirt—his short-sleeved shirt (I cannot stress this enough: February 14 in New York City is notoriously freezing)—were broad, rounded shoulders that made for an incredible pillow to rest my head on.

He was solid, both in physique and nature, but welcoming, too.

Granted, this was the longest we’d held a conversation together, but he’d somehow kept popping up when I needed it most, no questions asked.

His hands were enormous. I bet he could palm a basketball.

But they also looked like the safe place you’d slip your own hand into when scared or anxious, or in need of grounding reassurance.

His face was even kinder. Dennis’s light eyes were striking against the ruddy complexion of someone who lives much of his life outdoors in the elements, further contrasted by his truly beautiful —best word to describe them—thick, black eyelashes.

When he took off his beanie, which I realized I’d never seen him do, his dark, cherubic curls fluffed straight up at the shock of the dry air from War Horse’s wood-burning fire.

His beard was scruffy, and he appeared to either be always smiling or always smirking.

“I still can’t believe I haven’t run into you here before,” he said.

I was so busy wondering which way our respective heads would turn if he went in for a kiss that I’m pretty sure I responded three seconds later than was socially acceptable.

“I know,” I said, “it’s crazy.” A real conversationalist this evening.

I willed myself back into the present moment, taking a giant gulp of my water to cool down. The fireplace next to the bar was roaring. I’ll blame that as the culprit.

“I haven’t done a lot of late-night barhopping since I moved here. The divorce and all.”

“Oh no! Did your ex take away your ability to have fun in the divorce proceedings?” he asked. “No wonder you haven’t texted me yet.” There was that impish smirk.

“I’m sorry about that.” I was laughing, but now I felt like an idiot. This guy was so charming it hurt, so handsome I was genuinely melting, and so easy to be with that I felt like we were old friends from college. Why hadn’t I texted him?

“I’ve been meaning to, work has just been nonstop,” I said. “Fashion week always kills us, even though we’ve done it a million times. But tonight’s a good gateway hang. I forgot how fun it can be to just… hang out at a bar, as weird as that sounds.”

“And eat ice cream.” He pointed at my bowl of gelato, which was another reason I’d chosen this place. I’d had enough to drink. One scoop vanilla, one scoop chocolate sounded much more enticing.

“Well, you’ve been missing out on all of this in the meantime.” He gestured down his body and laughed, like it was a joke. But it wasn’t a joke. I had been missing out, clearly.

“Sorry if the note was an overstep, by the way.” He rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Especially if you’re still down about the divorce.

I’m not judging that, eitha. I’ve never been married, or divorced, but I’ve definitely been broken up with before and it fuckin’ sucks.

But I will say, it’s always for the best.”