The Second You're Single

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  For my amazing husband, PJ, who makes every day Valentine’s Day

  One

  SORA

  Why do we treat being single like a disease that needs a cure? #GoSolo.

  —SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE

  Valentine’s Day has snuck up on me like a porch pirate.

  It’s not even February yet, but my inbox is filled with promotions for gourmet chocolate, personalized champagne flutes, and romantic weekend getaways for two. I’m in my warm bed, aka my “office,” as I scroll through email on my phone. I’ll sit here until I can work up the energy to commute to my “conference room”—the kitchen table—for my first Zoom meeting of the day. I scroll past pink hearts, feeling the usual disgust rise in me, as my brown-and-white-spotted rescue pit, Larry, lays at my feet in my modest Lakeview condo. There’s no end to the absurdity of the Valentine’s emails. Hot stone massage for two? Matching heart-print underwear? Romantic getaway in a tree pod? Just what the hell is a tree pod? I click on the promotion. Oh, a lighted tent hanging from a tree, with two pairs of adorable bare feet hanging out of it. Why is this a thing? Who wants to vacation in a piñata for bears?

  I hate Valentine’s Day and the giant commercial love machine that fuels it. Of course this may—or may not—have something to do with the fact that Dan left me.

  Or, technically, I left Dan.

  Dan wanted to keep on having weeknight sex with me, as long as I didn’t mind he had a wife. And kids. And a house in the suburbs. I kind of did, though. I guess I’m just too hung up on the details. Can’t see the forest for the serial cheater.

  I had no idea he was married, for the record. Call me naïve, but I hadn’t thought it was weird I’d never been to his place in three months of dating. I thought he might be a hoarder. Or worse, he had ten roommates. Either way, I failed to press for answers, and we just ended up hanging out at my place. We never went out on weekends, but that was because he worked Friday and Saturday, or so he told me, pursuing his dream of being a DJ by playing faded pop hits at suburban bar mitzvahs. Of course, that changed one Saturday when I decided to surprise him by showing up at Dynasty Forever Banquet Hall in the far northwestern burbs. Except there was no bar mitzvah there. No DJ. And definitely no Dan.

  He’d been forced to admit his double life, and that the reason we didn’t hang on the weekends was because he coached youth league basketball.

  “Are you even a DJ?” I had asked, appalled. Turns out his DJ career was a lie, too. I’d been dating a man who wasn’t only married, but whose “dream” job was to be a has-been forty-one-year-old DJ. It’s like his lies didn’t even have ambition.

  I kick my feet off the edge of my bed and slip into fuzzy purple slippers, noting that the arctic tundra that is Chicago in January has already begun to freeze the condensation on the inside of my windows. I don’t want to leave the apartment. Maybe ever. I’ve already trudged down the stairs with Larry at the crack of early to let him out, so he should be good for a little while. I shuffle to the kitchen, past the jungle of houseplants perched on milk crates, telling myself that one of these days I’ll actually get real plant stands. Or hang pictures on my blank walls. Or rescue Grandma Mitsuye’s antique Japanese kimono-clad dolls from their multiple layers of tissue paper in a U-Haul box, one of a half dozen stacked in a corner and collecting dust in the guest bedroom. A room which, technically, I’ve been meaning to convert to an office, but I can’t because it’s a de facto storage closet. When Dan first saw my place, he’d asked if I just moved in. I’ve actually lived here seven years. I hate my drafty, vintage condo, but also despise putting on shoes and leaving it, which I think pretty much sums up my life’s angst.

  Larry, realizing I’m heading to the kitchen, otherwise known as the Place Where His Treats Are Stored, jumps off the bed and follows me, wagging his brown and white tail. As I brew my K-Cup coffee, he leans into the back of my knee.

  “Good boy,” I reassure him, bending down to give him a good scratch behind the ears, which makes him tap his left foot uncontrollably against my wooden kitchen floor. I hand him a bit of dog jerky, but it takes him a couple of tries to grab it. Larry, bless him, only has one working eye, thanks to a terrible run-in with a raccoon. The people at the shelter I adopted him from told me he would eventually adapt to the loss of the eye, but it’s been three years and he hasn’t managed to yet. The big brown circle around his forever-closed eye seems like a natural eye patch. I watch him now as he dips his head just to the left of his water bowl near the refrigerator. Kind of adorably pitiful. I nudge it toward him with my foot, and he laps up the tap water with gusto.

  I carry my steaming cup of coffee to my kitchen table, where I sit and boot up my ailing laptop. “Come on, Bessie. Let’s go, girl,” I tell it as if I’m talking to an ox pulling my Conestoga wagon across the plains. I get up and wander around the kitchen while my laptop wheezes and flickers to life. I sip at the sweet vanilla goodness of K-Cup coffee as I sink into my kitchen table chair. The floor is uneven, so I have to move the chair around until it doesn’t wobble too much. There’s also a draft coming in from the kitchen window to my left, a cold ribbon of air across my ankles. I hate my “conference room” and long for the plush comfort of my “office” duvet. My laptop blinks on, and more Valentine’s ads assault me. Framed heart maps of the stars in the sky on your first date! Zodiac love signs engraved in matching bangle bracelets! Chocolate-covered strawberries during your intimate massage for two!

  I groan, bitter. I want to boycott Valentine’s Day. Hell, I want to boycott love in general.

  I start typing.

  Does Valentine’s Day make you want to vomit? Do you wonder why you don’t have someone to share matching underwear with? Or who will hang from a tree pod with you so that you both become a perfectly pre-packaged dinner for grizzly bears? You’re not alone.

  I’m done with the commercial love machine. For me, I’m tired of dating. Of being disappointed. So, this year, I’m vowing to stay single for the entire month of February. That’s right. No amount of chocolate can convince me being in a relationship that will only end up disappointing me is worth it. This year, we should all go on a dating cleanse. Goodbye, Dry January.

  Hello, Solo February.

  No dates. No dating apps. No sex.

  But how will we live without romance, you ask? Frankly, the real question is how do we all live WITH romance? The stress of it? The anxiety? The inevitable soul-crushing disappointment?

  Answer me this: If love’s so great, then how come I’ve got so many exes?

  So, I’m going to focus on the things I love: watching dumb reality TV. Drinking sweet, fruity cocktails. Eating all the bacon I want without judgment—and without having to share! Hell, this year, I’m going to ask bacon to be my valentine.

  Think of all the things I can do with my life if I don’t care what a potential date might think. I can wear my comfy, stained sweatpants to the bar because I won’t care about ruining my one chance of finding love during happy hour! I won’t have to get waxed. Or manicured. Or buy new date outfits. Or new shapewear to wear under said new date outfits. Or go on a diet to fit INTO said shapewear.

  Think of all the hours I’ll save not swiping on anyone. Or not thinking about which dating app photos make me look too thirsty.

  And, best of all, if an ex pops up with a “u up?” request, I have a built-in answer:

  “Sorry! I’m not up. For the entire month. It’s Solo February.”

  If my mom, or grandparents, or sibling, or coworker asks if I’m dating anyone, I can say, “Nope! Solo February!”

  The thing is, I don’t want to give up on love and sex for my whole life. But I just need a break.

  So, won’t you all join me?

  #GoSolo

  As I type, I feel energized. My video invite dings then, announcing the beginning of the meeting with my editor, Arial (yes, she was named after a font). She works out of a glassy downtown Chicago high-rise, and I can see the amazing view of Lake Michigan behind her. She runs the online version of Slick, a women’s fashion magazine that dabbles in advice on perfecting blowjob techniques and what you should be wearing to the clubs if you want to snag a “better than average” one-night stand. You know, just doing my part for feminism.

  Arial looks amazing as usual, in an expensive-looking blazer from the designer freebie closet and her cinnamon-brown hair slicked back in the latest twisted fashion. Meanwhile, I’m wearing gray jersey-knit pajamas that can almost pass for street clothes, but not quite, zero makeup, and I realize I’ve got a cowlick sticking up at the back of my head. I try to smooth it down as I notice that my screen partially shows the dirty dishes piling up in
my sink. I gently tilt the laptop so Arial doesn’t see I’m a total slob.

  “Sora? Good morning?” Arial speaks in questions, and ends her sentences in a lilt. She claims it’s because she lived in Scotland for a year after graduation. I think it’s just because she hates being a boss and telling people what to do. The question at the end makes it sound like she’s politely asking me to do something instead of telling me I have to do it. “So? I was thinking we might shelve ‘Don’t Be Basic with Your Gym Bag’? And instead focus on ‘Top Five Mascaras that Will Make Your Ex Beg to Have You Back’? Editorial just thought it will fit better? Since we’re doing that ‘All My Exes’ theme?”

  “Yeah. No problem,” I say, even though I’ve already almost finished the story. That’s a good five hours of work down the drain. But my Japanese American mom always taught me to be agreeable. Instead of “Squeaky wheel gets the grease,” she always says, “The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.”

  And writing for Slick isn’t quite the glamorous and important life of writing I had imagined when I won that short-story contest in eighth grade. That’s the year I discovered I actually have a knack for putting words together. My eighth-grade English teacher—astonished at my skill—first accused me of plagiarism. After my sharp-tempered Scottish American dad came to the school with copies of early drafts to convince him that I was no cheat, he apologized. Then he overcompensated and started calling me a prodigy. After that, I spun dreams of winning Pulitzer Prizes. I fell a little short of that, sure, but hey, I’m living the Supporting Myself with Writing dream, so there’s that. Just because I’m not exactly doing the freelance work I once imagined doesn’t mean that I won’t write serious stories that help the world. One day.

  Still, the whole mascara article bothers me. I imagine myself slathering on expensive makeup in the desperate hope of making Dan jealous.

  “You don’t seem excited?” Arial questions, cocking her head to one side on my screen.

  Crap. I hate video calls. And these days, it’s almost all we ever do. And I have the worst poker face. Somehow, she always knows when I’m lying.

  “Uh. No. I am.” Lie. “It’s a great story. Fantastic story. It’s so relevant. I’m so glad you pitched it to me.” I take a deep breath. I glance at the open document on my screen. “Solo February.” It has a nice ring to it. But I hesitate. Do I really want to pitch this story? Shouldn’t I just take Arial’s assignment and be nice and noncontroversial because the last thing I want to do is live the Working Three Barista Shifts and Driving Rideshares dream instead of the Supporting Myself with My Writing dream?

  “I do have another idea,” I begin anyway, steeling myself for complete rejection. Even as I hear Mom’s voice in my head, Don’t be the nail!

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Well…” My heart thumps. I hate putting myself out there. That’s why I’d rather stay here in my perpetually half-unpacked condo than pack up my laptop and go do my work at the cute coffee shop at the end of my block. Why did I even suggest this story? I haven’t even fleshed it out. Not at all. She’s going to tell me it’s dumb. “Uh … you know how there’s a Dry January?”

  “Yeah? Of course?”

  “Well, what if we tried to push Solo February?”

  Arial wrinkles her brow. “What do you mean ‘solo’?”

  “As in, Stay-Single February or Abstinence February or Love-Free February. Think of it like a dating cleanse. Here, I wrote a rough draft about it.” I cut and paste what I’ve written in the chat. Arial reads it lightning fast. Her face lights up.

  “I love it, Sora? Yes, yes, yes, yes? You must do this story? #GoSolo literally sells itself?”

  “Really?” I’m shocked she likes it so much.

  “Why not make it a diary? One entry every day of February? You’ll be the focus? And going solo for February will be a challenge you do, and you’ll share with us what happens on your personal journey? We could make it a ‘secret confessions’ series?”

  At the mention of the secret confessional series, I suddenly feel uneasy. Past confessions have included “Why I Can’t Stop Having Sex on the Subway” and “I’m Addicted to Facials—for My Butt!”

  Do I want to have my story among them? I realize too late, after I’ve already pitched this damn thing, that I’ve never written about my personal life before. I’ve only ever ranked cosmetics and interviewed influencers. Do I really want to write about my personal life for the readers of Slick? Part of me worries that they’re like the cool girls in school—just making fun of me behind my back.

  “This could be really great, though. Like a big break? You have to do it? Have to?” Arial’s still gushing, and my concerns fade away. Slick pays well and pays on time, a freelancer’s dream. Sure, writing about dating isn’t the serious journalism I want to do, but daily articles would triple my word count for the month, and ergo triple my pay. That would mean extra cash to get Larry the good organic, grain-free kibble, the kind that special dog-food farmers grow and cook and then freeze in hand-molded bricks and ship direct to your door. That shit is expensive.

  As if reading my mind, Larry nudges my leg with his white snout. Well, I can’t tell that cutie pie no.

  “I’ll do it!” I tell Arial, hoping I haven’t made a giant mistake. That I’m not the nail sticking out, waiting to be hammered down.

  Two

  SORA

  This year, I want bacon to be my valentine. I’d rather have a heart attack than a broken heart.

  —SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE

  The first day of Solo February dawns dreary and frigid, with six inches of new wet snow on our already salt-laden streets, a typical welcome to February for Chicago. After a bone-dry, extra-mild, above-freezing Christmas, we get a weather-outside-is-frightful delight on February first. Mother Nature loves to procrastinate more than I do.

  I snuggle deeper into the warmth of my “office” duvet, as I sneak a look at the first published article of Solo February. The article already has a few likes, so I let out a sigh of relief. The trolls haven’t yet crucified me, so that’s a good sign.

  I finish the second article of the series, and even take a stab at the third. I’m going for self-empowerment, but I have niggling doubts I might be coming off as bitter and sad.

  The whole point of Solo February is to find fulfillment in your life unconnected to sex, love, or another person. And I’ll be frank, I have no idea what this looks like. While I never consciously meant to, my whole adult life, I’ve measured my own personal success by who’s in my bed.

  And if you look at my exes, you can see my bar was very low.

  Actually, my bar was on the ground.

  No, strike that. I actually had to dig into the ground, then put my bar in the hole. We’re talking below-sea-level low. Someone would have to build a subway tunnel to get under my bar, so is it no wonder that any jerk who wandered into my life just stepped right on over my buried bar?

  I can’t trust myself to date anymore. I can’t trust that I know who’s good for me or who’s bad. It’s about time I stretched my wings. Hell, it’s about time I used them at all.

  I finish typing and read over the last line. At the foot of my bed, Larry lifts his head and whines. I realize he needs to go out. I pull myself out of bed to fetch Larry’s leash and stuff my feet into the stained shearling-lined boots I’ve had for more than a decade. Together, we head out to face the brutal Chicago February. Larry bumps against the doorframe. Not once, but twice, before I gently steer him away from it, and down the winding staircase to the first floor of my four-story walk-up.

  Outside, winter slaps me in the face, hard, and I feel the wind instantly sucked out of my lungs. It’s literally too cold to breathe properly, as my lungs work to process the frigid February air. Thankfully, Larry’s tree is all but ten feet from my front door, which really is Larry’s genius. It’s not his first Chicago winter, either. As he pads around the small square of gray, icy sludge at the base of the leafless tree, I burrow myself deeper into my down-lined coat, glancing up and down Montrose Avenue.