The Game

and be comfortable and free and in the moment, the way I felt surfing that big wave in Malibu. And every now and then, when Lisa and I both dropped our defenses, I felt like that with her. I felt alone, together.
    We drove back to my house. Lisa slipped into a white T-shirt and boxers, and we lay in bed as we had so many times before—under the covers, on separate pillows, heads turned toward each other, but no part of our bodies touching.
    I wanted to continue our conversation from dinner. I wasn’t trying to seduce her anymore. I just needed answers.
    “So what made you drive up the hill the other day to see me again?”
    “While you were gone, I realized how much I missed you.” I loved watching her lips part over her front teeth when she talked. It made me think of salmon on rice. “My friends were making fun of me because I was counting down the days until you came home. I actually went grocery shopping while you were gone so I could cook you food. I don’t know why.” She hesitated and smiled, as if she were offering information she’d never planned to divulge. “I bought a fresh piece of swordfish and had to throw it away because it went bad.”
    A warm flush of confidence filled my chest. So I still had a chance with this girl.
    “But it’s too late,” she said. “The window was open with me, and you blew it.”
    David DeAngelo would have said to go cocky funny here. Ross Jeffries would have said not to buy into her frame. Mystery would have said to punish her. But I had to ask: “How did I blow it?”
    “First off, you didn’t call me when you came home from Miami. I had to go to you.”
    “Hold on. I thought you were blowing me off. You never even called while I was away.”
    “Well, your voice mail said you were out of town and you weren’t returning calls, so I didn’t leave a message.”
    “Yeah, but I would have returned your call. I wanted to hear from you.”
    “Then you came to the Whiskey Bar and hardly talked. And the last straw was when we went to your house to go surfing. I told Sam I was starting to like you again and she said, ‘Get over it. When I went up to his room to use the bathroom, I found a used condom on the floor.’”
    My brain leaped up and slapped itself. I had been careless: I’d forgotten to throw away the condom I’d used with Isabel. So that’s what Sam and she were whispering about in the car on the way to Malibu.
    “So then why did you agree to go out with me tonight?”
    “You asked me out on a proper date. And you were a little nervous, so I figured you must really be into me.”
    I propped myself up on the pillows. I was about to say the most AFC thing of my life. “Let me tell you something. The pickup artists have a word they call one-itis. It’s a disease that people get when they become obsessed with just one girl. And they never end up with this girl because they get too nervous around her and scare her away.”
    “So?” she asked.
    “So,” I said. “You’re my one-itis.”
    We were looking each other in the eyes now. I could see hers sparkle. I knew mine were sparkling. It was time to kiss her.
    There were no lines, no routines, no evolution phase-shift—I’d tried them all unsuccessfully anyway. I leaned in. She leaned in. Her eyes closed. My eyes closed. Our lips met. It was just like I’d always thought a kiss was supposed to begin.
    For hours, we lay there making out and dissecting the connections and misunderstandings of the past few weeks.
    While Lisa slept in the morning, I crept downstairs with my phone book. I called Nadia and Hie and Susanna and Isabel and the Jessicas and every FB and MLTR and other acronym I was seeing and told them I had started spending time with someone I wanted to be faithful to.
    “So you’re choosing her over me?” Isabel asked angrily.
    “It’s not an intellectual choice.”
    “Is she better in bed or something?”
    “I don’t know. We’ve only kissed.”
    “So you made out with some girl,” she said, with a weak attempt at a cruel laugh, “and you want to get rid of me now.”
    “It’s not that I want to get rid of you. I’d still like to see you, but as a friend.” I could hear the word pierce her heart like a dagger, as it had my own heart so many times before I’d joined the community.
    “But I love you.”
    How could she love me? She needed to go fuck a dozen other guys to get over her one-itis.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. And I was.
    There is a downside to casual sex: