Catch up on the first eight chapters HERE.
Thursday, 7 p.m.
Work is absolutely wild right now. One of our department heads, Helga, has enacted a reign of terror and it’s making her entire team so inefficient that our leaders keep funneling projects my way. I barely have time to shower, let alone date. But I’m so excited to meet Naomi, the cute engineer I matched with last week, that I block off all of tomorrow evening on my calendar.
Honestly, very few people I knew in college really explored their sexuality then, and now there’s a wave of my friends ready to go there. Outside of last year’s threesome date with Ethan and Heather, this is my first official dinner-and-drinks situation with a woman. I call my friend Kalani, a newly out and proud bisexual queen, for advice. She can’t help but joke: “What if your type is like the woman from The Sex Lives of College Girls who only wants to date herself?”
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Friday, 8 p.m.
Naomi is absolutely gorgeous, like a gothic version of Frozen’s Elsa—blazing blue eyes, icy-blonde hair, head-to-toe black. Based on her pretty forward text messages and tattoo-to-skin ratio, I expect her to be bold and confident. Except…“Hiii!!!” she says in a singsong voice as she gives me a hug.
After just a few minutes of talking, it’s clear that Noami is actually quiet, introverted, and very emotionally young. “Adulting is so hard!” she says as she waffles over what to drink. And what to eat. And what to talk about. Maybe she’s super nervous too? At one point, she mentions her family and starts crying. Oh shit. What do I do? I console her. Then we’re somehow digging deep into her dream career with me playing the role of professional mentor. As we finally leave the restaurant and linger outside, Naomi bashfully leans in: “I want to kiss you.” She is very sweet. “Go for it,” I reply hopefully.
I’m totally committed to this makeout, waiting for the chemistry to kick in like it did with Heather. I still fantasize about the way Heather seduced me on her chilly rooftop, pulling me toward her, kissing slowly up my neck, her hands caressing my body. When the sparks fail to ignite, I start to realize that Kalani may have been right about one thing—I do need someone a little more like me, at least in terms of personality. See, Heather was self-assured and assertive, funny and irreverent, with a fiery spirit and a contagious laugh. Naomi is her—and my—exact opposite. We end our kiss and wish each other well.
Monday, 10 a.m.
I get a call from my boss. “We just fired Helga. We want you to take her job.” Me? Doesn’t that job require, like, 20+years of experience? I’m only 29, practically a toddler in corporate years. “Zara, you’re the right person for the job,” she insists.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. I need to call my ex James. I know, I know, seems like a rogue first call. For those who need a recap, James was my “I could see myself marrying this man” when we dated in 2019 and now he’s my some-times on-again, recently off-again fuck buddy. The last time I saw him was before my matchmaker misadventures, when he and I had casual sex that left me feeling strangely hollow. We’ve kept in loose touch since, and out of all the people I’ve dated, James has always been my number one career hypeman.
I’ll never forget the muggy August night in 2019 when we were sharing a plate of spicy rigatoni at our favorite neighborhood Italian spot. “You need to quit your job,” he said. “You’re too smart, too capable, and you’ll never rise as fast as you deserve.” I had my dream job at the time, but it came with a salary that barely paid my bills. With James’s encouragement, I took a leap of faith and left, changing my career trajectory entirely and for the better.
(A perhaps-not-unrelated side note: James was also the first partner to insist I orgasm first, something that now feels like it should be table stakes but at the time felt radical. After half a decade of performatively pleasing men, he helped me learn what I actually liked in bed.)
“I’m so proud of you!!!” James sounds truly elated for me. “Let’s get dinner and celebrate.”
Saturday, 8 p.m.
Ugh, James looks good. I can see his defined arm muscles through his baby-blue V-neck. We’re barely a sip into our sake when I panic. “James, what the fuck am I doing running an entire department?”
I feel like Emily in Paris, bumbling my way through a career opportunity I’m not qualified for. James slides his hand over my knee and gives it a squeeze. “Zara, you’ll be great.”
Yes, I completely recognize the irony here. I am now taking on the role of mentee seeking job advice over drinks. And even though this one isn’t a date date, it’s hard not to compare. Naomi may have been one of my least compatible matches ever, whereas James may be my most. He is successful, adventurous, extroverted, and so fun. He is a passionate listener and an effective adviser and a nonjudgmental safe space. After the hellfire experiences of being dumped by the Penniless Poet (yeah, remember that guy, the one who left me to become a monk?) and having my assault trauma unearthed during an unfortunate kiss on last month’s ski trip, being with James feels like a welcome comfort.
Honestly, he’s always been a somewhat unresolved “dot dot dot” in my dating diary. Our relationship years ago was the healthiest, most supportive, and most honest one I had ever had. And our breakup? It was a weird situation. James went through a convergence of personal crises. And while he kept verbally affirming that he was all in, there was misalignment between his words and actions that younger me was too idealistic and naive to recognize. I stayed months longer than I should have, holding on to hope until I finally accepted reality.
Saturday, 10 p.m.
Sipping our third bottle of sake, I ask James, “Do you ever want to get married?” I realize in all these years I’ve never asked him. “Yeah, one day,” he says, “but I think I want an open partnership.” We finish the bottle.
“Zara, you know, we could try things again,” James muses as he signs the check. “What are you proposing?” I ask. An open thing. He would be able to date other people. I would be able to date other people. But we’d be together.
I quickly run through the pros and cons in my head. Con: I’ve never been in a serious non-monogamous relationship before. Would it awaken jealousies within me that I didn’t even know existed? Pro: With my new job, I’m going to be busier than ever, and this setup would mean guaranteed great sex and companionship that works for my schedule. And truth be told, the more stressed I am, the hornier I am.
Logically, I know this could be problematic for me. But psychospiritually? Your girl wants to get fucked so hard that I forget my own name. Moment of truth, Zara. What are we going to do?
*As always, all names have been changed.
Zara Field is a 29-year-old single New Yorker and is Cosmo’s resident dating diarist, chronicling her adventures in finding love…or something like it. (*And no, Zara Field is not her *real* name.)