L.A. Affairs: My feelings changed about a friend. How could I say ‘I like you’?
Michela Buttignol / For The Times
On the first day of our magazine internship, we interns were instructed to write our names on Polaroids of ourselves tacked up in the breakroom. I was confident a surefire way to impress everyone was to add “Abuse me, I’m an intern” on mine.
To my surprise, none of the higher-ups responded with a high-five, a knowing nod in the hallway or an invitation to a power lunch. Only Dan, one of the other editorial interns, laughed so hard I could hear him back at my desk.
“I can’t believe you wrote that!” he said.
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There was something about Dan. Maybe it was his cute Buddy Holly glasses, his toothy grin or the fact he could join me in belting out a KISS song. (Any guy who appreciated man makeup and so-bad-they’re-good lyrics deserved to be noticed.) And after my first-day gaffe, he continued to respond to my antics with the same hearty laugh.
When our Washington, D.C., internship ended, Dan headed back to Los Angeles and USC. I returned to college in New York, and we kept in touch via AOL Instant Messenger, where our friendship blossomed as we shared stories about our day-to-day lives.
Whether it was my natural gift for mistakes at the office, my talent for romantic blunders or my flair for putting my foot in my mouth, I told Dan everything, hoping to get a laugh. When I had a bad date or called an important client by the wrong name, I was mortified. But replaying the moment to Dan with some self-deprecating humor almost made me sound cool, in a slacker kind of way. Dan was always there to respond with a supportive “LOL” and to entertain with a funny tale of his own.
I was celebrating my birthday at an Orange County Irish pub when I met ‘Denver’ Dave. He looked like a real mountain man. He was slim and handsome in a green shirt, and he had a honey-colored beard.
After years of daily banter, it dawned on me that I was spending a considerable amount of time chatting to a guy across the country who was “just a friend.” Humor was how we connected, but now I had a problem. How do I tell him seriously, “I like you”?
I did the most obvious thing I could think of: I mailed him a totally romantic Valentine’s Day-themed mixtape featuring thrash metal and a KISS song about creeping on a high-schooler. I included a note that said, “Don’t get any ideas. We’re just friends.” He didn’t read between the lines.
Next move: I would take a vacation to California. Surely, in person I would be so funny and clever he couldn’t help but fall for me. When Dan picked me up at Los Angeles International Airport looking exactly the same (cute!), it had been three years since we’d last seen each other.
Nerves took over a few hours later when, tucked into a cozy booth at St. Nick’s pub, I sensed our conversation faltering without the crutch of the keyboard. I chugged three vodka cranberries hoping they would help me relax. By the time we reached Dan’s Park La Brea apartment, without discussing our sleeping arrangement, I took it upon myself to flop face down on his bed and pass out.
My daughters and I left Rio de Janeiro for Los Angeles during their summer break from school. That’s when I met a handsome Italian transplant living in Santa Monica.
The next day, we road-tripped to San Francisco. When I attempted to make amends with a humorous story, he stared from the driver’s seat.
“You told me this last night,” he said. Gulp.
“I’m embarrassed,” I said, feeling this trip was turning into a disaster — and this time, I couldn’t make it better in my retelling. He said nothing.
A stop at McDonald’s promised relief from the conversation until somehow, within the first five minutes, I managed to dump an entire large soda on my shirt. Could this get any worse?
But then I heard it: Dan’s big laugh. I looked up and saw his eyes light up and his broad smile, and I found myself laughing too. I had to admit, it was classic me.
We walked around San Francisco, but I couldn’t pay attention to the city, only to the man beside me. In person, Dan’s eyes lingered on me when I spoke, his hand brushed over mine as we walked. We chuckled about my nervousness on the first night. He said he was nervous too. I could tell. On the second night, it was Dan who sought liquid courage at the bar. Our “rendezvous” in a hotel turned into another snore fest.
Back in L.A., days later on his couch, I finally asked, “Are we friends or more than friends or just completely hopeless?” He laughed and said, “All I know, I can’t stand the idea of not seeing you all the time.”
We started kissing, and it was romantic in that “Rock and Roll All Nite”-playing-on-his-stereo kind of way.
I was surprised by the way married men acted around me. I noticed that men kept at a distance, were tense and side-eyed me around their wives.
Turns out, I didn’t have to come up with a too-clever way to tell him I liked him. I just had to be vulnerable to say it without a jokey line to hide behind.
Twenty years later, Dan and I have long since gotten rid of our AOL accounts. We still love to laugh, but thank God, I have learned to talk to him seriously. Together, we have navigated lots of grown-up things: marriage, two cross-country moves, careers (going much better, thanks), a kid, deaths and middle age.
I have come to realize that the most important moments — even getting together with the love of your life — never come out the way you think they should, the way you would have written it with all the wit and humor in place.
Life’s funny that way.
The author is a freelance writer and creative director living in Los Angeles. Find her on Instagram: @yvonne_pasquini
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $300 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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