A Different Path

Rachel Crain had always tended toward a certain type of man, with consistent results.

I had just been dumped by another leather clad, black-haired, silver-ring wearing, I’m-full-of-angst-please-love-me musician type.

As she was killing time in a bar while waiting for a plane, she happened upon someone completely different.

Kevin and Victor pointed out a friend of theirs who was apparently Manhattan’s district attorney. They really liked this guy and said he always had an amusing story about a recent murder case or drug bust.

She wasn't impressed.

I glanced over, noted the short hair and plain T-shirt paired with Gap khakis, and returned to my conversation. I hardly noticed a few hours later when “The DA” came over and horned his way into our discussion. Whatever. He had cigarettes, and I was dying to smoke. I barely remember going outside with him to light up but I was so wasted from the free Jäger shots that I accidentally stumbled into him, which he mistook for interest. We started making out on the street in broad daylight. Another drunken regret. He put me in a cab to LaGuardia to catch my flight home.

The next day at work I returned from lunch to find an email from an unknown address in my inbox. “Hi Rachel, Remember me? I’m the guy who hailed you a cab in the LES. If you’re ever back in the city, it would be cool to hang out.” Oh, God. The khaki-pants-wearing DA thinks I might actually be into him. I was so drunk I gave him my contact info.

She still wasn't interested.

I decided not to return his email and deleted it.

But it won't end there.

Two months later, I was back in Manhattan for work and decided to stop by Iggy’s for a drink. I walked in, and there he was. The DA. Assuming he wouldn’t remember me I sat down at the bar and ordered a Bud Light. Minutes later, I heard my name. “Rachel?” He had initiated contact. After I had completely blown him off. This guy had some guts. Finding his confidence kind of hot, I invited him to sit down in the interwoven nylon chair next to me.

They hit it off, even though he wasn't quite what his friends said.

He was smart—he used words like ‘jetstream’ in regular conversation—had a great sense of humor and a job where he made enough money to live in Manhattan without roommates. It turned out he was one of 550 assistant DA’s for Manhattan, not the district attorney.

Later, an epiphany.

Six hours later we slept together. It was the best sex I’d ever had. I never realized that being a self-absorbed artist-musician in life also meant being self-absorbed in bed. I couldn’t believe that my entire love list, from the moment I lost my virginity to the lead singer of Mystery Machine, had been governed by this principle.

The next day the DA emailed to say how much fun he had. This time I wrote back.

Ten months later I moved to New York to be with him.

It only took me 18 years of dating to figure out that it was the dark, tormented musicians’ emails that I shouldn’t have returned.