by L.H. Cosway
“That’s not what I said, Annie. Trusting people isn’t impossible. I trust my ma and my sister, my family. Sometimes I didn’t even know where Ma was getting the money to pay the tuition fees, but she managed it somehow. I guess now that I can give her a good life, all the struggle was worth it.”
When I finished talking, she sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “You’re lucky to have such a supportive mother. I’m sure she’s very proud,” she said and then went quiet for a long time as though lost in thought.
Trying to lighten the mood, I added, “Well, in the end, I had a good deal to do with my own success. It wasn’t all Ma’s doing. Careful, you’ll wound my delicate male ego.”
Her eyes flickered to mine, and she laughed softly. It was a gorgeous sound.
“See, I can make you laugh. I’m not so abhorrent, am I?” I murmured.
“No,” she whispered. “Not abhorrent at all.”
“Even with all my gruesome scars?”
Her eyes flickered over my features as though cherishing each of the rough lines, and when she spoke, she sounded distracted. “I like your scars. Your face would be too perfect without them.”
“Perfect? You mean like your face?” I loved how much she was talking.
Her nose wrinkled automatically, a completely natural and genuine response to my compliment—such a refreshing display of casually honest modesty. God, she was so different from the birds I usually got with. She was fresh air. She was perfect.
She’s what you need…. The thought came from nowhere, and it was sobering. This wasn’t a girl I would be able to fuck and forget.
“There is nothing perfect about my face.”
I cleared my throat, trying to force the teasing back into my tone. “Your lips are perfect.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” She rolled them between her teeth.
“You forget—I’ve kissed those lips, so now I’m an expert.”
I startled her. The look on her face betrayed that she was remembering our kiss. She seemed abruptly embarrassed again. I was enjoying talking to her and her company more than I’d enjoyed being with anyone for a very long time. I didn’t want her to leave yet, so I quickly changed the subject.
“But enough about your gorgeous face. I feel like I’ve given you a muddled view of my childhood. Growing up wasn’t all about fights. There were some really good times, like the Christmas when I was fifteen. It had been a tight year for us because Ma lost one of her jobs at a café in town. She always put paying for my schooling first, so we ended up eating beans on toast most nights. I felt bad because my sister, Lucy, went without just so that I could go to a fancy school. A couple of months previously, I’d started working a paper route, and I’d saved up almost all the money I earned. Then, the day before Christmas Eve, I went shopping. I bought Ma a bottle of her favorite perfume, and I got Lucy a jewelry-making set she’d been wanting all year. Then I went to the supermarket and spent every last cent I had on the fanciest food I could find.”
Annie was again absorbed in my story, her eyes large and interested. “What did you get?”
“All kinds of things. I swear to God, I felt like Willy fucking Wonka when I got home, loaded down with bags full of treats. And the look on Lucy’s face when she saw all the chocolate—I’ll never forget it. Although, the problem was, when you’re used to so little, your stomach doesn’t really know how to deal with indulgence. We both ended up lying on the living room floor with stomachaches, and we hadn’t even eaten that much.” I chuckled.
Annie was nodding like she agreed, a smile on her face. “That’s so true! I remember this one time a family brought me to dinner at this really fancy restaurant and told me I could order whatever I wanted on the menu. I planned on eating every last crumb of all four courses, but by the time I’d gotten halfway through the second, I was way too full for anything else. I went home all disappointed in myself.”
I looked at her curiously. “A family? You mean, your family?”
It took her a moment to answer, and she wouldn’t make eye contact when she did. “Oh, uh…it was just a, uh, a friend’s family.” For some reason, I had a hard time believing that answer, and I couldn’t pinpoint why. She turned to the side and pulled a credit card out of her pocket, avoiding my gaze.
First, there was definitely something off with her explanation; I would have to press her on this issue later. And second, she had her shit in bucketfuls if she thought I was letting her pay.
“The meal’s on the house. Tom lets me eat here for free,” I lied.
Her brows shot right up into her forehead. “Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wow, I’m actually jealous.” She put her card away, and then it seemed our little heart-to-heart was over because she was all business again. “Okay, well, I need to be getting back to the office now. Please check your email when you get home, and Gerta will be in touch with more information over the next few days.”
She stood, and so did I, blocking her path out of the restaurant. “Why Gerta?” I asked, voice low. “Why not you?”
“I’m…it’s just that I don’t usually work directly with clients, Mr. Fitzp—”
I put my finger on her lips before she could finish the sentence, and she went utterly still. “What will it take to get you to call me Ronan all the time, huh?”
She inhaled deeply and then took a step back so that I was no longer touching her. She leaned forward as I retreated but then caught herself.
“I can’t call you Ronan all the time. It would be unprofessional.”
“But you want to. You’d like very much to call me Ronan all the time.”
Her large eyes settled on my lips and then dropped to my neck. “We have a business relationship. What I want is immaterial.”
“Not to me. I’d like to give you everything you want.”
Annie’s gaze jumped to mine, and she blurted her next question like she hadn’t really meant to ask it. “Why?”
“You’re very real, Annie. I like that you’re without pretense. I like that you’re both smart and sexy as hell without a lot of fuss. I like who you are.”
“You don’t know that. I could be terribly fussy. You don’t know me.”
I felt my mouth hook to the side. “Then tell me.”
There seemed to be a conflict in her eyes, and I knew she was struggling to remain reserved. I could have killed to know what she was thinking.
At last, she glanced away. “As I said, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Gerta will be in touch.” Her voice was low, soft, and trembled a little. With that, she quickly sidestepped past me and shot out of the restaurant.
I stood there, indecisive, considering whether or not I should go after her. I didn’t want to be pushy, though, so I slumped back down into my seat. I decided that I should wait for her to make the next move. I had kissed her. She knew I wanted her now, so the ball was well and truly in her court. The problem with this plan was that Annie was so skittish, I could be waiting a hundred years for her to make a move.
What I needed to do was figure out a way to entice her without pushing. Pulling out my phone, I found a new email from my sister, Lucy, telling me about her day. There was another from Gerta with all the Twitter info, but I thought that could wait until tomorrow.
When I got home, I worked out for a while and then ate dinner. I was lonely, and my fingers itched with the urge to call up Annie. It would have been pointless, though, because Gerta was always the one to answer, and Annie was always conveniently busy. That evening my phone pinged with an email alert, and I almost didn’t even bother to check. Being as bored and lonely as I was, though, I found myself having a look eventually.
What I found surprised the shit out of me. The Socialmedialite had decided to reply to my last message, and it was nothing like what I expected.
March 13
Ronan,
Can I call you Ronan? Ronan, you need an intervention. Sorry in advance that this ema
il is so long.
I'm going to be blunt: you need to chill out, Ronan. Relax. You are seriously overreacting. Take a step back, and really, really think about what's actually going on here. Since you like numbered lists, I will use that format.
1. Being featured on my blog—especially how I featured you on my blog—is not a bad thing. It's a good thing. You could have used it to send me an email to highlight a charity near and dear to your heart; instead, you sent me hate mail. :-
2. You should know better than to email random, faceless bloggers. I could be a 67-year-old shut-in, male, ex-postal worker in the Bronx with a penchant for ginger cats. I could be a vindictive nut. What if I'd taken your email and posted it online? That would have made you look completely crazy and added to your woes.
3. I'm not going to post your email online because I’m not a nut, and you seem like (despite your short temper) a nice person, if perhaps a little too honest and earnest about your feelings. Sometimes it's best to keep your feelings to yourself. You don't need to share what you're feeling every time you're feeling it. Keeping your emotions circumspect will keep you from getting hurt by the cruelty that is most people.
4. You need to relax about all this media bullshit. Do as the song says and Let. It. Go. Just, let it go. Focus on the positive, and IGNORE THE NEGATIVE. Sorry for shouting at you, but—like I said—from the research I've done about you, you seem like a nice person.
In summary, let me know if you want me to highlight any charity in particular, never send emails to people you don't know personally, share your thoughts and feelings only with those you trust, and let go of the negative, focus on the positive.
I sincerely hope you take my advice.
All the best, The Socialmedialite
The first time I read it, I was angry. The second time, my anger slowly began to deflate because, although she was coming across a little bit high and mighty, I could also see that she was trying to be kind, and I didn’t know how to handle that. She had given me advice. Good advice. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve left our correspondence where it stood. But it was late, and I was lonely for company.
I was homesick, but at the same time, I couldn’t go back yet. There were too many bad memories there, too many painful feelings. And Brona was there. I didn’t want to be in the same country as her, not yet anyway. It was sad, but I think I would have replied to the Devil himself right then, I was so desperate for someone to talk to. I wanted it to be Annie, but I’d settle for this online blogger.
March 13
Dear Socialmedialite,
Thank you for your advice. You didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of my anger. It was simply a case of bad timing. When I saw your article, I had been holding my tongue for weeks, allowing people to write lies about me and never once fighting back.
I guess you’re not as bad as I made out, are you?
Believe it or not, I am trying to let it go. In fact, I’m in what you would call media training at the moment. So this is progress, yes? It’s boring as fuck, but at least I’m trying.
Regards,
Ronan Fitzpatrick
P.S. Are you really a 67-year-old ex-postal worker shut-in from the Bronx? Because that visual is totally killing my buzz. I’m imagining you as a sexy librarian dominatrix type. I don’t care if you’re not. Picturing you that way is what makes me happy, so you’ll just have to live with it.
P.P.S. Any charity for disadvantaged children works for me.
I knew my response was overly friendly and personal, flirtatious even. What was I on? I was feeling reckless and hit “send” before thinking it through; then I regretted it. I went back and forth on this until I saw a new message come up in my inbox.
Ronan,
Feel free to visualize whatever you like. It doesn’t change the fact that I have a scruffy beard, beer belly, and a gigantic tattoo of a topless mermaid on my arm.
SML
I laughed and immediately hit reply.
SML,
Just out of curiosity, what cup size is the mermaid?
Ronan
I went and made my night time protein shake. When I returned to my laptop twenty minutes later, I saw her reply.
Go to bed, Ronan.
And so I did.
Chapter Seven
The Fake-out: When the photographer pretends to be taking a picture of one thing (perhaps a group of people or a tourist attraction) but is instead taking a picture of something or someone else.
Best for: National monuments, locations of interest/note.
Do not use: If there is nothing interesting nearby.
*Annie*
The first gift arrived in the afternoon on March 14th.
When the building concierge called¸ I was still in my pajamas.
“Ms. Catrel, it’s Tony from downstairs. Sorry to call but you got a special delivery, and the guy here won’t let me sign for it.”
“Oh.... Are you sure it’s for me?”
“Yep. It says ‘Annie Catrel’ on the front.”
“Um…hmm.” I frowned, not sure what to do. I didn’t know anyone, not really. I had no friends in real life. Though I had some online friends and colleagues with whom I was friendly as The Socialmedialite, none of them knew who I really was or how to contact me, let alone where I lived.
“Do you want me to escort him to your apartment? Or do you want to come down here?”
“I guess I’ll come down.”
“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”
“No problem, Tony. ’Bye.”
I stared at the phone for a few seconds after clicking off and then rushed to dress in jeans, flip-flops, and a T-shirt, pulling my hair into a ponytail.
Downstairs I found Tony glaring unhappily at a courier who was holding a medium-sized box. I noted the man—really, a teenager by the looks of him—was wearing a T-shirt with a logo that read Tea and Sympathy over the left breast.
“Annie Catrel?” he asked.
“Yes.” I glanced at young man then at Tony.
“Here, this is for you.” The courier held out the box and placed it in my reluctant grip.
“Do I need to sign something?”
“No. I just had to make sure I gave it to you directly.” He gave me a boyish smile that told me that he’d enjoyed ruffling Tony’s feathers and then turned on his heel and walked out before I could question him further.
I gave Tony a compassionate look then escaped back up to my apartment. Once safely inside, I considered the package only briefly before cutting it open. Inside I found a glass-topped tea box filled with delicate little hand-filled and -labeled bags of tea. The box was teak or some other beautiful, rich wood. The teas ranged from Earl Grey to a special Tea and Sympathy blend.
I marveled at the lovely little pouches, smelling each. Soon I found I was smiling with wonder. I searched the box for some note as to who had sent it and then turned my attention back to the package it came in. At the bottom of the cardboard box was a card. It read:
Dear Ms. Catrel,
I hope this makes you hot.
Warmest regards, Ronan Fitzpatrick
My mouth fell open at the cheeky, albeit very succinct, note. I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
He was…he was so…he was such an unabashed flirt! And yet the tea was such a thoughtful gift. The fact that it was so perfect for me, something I would have wanted but never would have purchased for myself, gave me such a forceful buzz of delight.
Despite myself and my carefully honed instincts to never want or expect anything from anyone, I promptly went to the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea.
I also wanted to say thank you, but reaching out to Ronan as Annie Catrel could only lead to trouble. Therefore, as I waited for the pot to boil, I shot him a quick email from The Socialmedialite.
March 14
2:14 p.m.
Dear Ronan,
I see that you’re on Twitter now. I followed you; be sure to follow me back so we can interact.
&nbs
p; Also, I came across an article on online engagement. It’s entitled “Social Media Campaigns for the Beginner.” The link is in the attached document. I hope this helps.
-The Socialmedialite
It wasn’t a thank you, per se, but it was something small I could do to help him. In the karmic scheme of things, it would have to suffice. I hit “send” just as I heard the kettle whistle.
The tea didn’t make me hot. But it did warm me up, and it did make me smile.
***
March 15
12:32 a.m.
SML,
Thanks for the article. It was enlightening, but this still feels like a monumental waste of time. I’m sitting on my arse in front of a computer, staring at twatter, instead of actually doing something.
-R
March 15
12:45 a.m.
Ronan,
It’s Twitter, not “twatter.”
Twatter sounds like a very specialized vibrating tool of some sort. ;-)
-SML
March 15
12:52 a.m.
Twitter, twatter, fudder, motherfucker, I don’t care what it’s called.
I could be interacting with real people instead of this pretend interacting. How do you do this all the time? I would lose my mind.
-Ronan
March 15
7:18 a.m.
Dear Ronan,
I honestly enjoy it. I love interacting with people online. I feel like it’s a safe haven where people are free to be who they really are.
-SML
March 15
8:15 a.m.
Explain, please.
Why can’t you be who you really are at a doughnut shop or in the park? Why do you have to be online? I’m myself everywhere I go. It’s not limited to a pretend world created by nerdy perverts masturbating in their parents’ basements. You know the Internet was invented by porn-mongers, right?