Casual Sext

by Lisa Lace

  “You speak Italian?”

  “Not a word, but I’d really like to take you to lunch.”

  She laughs. “Deal.”

  Sophie

  I expected the messages to continue the next night. I’d even gone so far as to hope that they might lead to an invitation to meet. I’d stepped out of my comfort zone, and I was ready to tread further into this new and exciting world where inhibitions don’t exist.

  But, they stopped dead. No suggestive texts, no invitation; not so much as a winky face.

  I took a leap of faith and decided to be the first to reach out for round two.

  —Hi, it’s Sophie. Forget about me?

  I wait all day on Saturday, but nothing comes. I start to think that this guy—whoever he is—has gotten his rocks off, then ghosted me. I’m glad I never sent a picture.

  As Saturday nears to an end, I try again.

  —I had fun last night. I’d love to talk again.

  The hours tick by with no response. I think about how steamy those messages were and start to panic. Just who is it I’ve been talking to?

  I wonder why someone wouldn’t reply. Maybe they met someone else through the site. Maybe they do this for the thrill. Maybe they ghost women like me all the time.

  I’m a little tearful by the time I crawl into bed. I’ve taken a chance to do something entirely unlike me, and it’s backfired already. I feel cheap. I can’t believe this bastard won’t reply.

  Whenever one of my attempts to connect with a man goes wrong, I’m always reminded of Cole. I think of him now. In its time, our romance was perfect. I’ve never stopped longing for something that comes close to making me feel how I felt when I was with him, traveling the world.

  Cole buys me a slice of pizza by pointing at pieces in the display. We take our slices and sit at a table out front of the restaurant where we can watch the world go by. The top of the Leaning Tower is still visible from the backstreet we’ve wandered onto; even here, floods of tourists sweep by.

  “Are you on vacation?” I ask him.

  “Kind of,” he replies. “I’m building a photography portfolio. You guessed right—I want to be a photographer.”

  “That’s amazing. Have you traveled anywhere else?”

  “I’ve been working my way around Europe. I was in France last month, and Germany the month before.”

  “Incredible.”

  “How about you?”

  “I started with some of the other states—I’m from New York, originally. I went to Florida, then California. I did some work to pay for the next leg of the trip. Then I went to Spain and England.”

  “London?”

  “Of course.”

  “I went there a couple of years ago with my family. Are you traveling after Italy?”

  I nod. “I’m going to Asia next. Thailand.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Cole pulls out some paperwork from his backpack. “Visa for Thailand.”

  A smile spreads across my face. There’s a flutter in my stomach. This feels an awful lot like fate.

  I look up at Cole. He’s probably the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He’s twenty-one years old and gorgeous. His skin is tan, his eyes blue, his hair a sandy blond, short at the sides and long on the top. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a tight-fitting navy T-shirt which shows off his muscular arms and flat stomach, his camera slung around his neck. He looks like an action hero, a cross between Peter Parker and Indiana Jones.

  “Maybe we’ll run into each other again, then,” I say.

  “Maybe I’ll make sure we do.”

  I blink back tears, trying not to think about Cole or any of our adventures. Even a decade later, it still hurts.

  I pick up my cell. I deserve to feel a spark again.

  —I know you don’t know me very well, but I don’t usually do this kind of thing. It took a lot of guts to message you, so please don’t leave me hanging. Maybe we could meet and see if there’s a spark in the real world. Text me.

  No reply comes. I curl up under my duvet and go to sleep.

  I wonder if I said something wrong, or if my attempts at being sexy were actually just the cringe-inducing straw-clutching of a desperate woman. Either I did a terrible job at sounding attractive, or I was used and discarded.

  Isn’t that what Lena suggested you do to him if you didn’t click?

  This is why I’ve never gone down this road. I don’t have skin that’s thick enough.

  The next morning, I’m done. I fire off one last message.

  —I’m deleting this number.

  —Don’t. I think we should meet.

  I swing by Lena’s on my way to work the next morning to ask her for advice. I sit on the edge of her bed as she does her make-up in the mirror, ready to check in on the local branch of her restaurant.

  “So, let me get this straight,” she summarizes after I’ve filled her in. “You did send some sexts, got offended when he didn’t come back for more, sent a passive-aggressive text calling him out on it, and somehow turned it into a date?” She casts me a sympathetic gaze. “I’m not sure you get this strings-free type of dating, Sophie.”

  “You think I shouldn’t meet him, then?”

  “I’m not saying that. It’s up to you.”

  I fiddle with the frilly edge of her pillowcase. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Clearly. Because from the story you told me, you asked him to meet you, and now you’re getting cold feet. Make up your mind! Are you a spontaneous, free-spirited single woman, or not?”

  I was a spontaneous, free-spirited single woman once when I let a stranger I met in Italy convince me to change my flight to match his so we could travel to Thailand together.

  “I don’t know, Lena. Maybe I should call the whole thing off.”

  Lena shrugs. “It’s your choice; just stay safe. If you’re meeting this guy, tell me where and when so I can check in on you.” She pulls a comb through her short hair, carefully styling her fringe, then she turns back over her shoulder to me. “Did you figure out which guy it was?”

  “No idea.”

  She laughs. “Maybe it’s more fun that way.”

  I nod. “You know what? I’m going to do it.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. I’m sick of the same routine over and over. I get up, I get dressed, I go to the bank, I come home from the bank, I eat alone, I watch TV alone, I go to bed alone. It’s been like that for far too long. You’re right; let’s mix it up a little.”

  Lena claps her hands in delight. “Go, you! I like this version of Sophie. Are you going to message him back?”

  “I’m doing it—now.”

  I press “send” on my reply: Great. Tell me where and when

  —Tonight. George’s Wine Bar and Bistro, Eighth Avenue, Midtown. 8pm. Meet you there?

  —See you there.

  I grin as I send my response, then let out a little squeal. “Am I really doing this?”

  “You’re really doing this! You’re going to meet someone who might very well have a sex drive.”

  “I wish I knew which one it was.”

  “Do you find any of them attractive?”

  I bite down on my lip. “Connor is my type, I suppose.”

  “Let me guess: looks like a Ken doll.”

  I give her a playful shove. “We all have a type.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Dave is really not my cup of tea. He looks like one of those old-fashioned muscle men with the dumbbells and curly mustaches and stupid leotards.”

  “Does he have a mustache?”

  “No. But that’s all it would take.” I scrutinize his photo again, making a face.

  “And the other one?”

  “Noah. It’s not that he’s unattractive, but he only has the one photo, and it’s so weird and stagey. More like he’s trying to win a client than a date.”

  “Well, one of them is obviously a red-blooded male who thinks you’re sexy. I
hope you’re pleasantly surprised.”

  “Me, too.” I glance at the time on my cell and sigh. “Better get off to work.” I slip my feet back into my court shoes and let out a dramatic sigh. “When will I get my own chain of stores, so that I can do absolutely nothing all day?”

  Lena laughs. “I’m sure your fortunes are just around the corner, sweetie.”

  I squeeze her shoulder. “I’m meeting mystery man at 8 tonight on Eighth Street. George’s Wine Bar and Bistro. I’ll try to send you a message once I’m there to let you know everything’s okay.”

  She grins, laying her hand on mine. “Have fun, you little minx.”

  Cole

  I dress up to meet her, a nervous lump in my throat. My hands are clammy. I keep wiping them on my pants as I wait for her at the bar. I’m sitting on a high stool; my feet keep slipping. I glance at myself in the mirror behind the bar. Jesus, I’ve aged. I wonder if she’ll even recognize me.

  It’s a trendy joint; the kind of place where the bartenders throw bottles around and the cocktails have ridiculous names like “swamp rat” and “cherry bomb.” The lights are very dim. It smells like polished oak and women’s perfume.

  The people inside are mostly young professionals on nights out. A woman with a slinky back-baring blouse looks over her shoulder at me seductively, closing her lips around her pink straw. I look away.

  After I realized it was definitely Sophie, my intention to ghost her didn’t go as planned. She sent a message telling that it took guts to reply to me, calling me out for vanishing.

  I pictured her sitting alone, staring at her phone, wondering what she’d done wrong. Sophie always second-guessed herself.

  I’m telling myself that reaching out to Sophie is an act of compassion so that she doesn’t believe a man shrugged her off, but that’s not the whole truth. I’ve always wondered what happened to her. I always felt guilty for how things ended between us. Maybe this is my chance to have some closure.

  The bartender is watching me—I’ve been here for an hour already, having a drink to ease my nerves before my date with the past.

  Suddenly, Sophie appears, and she hasn’t changed at all. She enters by the stairs at the far end of the underground bar. Her fair hair, just as long as the day I met her, shines under the low lights. The style is more mature than I remember, shaped around her face, a few highlights gleaming. Her long, shapely legs stretch out from beneath her classic little black dress, stilettos on her feet. She’s in good shape, her figure a perfect hourglass.

  She looks like she did a decade ago, except maybe a little more sophisticated than she was back then. She peers around the bar expectantly. When she spots me, her mouth falls open slightly, and she gazes around again, as though hoping to see somebody else.

  Her eyes meet mine. I hold her gaze. Now she understands. I’m the one you’re here to meet.

  Something electric stirs through me. My heart beats faster at the sight of her standing there, and a thousand memories come flooding back. All at once, I feel ten years younger to see her, and painfully aware of how I’m no longer twenty-one.

  No longer a success.

  She looks like a deer caught in the headlights, so I stand and go to her before she can turn and flee. “Sophie. It’s good to see you.”

  Her eyebrows draw together in confusion. She looks around again, then back to me. I can see tears in her eyes that she refuses to let fall. They hang there until she closes her eyes tightly and wills them back.

  When she opens them again, her gaze is crystal clear and accusing.

  “Come sit with me.”

  As she follows me back to the bar, her expression is full of suspicion. She places her little black purse on the counter, and sits on a stool, one leg crossed over the other. Her eyes are narrow.

  She growls at me, “What the fuck, Cole?”

  I hold up my hands. “Please, let me explain.”

  “I can’t believe this.” She shakes her head, scowling. “What the hell is going on?”

  “It’s not what it seems like.”

  “It seems like you dug out my number and tricked me into sending you those messages and meeting you here.”

  “That’s not what happened.” She’s staring at me so intently that it feels like my words are drying up. She’s so beautiful. I clear my throat. “I’m seeing someone called Sophia.”

  Sophie’s face is stony. “Are you saying you messaged me by mistake?”

  “I’m so sorry. I broke my cell, so I used my old one as a back-up. The contacts merged. I must have sent the message to you by mistake. When I realized, I stopped writing back. I didn’t want to lead you on—plus I thought there was no way it could actually be you. I mean, who still has the same number ten years later?”

  “I always ask for the number to be transferred,” she replies tightly. “You know I don’t like making life more complicated than it has to be.”

  “I wanted you to know what happened. When you sent that message saying how hard it had been for you to talk to this guy in the first place, I felt bad.”

  “And you thought the best thing to do was to let me think I was going on a date? I get dressed up and come to a romantic wine bar so that you could tell me this whole thing was a slip of the hand, and you’re very happy with a woman whose name is oh-so-funnily so similar to mine?”

  “When you say it like that, it makes me sound like a moron.”

  “You are a moron, Cole. What kind of dumbass thinks this is the best way to explain a situation like this? A simple ‘sorry, wrong number’ would have cleared it up. God, this is so like you. Always finding drama.” She grabs her purse and stands. “I’m going to go. Next time you sext the wrong woman, don’t let it go this far. I’m really embarrassed.”

  I grab her arm. “Please don’t leave. I’m genuinely sorry I’ve handled this so badly, but it really is good to see you. Won’t you stay for a drink—for old time’s sake?”

  Sophie falters. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She glances toward the door, then back at me. She raises her hands. “Fine.” She returns to her seat.

  I beckon the waiter before she can change her mind. “Vodka and cranberry, please. And a red wine for me.”

  Sophie raises her eyebrows. “You remember.”

  “Of course, I do. Remember when we tried to learn the word for ‘cranberry’ in Thailand? How could I ever forget your drink after that debacle?”

  A shadow of a smile appears at the edge of her lips, but she purses them quickly and throws her wave of hair back over her shoulder with a cold shrug. “It’s been a long time since Thailand. Are you still traveling all over the world?”

  I bow my head. I can hardly bear to tell her the truth. “No. It didn’t work out.”

  Her jaw clenches tighter. She says she’s sorry in a neutral tone, but her body language tells me that there’s a well of bitterness inside—and I don’t blame her. My devotion to my career was what tore us apart, and now there’s no career—and no us.

  “You’re not a photographer anymore?”

  “Wedding photography.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story. Maybe another time. What about you?”

  “I’m still at the bank.”

  “That’s great.”

  We exchange an uncomfortable glance. Sophie didn’t want to work at the bank forever. She’d dreamed of going to college; a dream she put on hold while I built my own career. A career that is now in ashes.

  “It’s not what I imagined I’d be doing ten years later, but I don’t hate it. I’m up for promotion in the next few months.”

  “Fantastic. I always knew you’d do great things.”

  “Did you? Because my career never seemed to be as important as yours.”

  “You know I always planned to make it up to you.” I reach out and place my hand on her forearm. “You know I regret the way our marriage ended.”

&n
bsp; “So, it’s a marriage now? I remember you using the word ‘elopement’ at least a dozen times when we went our separate ways.”

  “It was what it was. I still regret giving you false hope. I guess we had different ideas of what the marriage would be. Maybe we should never have rushed in so quickly.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re single now, then?”

  “Really, Cole?”

  “What? I’m interested.”

  “Yes, I’m single. And I’m working in the same job. And I’m living in a cheap apartment.” She casts me a seething glare, and I bow my head.

  “I’ve thought about you a lot over the years.”

  She doesn’t reply. She squeezes her eyes shut. Her expression is pained. She swallows back tears and grabs her purse. “This is too weird. I’m going home.”

  “Let me call you a cab, at least.”

  Sophie holds up a hand and shakes her head. “No. Thank you.”

  She sweeps out the bar without looking back. I glance at her untouched vodka-cranberry, and an emptiness stirs within me. I gaze at the stairway where she was.

  I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed her.

  I stand in front of the ruins at Sukhothai Historical Park. Twilight is drawing in, casting a purple and orange glow over the remnants of the royal palaces and Buddhist temples.

  The view is something else, but nothing compares to the look of wonder on Sophie’s face. I thread my arm around her, and she leans into my chest. Her long hair is drawn back into a ponytail, those sunglasses still perched on her head. The redness has gone from her face and turned tan, a few freckles emerging now that her skin has seen more of the sun.

  We’ve only been traveling together for a couple of weeks, but I already feel like this girl is meant for me. In all the months I’ve been on the road, no moment has been more special than this one right now.

  I turn to her. “I don’t want to go our separate ways tomorrow. Let’s scrap our plans and start again—together.”