by J B Glazer
“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love with someone you just met?” I ask her.
“Wow. OK. So we’re talking about love.”
“I didn’t say I was in love with him. I just want to know if you think it’s possible to love someone you haven’t known long.”
“Yes. God yes! I can’t believe this. You’re in love with him.”
“That’s crazy. I mean, I don’t know what it even feels like to be in love. And we’ve only known each other for what, two days? I don’t even know his name.”
“Lucy Chalmers, I never would’ve expected this from you! I think it’s fantastic. He may be anonymous,” Trish says. “But you know him. Intimately it seems. I wish I could meet this Mr. Anonymous.”
I blush. “I referred to him as Coffee Guy. But I like Mr. Anonymous better. It sounds more mysterious.” I shake my head at her and laugh. “You and your nicknames. And yes, I guess you’re right that I know him intimately. His name is just a fact about him, but not a defining part of who he is. I know the real Mr. Anonymous—not just who he is on the surface.”
“Think about it this way. People spend what, maybe three hours on a date? And you’ve been with him for more than forty-eight. So it’s as if you’ve gone on sixteen dates.”
I laugh. I like that analogy.
“I know I’ve fallen for him. But maybe it’s lust and not love. How do you really know the difference?”
“Luce,” she says. “If it were lust you’d want him purely for sex. But if it’s love you want the whole package. From what you’ve described, this is what love feels like.”
“Then I never want to let it go.”
She smiles and reaches for my hand. “So don’t.”
I know my feelings for him run deep. And that I fell hard. I kind of suspected it might be love. But I still can’t say for sure. I never loved Toby so I don’t have a relationship to serve as a point of comparison, but Trish validated everything I’ve been feeling. Our talk turns to work and the Robica wedding. Trish came up with the moniker for Rob and Veronica. “It’s too long to say both their names all the time,” she complained.
I look at my watch and realize I should head home. I left in such a hurry this morning and my place is a disaster.
“So what’s next?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I gave him my number.”
“Wait. So then did you tell him your name?”
“No. I put it under A for Anonymous. We said we’d tell each other our names when he calls me. I figured it would be an incentive. But I haven’t heard from him yet.”
That’s the one dark spot hanging over an otherwise perfect day.
“You will. He doesn’t need your name as an incentive. He has you.”
“Thanks. I owe you.”
“Yeah ya do. Lucy, I’m so so happy for you.”
We stand to go and she gives me a hug. I hug her back even though I’m not the touchy feely type.
Trish knows this and regards me through narrowed eyes.
“You’re a changed woman already.”
I smile as we part ways. As I hand the valet my ticket, I once again check my phone. No texts. No calls. I brush away the stab of disappointment. We saw one another this morning, I remind myself. But it seems like it’s been longer. He’s quickly becoming a drug that I need.
When I get home I straighten up the mess that is my apartment. I bend down to pick up some clothes on the floor and discover his black waffle shirt. I pull it over my head and wrap myself in it—in him. His scent still lingers on the fabric. When I close my eyes it’s as if he’s here with me. The memories of our weekend together come rushing back. I finish cleaning up then climb into bed. I reach out and touch the space that he occupied only hours ago. I’ve slept on my own my whole life, but suddenly my bed seems empty without him. I feel empty without him. My eyes are heavy with sleep, and I drift off with his shirt wrapped around me, thoughts of him in my dreams. Who are you, Mr. Anonymous?
Chapter 15
When I wake up I immediately check my phone. No messages. Maybe he’s playing it cool. The two-day rule or whatever that is. I wouldn’t know. But he doesn’t seem like the type to play games. Especially after what we shared. I rub the sleep from my eyes then hop in the shower. I blow dry my hair straight, style it in my usual deep side part, and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look the same, but I feel like a different person. The type of person who now knows what it’s like to be part of something bigger. For so long I’ve never thought of a future much beyond my career. But now I’ve seen the possibilities of what it could be like to share it with someone. How much better it would be to have someone by my side. Him. Mr. Anonymous.
I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone. But in the short time we spent together, he managed to tear down my walls. Walls I had spent so long building I thought they were impenetrable. I don’t know how he did it. I wish I could say because it’s a mystery even to me. But there’s just something about him I find irresistible. So irresistible I’m willing to go beyond my comfort zone to get into his. He’d better not let me down. I don’t think I could recover from something like this.
I head into work and go through my day. My phone is my constant companion, which isn’t unusual. But checking it every few minutes is. Still nothing. I head to bed that night depressed. I wrap his shirt around me and lie awake, thoughts of him running through my head. I check the clock hour after hour, still unable to fall sleep. Again, I reflect on what a difference twenty-four hours can make. Yesterday I was on cloud nine. Today I’m slowly being reeled into the cold, harsh reality that I may never hear from him.
Numb
So cold,
I cannot feel the ground beneath my feet.
But I know that it’s there,
It caught me when I fell.
If only I could sink beneath it.
The week passes and nothing. Not a word. I head into work on Friday and go through the motions, but my mind is not really in the game. At eleven I head to see my gynecologist. I made an appointment yesterday because I have an itchy, burning feeling that isn’t going away. She tells me I have a yeast infection. Go figure. He leaves me with nothing but that as a parting gift. It seems fitting.
“Have you been doing things differently? Changing your diet?”
Just lots of sex with a random stranger. That’ll do it. I also realize I should tell her we had unprotected sex. Thankfully she doesn’t lecture me—I don’t think I could handle that right now. I’m well aware I made a very bad choice and the risk that comes with it. Instead she says she’ll run a test and do some bloodwork to confirm I’m not pregnant and rule out any STDs. Oh my God. I am such an idiot. How could I have let my emotions make such an important decision? And now I’m faced with the harsh reality of the possible repercussions.
Right as I’m leaving she says, “Lucy, it’s been awhile since you’ve been in. We haven’t discussed your future plans. But now it seems that we should. Are you planning on starting a family?”
Her question catches me off-guard.
“I’m not sure. Not anytime soon, I hope. But with the right person, yes.”
“Then it’s time you think about your options. With your age you should consider freezing your eggs, assuming you’re not pregnant. I’ll leave some literature for you.”
I try not to think about what she just said. I compartmentalize it along with every other depressing topic I don’t want to deal with. Just as I’m finishing getting dressed a nurse enters the room. She leaves some pamphlets on the counter along with my prescription. I take the prescription but leave the brochures. Please don’t let me be pregnant. I don’t think I am because I’m very in tune with my body. So I think I’d know. At this rate I’m not planning to have a family anytime soon. Just once, I had let my mind go in that direction. Something I never dared to think about before. And now all I can show for it is a raging yeast infection and yet another person who abandoned me. All the insecurities I have
about being unwanted resurface, rearing their ugly heads. I’ve spent so long fighting the darkness. I’m so tired of it. Perhaps it’s just easier to give in. That’s the thing about falling. At some point you hit the ground.
The Crush
Falling…
Falling…
Fallen.
Rock bottom.
CRUSHED.
By Friday afternoon I’ve accepted the fact he’s not going to call me. How could I have gotten things so wrong? I can’t believe how much I misjudged him and his intentions. I’m usually pretty good at reading people. Or so I thought. I guess it’s his thing. He showed off his mad mentalist skills. He probably saw me for who I truly am: a girl who puts up an aloof front but is desperate to be loved.
I leave work long after everyone else has gone. I like the quiet. The hours pass and soon I realize it’s after nine. I haven’t eaten but I don’t have much of an appetite. I decide a long drive will do me good. Even though it’s only thirty degrees out I put the top down. I want the wind in my hair and the biting cold against my skin. I want to feel something other than the numbness that’s taken over.
I blast the heat and drive with no real destination in mind. Buying a convertible is one of the craziest things I’ve done—make that the second craziest. Agreeing to Trish’s bet and spending the weekend with Mr. Anonymous tops the list. Anyway, owning a convertible in a city like Chicago isn’t practical. It goes against my very nature. But I’ve always wanted one. So when I finally saved up enough to buy my first car it had to be a convertible. There’s just something freeing about driving with the top down. I love the warmth of the sun kissing my skin and the breeze that whips through my hair, making me look wild and carefree. It’s the only time I allow myself to feel that way. I should mention I did buy a white model. According to research white is the safest color car and less likely to be involved in crashes. So I guess I can’t even do something crazy without an element of practicality.
But there’s nothing practical about letting a virtual stranger steal your heart. And now I’m suffering the consequences. I push my foot harder on the accelerator. Pieces of our conversation play through my mind.
I need us to be a thing.
You’re like a drug.
The more I have of you the more I want.
I look at the speedometer and I’m doing seventy, now eighty. I know I should slow down, but for once I want to be reckless.
I want no one else’s name to ever touch your lips. You’re mine.
For the first time I’m open to sharing my life with someone else.
Being with you just makes things better.
I need to see you again.
Promise me you’ll never lie to me.
He’s the liar. Lies. Lies. Lies. I don’t even know who he is or what to believe.
I could fall in love with you.
Perhaps that was the biggest lie of all. I slam the steering wheel in frustration as tears stream down my face. Fortunately at this hour Lake Shore Drive is fairly clear. Because if someone saw me right now they would think I’ve gone mad. Maybe I have. I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I suddenly realize my surroundings no longer look familiar. I try to find a street sign but don’t know where I am.
It goes without saying I’m completely and utterly lost. In every sense of the word.
With the help of the GPS I make my way back to my apartment. George is manning the desk. He waves to me as I walk past and I attempt to head straight to the elevators. But he gets up and stops me. “Late night?”
“Yeah. I just needed to clear my head,” I tell him.
“Out for a drive?” he asks, eyeing my keys.
“Yep.”
I usually love his company but I’m in no mood for small talk.
“Are you OK, Lucy?”
I nod even though I’m nowhere near being OK.
“You’re one of my favorites, you know. You need anything, come find me. I may look old, but I’ve still got some good punches left.”
I laugh for the first time in a week. His words of compassion bring on the threat of fresh tears. But I manage to hold them back. I head upstairs and let myself into my apartment. My boots echo on the hardwood floors, a reminder of how empty it is. It’s never bothered me before, but now it feels lonely.
I get undressed and wrap myself in his waffle shirt. I toss and turn but I can’t get to sleep. As long as I’m wide awake I may as well do some writing. I take out my journal and quickly skip past the pages where I was in a state of ignorant bliss. I should probably burn them. They’re so out of character with the rest of my poems anyway. But I decide not to because then I’d be erasing the only tangible memories I have left of him—aside from his shirt. I inhale deeply and I can still smell him, though the scent is getting fainter.
Lost
Organized
Efficient
Orderly
Systematic
Methodical
Trying to prevent the inevitable.
So much time preparing, searching.
Scared of losing something,
Only to discover it’s someone.
But how can you lose something that’s not yours?
Lost.
Alone… Again.
I place my notebook back on my nightstand and let the tears I’ve been trying to hold back fall. I look at my butterfly collection and the Palos Verdes Blue is on the bottom shelf where he left it, as though it’s mocking me. I hurl it across the room and watch as it smashes to pieces.
Chapter 16
Trish
I’m putting an arrangement together for a potential client. She wants white roses—and lots of them. Now what to put it in? I look through my supply closet filled with vases of every size, shape, and color until I find the perfect option: it’s tall and silver-lined with a hint of old-world glamour. I stand back and admire my work. Something’s missing. The centerpiece would look better mixed with another flower. I try out white hydrangea and it softens the look. Perfect. I’m not sure about the height, so I make another option in a smaller scale. My phone vibrates, indicating I have a new text. It startles me and I accidentally poke myself on one of the thorns. Damn it. A small trickle of blood appears. I put my finger in my mouth to stop the bleeding. That’s all I need. Blood spatter ruining the purity of my white flowers. I’d take it as a bad omen, but I don’t believe in that voodoo stuff. Speaking of, I glance at my phone and it’s a text from Lucy.
Lucy: How are the centerpieces coming along for Robica?
Me: Finishing up for another bride. Then I’ll get started. It’s going to be stunning
Lucy: Perfect
Me: Any word?
Lucy: Nothing
Ugh. I begin typing “let me know if he calls.” Strike that. I immediately erase it and write “let me know when he calls.”
Lucy: I’m not holding my breath
Neither am I. This Mr. Anonymous is infuriating. I’m pissed because the bet was my idea. Not to mention the fact that I picked him out for her. In my defense, it was supposed to be a one-night stand. Who knew she’d fall so hard for the guy? He is easy on the eyes, but I figured she’d have a good lay and move on. At least he didn’t knock her up. That was the one bright spot she shared in our last convo. My mouth almost hit the floor when she said it was a possibility. I swear I want to cut off his balls. I’ve never seen her hurting like this before. Probably because she never dates anyone. And thanks to me she probably won’t want to date anyone for a long time. Or ever. Sigh.
I love Lucy. Ha! Not the show. She’s one of my closest friends. It’s funny because I wasn’t crazy about her when we first met. I thought she was your typical high-strung event planner. Dreams brought me in to do arrangements for an event. It was for some local government municipality. The chairwoman was a real piece of work and acted as though the President himself would be there. She was such a stress case—couldn’t make up her mind. We met to talk about her vision for the flowers. She wavered on
style, color, you name it. I told her I knew just the thing that would be perfect for the event. I put together a sample for her, hoping once she saw it she would be convinced. She made a few changes but at least we had a decision.
On the day of the party, she went ballistic when she saw the flowers. Said it wasn’t what she agreed to, the changes I made weren’t what we discussed, blah, blah, blah. I consulted my notes and couldn’t figure out where the miscommunication happened. I made the arrangements exactly as she specified. I hadn’t worked with Lucy before and figured she’d fire me just to appease her client. I was a new vendor and she owed me nothing. But she had integrity. She very firmly told Chairzilla that I did exactly what she asked for. Lucy got a kick out of that one. It’s kind of my thing, making up clever nicknames for people. Anyway, Lucy managed to smooth things over by troubleshooting different options. The three of us came up with an alternative that I could make happen on our timeline. Mere hours. I think Chairzilla just wanted to put her personal stamp on things, which Lucy somehow sensed. Maybe she regretted agreeing to the first thing I put together. Or maybe she just liked being difficult. Bi-polar perhaps?
Anyway, I had a lot of respect for the way Lucy handled the situation. I invited her for a drink after and she declined. It took three months of working together before she agreed to go out with me socially. At first I thought she didn’t want to mix business with pleasure, but then I realized she is very slow to warm up. Our shared hatred of Charlotte helped. That one’s a nutcase. Hatred may be a strong word, but I really can’t stand her. Charlotte always treats me like a vendor who’s there to serve her. She’s nothing like Lucy.
My phone buzzes again, and this time it’s a text from Dax, wondering where I am. Dax is my boyfriend of three years. Lucy keeps asking me why I won’t marry him. So does my mother. She loves reminding me of the fact that I’m thirty-eight and not getting any younger. I’m not opposed to marriage. Hell, it’s what I do for a living. But that’s the problem. I’m too busy planning other people’s weddings. I don’t have time to think about my own. Dax has brought up the subject on many occasions. I know he’d love to make things official. But I’ve always evaded the topic, and he’s stopped asking.