Reality Blurred

by Aven Ellis

  I study it, transfixed by his words. Maxime seems haunted by our missed connection in Brussels. He remembers my despair in the café that night; he saw the look of sadness in my eyes. Something about these photos with their false headline compelled him to action.

  This is how a real man acts.

  I begin to type a response:

  Maxime, nice to hear from you. I

  Wait, does that sound like a business reply? I delete it and start over:

  Maxime, thank you for reaching out. I

  Thank you for reaching out? Is that how I reply to an interesting, sexy, mysterious, European man that I wish I had the opportunity to know better?

  I bite my lip. Do I want to know him better? After all, my judgment doesn’t have a stellar record. I thought Tom was wonderful. Bleurgh. He turned out to be a colossal wanker, as Sierra’s British boyfriend, Jude, would say. I type what I really need to ask Maxime:

  Maxime, you aren’t a wanker, are you? Because I really don’t think my self-esteem could take it if I was wrong again regarding men.

  I laugh as I type. Now that would be an interesting reply. I’m about to hit delete when I go on autopilot and hit a different button instead.

  The send button.

  GAH! SHIT! I JUST HIT SEND BY MISTAKE! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

  In a panic, I think of how to fix this, but what can I say? I typed out the answer as a joke to myself?

  I shouldn’t be allowed to have a phone.

  Ding!

  A new message from Maxime drops in:

  I can assure you I’m not a wanker.

  My face is raging like an inferno, and I want to throw up. How on earth do I recover from this? What do I say? I was joking? I was hacked?

  Maxime will never talk to me again.

  I toss the phone aside and pull my blanket over my head like the child I apparently am.

  I must reply.

  HOW DO I REPLY?

  I throw the covers off and pick up the phone, dying inside as I read Maxime’s reply.

  I stare down at the message.

  What must Maxime be thinking? I asked him if he was a wanker.

  I cringe.

  I don’t want to know what he’s thinking.

  Okay. I need to be an adult and respond and wish Maxime the best in life because I’ll never see him again.

  Wait. We live in the same town. I could see him all the time. Like at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s or on Pearl Street.

  I need to apply for a new job.

  Preferably in Tokyo.

  I force down the nausea rising in my throat and begin to type, which is hard to do with such shaky hands. Before I know it, the words are flowing from my fingertips:

  I feel better now that you have confirmed you’re not a wanker. I felt like I needed to hear that even though I know there’s NO WAY you could be a wanker. Your sweet message tells me you’re not. And you’re right. I went to get some confetti donuts and coffee. For the record, I bought two. That’s not a binge. Who can eat just one donut, anyway? There’s something fundamentally wrong with that. But I should have skipped the latte; my coffee at home was better than that water they tried to pass off as coffee. I also ended up adopting two terrified kittens, and I dropped cat food in the pet store, and a bag of kibble exploded in my face. This does not mean I’m mourning Tom, because trust me, he is a FOR REAL wanker and I’m beyond over him. As in that was an infinity ago. It’s hard to go out with people constantly labeling each experience of my life. I know I went on the show. I know I “should have known” this would happen, but that’s like saying you “should have known” you could fall off a bike before getting on it. Does that mean you never ride a bike? NO. I took a chance going on the show, but I didn’t think, this many months later, people would still be obsessed with everything I do and attribute my actions to feelings that I don’t have. By the way, I’m posting this at the end of a long day, so I’m sorry I just verbally threw up on you and wrote you a message the size of War and Peace. Don’t feel like you have to message me back because I’m obviously crazy.

  I hit send, deciding to let reality happen. I told him exactly what I’m thinking. This is my reality, not blurred. I addressed everything and gracefully gave Maxime an out, which he will no doubt take me up on because he is a normal man who doesn’t want a bag full of crazy in his life. I lay back against my pillows.

  Ding!

  Maxime has replied.

  I click it open, my heart pounding as I wait for his message to pop up. As soon as it does, I read it:

  What kind of coffee do you drink at home?

  I gasp in shock. He’s not fazed by my message! I feel a smile spread across my face, and I message him back:

  Café de Cuba Nespresso. Dark roast and very tasty. Do you drink coffee?

  I hit send and wait.

  Maxime is typing …

  Nespresso is good. I can’t stand American coffee. It’s horrible. What did you think of the coffee in Brussels?

  Now I’m grinning like an idiot. I reply:

  Brussels had AMAZING coffee. I couldn’t get enough of it.

  I hit send, eager to see how this conversation develops.

  I don’t have to wait long for Maxime to continue:

  Have you ever had ‘t Molentje?

  I text him back:

  Will you hold it against me if I’ve never even heard of it?

  He replies:

  You’re from California, so no, I won’t. That wouldn’t be fair. That’s something a wanker would do, and we both agree I’m not a wanker.

  Oh, I like this cute side of him. It’s the first glimpse I’ve seen of it. I grin and message him back:

  That’s very generous of you. I promise the next time I’m in Belgium, I will look for it.

  Maxime Laurent is typing …

  Well, because I’m so generous, and not a wanker, I should fix this for you.

  Oh! I hold my breath as I wait for his response:

  Maxime Laurent is typing …

  I have ‘t Molentje in my kitchen. I import it.

  I swear I can’t breathe as he continues to type. I’m dying as I wait for his next response to drop in, and finally, it does:

  If you are inclined, you could come over and have a cup of Belgian coffee with a Belgian.

  I think my heart is going to burst inside my chest. I type back:

  When are you thinking this cup of Belgian coffee with a Belgian should happen?

  His reply is instant:

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter Three

  I stare at my phone in shock.

  Maxime asked me over for a cup of coffee.

  My hands begin shaking with excitement as I reply:

  I would like that. I do have to pick up my kittens tomorrow, but I’d love to have coffee with you first.

  Maxime Laurent is typing …

  I have practice tomorrow morning. I’ll eat lunch there before driving back. Let’s say 2 p.m.?

  I’m grinning as I happily type back my response:

  That sounds perfect.

  Maxime shoots back his address and closes with one last message:

  Goodnight, Skye. Sweet dreams.

  I wish him the same and then fall back onto my pillow, holding the phone out so I can read his words over and over.

  For once, I’m grateful for the awfully invasive pictures that people snapped of me today. Yes, the world thinks I’m bingeing donuts, buying cat food, and preparing to celebrate Valentine’s Day with tissues and sugar, but I don’t care.

  I know what matters is my reality.

  I’m having coffee with Maxime.

  I stare at his last words to me before placing the phone back on the charger.

  Sweet dreams indeed, I think happily.

  ***

  Celebrate Life with Sprinkles—The Blog

  Opportunities

  I work on my blog in an attempt to focus on something other than my coffee date.

  Of course, it is a big fa
t fail because it took me all morning to write a post that should have taken an hour, if I could have concentrated without drifting off to think of a certain sexy Belgian hockey player, with luscious brown hair streaked with gold and intense blue-green eyes.

  I decided to use my coffee date with Maxime as inspiration for my post. I read it one more time before I schedule it to run later this afternoon:

  If you read my blog on a regular basis, you know I’m a big believer in opportunities presenting themselves if you are open to receiving them. I often think about the things I want in life. What do I aspire to be? How do I want to continue to grow? When I run in the mornings, I think about my life vision. I prepare myself to take chances on opportunities, like the one to come out to Colorado to follow my career dream.

  Maybe you are looking to establish new relationships. Are you open and receptive to meeting new people? Do you put yourself in places for these opportunities to happen?

  Sometimes, they can be completely out of the blue, like an invitation to coffee. The opportunity to get to know someone who intrigues you. It’s a simple opportunity that could lead to making a connection with someone. And isn’t that a beautiful thing, when you find someone you can truly connect with in this world?

  Be open. Think about what you want, what you need, and what your goals and dreams are.

  Then be brave and take the opportunities when presented. XO Skye

  I smooth my hands over the ends of my hair, re-reading my words and hoping someone out there might read them and be inspired to seize new opportunities, whether they are big, like a new job, or small, like a cup of coffee.

  Except I know this cup of coffee is not a small opportunity.

  I schedule the time for my blog to go live. Then I go to my bathroom to check myself before heading over to Maxime’s house. I study my appearance in the mirror, seeing the truth reflected in my blue eyes.

  This is a huge opportunity to get to know a man who interests me.

  I haven’t felt this way in ages; I’m full of excitement to meet a man and get to know him. This time, it will be different. There will be no cameras or fancy dates. No producers playing with my head to get the responses they want for sound bites.

  This will be real. In the world we exist in, not one created for a TV audience.

  And I’m not the same woman I was the last time I dated.

  I will be cautious. I will get to know Maxime over time. I will not go trusting fate and tumbling head over heels into Stupidland like I did for Tom. Getting my passport stamped in the country once was more than enough.

  I fluff my hair with my fingers, watching the waves tumble past my shoulders. I’ve done the makeup I wear when I’m not on camera: a champagne-colored crème eye shadow, a pop of bronzer across my cheeks, a bit of mascara, and my beloved Charlotte Tilbury nude lipstick in Hepburn Honey, a shade that looks beautiful and soft against my fair skin. I also give myself a nice spritz of J’adore by Dior on my wrists and neck, and I breathe deep as the beautiful floral scent mists over my skin.

  I walk down the hall, pick up my winter boots, and review my approach for this opportunity to get to know Maxime as I sit down on the sofa.

  It’s okay to be excited by the prospect of getting to know him, but after a romantic crash and burn on national TV, and knowing my past judgment of men is crap, the last thing I need is to dive headfirst into anything other than a cup of coffee.

  I mean, not that Maxime is interested in anything other than coffee. I can’t assume he is, right?

  We’re two people who live in the same town, simply hanging out and having a conversation over ceramic mugs and getting better acquainted.

  That’s it.

  But if it’s not …

  I will be smart. My brain will rule instead of my flighty heart. I finish changing into my winter gear, complete with a hat, scarf, and gloves, and head downstairs to my car.

  My teeth chatter as the underground parking garage wraps me in bone-chilling cold. Surely this gets better with time, right? I have to adjust to my new environment without thinking I’m going to die of frostbite whenever I head outside. For a brief second, I long for the palm trees and ocean of Laguna Beach, where I grew up. I want to feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and the salty air drift over me as I take a morning walk along the shore.

  My old home.

  I still can’t believe I up and moved to Colorado. I grew up in California, and the bulk of Is It Love? was shot in Los Angeles.

  It’s all I’ve ever known.

  Now my life is full of unknowns, from living in a new state to starting my first professional job as a lifestyle reporter, but this is exactly what I need. A fresh start, away from the person I was on Is It Love?, as the person I am now.

  I’m stronger. Braver.

  More careful.

  I hit the key fob and unlock my hunter green Acura MDX. I slip behind the wheel, desperate to crank up the heat and get warm. I was grateful my SUV made the drive out here without dying. It’s the car my parents gifted me when I turned sixteen. It’s been through high school, college, and internships at TV networks that had me driving for errands all over Los Angeles.

  Now it has taken me to Boulder.

  Fingers crossed it can hold on until I have enough in the bank for a down payment for a new car.

  I turn the key, and the car slowly comes to life. I exhale, seeing my breath escape from my lips in frozen puffs. As I think about money, an offer from a publisher in New York flashes through my head. They want a book chronicling my experience on Is It Love? It’s tempting. I turn on the heat, thinking of how easy it would be to share my story. I could explain how naïve I was and how I existed in the show’s bubble, swept up by the most romantic dates a girl could ever imagine. I could describe the crushing blow of rejection, the public humiliation as the show aired, and the pressure of being cast as America’s Sweetheart. I think I have a lot to share about my experience, and some of it could help women.

  But I don’t know if now is the time to do it. I’m starting over. The new career that I’m building is based on truth, not the fabricated image of sweet, cupcake-loving Skye. While the book would be my truth, it would also bring back to life Is It Love? Skye and not Skye Reeve.

  The woman I so desperately want to be now.

  I clear my throat, putting the book idea away for the moment. I put Maxime’s address into my phone, as I need GPS help to find anything in Boulder, and head out. I turn up Jessie James Decker’s “All Filled Up” and get lost in her words as I drive. The windshield wipers brush away the snow that falls in huge flakes from the purplish-gray sky.

  Excitement rushes through me. I’m seeing Maxime. Even though we will only be sharing a cup of coffee, I wonder what it will be like to get to know him. Questions roll around in my head. Will we pick up where our Connectivity messages left off? Will I see more of his clever side, the one I got a glimpse of last night? What’s his house like? Unlike his teammates, why did he choose to live so far from Denver?

  I grin. The broadcast journalist in me is coming out in spades.

  I enter his community at the base of the mountains. The homes are bigger here, with lots of land in between. I glance up through the leafy trees, dusted with a layer of snow, to the mountains capped in white.

  Beautiful.

  My GPS guides me down Maxime’s street, and when it announces my destination is on the right, my heart flutters nervously inside my chest. I pull up the drive and park my car behind a Jaguar SUV. I take in the home in front of me, which looks nothing like where a single, professional athlete would live. At least in my mind, it’s not. It’s an older, split-level home, easily built in the seventies, if not the sixties, nestled amongst the pines.

  I turn off the engine and slip outside. I walk across the freshly fallen snow, and the crunching of my boots is the only sound I hear. This place suits the pieces of Maxime I know. He’s quiet and private. Not flashy.

  His choice of where to live becomes clearer in
my mind.

  I make my way up the steps, noticing some fresh footprints and paw prints in the snow. I smile. If these tracks are any indication, he’s recently taken his dogs out for a walk.

  I put my fingertip on the doorbell, hesitating before ringing it to give myself some reminders.

  This is coffee. A cup of coffee with a neighbor, so to speak. No different from a cup with JoJo and Sierra. Perhaps we’ll become friends. That would be nice. If there is more between us, I will take the time to get to know him.

  No six-week fast track to the love of my life this time.

  With fresh confidence, I ring the doorbell.

  Within seconds, I hear dogs barking at the door. I reach up and fiddle with the end of my braid as I wait.

  “Coming,” I hear him call out.

  Then I hear him tell his dogs to be quiet—in French.

  The second I hear him speak French, I freeze.

  Good Lord, that is one incredibly sexy language for a man to speak.

  The dogs fall silent as soon as Maxime issues his command. The lock turns on the other side of the door, and all my bravado begins to crumble. My fingers work faster on the end of my hair as my heart accelerates in response. Nerves fill me, despite my badass self proclaiming this is “just coffee.”

  The door creaks open, and my remaining bravado vanishes.

  Maxime stands before me, more handsome than I remember. I look up to take in his full six-foot frame. His hair is thick and wavy, a gorgeous combination of blond and brown. He’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt in a rich camel and chocolate brown color, layered over a white T-shirt and paired with dark jeans and suede boots.

  I swallow hard.

  He’s easily the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  My gaze meets his. Maxime’s piercing blue-green eyes, the ones that studied me so intensely in a café in Brussels, are on me once again, this time studying me up close through the fringe of his long, thick, dark eyelashes.

  “Bonjour,” he says softly. “Bienvenue chez moi, Skye.”

  Then the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen lights up his face.

  Butterflies appear out of nowhere, dancing furiously in my stomach. I can’t breathe.