The Real

by Kate Stewart

  Amused eyes studied me as his black lashes flitted over his cheeks and he tilted his head in admiration. His expression was as alluring as his threatening dimples. I had to rip my eyes away to respond.

  Abbie’s Mac: Hi. It’s okay, I was just catching up on some work.

  Cameron’s Mac: What do you do?

  Abbie’s Mac: I’m a corporate financial consultant. It’s a pretty boring conversation starter. But I’ve got a thing for numbers.

  Cameron’s Mac: Nothing boring about it if it’s your thing. You look like you’re in a better mood today.

  I gave him a cheeky grin.

  Abbie’s Mac: Opposed to?

  Cameron’s Mac: The witchy one you were in last time we were here.

  I opened my mouth in mock shock and pointed at myself.

  Abbie’s Mac: How rude!

  Cameron’s Mac: Yes, you were. Even so, I bought your coffee.

  Abbie’s Mac: I did say no. I was polite about it.

  Cameron lifted his mug that read Surely Not Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting. I laughed and shook my head. The air shifted. I let myself sink into the small amount of comfortable playfulness between us. I could do this.

  This could be easy. And dare I hope, fun?

  Abbie’s Mac: I’ll let you buy me a cup today, but there are rules.

  He frowned.

  Cameron’s Mac: Already?

  Abbie’s Mac: Yep. This is how we, meaning you and me, coffee. Just like this, behind our keyboards.

  Cameron’s Mac: Coffee as a verb? I like it. But no talking?

  I lifted my finger in a plea to have him hear me out as it came to me.

  Abbie’s Mac: Here’s the way I see it. First, I don’t know if you are interested in . . . more than coffee.

  Cameron’s Mac: I’m very interested in . . . more than coffee. But I’m okay if it’s just coffee too.

  Abbie’s Mac: I’m old school. And I’m pretty pissed off about this whole technology hookup crap being the new standard. I’m no prude, but it’s like I woke up from a monogamous nap and romance died. What happened to getting to know a person before you showed your pink parts? I was serious when I told you I’d been blasted with dick pics. I have proof.

  Cameron’s Mac: So, you saved the dick pics? You little pervert.

  My mouth dropped. “No, that’s—”

  “Shhh,” Cameron pointed to the keyboard.

  Abbie’s Mac: Like I said, I’m not looking for romance in the ankles-covered, Pride and Prejudice sense, though Mr. Darcy did set the standard for me when I was twelve. I don’t have to have Mr. Darcy, but at the very least a cheesy 90s rom-com, overt type of gesture. I just think this whole digital age has ruined romance. I don’t have the millennial mindset. Think about it, when’s the last time you saw a couple holding hands, or for that matter, some inappropriate PDA? Aside from my friends, Bree and Anthony, I can’t remember the last time I saw a couple and envied their connection. It’s so fucking sad.

  Cameron’s Mac: I get what you’re saying. It’s cool. And your maiden virtue is safe with me for the moment. I’m a little bit jaded too. And by the looks of your cup, I’m already in over my head.

  I lifted my mug proudly that read Man Tears and took a sip.

  He shook his head with a chuckle as we tried to speak around our connection. The force was strong with this one, and I knew he felt it too.

  Cameron’s Mac: But you do have to admit for someone so adamant about old school, this arrangement makes your point a bit moot.

  Abbie’s Mac: Touché. But, you see, I’m using it to our advantage.

  Cameron’s Mac: Your advantage.

  Abbie’s Mac: Fine my advantage. Mixing old school with new. I look at it this way. We get all the perks of seeing each other, knowing what the other looks like. We get clear visual reception, but we keep it like this.

  Cameron’s Mac: Until?

  Abbie’s Mac: Until we’re both less jaded. And let’s not get ahead of ourselves, it’s only coffee. I mean, today it’s only coffee. Tomorrow . . .

  I shrugged to bring the point home. I was being completely honest, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back.

  Cameron’s Mac: Suits me. You could have a voodoo doll in your purse.

  This time I held nothing back as I gave him my smile. We exchanged them for several seconds before I got a message.

  Cameron’s Mac: Are we allowed to give compliments?

  I didn’t get a chance to answer.

  Cameron’s Mac: Because if I was standing, that smile would have knocked me on my ass. What’s the next rule?

  Despite my newly speeding heartbeat, I pressed on. If I had any shot of moving forward, I didn’t want to look back. And I didn’t want my fears hindering anything new.

  Abbie’s Mac: We leave our relationship baggage at the door.

  He studied me for a moment before he typed.

  Cameron’s Mac: Nothing but who we are now, at this moment, and where we’re going, or where we want to go.

  Abbie’s Mac: Exactly. No dead weight.

  Cameron’s Mac: Sounds perfect, but if we do it this way, we do it with one condition.

  Abbie’s Mac: Shoot.

  Cameron’s Mac: We won’t deal in perfection and absolutes.

  Abbie’s Mac: And no promises we can’t realistically keep.

  His slow nod was confirmation we were onto something.

  Cameron’s Mac: I’m just going to point out now I hate that I have to stare at the forbidden fruit instead of what’s behind it.

  Abbie’s Mac: That’s kind of a two-sided thing.

  Cameron’s Mac: Lend me that dress you wore the other night so I can make it as hard on you.

  I grinned and shook my head.

  Abbie’s Mac: Sense of humor, I like it. My mom thinks I’m a world class smart ass.

  He picked up another cup hidden behind his Mac and took a sip as if he were ready for me. It read Only the Sarcastic Survive.

  Abbie’s Mac: I should make that my first tattoo. How many cups do you have over there?

  I leaned to the side and peeked behind his Mac to see several more.

  Cameron’s Mac: I’m prepared today.

  Abbie’s Mac: Okay, let’s see them.

  He slowly lifted the first cup. Good Morning, Beautiful. I gave him a lopsided grin that quickly turned into a scowl when he lifted another that read Show Me Your Kitties. I palmed my mouth to hide my smile.

  His third cup came up. I love Clit.

  Abbie’s Mac: Really?

  Cameron’s Mac: Too crass, I agree. But I was taking your friend Bree’s advice. And for the record, I know the clit is not a fictional character.

  I threw his word back at him from the night at the bar.

  Abbie’s Mac: Noted.

  He held up a wait-for-it finger and gave me remorseful puppy dog eyes as he showed me his next cup that read I Love Your Face.

  Abbie’s Mac: Much better.

  Thick, sculpted brows double tapped his forehead as he lifted the last cup. Call Me El Jefe Grande. I rolled my eyes as he shrugged.

  Abbie’s Mac: You’re somewhere between perfect and a pervert at this point.

  “I was in a hurry,” he said across the space. I pressed a librarian’s finger to my lips.

  Cameron’s Mac: Really? No talking at all?

  Abbie’s Mac: Plenty of talking. Just like this.

  He sat back briefly with a devastating smirk before he leaned in and typed.

  Cameron’s Mac: Okay, Abbie. Where do we start?

  I was trying so hard to think of something clever, witty, something . . . more, but words failed me as we stared each other down. It was perfect. Better than perfect. I had no reason to be afraid. We had every advantage of dating except for the physical aspect, which I knew I wasn’t ready for, despite my raging libido. And I needed that distance to be able to get close. It could work. Another stretch of my lips over my teeth had him biting his lip and shaking his head. God, he was gorgeous. Just outsid
e the window behind him, a single gold maple leaf drifted at his back before it floated toward the brightly lit sky. And from that moment on, I knew I would be measuring my Saturdays in cups.

  Nine Cups

  It was our third Saturday, and I had to admit I’d been daydreaming through my week until I got to meet up with Cameron. When he’d asked for another date, I didn’t hesitate to accept. A set coffee date every Saturday with no expectations, what could be better?

  That morning when I showed up, he was waiting. I walked past him, giving him my best smile, a steaming cup in hand that read Dear Karma, I have a list of people you missed. I glanced at his cup and saw it read I’m here. What are your other two wishes? and caught his eyes as they swept over me before I took my seat. Though the café was bustling, I was tickled to see the handwritten sign that said Reserved before I picked up the fresh daisy he’d placed on it and opened my Mac.

  Abbie’s Mac: Thank you.

  Cameron’s Mac: They were fresh out of bloodroots and oleander.

  Abbie’s Mac: I’m all stocked up on deadly poison at home. But thanks, I’ll practice my dark magic on your daisy.

  I gave him a knowing grin. Our rapport was building into something . . . familiar. He still gave me hell about my witchy attitude the day we’d met, and I had no issues giving him hell about his crass cup choice. Unwrapping from my coat, a rush of blood crept up my face. I didn’t have to look his way to know he was checking me out. Once I got comfortable, Cameron’s first question was waiting for me. It was like he was anxious to find out what I would type, which only made me more eager to answer.

  Cameron’s Mac: Tell me something no one knows about you. That you never tell anyone.

  Abbie’s Mac: I’ve got nothing.

  Cameron sat back in his seat, hands at his sides, his thick fingers sprinkled with dark hair and spread on the two-seater booth he sat on. Eyes fixed on him, I took my time with my perusal. He hadn’t disappointed thus far. He was always impressively dressed, which I’d learned was his typical, no matter the attire. Today, he was sporty chic in silky sweatpants and a zipped up, long-sleeved athletic shirt. A solid black beanie covered his coffee-colored hair and outlined his sculpted face.

  Once I’d had my fill, though it was never enough, I noticed the challenge in his green depths as he sat scanning my face. He narrowed his eyes before he typed.

  Cameron’s Mac: Too quick to answer. What are you hiding?

  I looked up at the ceiling as if I was pondering what to give away but hit him with the only thing I could think of since he asked the question.

  Abbie’s Mac: Fine. I was born in a sanitarium.

  Laughter burst from him as he looked over our screens and mouthed “Really?”

  I let him get away with readable whispers despite our no talking rule. Well, my no talking rule. Still, he was working hard to keep our agreement.

  Abbie’s Mac: Yep. Hinsdale Sanitarium and Hospital. The minute I was born, they changed the name. You don’t seem too surprised.

  Cameron’s Mac: I’m not. You’re a wonderful kind of crazy. You’re all fire, you know that? And you look fucking beautiful.

  It was those types of sentiments that kept me glued to that chair for a few hours every Saturday. He wasn’t incessant with his compliments. He gave them when he felt like it. The conversation flowed, but he surprised me every so often, and my reaction was always the same. My chest tightened, my throat filled as I stared over at him and mouthed “Thank you.” I came away from those moments knowing he wanted it clear that he was interested in more than having coffee with me.

  Cameron’s Mac: Did you grow up in Chicago?

  I nodded.

  Abbie’s Mac: Mostly. Until I was thirteen when my parents bought a place in Naperville. I love our home there, but I always wanted to move back to the city. I’m a city girl at heart. You?

  Cameron’s Mac: Same, I came here for college, but I was born and raised in Niagara Falls. I used to live in the city, but I moved here not too long ago.

  Cameron owned a small chain of sporting goods stores. He’d told me his dream was to coach in the NBA, and though it never happened for him, he still coached high school part-time.

  Abbie’s Mac: Welcome to the neighborhood.

  Cameron’s Mac: You’re one hell of a welcoming committee.

  He winked, and I felt it to my toes.

  Abbie’s Mac: If you weren’t having coffee with me, Coach, what would you be doing?

  Cameron’s Mac: Running, playing basketball while talking shit about the Packers with my friend Max who thinks that Bears belong in the woods, not the NFL.

  Abbie’s Mac: I hate the woods. Football fan too?

  Cameron’s Mac: Fan of all sports. I don’t miss a Bears game. I have it running in a window on my screen.

  Abbie’s Mac: I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended.

  Cameron’s Mac: Flattered, definitely.

  Dimples. Kill me.

  Cameron’s Mac: What’s wrong with the woods?

  Abbie’s Mac: Nothing good happens there.

  Cameron’s Mac: Too bad. I love the outdoors.

  Abbie’s Mac: Me too, as long as they are lined with cement and coffee shops.

  Cameron’s Mac: Cute. Can I say something without you getting offended?

  Abbie’s Mac: Maybe.

  I got a smirk.

  Cameron’s Mac: I knew that would be your answer. I’m saying it anyway. I like your freckles and I was hoping to see them today.

  Abbie’s Mac: Really?

  Cameron’s Mac: Really. I kind of miss the caramel on your chin too.

  I lifted my cup and smeared a little from the side of it onto my chin, only too happy to oblige. I realized after what an idiotic move it was, but Cameron grinned as if all was right with the world. Neon yellow leaves swayed in the tree behind him and began to flood the ground.

  Abbie’s Mac: I love the fall.

  Cameron’s eyes didn’t stray from mine as he mouthed “Me too.” He hesitated briefly before he typed.

  Cameron’s Mac: Want to go for a walk? Cement only, I promise.

  Abbie’s Mac: Not yet.

  He dropped it and typed.

  Cameron’s Mac: What would you be doing if you weren’t here with me?

  Memorizing the patterns of serial killers.

  God, it was no wonder I lived alone. How would he ever think that was normal. Surely, I couldn’t be the only one fascinated by them. There were thousands of resources dedicated to the psychotic mind.

  Fuck it.

  Abbie’s Mac: Watching Snapped, reading a book about a serial killer, or buying another throw pillow for my place.

  I hesitated before I hit send. But I did. While he read, his brows hit his hairline.

  Cameron’s Mac: Wasn’t expecting that.

  Abbie’s Mac: Yeah, I’m just letting my full-on, witchy-sanitarium, innate crazy show today. You should tip the barista on your way out.

  His chest pumped with his chuckle.

  Cameron’s Mac: It’s cool. I mean, that shit is fascinating to some, but I don’t know that it would be my Saturday ritual. What kind of witch is afraid of the woods?

  I narrowed my eyes. He chuckled and was easily forgiven.

  Cameron’s Mac: I hope you realize this unhealthy hobby may be the reason we aren’t going for a walk, or at that Bears game sipping a cold beer. It’s probably also why I’m not going to get to cop a feel or hold your hand by the end of the day. You know, watching that stuff will make you paranoid.

  Abbie’s Mac: So I’ve been told. I’ve just been fascinated with it lately.

  I kept my eyes down and Cameron seemed to read my posture. He didn’t press. Desperate to change the subject, I threw my first flirt.

  Abbie’s Mac: What would you pretend to accidentally graze?

  There was a challenge in my eyes, and his gaze heated in response.

  Cameron’s Mac: I have an extensive list of places I would love to graze. How about a short
list?

  I nodded.

  Cameron’s Mac: First, I’d figure out a way to brush my lips against your neck. You have a beautiful neck.

  Abbie’s Mac: And then?

  He shook his head.

  Cameron’s Mac: Sorry, not giving away my tells this early in the game, pun intended.

  Abbie’s Mac: What’s the score?

  Cameron’s Mac: I have no fucking idea.

  I lowered my eyes and let the zing rattle through my chest.

  “Morning, Abbie,” Mrs. Zingaro chimed as I locked my front door. She was perched on her cement bench in front of her decayed garden.

  “Morning, Mrs. Zingaro. How are you?”

  My mother taught me to be polite, but “How are you?” was a loaded question with my tenant. I already knew too much about her. Far too much, including her extensive list of medical conditions that seemed to lengthen daily.

  “I can’t eat dairy anymore, I think I’m allergic. I watched one of those shows about food allergies. And I’m having bunion surgery next month.”

  And so, it begins.

  Tucking my scarf into my jacket, I pulled out my gloves as I walked down the steps. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Well, I love milk. So, it’s a shame.”

  “Sure is. I need to get to work. You better put a jacket on, it’s pretty cold out here.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m waiting for my son. He’s supposed to pick me up.”

  “Oh? Michael’s coming?” I asked, pulling on my gloves. “Please tell him I said hello.” Her son had been the one to rent the place for her and visited her every chance he got. He was a good man and probably one of the reasons I still had faith in them.

  “You should wait on him,” she said. “He’d be happy to see you.”

  “I can’t miss my train,” I insisted, avoiding her eyes. I was three steps in the clear when she spoke up behind me.

  “You don’t have to be ashamed around him. He never faulted you for what happened.”

  “I’ll wait for him another time. I’ve got to get going.”

  “Okay, well, if you get a chance to come by when you get home, my washer is making a funny noise.”