by Hope Irving
Yes, can’t wait for our date!
When I’m done with work, I grab lunch and spend the entire afternoon working on a new painting. It’s pretty nice, yet a part of my stupid heart feels empty without her near me. I had been on a painting hiatus for months, which somehow dissolved when I came back from the parlor today. My tension has vanished. My heart has grown lighter. My mood has settled on joyful. I scrub off the paint stains, get changed in no time, and hurry to our usual neighborhood spot.
Unfortunately, I’m facing an empty chair. According to the oversized clock at the Heights Cafe, she’s already forty minutes late. I curse quietly and fidget in my seat while pouring another glass of their featured wine of the month to relax. My first two texts were mainly to check on my two favorite girls; I intentionally don’t call when she’s driving.
I worry the corner of my lip with my canine tooth, shooting her a third one as I grow more worried by the second. This isn’t like her, and a bad connection can’t be an excuse any longer. I scratch the back of my head and shake it at Hugh, the waiter, as he approaches to take my order.
One sip of wine later, my thoughts clear, and an idea strikes me.
“Hey, Soraya.”
“Tig, ‘sup?” I hear a baby crying in the background. She asks me to hold on, yells at Graham to take the baby, and gets back on the line. “So sorry that I couldn’t make it this weekend, I wish I could’ve gone to Woodstock with Del.”
Wait, what?
Why is she home? Why is she talking to Graham? Why isn’t she with Delia? My agitation skyrockets, and I rush out of the restaurant to have this conversation while pacing on the street, thankful that the rain has stopped.
“What do you mean, you couldn’t make it? Delia never mentioned that you bailed on her.” I’m freezing since I stupidly left my coat inside, but my sudden numbness is a perfect shield against the cold weather. On top of that, my heart is beating so fucking fast that my lungs seize.
“I’m sorry, Tig. Lorenzo’s sick, so I couldn’t go. Del called and got someone from the convention to sub for me.” My friend pauses, and I hear a distinct swallow on the other end of the line. “She isn’t back yet?” Her voice mirrors my concern. “But she should have been back at least an hour ago!”
“I know.” My strangled voice can’t do much more than tell her that I have to go and will keep her posted.
I call her. Voicemail. I text her. No reply. I implore her. No use. I leave the restaurant, apologizing on my way out, and sprint back home. What the actual fuck? Why isn’t she responding to my calls or texts?
That’s when I notice it. One tiny detail on my phone that I didn’t pay attention to previously. One alert for a missed call that holds the answer to my future. One missed call that proves that nothing lasts forever. One missed call that changes my life for the worse. Out of breath, I rush to the hospital to see my wife, only to have the surgeon inform me of my new status.
A widower.
Chapter One
You Are My Sunshine
TWO YEARS LATER…
Tig
“Enough, Tig de Luca!” I register the command moments after it’s voiced. I’m so out of it that the yelling bounces around my mushy brain without penetrating any nerve endings or setting me in motion. What does, though, is the swaying of my mattress, unless someone transported me to a ship. My stomach races into my mouth needing immediate release, and not the good kind.
“Dammit, Tig, these are brand new.”
I hear zipper noises. I hear angry mumbling. I hear people talking. My empty stomach helps me to regain some consciousness, and I reluctantly pry open a heavy eyelid.
I see red. As in Soraya’s dyed hair tips when she’s fucking mad. It finally hits me; I’m in so much trouble. Yeah, she has this habit of changing her hair color depending on her mood. Graham experienced it years ago, and he confessed that it wasn’t fun; I haven’t had the pleasure… up until now.
I see green. As in the contents of my stomach that emptied on my best friend’s boots. I can’t be sure that she’ll be able to wear them again. Did last night’s excesses lead me to ruin them?
It’s become a common occurrence with my new set of friends over the past two years. Must be why Soraya’s overreacting; she’s jealous that I don’t spend as much time with her. These friends are much more understanding and know how to party. Hard. Occasionally we take it a little too far, but we’re not addicts—except when it comes to tattoos. Soraya and I will forever be friends, but our relationship went south as my behavior did.
I see black. Rolling onto my stomach, I growl, and my arms instinctively cover the back of my head to protect my face from another assault of cold water. Yeah, yeah, I’m well aware that’s useless. Being stoned, plastered, and miserable will do that to you.
“Wake the fuck up, asshole!” This time, the masculine voice is unmistakable. Strong hands grab me and I’m right back where I started this morning—or afternoon? “You heard her! Get a hold of yourself and fast.”
“Tig, come on!” Soraya’s voice is a notch softer. “Enough is enough. How many times have we been through this over the last two years? We’re through with playing nice. You’re gonna be thirty in a few weeks, and you’re living like a college student. You can’t go on like this. We can’t go on like this...” I open both of my eyes and squint at the painfully bright light that fills the room. Soraya’s boots are gone, and she’s wearing thick black tights under a red mini-skirt that matches her hair.
“Baby, I’ll go fix some coffee or whatever I find in this mess.”
I sneer at his thinly veiled insult. It’s true, though. I haven’t been myself for a long while.
From where I’m lying in my bedroom—how did I make it to the bed?—I see his legs moving to leave the room, then hear the cocky man’s voice from afar this time. Stuck-Up Suit, like Soraya called him when they met. Back when my beloved Delia was alive. At the realization, my heart clenches and my body stiffens. As content as I’d be for a specific part to follow suit, that hasn’t happened since my wonderful wife died. I never took interest in another woman. I never played the field. I never loved anyone else. I’m not kidding. My mind, body, and soul belonged to her from the moment I set eyes on her as a teenager. Before we met, I had a few meaningless girlfriends, but Delia was my soulmate. I didn’t tell her that I adored her more than anything in this world before she took to the road that day. I didn’t show her how much I worshipped her before she took to the road that day. I didn’t kiss her like my life depended on it before she took to the road that day.
I fucked up big time… Fuck, I miss you so much! Will you ever forgive me?
“I’ll be back in a minute to throw his sorry ass in an ice-cold shower. That’ll bring him back to life.”
Graham’s words cut through the haze. He’s right. I died the day Delia’s car was hit by a drunk driver. And to think that I blamed her reckless driving when the surgeon mentioned a car accident. I didn’t have enough trust in her, and I feel so ashamed. I feel so guilty. I feel so empty.
Soraya kneels in front of me, her hand rubbing over my buzz cut. “Where did your beautiful brown curls go, Tig? What haven’t you done to punish yourself? Why don’t you realize that you’re not the only one who lost someone that day?” Her previous anger has been replaced by another emotion. Her trembling voice betrays the sorrow that her next words confirm. “Delia was my best friend, just like you are. I can’t lose you, too. I won’t survive it.” The heavy sigh that follows is my wake-up call.
I’d never thought of it that way. It takes me another hour to get cleaned up.
I study this perfect couple, sitting around the small round table in my colorful kitchen, which is a stark contrast to my current state of mind. We each have a mug of green tea that I don’t remember purchasing; maybe they brought it over, worried I only had booze in the house.
“We care about you, asshole.” Damn, that’s the nicest thing that he’s ever said to me. He slaps my wasted bicep
, and I wince.
I’ve lost so much weight. I’ve become a pathetic, empty shell. I’ve lost so much muscle mass. I’ve become a shadow of myself. I’ve lost so much common sense. I’ve become a sleep-deprived partier. Parties where I mostly keep to myself. Parties where I drink to oblivion. Parties where I forget my pitiful life.
“And it’s not as if I have a choice. After all, despite your impression of me, you fixed my tattoo to help prove my love for this woman.” Graham points at Soraya with his thumb and grabs a chocolate chip cookie from the open package. “I guess I’ll always owe you since it helped me win her back.” Speechless, I simply watch him eat the damn cookie and take one once he’s done.
Oh, this is good. What a nice change from liquid calories.
“Look, we’re here to help.” Soraya adds. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still your friend, dumbass. You’ve gotta make a choice whether you want to spend your nights wasted or rejoin us in the real world. I’ve let you go through the different stages of grief. Now it’s time to make a decision. Either you’re in or out. At some point, making Claire a partner was the right move to prevent closing the parlor. You remember the details, right?”
Remembering wasn’t part of the deal. Consequently, Soraya fills in the blanks. “While you’ve been skipping work, she’s been keeping the clientele happy and managed to hire Drake, a talented friend of hers, part-time as a tattoo artist.” I nod, clueless. “He used to work at a parlor near Tribeca that closed down because the owner moved to Bali.” Oh, that rings a bell! I’ve missed out on so much. “Marco and I have been updating your website and keeping your social media platform in motion, as well as posting your art and Delia’s. Clients continue to be loyal, but they miss you… It’s not too late, Tig.”
Graham downs his entire cup of tea in one go, then states the obvious. “You’re lucky to have a friend like Soraya, man. She threw her weight behind your business while dealing with Delia’s loss coupled with you going off the deep end.”
Thanks for that, Stuck-Up Suit, even though you’re wearing jeans and a sweater today. You know, I turned heads, too, once upon a time.
I can see his finger approaching, and it flicks against my forehead before I can react. “I invested some of your money so that your lack of activity wouldn’t take a toll on your bank account. It’s a good thing you had quite a bit saved.” What he fails to point out is that the money was probably from Delia’s life insurance. Money that Soraya had access to, just in case…
“Thank you, guys… I… I’m sorry,” I admit, looking them in the eye.
“Good, you’d better be! You’ve got to stop with your destructive habits… Losing Delia was a tragedy; there’s no question about it. But you’re still here, among the living. Come back to us, please.” Soraya reaches for my hand and covers it with her much smaller one. “We’ll get you the support you need, just say the word. Say that you want this as much as we do, have a little faith in us, and you’ll see… however cruel this world may be at times, there’s still some good in it.” She offers a timid smile and I shrug. “And Tig, this is your last chance to win me back. I’ve had enough. You understand?” Her tone is bold and reproachful. “I’m warning you, once and for all. I can’t take it anymore, so you stop this right now or I’m walking out of your life forever. I miss the old you. No matter how much I want him back, you’ve got to want him, too, and try harder.”
She’s super pissed, but I’m relieved that she cares enough to say her piece after all I’ve put her through. Soraya deserves better than a shitty best friend. The love that I have for Soraya is stronger than my misery.
“Lorenzo and Chloe miss you, too, man.”
“I’m sorry for letting them down, Graham.”
“Apology accepted.” Graham says. “Practice being a decent godfather and set a good example for our kids, okay?” Then he firmly shakes my hand. Suddenly, I’m envious of his assertiveness. I feel like shit. “Speaking of the kids, don’t forget to thank Genevieve for babysitting them next time you see her.” Graham’s ex had been such a bitch to him and almost succeeded in making Soraya break up with him. I can’t believe that he forgave her; I tell him so. “It definitely hasn’t been easy, but I’m convinced that it’s what’s best for Chloe. Our daughter needed us to act like grown-ups, even though we’ll never be a couple again.”
“I’m sure the fact that Genevieve remarried clarified boundaries that remained blurred in her mind for too long.” Graham lets out a bitter laugh at Soraya’s quip. “So, Tig, here’s the number of a coach that you might be interested in. I figured that a shrink wouldn’t be a good fit. You’re not the talkative type and repeatedly expressed your… distaste of shrinks.” She offers a confident smile. “You’ll see, he’s different.”
“How do you know about him?” At my question, my friend stares at the floor. “Come on, Soraya, tell him. It won’t jinx anything now. You should be proud!”
“Well,” she starts, gulping her tea and mustering the courage to tell me what’s on her mind. “I’m starting my own wedding planning company. Adios, Dear Ida.”
I spring up and hug her across the table. “Next time, I’ll bring the champagne, but won’t touch a drop of it. I’ll behave. I promise.” She mouths a thank you and adds, “The coach helped to make this happen by successfully setting my mind on my goal. Graham, as well, obviously. You should definitely give Brandon a call… and maybe try to get back on the dating scene. Test the waters, you know... By the way, you owe me 320 dollars for the boots.”
Fuck!
Test the waters, Soraya had said. Give her coach a call, Soraya had said. Buy her a new pair of boots, Soraya had said.
Test the waters, my ass.
At first, I waded knee-deep, and before long, I was floating in an ocean of lust. Like a sex-crazed bachelor. Like it had always been in my nature. Like the multiple variations of sex were new to me. Not that my married sex life was boring, far from it actually. I was fairly inexperienced when Delia and I decided to be exclusive, at fourteen and sixteen. We waited about two years before having intercourse because I wanted her to be ready. Over time, we were adventurous and learned what turned the other on.
While I lost myself partying, my appetite for sex disappeared. I’d convinced myself that I’d be betraying Delia. In turn, I’d almost forgotten how much I enjoyed the act.
Experiencing sex with various partners has taken some getting used to, but some of their suggestions have really broadened my horizons.
I was practically a virgin as far as dating goes—calling this dating is far-fetched, though. It would be more accurate to say that I’m getting reacquainted with sex between consenting adults. Hookups. One-night stands. Anonymous fucks. Whatever you want to call them. But even then, I don’t chase two women at once. But even then, I don’t lie about my intentions. But even then, I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not. We have to be on the same page. Otherwise, the deal is off. No round two. No foreseeable commitment. No personal questions. I don’t do relationships, and there can’t be any misunderstanding.
I’m not a married man seeking an affair. Honesty is key. So, before downloading the app, I stopped wearing my wedding band, which was excruciating. Anyway, for the last few months, I’ve been making up for lost time, sticking my dick into the comforting warmth of any inviting pussy that’ll have me.
I want sex that I so badly missed, but I’m not a pig. I don’t forget that aside from their handle, these women are people first, even if I’m not necessarily interested in knowing their names. I don’t number women when referring to them like I’ve heard some men do at the gym that I recently joined. I don’t spill the gory details to anyone—even Marco, who always sounds annoyingly eager—although their kinks sometimes baffle me.
“Have we met before? You look somewhat familiar… or rather sound familiar.” She has a hint of an accent; it’s charming. While we’re waiting for our entrees, she’s sipping on red wine, surprised that I’ll only be drinking sparkling
water. Her eyes widen, and by her reaction, I realize that she must have heard this plenty of times, so I apologize. “I’m not trying to use a cheap pickup line here. I really mean it.”
Her cheeks flush, which contrasts with her pale skin and enhances her blue eyes.
Damn, why can’t I place her?
The preppy dark-haired girl who goes by the appropriate handle of PrincessChanel hasn’t told me her real name yet. Not that I actually need it, but the feeling of déjà vu intrigues me. And she does have a Chanel purse, unless it’s a knock-off.
Squirming in her seat, she wets her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, all the while checking me out for the umpteenth time. It’s very odd to be put under a microscope, whether because the woman doesn’t appreciate what she’s looking at or because she’s excited about what’s coming after dinner. I’m pretty confident she falls into the latter category, and that’s fine by me. It’s the deal after all.
I chose the Heights Cafe for my non-date on purpose; I need Delia to be on board with my activities. The first time that I met someone else, the guilt overwhelmed me before dinner was served. I left some cash on the table and ran for my life when she went to the bathroom. I thought that I was cheating on my wife… until I remembered that I no longer had one.
It took some getting used to, but here I am, six months after Soraya issued an ultimatum. Nah, strike that, here is InkAddict. The reason for my handle is pretty obvious: I can’t completely hide my ever-expanding ink. My long-sleeved shirt can’t cover all of it, and PrincessChanel clearly enjoys the view.
Wait until you see me naked. There’s so much more to admire…
“Actually, we’ve met before.”
“I knew it!” I exclaim in victory, attracting the other patrons’ attention. Feigning indifference, I enjoy my food and gesture for her to fill me in.
“Well, you took my virginity a few years ago.” Then she resumes eating her appetizing salad, leaving me choking on my linguine.