by Hope Irving
“So…” One gulp of her soda is enough to start grilling me again… because I’m well aware that’s where this is heading.
At least, it’s a nice change from the ridiculous comments shot at me by some former friends earlier this month. Of course, I had to run into them when I was parting ways with my Swedish hookup whose handle I don’t remember. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m not an asshole, mind you. I don’t fuck around and choose my women carefully. We’re consenting adults craving a quick and fun release. That’s why the second that I slide out of them, I forget. Simple as that.
“Sooo…” she repeats patiently.
No potential for commitment. They’ve been warned, but sometimes I have to play dirty when I misjudge them and have a stage five clinger on my hands. But my former friends couldn’t grasp my point; they were too busy comparing the size of their dicks and being spiteful that women clearly showed a preference for mine. Assholes! These are the same idiots who had the nerve to ask how many women I’d nailed within the last six months, as if it was a contest. The same morons who had ignored my silent disapproval and kept flapping their big mouths, as if they were jealous. The same jerks who had cheered on my exploits with raunchy sneers on their fucking faces and called me a manwhore in the next breath.
What didn’t these fuckers get? I’m no whore; I’m just a lonely guy with a sickening need to forget the only woman that he’s ever loved and who left him for good. I’m no player, unless women give me the green light for a good time. I’m no playboy; I don’t collect fancy items to inflate my ego and impress my friends… Still, as soon as I sense a clingy vibe in a woman, I’m out of the door so fast that she might not realize I showed up. That’s why I tend to prefer anonymous hookups nowadays.
Fuck my life! I hate coming home to a place which feels as hollow as my dead heart… unless I’m around Chloe, who doesn’t judge me.
“So what?”
“Oh, puh-lease. I’m being serious here… You’re… different. In a good way, I mean. Is it okay if I ask what happened?”
I grin at her. “Why, thank you!” I swallow nervously. “And of course it’s okay for you to ask. We’re not keeping secrets from one another, are we?” She shakes her head. I spring up and start pacing the room, mustering the courage to admit what’s been going on in my life. The funny thing is that I hadn’t realized the effect it had on me. She had on me. Alie. “If you must know, I’ve met someone.” Chloe’s wide smile encourages me, and I stand straighter. “She’s interesting. She’s different. She’s intriguing.”
“You sound like you’re smitten.” Her voice is soft and matter-of-fact.
Smitten… What a funny word! What an accurate word! What a scary word!
I gawk. “How come you even know such a word?”
My young friend beams, rubbing her hands together in glee. “I read a lot, Uncle Tig!”
“Alright, Miss Smarty Pants. I know you’re a smart cookie, but I doubt that your bedtime stories use that kind of vocabulary.”
She mumbles something that I can’t hear, then adds, “Nobody reads me bedtime stories anymore; you, of all people, should know that! But you’re right.” Her hands come up in a gesture of surrender. “Dad keeps telling me that he was smitten with Soraya even before he even met her.”
Smitten, my ass! Soraya made Graham so hard that he couldn’t wait to get in her pants. Smitten is surely more subtle than horny as fuck, I’ll give him that.
“Alright, alright then.” I playfully tap the side of her foot with my own as I reclaim my spot next to her. What is Alie to me, really? “So, no, I’m not… smitten.” I wink. She giggles. We pause. “She’s just a friend… sort of.” My distraction sucks. My babysitting skills suck. My explanation sucks. Thinking about what this mysterious woman truly represents to me makes my heart race. Chloe’s eyes don’t falter. What is Alie to me, really? I clear my throat, embarrassed to voice my thoughts about this woman who became such a ridiculously big part of my life. This woman who infiltrated my social media in the nicest way possible. This woman who whispered words into my virtual ear that made me rock-hard, despite my better judgment. What is Alie to me, really? “But…” I scratch my head. “We’ve been talking every day now, and somehow she means something to me…. She’s a great listener.”
“So are you!” Her chest heaves in such dramatic relief that I wonder what’s going on in that curious mind of hers. “See, you two are made for each other and you are sooo smitten!” She twirls with her dark hair around a finger as she shoots me a knowing look.
“Stop it, will you?” I let out a frustrated groan. “Like I said, she’s a friend.”
“Did you make plans with her tomorrow? Once Dad and Soraya pick me up, I mean.” She’s adorable to be so expectant. I’m about to tell her that we haven’t met yet, but she doesn’t give me the opportunity. “Where does she live anyway?” Such a simple question that I don’t have the answer to. Asking it hadn’t crossed my mind.
And just as I wonder why, my phone beeps; the heat settles in my cheeks before Alie’s text appears on the screen.
Chloe lets out a giggle that’s both sweet and mocking.
Alie G: You awake? I can’t sleep.
Thoughtful, I stare at the picture associated with her contact—my painting entitled Fear, the one that initiated our communication. Someday, she’ll have to confide what she fears, because after that revelation, the subject hasn’t been broached.
I let out a heavy sigh as I reposition my body in order to type my response discreetly, making sure that Chloe can’t read it over my shoulder. She whispers that word again, as if Alie could hear her… Smitten…
Tig: Of course I am, it’s barely nine. U OK?
Alie G: U alone?
Naturally, she didn’t answer my question, but I let it slide. It’s the next one that I want an answer to.
Tig: Where do you live?
Alie G: Wow, back up soldier. I asked you first.
Again, I play nice and focus on my objective.
Tig: Not alone. Chloe’s with me. She was curious about your place of residence.
We’ve discussed Chloe since she came up during New Year’s Eve. Eager to know more, I was fishing for more personal information, like if she had kids. We’ve both disclosed pretty intimate things, especially now that we’re mostly sexting; still, nothing too revealing. Using Chloe to get this piece of information is a low blow, yet it’s the truth.
Alie G: You talked about me with her? Should I be worried that you’re gonna propose marriage next?
Tig: For the record, I talked about her with you! And no need to freak out… I don’t do marriage. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do the dating game.
Alie G: Good, me neither.
Oh, so not attached then. How would I have felt if she were? Damn, why do I overthink things with this woman when the others are so easy to deal with? Am I smitten with someone I don’t know? Chloe might be right. And before I know it, I reply.
Tig: Aren’t you the perfect woman?
Alie G: Perfect is my middle name. Modest is the first;)
Fuck! I really like this girl. Am I smitten, though? I don’t have time to dwell on it, thank God.
Alie G: And now that we set the record straight, tell her that I live in Paris.
My eyes pop out of my head.
Paris?
I’m pretty sure that she doesn’t mean Paris, Texas. I’m left speechless by my own stupidity. She lives in France; I live in the U.S. When is this meetup gonna happen, if ever? And now, it makes a lot of sense; she goes radio silent at certain times of the day. Is she French or an American in Paris? And here I thought that we knew a lot about each other. I know nothing…
Once again, she beats me with another text.
Alie G: I know what you’re thinking, Tig. I said we’d meet soon and you think I lured you into something that’s not gonna happen.
Tig: Spot-on.
Despite wanting to inquire further because she’s clearl
y fluent in English, I don’t. This unexpected tidbit somehow knocked the wind out of me. I hate that I can’t control my reactions, especially in front of Chloe who’s pretending to be engrossed in the movie to give me some privacy.
Alie G: Chill out;) I’m stuck in Paris for a while longer. Wasn’t planned.
Tig: Mmm…
Alie G: Don’t be like that…
Damn, she just used Chloe’s words.
Alie G: My current location doesn’t mean we can’t communicate. I WANT to see you. SOON, just like I told you. Question is: Do YOU want to see ME?
Tig: Obvly…
Alie G: Nothing obvious about it.
Before I can stop myself, my fingers are eagerly typing an answer.
Tig: Are you kidding me?
I add a few angry emoticons.
Alie G: Should I call you later so you don’t keep your frustrations to yourself?
Call? We’ve never spoken on the phone before. Why? Why now? Why not?
I tilt my head to check on Chloe who’s gone from the room; I’m reassured as to her whereabouts when I hear the characteristic sound of her electric toothbrush. I agree to Alie’s proposal, intentionally neglecting to mention that I grumbled part of my aforementioned frustration and forbidding myself from acknowledging the positive vibes that lit up my heart when she suggested calling me.
I’m going to talk to her. For real. Shut up. It’s nothing.
My brain is at war with a heart that I thought was dead, and I haven’t even talked to her yet.
This is beyond ridiculous. What am I? Thirteen?
To calm my fucking brain that’s going a mile a minute, I explain the babysitting deal, and we decide to connect as soon as Chloe is sound asleep.
“I’m glad you met someone, Uncle Tig.” Kneeling next to Chloe’s twin bed, I kiss her forehead and sigh. I thought that I had been clear earlier. Honestly, now is not the time for this discussion. Her intentions are pure. She’s thrilled that I’m happier, and who could blame her?
“Sweet dreams.” I tuck her in before standing up to leave the cozy guest room that should officially be called hers. “Thanks for being awesome and supportive, Chloe. I really appreciate it.”
“I love you, Uncle Tig.”
“I love you, too.” I wave goodnight to her from the threshold. “See you in the morning.”
Ten minutes later, I’m in bed in my boxer briefs and sending my digits to Alie. My lungs seize, so I ditch my position leaning against the wall and slide under the covers to be more comfortable.
While I wait for her to return my text or call me, I log on my most used app as of late. I have several notifications that I open. One is from a woman that I’ve already met and have no intention of seeing again. I remind her of our initial agreement and tell her that yes, we did have a lot of fun, but I’m not after a repeat. I answer messages from two women who whetted my interest. We’ll see where those lead.
What is Alie doing?
I shoot her another text and wait, keeping myself busy on social media. Nothing happens. Damn! I check the time and grunt when I notice that it’s been almost forty-five minutes. She must have fallen back to sleep. Dammit! The phone call fell through. Fuck!
So, I do the one thing that has the ability to appease me when there’s nobody around. I put my phone on the nightstand and slide my hand inside my boxer briefs to take care of myself. I don’t need porn these days. Closing my eyes, I picture Parisian Alie on her knees, her eyes full of lust as the tip of her skillful tongue brushes the head of my aching cock. I’m painfully hard and it doesn’t take long to get myself off.
Alone.
Chapter Ten
Somebody to Love
Aliénor
My shoulders are so tense that the ache runs along my spine. “I said, ‘Enough!’ How difficult is that to understand?” In a feeble attempt to control my anger, I grind my molars and avert the gaze that’s been judging me for the last half hour, ruining my appetite.
“Aliénor, you are not running from me. Again!” I glance at him, my eyes shooting daggers now. Calm, collected, and commanding, Father remains seated at the dinner table with Céline standing nearby. The poor woman has to pretend that this argument is the first of its kind when it’s a common occurrence. His regal posture has a way of grating my nerves and I’m tempted to shake his outdated dos and don’ts out of him.
“Watch me!” Seething, I bolt for the threshold. I regret that Sybil is having dinner at her future fiancé’s parents, leaving only the two of us. I regret that it’s not a Sunday brunch situation so that my sisters could possibly interfere. I regret that I can’t slam the door—any door—for dramatic effect because there’s no actual door separating the living room—where Father and I were having a pleasant dinner up until he started busting my balls—from the sleeping area.
“Do not use that tone with me, Aliénor.” His tone is eerily soft. “You come back to the table, now!” You’d have to know him well to hear the full indignation behind his words. Nobody stands up to this infuriating man. Nobody defies this self-assured man. Nobody… “We’re not done here. Not with dinner. Not with this discussion. Not with your behavior.”
My behavior?
As much as I want to escape the sight of this intrusive man who wrongly believes that he’s entitled to control my life, I won’t let him get to me. I stop in my tracks and spin around to face him and this situation head-on.
His arguments aren’t worth shit. Indeed, the first two are accurate but can’t be thrown in my face. I would give anything to continue living the way that I was living before cancer set me on this detour. Since then, exams, surgery, and recovery took priority. So, yes, stuck under his roof for the time being, and although he’s convinced that I have no real income, I do. I’m a big girl. I can handle myself, thank you very much. Trust fund or not, I earn a substantial amount of money on my own. I refuse to depend on anyone, especially when it comes to finances. I don’t need this man—or any man—to support me.
He’d be baffled by how much money I’ve made from the sponsors—woman empowerment and fitness alike—that were attracted by my social media platform. At least, fighting to stabilize my health and lengthen my remission taught me how to take better care of myself, and I share the lessons with others. And Father dares to condemn my altruism and marketing skills. Why is it so bad to try to educate women about how to lessen their potential risk of breast cancer? Why is it so bad to try to educate women about how to take powerful ownership of their lives? Why is it so bad to try to educate women about how to take charge of their future?
Reluctantly, I trudge back to the table. Céline is clever enough to have disappeared to the kitchen while I was heading the other way. My entire body is trembling with anger, and I do my best to calm down, not because I surrender, but because he needs to consider my opinion. I stand to the right of his chair and glare down at him.
His eyes remain on his plate. “Sit down, child.” That even tone makes my blood boil.
“I’m perfectly fine standing up, Father.” I’m far from fine, and if he’d only take a look at me, he’d know that. Maybe he can detect the negativity radiating from me. He and I are so similar, it’s frightening at times.
“Suit yourself.” He has a way of picking his battles that never ceases to rile me up. I would have relished a fight with him and grunt at the missed opportunity. “So, as I was saying, hearing that my baby daughter is behaving… inappropriately… to say the least… is unacceptable. I have set you up on a not-so-blind date with a fine young man who will hopefully rectify your damaged reputation. His father is a good friend of mine, an owner of an international consulting firm. Trust me, I’m not trying to get rid of you; this is my way of protecting you, understood?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “This is not negotiable.” Yeah, yeah, I got that from the icy tone that infused his dictatorial statement. In cases like these, the name, age, and pedigree of the fine young man are irrelevant. And I’m convinced that he’s convinced
he’s doing me a favor. I can’t stand it anymore.
Two words come to mind: Fuck you!
Even in this state, I know they’re better kept to myself. Hence, I remain there, still as a statue, with my eyes downcast. I absently listen to his words while drawing up multiple plans to abort his Machiavellian strategy.
In the end, his strategy eventually worked well for Sybil, who’s now properly matched, is soon to be engaged, and will be wed within a year to a not-so-young, quiet, and noble man who’s the heir of a food empire. What matters is that she’s genuinely happy and her sexcapade with Tig is long forgotten; I haven’t confessed my plans regarding her tattoo artist to her or anyone else. As far as I’m concerned, my father is not permitted to interfere in any of my relationships—for lack of a better word—because it’s simply none of his business.
Father’s hand reaches for mine and squeezes it. “Aliénor, you need to learn that being the talk of the town goes against what’s expected of you.” I open my mouth to speak, but his gaze orders me to keep quiet, and I brace myself for what’s to come. “I love you with all my heart, and I want the best for you… If only you’d listen and behave. Throwing yourself at every gentleman you meet may bring momentary pleasure, if any, but will assuredly bring endless trouble. A girl should—”
“Father,” I interrupt because I can’t take it anymore. He frowns, but I go on regardless; our dinner is half-eaten and cold anyway. “Allow me to clarify a few things for you.” I start counting on my fingers. “First, I don’t throw myself at every gentleman; when I spot something I like, I take it, so not everyone! Second, the pleasure is momentary, but it’s usually mutual because I’m not a selfish lover.” At that, Father’s cheeks redden and he coughs in embarrassment. While we rarely discuss sex, it’s never been taboo. “Third, I think it’s disgusting and unfair that the sole reason it troubles you is that I’m a girl.” My chest tightens. God, I hate this topic! “I do love you, but I can’t accept your judgment when you should be on my side, not against me, especially when some of the guys are far from being gentlemen with your daughter. I can’t go on like this.”