Year of the Chick (10 page)

Romi

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It was definitely brief, and possibly borderline obsessive.

Not ten minutes later, reply number two from James had arrived.

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Hello Romi,

Well it’s a tough job with great views of the Mediterranean and occasional benefits, but as they say, somebody has to do it.

J

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Who IS this guy?

***

We’d been writing to each other for a week. I’d even managed to pull his birthday out of him and discovered we were opposite signs in the zodiac. This of course meant we were poised for strong attraction…or mutual disgust.

Aside from horoscopes, we talked mostly about writing and literature; they were fascinating passions for him and I alike. Or perhaps more accurately, a fascinating challenge for me to sound smart. I eventually told him that I used to write a column in my high school publication, but I wasn’t really sure what else to share. I had no writing accomplishments to my name, so maybe I was merely a loser who peaked at seventeen.

Let’s just hope I can distract him from that.

Through it all I was starting to develop a crush. And yet, this Internet guy was probably a seventy-year-old grandma with lesbian tendencies.

Well let’s not dwell on the details…

Chapter Eight

James Caldwell: screenwriter in Barcelona. Born and raised in the town of…

Actually, I wasn’t sure.

Well he’s single, that’s a plus.

Wait a minute: was he even single? I hadn’t thought to ask.

At least he’s not old enough to be my dad.

How old was he anyway?

I had no idea, but based on his picture I’d guess early thirties.

Assuming of course that his picture was actually a portrait of the man himself. That sandy brown hair, those sun-kissed arms with the well-toned muscles, and what about those forearms? They had just the right amount of vein to catapult their way to the top of my forearm-fetish list (
move over Daniel Craig
).

I shuddered at the thought of my heart racing fast for something that was probably a lie. If only I could look into those bright blue eyes to know for sure.

Or green eyes, or orange eyes. Who the hell knew? I’d only ever seen him in sunglasses.

Damn the unknown! Not that it isn’t exciting.

I wondered if I reeked of it, my nervous but exhilarating Internet-crush. I really hoped not, since Laura was on her way to meet me, and it was way too early to reveal my excitement for a man who was possibly a fake.

I stirred a bit of milk into my tea, and found myself a seat at a table by the window. It was another Sunday evening, and not a very good one for the second week of May. Tree branches swayed back and forth from the abusive wind, and a darkened sky loomed above. Still it was Sunday, and what could be better than my Sunday evenings with Laura? We’d meet at this café for “catch-up talks,” a place on the outskirts of the city, nestled by old shops that had been here for decades. It was the perfect change from a weekend of censored fun with my parents.

I took my first sip of this so-called “passion tea,” which was anything but a latte.

Frickin’ gross…at least I’m saving calories.

A minute later Laura arrived and entered the queue, while my thoughts drifted back to the mysteries of Internet connections.

As I started to weigh the pros and cons of an Internet relationship, Laura took her seat with a steaming latte in hand. I took a whiff and it smelled like heaven. I wanted to pour it on my naked body. Or maybe just drink it.

“Hey! It’s so nice to see a friendly face,” I said. “So what’s in the latte?” My whiffing was becoming chronic.

“It’s a hazelnut latte but it’s zero fat, and now they make it with sugar-free hazelnut syrup. I saved like twenty grams of carbs!”

I stared at my tea repulsed. Sugar-free syrup? How had I never heard of sugar-free syrup? Back in the era of the latte guy, I would’ve been the first to hear of breakthroughs in syrup.

Laura removed her checkered Burberry scarf and folded it onto her lap. “So…what’s the latest in Romi-land?”

I wanted to tell her that a boyfriend was in the works (even if James didn’t know it yet), but at the moment he was more like a character from “The Sims.”

Instead I would focus on weight-loss, the second favourite topic after “boy talk.”

“Well I’ve lost four pounds but my mom says she doesn’t see a difference.” I rolled my eyes. “And she still hasn’t stopped about this voodoo weight-loss nonsense. She insists for me to meet with a ‘special’ doctor.” I scowled. “But who wants to drink a green smoothie made of monkey heads? Nuh-uh, I will skip all that voodoo shit.”

“Monkey heads? I’m pretty sure what you call voodoo is what the rest of the world calls a nutritionist. Dumbass.” She laughed.

“‘Nutritionist’ is not even a real profession.”

“Yes it is!”

I sighed. “Oh sweet Laura, adding an ‘ist’ to something doesn’t make it a profession. And if it does then screw nutrition; I wanna be a cakeist.”

Laura sipped her latte with widened eyes. “You’re completely insane.”

Insane? Or had I just deflected the attention off of me?

Score one for Romi the genius.
 

“So Laura, what’s new with YOU?”

“Well…there’s this guy.”

I raised my eyebrows in genuine interest. “There’s a guy and I’ve never even heard of him?”

“Oh you’ve heard of him. Sort of. Remember Mark?”

 
This was getting juicier by the second.

“You mean Mark as in your brother’s best friend?”
 

She frowned and started rubbing her temples. “Yes.”

“Well how the hell did this happen?”

“You know how sometimes my brother and I run into each other at the clubs?”

I nodded.

“Well it happened again last night. Mark and I were chilling at the bar, which was the first time we’d ever really talked without my brother close by. And…we really hit it off.” She smiled.

“That’s great!”

“Not really. Mark kept darting his eyes like he was scared we’d be seen. Let’s face it, nothing can ever happen.” She started pulling at one of her blond curls.

“I don’t really get it though,” I said. “It’s not like your brother was planning to date him instead.”

“Very funny.”

I considered her quandary for a moment. If Laura was chasing a “conflict of interest” dude, why couldn’t I chase an Internet guy? I just needed more information on James Caldwell.
But back to Laura first…

I drummed my fingers against the table. “Well…he may be off-limits according to your scary Italian brother…but let’s remember a more important fact: how long have you been single? A year? And we know there’s an obvious attraction, so don’t write it off just yet.”

I could see I was getting through to her, because she couldn’t think of anything to say.
Just a little bit more…

“When will you see him next?” I asked.

“At my brother’s birthday party. It’s in a couple weeks.”

“Well your brother will be way too drunk to know what’s going on, so it’s the perfect opportunity. Just make sure your dress is the hottest damn dress ever stitched by a child in Malaysia.”

Laura spent two seconds frowning at my sweatshop reference (like any good person would), then smiled and seemed genuinely appeased. We switched the conversation to one of her bitchy co-workers. Meanwhile the Internet guy never strayed too far from my mind...

***

As I pulled my car into the driveway that night, I was faced with a troubling thought:

-Doesn’t James care that he knows not a thing about my looks? Does he even think about my looks? His life can’t be all screenplays and exotic parties can it? CAN IT? We’ve swapped e-mails about…err…about films…and writing…and books. That has to count for something, so why hasn’t he asked to see my face?!

For all James knew I was a white-haired grandpa with Internet skills. And even though his picture was likely a fake, at least I knew the age-range he was posing as.

And yet he’d never once asked about me. His lack of inquisition could only mean the following:

1. I am simply a pleasurable e-mail “buzz,” and he has no intention of taking it any further

 
Or

2. He’s gay

From what I knew, he was a physically fit male in a form-fitting T-shirt. Not to mention a sensitive writer.

Oh my god, I’m crushing on a gay dude.

With my head held low from the obvious failure of my cyber “gaydar,” I walked into the house and trudged upstairs, wanting nothing to do with my inbox.

Despite my elective decision for e-mail “de-tox,” I still switched on my laptop as I changed into my PJ’s. And I still signed into my e-mail. Who was in control of my body right now?

The narcissist.

I wasn’t expecting any e-mails from gay James Caldwell, especially because it was my turn to answer his latest. But what was I even supposed to write in response, when I’d asked him what the toughest thing about writing was, and he’d calmly answered “Writing in a language other than English.”

Who writes in two languages?

Still bug-eyed by the talent of my gay boyfriend, I was surprised to see his name featured boldly in my inbox.

Two e-mails in one day?

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Hello Roms.

Just on my way out to dinner and had a passing thought, or a question to be exact.

Did you ever have any second thoughts about putting your name to your blog? I know I didn’t, then again, I couldn’t think of anything worthwhile to call mine...but I must confess, I’ve been overwhelmed with readers suddenly wanting to befriend me on Facebook of all places.

Perhaps using my own name wasn’t such a good idea after all.

What’s your experience?

J

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My heart started racing a mile a minute.
I have a nickname now? But that’s not how you spell it! And why is he mentioning Facebook all of a sudden?

He had searched me…because he wanted to see my picture…
because he’s NOT gay!

Unfortunately for him, my private profile didn’t answer any questions at all. Even my picture was hidden from the average stalker. Feeling quite stalkerish myself, I searched his name in Facebook.

Why didn’t I think of this before?

Only one James Caldwell came up, with the same familiar picture I’d stared at a hundred times. The rest of his profile was private.

Damn.

Without another thought I hit reply.
My turn…

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Hey James,

My blog is coming along okay. And thanks for the tip from last week, on convincing me to speak what’s inside. Right now what’s inside is my affinity towards the male figure, but you’ll know what I mean when you see my next post! :-)

As for Facebook I haven’t had the problem you describe, but now I’m afraid. Let’s just hope no one finds out where I live and hatchets me to bits!

Romi

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So maybe it wasn’t the subtle move of a pro.

Oh well, if he wants to see my picture, he’ll make the next move.

I hugged my flannel-wearing knees up to my chest and tried to calm myself. As if in-person encounters weren’t confusing enough, now I had to deal with all these words on a screen? Maybe this road was inevitable for me, and hadn’t I heard story after story of people finding love on the ‘Net?

The mysterious part was trumped by a growing concern. I suddenly realized how accessible I was. Why did I ever use my name in the URL? It was an amateur move, and all I could hope was that my parents didn’t learn how to “Google.”

It was almost eight o’ clock in my time zone, which meant that James was long asleep so I didn’t have to sit by the screen.

I headed downstairs to warm up some of Mom’s famous cooking. Tonight I decided on her chickpeas in gravy or “channa,” paired with a freshly buttered naan I heated up on the stove. I sucked down the meal in minutes, and licked all the butter off my fingers when I was done.

I’m on a diet but I’m still human.

Twenty minutes later I was back in my room, ready for some Sunday night blogging. I switched off my e-mail to concentrate, and in a trance started typing like a demon on speed: