Mister Romance

by Amelia Simone

  Becca squinted momentarily before her expression cleared. My face flushed with heat. Great. Now she probably thought I wasn’t coordinated enough to walk. I closed my eyes briefly before opening them to see her smiling back at me.

  “I’ve been watching you too. That’s what makes this class so fun. I love seeing everyone’s unique twist on the moves. You’ve got a great fireman.”

  I couldn’t keep the small smile off of my face. I had a good fireman. I straightened my shoulders and wished Becca a good night. While a lot of the moves still felt unnatural, I wasn’t quitting. Gina may be the only other person in my circle to ever know about my dance hobby, but I’d know. I’d know I stuck with it. Even if it was difficult and awkward. The bruises on my knees and ache in my thighs told their own story. But the bruises would fade, and I’d get stronger. If I just kept going.

  THAT NIGHT I CHOPPED the colored yellow, orange, and red mini peppers while the chorizo browned for my enchiladas. I mostly remembered to break up and stir the meat while cutting, so it didn’t burn. The Rorschach of tomato sauce on my chest wasn’t a good look, but my apron had protected me from the worst of the splatter when I added it to the meat. I dabbed the red mess off the best I could. Luckily, most of the tomato sauce still made it to the pan. I mixed the browned meat and peppers with rice and sour cream before rolling the mixture inside tortillas and placing the pan in the oven to bake with cheese sprinkled on top. It smelled heavenly, the cumin filling the air with savory goodness.

  My parents called from somewhere in Colorado as I was setting a timer for the oven on my phone. I popped up my video chat screen to see my folks smooshed together on the screen. Dad was wearing a bright orange tank top that set off his tanned and weathered skin. His gray hair was thinning on top, but he was still a handsome man. Mom had let her hair go gray when they started traveling full-time, because it was too hard to find salons for color in strange cities. She’d cut it short and looked attractive with her sparkling blue eyes and elfin features. I looked nothing like her, to my everlasting chagrin. I was more of a dark and curly-haired version of my dad. I was always wishing for my mom’s cute little nose instead of the larger, flatter version I inherited from him. He claimed it was adorable on me, but I was pretty sure he had to say that because he was my dad and the source of said nose.

  “Hey, honey,” my dad said. “How are you? Did you have a good birthday?”

  Nice of them to remember. Since retiring, they were hit or miss with the calendar. My smile wilted around the edges at the reminder.

  “Yes, I had to work, but I had a good delivery that night. Gina and I celebrated with a cupcake.”

  “That sounds nice, dear. What else is new?” my mom asked.

  That was Mom. Checked out and ready to move on.

  “Not much, just trying a few hobbies. I’ve been doing some more cooking.” That was safe enough to admit. I didn’t think my parents would have strong opinions about my dance class, but I could imagine what my uptight older sister would say if they dropped that tidbit in conversation.

  “That’s lovely, dear.”

  The disinterest was to be expected. It made me wonder why they called at all.

  “Do you have a date for your brother’s wedding? We’re looking forward to seeing you, and it’s coming up so quickly. Only a few more weeks left. We just got off the phone with Nick and Mindy. They’re rushing around taking care of last-minute arrangements. Mindy’s mom can’t resist commenting on every detail. I figure I’m doing my part by staying out of it.”

  Bingo. Nick had reminded them it was my birthday. As their favorite and only son, it figured that my parents would be excited for the wedding. Nothing less would draw them back for a visit. Once they tasted warmer, sunnier climes in their travel trailer, we rarely saw them. In typical mom fashion, her words were delivered as one long monologue, which conveniently allowed me to avoid answering her date question. I didn’t have one, and like my dance class, I wasn’t anxious to invite any opinions about that.

  “I’m sure Nick is excited to have you and Dad there. How long has it been since we’ve seen you?” I asked.

  Cue awkward staring into space. Maybe it was rude to put them on the spot when I knew the answer, but I couldn’t resist the dig. Mom and Dad scrambled to recall, and it was straining their memories. Our last visit must have not been that memorable, given all of their other travel adventures. Resignation filled me as I ended my little quiz.

  “Wasn’t it Christmas three years ago?” I asked.

  Mom’s eyes brightened. “Yes. That was a great visit. I bet the kids have gotten so big since we last saw them in person. Video chatting isn’t the same.”

  I nodded and conversation moved on to the things they’d seen and done in Colorado. We were wrapping up our chat when something acrid made my nose twitch. Oops. I never set that timer after all. I quickly ended the call with my folks and opened the oven. The rush of smoke wasn’t as bad as I feared, but my meal was no longer Pinterest-ready.

  Virginia’s enchiladas had a beautiful brown crust of cheese on top, delightfully bubbly. Mine was more ... blackened. After scraping the worst of it off, the enchiladas themselves would probably taste fine. I sighed. So far, cooking was a bust. I took a photo of my finished result.

  I dished up a couple of enchiladas on a plate, then peeled off the burned cheese and smothered them with more sour cream. I took a bite and let the burst of flavors roll around on my tongue. Spicy chorizo, the fresh tang of peppers, a little creaminess from the sour cream. Aside from the missing cheese, still delicious.

  The conversation with my parents had left me feeling more lonely than ever, the impending wedding hanging over my head. After dinner I posted my fail in response to Virginia’s original post. Proving, at least to myself, that I was changing. Growing braver.

  @VirginiaRothman I tried, but I might need lessons. Not quite picture-perfect like yours.

  She must have been online, because it was only a few minutes later that she’d liked my picture and responded privately.

  @TamraRN cooking is like life, you learn only when you make mistakes.

  @VirginiaRothman I’ve learned that I need to remember to set my timer!

  @TamraRN and I’ve learned that the secret to a good social media meal picture is sometimes remaking the meal. Not saying I’ve done it ... more than a few times. ;)

  @VirginiaRothman now you tell me! I guess I’ll worry more about progress than perfection.

  @TamraRN there’s truth there. I’ve been working on my kitchen skills a long time!

  @VirginiaRothman maybe you should give lessons. I need them.

  @TamraRN I guess it’s a second career idea if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out.

  @VirginiaRothman no! Not what I meant. I love your writing. I need all the words. Back away from the kitchen!

  @TamraRN never fear; you couldn’t keep me from the words if you tried. I’m compulsive at this point.

  @VirginiaRothman glad to hear it.

  @TamraRN hear, yes? Smell, not so much. I tend to forget things like sleeping and showering when writing is involved.

  @VirginiaRothman so I should lower my expectations for sartorial elegance if we meet in person?

  @TamraRN LOL definitely. Pretty sure the phrase sartorial elegance has never been used in my presence.

  I smiled and tried to picture Virginia in my head. I had stalked, er, checked her Twitter account and website but both provided scant details and no photographs. Her avatar was her brand logo, and the blue butterfly didn’t tell me much. Virginia’s first contemporary romance featured a science teacher and a single mom who’d kissed for the first time in a butterfly garden. Based on how long I’d been reading her romance novels, I pictured an older woman who liked butterflies and gardening. She’d probably had her share of kitchen fails in the days before the internet.

  Virginia was still waiting on my responses to her research questions. I reviewed my draft one more time. It was as good as it w
as going to get. Writing to any level of depth in an email was not my thing. Noting vitals in patients’ charts was usually my limit. Based on our chatting, Virginia seemed down-to-earth, and it gave me confidence that she’d overlook any embarrassing oversharing. With a final deep breath, I hit the send button.

  Chapter 9 - Chase

  Sunday, I rolled out of bed and gave the clock a bleary-eyed glare. I’d stayed up later than normal plotting my next story about a nurse and bartender. I still needed insight from Tamra to put the finer details in the outline, but I had too many ideas percolating and demanding I get them down on paper. As a result, I’d been up to nearly five o’clock in the morning, and it was now after ten.

  I hitched my sleep shorts up on my hips and scratched my chest with a yawn. I strolled into the bathroom and turned the shower up as hot as it’d go, hoping that the steaming water would get my blood flowing.

  Meeting Jimmy for a workout later needed to happen. I’d been slacking lately and skipping our regular workout days, and it was starting to show. Jimmy’s gym was intimidating; there were a lot of cops and firefighters who made that location their own. Some struggled to turn off the job and put out an intense vibe even when they were off the clock. Others worked out like their life depended on it, because it might. The ambient testosterone was strong enough to make your eyes sting. Even most of the female lifters at the gym were officers or firefighters, and I studiously avoided eye contact with them. By comparison, I was a lightweight. The women were clearly alpha to me, and I had no desire to challenge that.

  Last month I had accidentally started a conversation with one of Jimmy’s female colleagues on the police force, and it had not ended well. I was pretty sure she ran a background check on me after our conversation, to make sure I was only misguided and not an actual threat to our fair city. Our interaction had started off innocent enough, when she asked me to spot her after Jimmy and I finished our set on the bench press.

  She’d asked how I knew Jimmy, and I admitted that we’d known each other since we were kids. “Jimmy and I go way back. I used to spend all of my time with him and his sister in the summers. We’d run around the neighborhood, getting into trouble.”

  She’d arched a blond brow at me. “No? Jimmy in trouble? What kind?”

  Uh-oh. I’d forgotten that the gym was rife with his potential co-workers. I didn’t need to give them any ammunition to hassle him. “Umm ...” I stalled while frantically trying to come up with details that weren’t incriminating or embarrassing for him. “It was really his sister that I hung out with. She was the ringleader. Jimmy was usually keeping us out of trouble.”

  I could tell she smelled a story; the curious police officer decided to apply her investigation skills to my nervous ass. “Really? I’ve met Andi. That surprises me. What kind of trouble did you guys get into?” she pressed.

  Damn. I needed to come up with something specific enough to snip this thread of questioning. She was attractive, and it was easy to get distracted by the muscles in her biceps working smoothly as she executed the lift, instead of thinking up a good story.

  “Oh, yeah. Andi was quite the wild card when she was younger. But it was mostly kid stuff, you know? We got ahold of some fireworks once. It wasn’t exactly the Fourth of July, but we didn’t know they weren’t legal. We took them behind an abandoned warehouse one night and lit them. Only we got more than we bargained for.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  I sighed and helped set the bar back on the rest as she completed her set and sat up to look me in the eye. Her face was impassive, but the intensity of her eye contact was intimidating. Expertly wielding her calm authority like a weapon to get me to talk.

  “I’m not a pyro or anything, but the fire department got involved,” I admitted sheepishly. Also, the paramedics, but I was trying to avoid that tidbit. My eyebrows eventually grew back. But as the remembered explosion scrolled through my memory, I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze. I’d spilled too much, like the weak link I was. I quickly made up an excuse and got the hell out of there before I could incriminate myself further.

  I shuddered thinking about it. She probably hadn’t thought it had been that bad, but I didn’t want Jimmy’s firefighter and cop friends teasing me or him. They probably took a dim view of juveniles starting reckless fires. I struggled with normal conversation topics at the best of times, and their inside jokes threw me.

  After my shower, I sat down at my laptop to work with my coffee and a bagel. When I saw the email from Tamra in my inbox, I threw up my arms in a V. She’d answered my questions. The new book was tentatively titled Nursing Shots and partnered a nurse with a bar owner in a friends-to-lovers plot, but I had approximately a billion hours of work before it would be ready for anyone’s eyes but mine.

  Her response set me straight on a few things, but I still had a lot of questions given the direction I wanted to take my book’s plot. Her email was too calm. Almost dispassionate, but with hints of the humor I’d sensed in her other messages. I needed the emotion behind it to tap into my character.

  Was it time to give up my anonymity in the name of research? Tamra and I had developed a rapport through our Twitter messaging, but would it carry into real life? Even talking over the phone would reveal my identity. Did she love my books enough to excuse the deception, if the person behind the words wasn’t exactly who she thought? Maybe she’d forgive me for hiding behind the persona of Virginia Rothman? I could hope.

  Based on the last few interactions I’d had with women in real life—unlikely. That was my first problem. Reality. Communicating via the written word wasn’t my issue. In person interactions were where I was total rubbish. I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, but my brain had no foreknowledge or time to consider and manage my message. Some deep, dark part of my brain thought it, and it came right out of my mouth hole. Half the time I swore I was speaking out the other end.

  I thought about sending a friend in my place to meet Tamra but discarded that idea almost immediately. That reeked of dishonesty, and I didn’t want to do that to her. There was also the practical consideration. I didn’t have any friends who would agree to deceiving another woman. Andi would never go for it, and she was about the only female friend I could ask. We’d come a long way since our childhood shenanigans—well, at least she liked to pretend we’d matured.

  I was out of alternatives. I could try to develop another nursing contact under my real identity but given that so many labor and delivery nurses were female: see my first problem. Pure rubbish with the mouth hole. No edit button. No mute button. Just pure, unfiltered Chase nonsense.

  It was time to suck it up and suffer for research. Asking for a non-disclosure agreement would ease some of my anxiety but asking for one felt like over-the-top diva territory. It wouldn’t be a hardship to meet Tamra in person. She seemed nice, liked my writing, and was cute in the picture I’d seen. As someone who read my books, I was counting on the fact that she already liked a version of me. If only blowing it weren’t my brand. I could picture her face crumpling in confusion as she met me for the first time, and I said something appalling, like, “You look like a dark-haired Ronald McDonald. But with longer hair.” Explaining about my middle school McDonald’s fanfic probably wouldn’t make me seem any less odd.

  Maybe I could script myself through it? If I thought through all of the permutations of our discussion, carefully selected my responses, and practiced those, I wouldn’t fly off on a tangent that got me blocked on Twitter by Tamra. Or outed to all my other fans. With enough preparation, I could fake the suave skills that came naturally to the heroes I wrote. It was a reasonable strategy, though my mom would disagree. Hard. And give me some bullshit about being myself.

  It took about two hours of typing and revisions to get a script I was happy with. By then my stomach was growling, so I took a brief lunch break before emailing Tamra.

  To: TamraRN@email.com

  From: VirginaRothman@gmail.com

&
nbsp; Re: Labor & Delivery Questions

  Hey Tamra,

  Thanks again for taking the time to help me! I’d love to meet you for coffee as a thank-you and ask a few follow up questions. Would you have time to meet with me next week? Let me know a good day and time for you, and I’ll make it work.

  Also, please note that Virginia Rothman is my pen name, and I am male. I hope that doesn’t put you off talking with me. I’m trusting you’ll keep my real identity confidential.

  Thanks again,

  V AKA Chase Hoffman

  I breathed a sigh. Decision made and email sent. As a nurse, Tamra was used to maintaining confidentiality. She’d demonstrated a sense of humor and good taste in books, so that boded well for her trustworthiness. Hopefully, she was the forgiving type. I’d practice my prepared conversation topics as much as possible before we met and hope for the best. Focusing on that was the only way to distract my brain from disaster.

  I reluctantly pushed away from my desk and got into workout gear to meet Jimmy. With luck, I wouldn’t run into the blond officer at the gym again. I couldn’t afford any new confidence-sapping screw ups. It was going to take all my energy to engage in a normal conversation with Tamra. If she agreed.

  Chapter 10 - Tamra

  My pulse raced when I saw Virginia’s reply asking me to coffee, but my stomach dropped when I reached the last few lines. Virginia Rothman was a man? Of course. Should have seen that coming. My one new friend—not to mention my favorite author—turned out to be a fake.

  I pushed off the couch and paced, ignoring the twinge in the soles of my feet from being on them all day. I was used to picturing Virginia a certain way in my head. She was wise. Funny. Maybe a little bit naughty. Her writing was tender and romantic with core stories about embracing imperfections and learning to love yourself and your partner. It was hard to reconcile all that with a penis.