By Mistake

by Sigal Ehrlich

  I smile and voice my input, “Sweet and indeed a little crazy.”

  “Exactly!” she says animatedly. “So we stepped outside and hugged. Me and that complete stranger. We’ve been close friends ever since.”

  I tell her about Billy and Freddie, and we move on to different topics. It’s a bit of a chaotic ordeal, but it flows as if our written chemistry has been taken to the next level. We work. We work fucking well.

  “Morning news or evening news?”

  I chuckle at the random question out of the blue, and answer with a smile, “Morning.”

  “Okay, ask me something you wanted to ask me over emails, and you wouldn’t dare,” she says next.

  I chuckle and say, “You’re reducing me to a hormonal teenage boy here.” In a serious tone, I ask next, “So tell me all about your most memorable girl on girl experience, Anna.”

  We laugh in unison. My animated, “Just kidding,” collides with her, “Last year of high school . . . ”

  I fall fucking silent.

  “Tamara and I, in one of those photo booth things, you know – olden days selfie machines,” I huff with amusement in confirmation. “We were taking the prerequisite goofy, tongue sticking out, squinted eyes, photos and then she pressed her mouth to mine and well, resumed the sticking her tongue out only this time it was in my mouth.” She makes an amused sounding puff. “Sorry to disappoint hormonal teenage Liam, but that’s where it stopped. I thanked her and said I was more into her brother. The best part, I still have that photo.”

  I let out short laughter and then ask, “Are you real, Anna?”

  Her voice is tinted with mirth when she says in a semi-goofy, robotic manner, “I’m not at liberty to divulge such information. Professor Madmind said humans aren’t to be trusted.”

  I’m not even sure how we got here, but we find ourselves talking relationship status. When she tells me she’s single, I want to throw my fist in the air like I won something. Makes zero sense.

  When she asks about me, I tell her the truth. “I haven’t been in a relationship for a long time. At this point in my life I don’t have the capacity for that.”

  She hums in agreement, and then says on a breath, “Same here.”

  “See, I’m a monogamist and a perfectionist by nature. I don’t do things that matter half-assed. Not to mention a relationship. If I can’t be all in with someone I care deeply about, then I don’t see a point in doing it at all. So for now, it’s just a casual thing. I know the one important relationship will come later. I have no time or mental space to invest and give myself completely to someone right now. But further down the line, I know it’ll happen. I’ll want the traditional life partner, kids, pet, and a mortgage thing eventually.”

  “Wow, bravo, you’re good,” she says amused. “What a cleverly majestic way to say I don’t do commitment, but hey, it’s not my fault. My future self is marriage material.” But it doesn’t have a bitter, judgy bite to it.

  “My phone is about to set my poor ear on fire,” she says what seems like an hour later. An hour of flowing, pleasant conversation where we cover so many topics and get to know each other even better. I know more about her friends, her family, her job, even some of her clients than I know about people I’ve worked with for ages. And everything she said I swallowed hungrily, down to the smallest of crumbs.

  “Yeah, we’ve been talking for hours. My phone feels like it’s on fire too,” I say in a sleepy voice.

  “I guess we’d better goodnight it then,” Anna says softly.

  I really don’t want to end this call. If I had it my way we’d carry on till I have to get up for my next shift. “Good-night, Anna.”

  “Sweet dreams, Liam.” I listen to the silent line a few good beats after she hangs up, immersed in the new, thrilling sensation that’s flooding me.

  Red flags and a QB Smile

  Earlier this morning.

  Pandora to CHICKENS: Who’s free tonight for coffee/drinks/walk my dog/go for a jog/separate my clean socks pile, name your pick.

  Victoria to CHICKENS: Taking a client out to dinner, have to pass.

  Pandora to CHICKENS: Is he cute?

  Victoria to CHICKENS: Client is smart and beautiful, especially in a skirt. Also, business meeting!

  Kayla to CHICKENS: It’s too A.M for me. Switching off. Talk when dark.

  Victoria to CHICKENS: Is it just me, or is drummergirl a vampire?

  And . . .

  Liam to Anna: Morning, brace yourself, Anna, I’m about to propose.

  My phone has been beeping and hollering all morning like an enraged Uber driver in mid-day traffic. It’s the weekend, people! I give the phone the stink eye, purposely neglecting it untouched on the nightstand, and head to brew some coffee and start the kettle. I inhale the roasted aroma while stirring my tea and fixing my favorite breakfast of everything superfood and nutritious and yummy.

  Not long after, I lazily drag my feet to my room to get my phone. Given, that’s as long as I can participate in this avoidance power play with the inanimate device. Spoiler alert: it always wins. Always.

  Next, on my way to my poky balcony, I pass by the living room to grab a throw blanket. The faded pink one. I like to think of it as well-loved rather than tattered and worn. With a content sigh, I sink into the giant beanbag that takes almost the entire space of my quaint balcony and perch my legs up on the railing. I secure the blanket around my shoulders, tilt my head up, and with my eyes pinched, I smile at the chilled-sunny morning. Saturday morning is a darling.

  Finally, I reach over for my phone, scrolling through the many messages waiting for me as I relish each spoonful of my breakfast.

  Anna to CHICKENS: I’m up to whatever your little heart desires.

  Next, I read and reread Liam’s message.

  Liam to Anna: Morning, so, brace yourself, Anna, I’m about to propose.

  I know it’s entirely silly, my initial reaction to said message. It’s the same inexplicable reaction, like whatever’s happening inside my stomach when I hear his voice at the beginning of each of our calls. And there have been so many since that first one a couple of weeks ago. Let’s just say, his presence in my life over calls and messages is nearly perpetual. He has a stupidly deep and attractive voice, and it sounds best when it’s colored by tease or humor, or deep contemplation. His voice does things to me. Things that remind me of sleepy bedroom whispers, of warm embraces on cold rainy nights, of low masculine laughter that vibrates right to your core and sparks a fire. He affects me – in ways I didn’t know were possible. Not by someone who’s but a concept, that is.

  Anna to Liam: Wow that was quick, don’t you think this question is a bit . . . lofty? Proposing without even checking the dowry value first? I don’t know what to say.

  An immediate reply lands on my phone.

  Liam to Anna: Simple, Anna. Say yes.

  Stupid. Stupid is the thrill running through me as I read his reply. I haven’t even met the guy and he makes me feel things others didn’t manage to evoke up close and personal. I should know better than to feel the feels for . . . an illusion.

  There’s an attachment to Liam’s last message, a gif. It’s an opening and closing jewelry box of sorts with a coffee bean in the middle.

  Liam to Anna: I couldn’t find one with a teabag.

  I grin, a full-on megawatt grin. He’s proposing “coffee,” also known as the universal code for asking someone out for a casual date. Is this really happening? Am I going to meet my online crush in real life? I like his online persona so much that meeting the real-life version intimidates me. Because, let’s be real here. What are the odds that our “blind” chemistry will work as good when we’re face to face?

  My phone rings next, startling me so that I toss it like a hot potato. Panicked, I pick it up from the floor, hoping there are no cracks. I squint at it first with concern, checking for damage . . . and, if I’m being honest, stalling. Finally I answer.

  “Did I freak you out?” Liam’s jo
yful voice asks in lieu of a greeting.

  “Good morning to you too,” I say, delaying my answer that yes, he did freak me out a little.

  “We covered the pleasantries over texts earlier,” he deadpans, however, with a hint of humor.

  It’s my turn to softly laugh.

  “Anna?” he says. “Too soon?”

  I bite on my lip, holding a hesitant grin. “Umm . . . yes.”

  “Yes?” The short word drips of surprise and disappointment.

  My smile stretches and my heart beats a little faster when I say, “Yes, I’m saying yes. And it’s not too soon. I’d love to meet you for coffee.”

  As we discuss the logistic side of meeting up, location, once again marveling at the fact that we live in the same area, and how will we recognize each other, he sounds so adorably happy.

  “You never looked me up?” I ask surprised.

  “No. Did you look me up?”

  “Well, I had that photo of you and Little Shit, so it was fifty-fifty for me. I had an idea of how you might look.” I pause and then resume. “Confession time, I think I actually saw you. I mean I’m pretty sure I saw you already, in real life. And before you get a restraining order, it wasn’t a psycho stalker thing.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I was at that grocery store, the one near Virginia Mason, the day we first spoke on the phone. I saw you, or thought I saw you, because you looked like the guy from the photo. The scrubs and all had me thinking it was maybe . . . probably . . . you.”

  “If you thought it was me why didn’t you talk to me? You know, say hi?”

  “Okay, imagine just how weird it would have been if it weren’t you. Remember, I didn’t know we lived in the same town. For all I knew you were living across the pond, sipping tea and eating scones with monarchs while calling people wankers.”

  That earns me a light, boy chuckle. “Is it just me or are you quite fond of the word?”

  “Right on the nose, my friend. Such a potent and powerful word.”

  “This is so crazy, the fact that not only do we live in the same state, we live quite near to each other.” I bring it up again. Such a small world.

  “Fate, Anna, fate.” He then says, “So, my proposal, what do you say? Are you free . . . soonish?”

  A casual statement that has my heart a little panicky as if he just extended his hand to hover over my red button. I push down the mini-tornado inside of me and casually say, “Sure. No plans.”

  When he suggests meeting at a little café that’s tucked away inside a bookstore in a couple of hours! I want to ask him again if it’s not all a big setup planned by my evil friends. Because so far he’d checked all the right boxes – way too easily.

  “See you soon, Anna.”

  The little tornado comes back for an encore as I press the end button on the call.

  It’s really happening.

  I’m freaking out.

  I arrive at the café earlier than we agreed. I always do. The word late doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. After a mini, what-the-hell-should-I-wear session I’ve decided not to fuss over my clothes and whatnot. But then again, there was major freaking out. The concept of meeting Liam sent my nerves through the roof. Nope, outer space is more like it. But still, aesthetics wise I’ve decided to not fuss. See, in my mind, casual is one of the Saturday commandments. “Thou shalt wear causal raiment,” goes hand in hand with “remember to keep the Sabbath day holy” and “thou shalt not kill (unless someone disturbs your day of rest).”

  So here I am in my Saturday usual, as ordered by the powers to be, casual attire. Boyfriend jeans, a black and white stripe shirt, loosely French-tucked. My hair is up in a ponytail and I have the bare minimum makeup on, a little mascara and tan hued blush. Not knowing where it’ll lead, I decided to bring my shopping tote bag along so I’ll be able to do some grocery shopping on my way back home. Promising as online Liam is, a girl should remain pragmatic.

  I order a lavender earl grey and take a seat at the most intimate corner where the Saturday brunching whir is toned down a little. Observing the place, a soft smile eases into my lips to the many books crammed up the high shelves. The café is a hipstery melting pot of groomed, long beards, thick-rim glasses, brown leather work boots, and feminine vintage attire, sipping their soy flat whites, going about the leisure weekend get togetherness. I check my watch and get up to fetch a copy of the New Yorker. With the magazine in hand, I turn around to get back to my seat and pause. My heartbeat hastens like it reached a crescendo in some epic ballad.

  Liam just entered the place, looking like someone who’s just slept well, all fresh and wonderfully casual. He’s in distressed jeans, a pair of green sneakers, and a white Henley that’s not too tight, but still showcases wide shoulders and muscular arms. An involuntary smile eases my lips. I like the casual look.

  And . . . thank god I didn’t fuss up.

  His brown hair seems to have been mussed by a touch of light wind. His powder blue eyes search the room for some beats. Finally, his stare falls on me with a surprised, I-know-you-from-somewhere look, and then to my surprise he resumes his scan of the room. As though he might know me but I’m not the person he’s looking for. Or maybe he just didn’t like what he saw? Ouch.

  I stand up and walk toward him a little bemused. When he notices I’m heading his way, that surprised look makes an encore. I frown when he breaks our stare and turns his head back as if to check who’s behind him.

  “Liam?” I ask, a step away.

  “Anna?” He echoes in utter disbelief. I follow his hand with my eyes as it rises to gently cup an incredulous smile. “You’re . . . Anna?” He says rather baffled from behind said hand.

  I start to think that maybe the whole witty banter online was a sham and the guy is essentially a little dopey. I fold my arms across my chest. My frown deepens as I say, “Yeah, I’m Anna.”

  He finally removes that hand from his lips to reveal a smile. A dubious, yet very happy smile. Through that healthy smile, he says, “Wow, you’re Anna!” Then, “How do we do this, a handshake, a hug?”

  I let out a relieved chuckle to find out emails/phone calls Liam is back. “I guess, a—” And before I’m able to complete my sentence, I’m scooped into a one arm, friendly side embrace.

  “Hey Anna,” he says closer to my ear, and little tingles avalanche down the nape of my neck.

  “I already got us a table. I wasn’t sure what to order for you, you know, so—” I babble a little, still a bit hesitant and very overwhelmed.

  Grinning Liam says, “Sure, no problem, just let me order something and I’ll join you. Get you anything?”

  “I’m good.” That soft smile on my face is not something I’m controlling.

  The New Yorker is long forgotten, sitting like a placemat beneath my elbows as I steal glances at Liam who’s ordering something at the cakes and muffins packed counter. He’s not a hundred percent my type looks-wise, I usually go for the darker ones with tan skin and chocolate eyes, but I can’t deny it, he’s definitely attractive. I accredit my hypothesis, clearly a QB look. But it’s not the cocky kind. You know the type. The QB who’s in a never-ending quest to bed any hottie in-sight and boost his ego. No, it’s the QB that would help an old lady with her bags and run home to have dinner with his family, not because he has to, but because his mom cooked and he loves her. Just like my first impression of that photo from the “good ‘ol days,” he’s the boy next door that grew into a very attractive man while maintaining the good boy mannerism.

  Liam’s eyes are glued to mine and his lips are set in an easy smile as he makes his way to join me. He’s carrying a tray with a beverage and a plate. Also, held beneath the tray is the weirdest looking bouquet. He places the tray on the table and takes the seat facing mine. The odd bouquet is placed somewhere on his thigh under the table, outside of my line of vision.

  He takes a sip of coffee, eyes on me. He smiles softly, “Turns out I’ve seen you before too. I knew you look
ed familiar—”

  I cock my head. “You did?” I ask, cutting him off. Hence the inexplicable, weird hit and run eye contact thing from moments ago.

  “At Poison and Wine, twice, I think,” he says.

  I perk up, surprised. “Oh, yeah, I’ve been there a few times. My drummer friend I told you about performs there with her band.”

  He looks like he’s about to say something but chooses not to. Instead, he pulls up the tragedy of a flower composition. He laughs as he hands me the Thing. “I had to be creative and this is the best I was able to come up with – us meeting was sort of a spur of the moment thing, so here goes.”

  I trap my lips with my teeth, but I’m sure my tentative smile is still noticeable. “That’s, umm, unique.” In closer proximity, it’s even more . . . unique. It’s a sad-looking bouquet if you can call it that. The roses aren’t exactly in their prime, and that’s putting it mildly. And what’s that? There are little red paper – what are those? Masts? Laced together with the depleted flowers. Intertwined with the flowers are little flags, red flags. On closer inspection, I see that each flag has something scribbled on it.

  I lift my eyes to Liam in question because the rare composition begs for some sort of clarification for those of a lesser artistic imagination.

  “In one of our first emails you mentioned that you wished people came with warning signs,” he says and gestures with his hands at the flowers. My own smile grows wider. “My red flags, Anna.”