by Lisa Lace
“And you’ve fucked up by opening a can of worms.”
“Possibly. I mean, she wouldn’t still have the same number, right?”
“Unlikely, I guess. But if it’s not her, who is it?”
“Some horny New Yorker, I’d imagine.” I take a left turn, heading uptown toward the venue. “To make it worse, Fifi called this morning, asking why I hadn’t been in touch. Of course, I ask her what she’s talking about, and remind her that ‘we’ have been sending messages all night. So now she thinks I’ve got someone else on the side.”
“What are you going to do?”
I breathe out, drumming my fingers against the wheel. “I’m going to ghost the woman I was messaging last night. I mean, the likelihood that it’s actually Sophie has got to be almost zero—in which case I’m just cutting off a randy stranger. Besides, even if it is Sophie, there’s no way she could know my number.”
“Wait, wait, wait—hold up. If there’s no way that she could know your number, then who did she think she was sexting?”
I hadn’t thought of that.
“God knows. I never used my name in the messages. Although, I did mention Tinder. I guess if it is Sophie, I’m not the only one using dating apps. Maybe it’s one huge case of mistaken identity all around.”
“Only you could get yourself into a situation like this.”
“I’m going to get myself out of it just as quickly, trust me. I’m not going to message that woman again, Sophie or not. There’s no way she could ever know it was me. Things are just starting to go somewhere with Fifi. It’s best if I patch things up with Sophia and forget about Sophie.”
But who could forget about Sophie?
I stand in front of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, experimenting with the different features on my brand-new Canon that I’d saved all year to buy. I’d already managed to sell four photographs from my trip to travel magazines and blogs. After years of snapping pictures of my Mom dying her hair and my dog sitting in flowerbeds, I was finally starting to feel like a real photographer.
Here I was, out in the world, halfway to a profession.
I lift my camera to my eye to take another photo when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
A young woman of eighteen or nineteen is standing by me. She’s gorgeous, wearing a pair of denim shorts that show off legs that go for miles. She has long, golden hair swept back behind a pair of sunglasses balanced on her head. Her skin is pink from the sun, her cheeks rosy, and the tops of her shoulders tanned. She has a light backpack slung over one shoulder, a bottle of water in one hand, and a basic digital camera in the other.
“Excuse me,” she says. “I know this is a very lame tourist thing to ask, but could you please take a picture of me with the tower? I promised my sister I’d take a picture of me pushing it over.”
“Sure.”
She hands me her camera with a smile. “I guessed you were American. Thank God—I’m been fumbling with my Italian all day. It took me ten minutes to get this water.”
I laugh. “Hand gestures help.” I motion toward the tower. “Are you ready?”
She poses, grinning as she stretches out her hands and leans in a pushing motion. I line up the shot and click away, double-checking that I’ve got it right.
“Any luck?”
“Perfect. Your sister should be satisfied.”
She takes the camera from my hand and flicks through. Her grin widens. “Thanks! Do you want me to take one of you?”
I make a face. “I don’t like being in pictures.”
“Really? With a camera like that, I’d have thought you’d be some kind of photographer.”
I chuckle. “Maybe, but definitely not a model.”
She flicks her eyes up to mine with a shy smile. “You could be.”
“I’m Cole, by the way.”
“Sophie.”
I glance at my watch. “It’s nearly lunchtime. Do you want to try some of Italy’s famous pizza? I’ll swap my Italian skills for your company.”
“You speak Italian?”
“Not a word, but I’d really like to take you to lunch.”
She laughs. “Deal.”
Sophie
I expected the messages to continue the next night. I’d even gone so far as to hope that they might lead to an invitation to meet. I’d stepped out of my comfort zone, and I was ready to tread further into this new and exciting world where inhibitions don’t exist.
But, they stopped dead. No suggestive texts, no invitation; not so much as a winky face.
I took a leap of faith and decided to be the first to reach out for round two.
—Hi, it’s Sophie. Forget about me?
I wait all day on Saturday, but nothing comes. I start to think that this guy—whoever he is—has gotten his rocks off, then ghosted me. I’m glad I never sent a picture.
As Saturday nears to an end, I try again.
—I had fun last night. I’d love to talk again.
The hours tick by with no response. I think about how steamy those messages were and start to panic. Just who is it I’ve been talking to?
I wonder why someone wouldn’t reply. Maybe they met someone else through the site. Maybe they do this for the thrill. Maybe they ghost women like me all the time.
I’m a little tearful by the time I crawl into bed. I’ve taken a chance to do something entirely unlike me, and it’s backfired already. I feel cheap. I can’t believe this bastard won’t reply.
Whenever one of my attempts to connect with a man goes wrong, I’m always reminded of Cole. I think of him now. In its time, our romance was perfect. I’ve never stopped longing for something that comes close to making me feel how I felt when I was with him, traveling the world.
Cole buys me a slice of pizza by pointing at pieces in the display. We take our slices and sit at a table out front of the restaurant where we can watch the world go by. The top of the Leaning Tower is still visible from the backstreet we’ve wandered onto; even here, floods of tourists sweep by.
“Are you on vacation?” I ask him.
“Kind of,” he replies. “I’m building a photography portfolio. You guessed right—I want to be a photographer.”
“That’s amazing. Have you traveled anywhere else?”
“I’ve been working my way around Europe. I was in France last month, and Germany the month before.”
“Incredible.”
“How about you?”
“I started with some of the other states—I’m from New York, originally. I went to Florida, then California. I did some work to pay for the next leg of the trip. Then I went to Spain and England.”
“London?”
“Of course.”
“I went there a couple of years ago with my family. Are you traveling after Italy?”
I nod. “I’m going to Asia next. Thailand.”
“Are you serious?”
Cole pulls out some paperwork from his backpack. “Visa for Thailand.”
A smile spreads across my face. There’s a flutter in my stomach. This feels an awful lot like fate.
I look up at Cole. He’s probably the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He’s twenty-one years old and gorgeous. His skin is tan, his eyes blue, his hair a sandy blond, short at the sides and long on the top. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a tight-fitting navy T-shirt which shows off his muscular arms and flat stomach, his camera slung around his neck. He looks like an action hero, a cross between Peter Parker and Indiana Jones.
“Maybe we’ll run into each other again, then,” I say.
“Maybe I’ll make sure we do.”
I blink back tears, trying not to think about Cole or any of our adventures. Even a decade later, it still hurts.
I pick up my cell. I deserve to feel a spark again.
—I know you don’t know me very well, but I don’t usually do this kind of thing. It took a lot of guts to message you, so please don’t leave me hanging. Maybe we could meet and see if there’s a spark in the real world. Tex
t me.
No reply comes. I curl up under my duvet and go to sleep.
I wonder if I said something wrong, or if my attempts at being sexy were actually just the cringe-inducing straw-clutching of a desperate woman. Either I did a terrible job at sounding attractive, or I was used and discarded.
Isn’t that what Lena suggested you do to him if you didn’t click?
This is why I’ve never gone down this road. I don’t have skin that’s thick enough.
The next morning, I’m done. I fire off one last message.
—I’m deleting this number.
—Don’t. I think we should meet.
I swing by Lena’s on my way to work the next morning to ask her for advice. I sit on the edge of her bed as she does her make-up in the mirror, ready to check in on the local branch of her restaurant.
“So, let me get this straight,” she summarizes after I’ve filled her in. “You did send some sexts, got offended when he didn’t come back for more, sent a passive-aggressive text calling him out on it, and somehow turned it into a date?” She casts me a sympathetic gaze. “I’m not sure you get this strings-free type of dating, Sophie.”
“You think I shouldn’t meet him, then?”
“I’m not saying that. It’s up to you.”
I fiddle with the frilly edge of her pillowcase. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Clearly. Because from the story you told me, you asked him to meet you, and now you’re getting cold feet. Make up your mind! Are you a spontaneous, free-spirited single woman, or not?”
I was a spontaneous, free-spirited single woman once when I let a stranger I met in Italy convince me to change my flight to match his so we could travel to Thailand together.
“I don’t know, Lena. Maybe I should call the whole thing off.”
Lena shrugs. “It’s your choice; just stay safe. If you’re meeting this guy, tell me where and when so I can check in on you.” She pulls a comb through her short hair, carefully styling her fringe, then she turns back over her shoulder to me. “Did you figure out which guy it was?”
“No idea.”
She laughs. “Maybe it’s more fun that way.”
I nod. “You know what? I’m going to do it.”
“You are?”
“Yes. I’m sick of the same routine over and over. I get up, I get dressed, I go to the bank, I come home from the bank, I eat alone, I watch TV alone, I go to bed alone. It’s been like that for far too long. You’re right; let’s mix it up a little.”
Lena claps her hands in delight. “Go, you! I like this version of Sophie. Are you going to message him back?”
“I’m doing it—now.”
I press “send” on my reply: Great. Tell me where and when
—Tonight. George’s Wine Bar and Bistro, Eighth Avenue, Midtown. 8pm. Meet you there?
—See you there.
I grin as I send my response, then let out a little squeal. “Am I really doing this?”
“You’re really doing this! You’re going to meet someone who might very well have a sex drive.”
“I wish I knew which one it was.”
“Do you find any of them attractive?”
I bite down on my lip. “Connor is my type, I suppose.”
“Let me guess: looks like a Ken doll.”
I give her a playful shove. “We all have a type.”
“What about the others?”
“Dave is really not my cup of tea. He looks like one of those old-fashioned muscle men with the dumbbells and curly mustaches and stupid leotards.”
“Does he have a mustache?”
“No. But that’s all it would take.” I scrutinize his photo again, making a face.
“And the other one?”
“Noah. It’s not that he’s unattractive, but he only has the one photo, and it’s so weird and stagey. More like he’s trying to win a client than a date.”
“Well, one of them is obviously a red-blooded male who thinks you’re sexy. I hope you’re pleasantly surprised.”
“Me, too.” I glance at the time on my cell and sigh. “Better get off to work.” I slip my feet back into my court shoes and let out a dramatic sigh. “When will I get my own chain of stores, so that I can do absolutely nothing all day?”
Lena laughs. “I’m sure your fortunes are just around the corner, sweetie.”
I squeeze her shoulder. “I’m meeting mystery man at 8 tonight on Eighth Street. George’s Wine Bar and Bistro. I’ll try to send you a message once I’m there to let you know everything’s okay.”
She grins, laying her hand on mine. “Have fun, you little minx.”
Cole
I dress up to meet her, a nervous lump in my throat. My hands are clammy. I keep wiping them on my pants as I wait for her at the bar. I’m sitting on a high stool; my feet keep slipping. I glance at myself in the mirror behind the bar. Jesus, I’ve aged. I wonder if she’ll even recognize me.
It’s a trendy joint; the kind of place where the bartenders throw bottles around and the cocktails have ridiculous names like “swamp rat” and “cherry bomb.” The lights are very dim. It smells like polished oak and women’s perfume.
The people inside are mostly young professionals on nights out. A woman with a slinky back-baring blouse looks over her shoulder at me seductively, closing her lips around her pink straw. I look away.
After I realized it was definitely Sophie, my intention to ghost her didn’t go as planned. She sent a message telling that it took guts to reply to me, calling me out for vanishing.
I pictured her sitting alone, staring at her phone, wondering what she’d done wrong. Sophie always second-guessed herself.
I’m telling myself that reaching out to Sophie is an act of compassion so that she doesn’t believe a man shrugged her off, but that’s not the whole truth. I’ve always wondered what happened to her. I always felt guilty for how things ended between us. Maybe this is my chance to have some closure.
The bartender is watching me—I’ve been here for an hour already, having a drink to ease my nerves before my date with the past.
Suddenly, Sophie appears, and she hasn’t changed at all. She enters by the stairs at the far end of the underground bar. Her fair hair, just as long as the day I met her, shines under the low lights. The style is more mature than I remember, shaped around her face, a few highlights gleaming. Her long, shapely legs stretch out from beneath her classic little black dress, stilettos on her feet. She’s in good shape, her figure a perfect hourglass.
She looks like she did a decade ago, except maybe a little more sophisticated than she was back then. She peers around the bar expectantly. When she spots me, her mouth falls open slightly, and she gazes around again, as though hoping to see somebody else.
Her eyes meet mine. I hold her gaze. Now she understands. I’m the one you’re here to meet.
Something electric stirs through me. My heart beats faster at the sight of her standing there, and a thousand memories come flooding back. All at once, I feel ten years younger to see her, and painfully aware of how I’m no longer twenty-one.
No longer a success.
She looks like a deer caught in the headlights, so I stand and go to her before she can turn and flee. “Sophie. It’s good to see you.”
Her eyebrows draw together in confusion. She looks around again, then back to me. I can see tears in her eyes that she refuses to let fall. They hang there until she closes her eyes tightly and wills them back.
When she opens them again, her gaze is crystal clear and accusing.
“Come sit with me.”
As she follows me back to the bar, her expression is full of suspicion. She places her little black purse on the counter, and sits on a stool, one leg crossed over the other. Her eyes are narrow.
She growls at me, “What the fuck, Cole?”
I hold up my hands. “Please, let me explain.”
“I can’t believe this.” She shakes her head, scowling. “What the hell is g
oing on?”
“It’s not what it seems like.”
“It seems like you dug out my number and tricked me into sending you those messages and meeting you here.”
“That’s not what happened.” She’s staring at me so intently that it feels like my words are drying up. She’s so beautiful. I clear my throat. “I’m seeing someone called Sophia.”
Sophie’s face is stony. “Are you saying you messaged me by mistake?”
“I’m so sorry. I broke my cell, so I used my old one as a back-up. The contacts merged. I must have sent the message to you by mistake. When I realized, I stopped writing back. I didn’t want to lead you on—plus I thought there was no way it could actually be you. I mean, who still has the same number ten years later?”
“I always ask for the number to be transferred,” she replies tightly. “You know I don’t like making life more complicated than it has to be.”
“I wanted you to know what happened. When you sent that message saying how hard it had been for you to talk to this guy in the first place, I felt bad.”
“And you thought the best thing to do was to let me think I was going on a date? I get dressed up and come to a romantic wine bar so that you could tell me this whole thing was a slip of the hand, and you’re very happy with a woman whose name is oh-so-funnily so similar to mine?”
“When you say it like that, it makes me sound like a moron.”
“You are a moron, Cole. What kind of dumbass thinks this is the best way to explain a situation like this? A simple ‘sorry, wrong number’ would have cleared it up. God, this is so like you. Always finding drama.” She grabs her purse and stands. “I’m going to go. Next time you sext the wrong woman, don’t let it go this far. I’m really embarrassed.”
I grab her arm. “Please don’t leave. I’m genuinely sorry I’ve handled this so badly, but it really is good to see you. Won’t you stay for a drink—for old time’s sake?”
