The Real Thing: Flirt Romance

by Cassie Mae

  “Let me know how it goes.”

  She blows me a chicken-filled kiss and hangs up. When I click off Skype I notice new messages in Facebook from Scott. I really should get out and prepare myself for this date tonight, but I find myself reading his message.

  Scott: Well, Mia number 4 . . . not my Mia.

  Mia: Sorry :( Have you not tried any of her friends?

  Scott: First route I went with. No one wants to talk to me.

  Mia: You’ll find her. Just keep looking.

  Scott: Do you believe in fate? That shit like this happens because it’s supposed to?

  Mia: Yes and no. But you know you won’t find her if you give up.

  Scott: Good point.

  Mia: Sorry to leave you hanging, but I gotta run. Lots of crap to do today.

  Scott: Yeah, no problem. You gonna be on later?

  I type I’m always on, but quickly delete it. Tonight I’m having a no-screen rule.

  Mia: I’ll be around tomorrow.

  Scott: K. Talk to you then.

  Mia: Bye. :)

  I close the laptop and stuff it under the bed. I’m not looking at that thing for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  “Aaaah,” I sigh, dipping my legs into the warm bath water. It’s been so long since I waxed something, I forgot to take a painkiller beforehand. But I’m silky smooth now. I can’t stop touching myself.

  A grin spreads across my face as I imagine Eric running his fingers over my skin, his touch scorching my body, his lips running up and down my neck. I’m so ripping that shirt off him to admire what his morning sit-ups have done. And he can strip me piece by piece. My body is so smooth, like butter, he’ll want to touch and kiss and grip and caress every bit of it . . .

  Whew, maybe I should’ve soaked in ice water.

  I fan myself, clenching my legs together. Why is it only two o’clock? I need it to be seven thirty.

  I drain the tub—because the heat will kill me if I don’t—and my heart pings around my chest while tummy tickles have my butt dancing of its own accord. How long has it been since I’ve had sex? Gah, why am I asking? I know exactly how long it’s been.

  My butt’s still doing the excited jig as I towel off. I sing “No Diggity” into the Popsicle stick I used to spread the wax. I can’t stop smiling, and I blame Eric for all of it. Why don’t people date their best friends? We’re past the getting-to-know-you part, so we can jump right into the getting to know your body parts.

  The towel pools around my feet as I reach for my yellow string panties with the star jewel on the side, and that’s when I notice . . . the bush.

  My mouth drops as I stare at it in the mirror. Oh, praise the heavens for extra wax because yikes. Yikes!

  I’ve never waxed my bikini area, but I’ve waxed my legs and armpits plenty. Can’t be much different, except I’m really gonna need a painkiller, I think. I snatch my towel and run to the medicine cupboard in the kitchen. Eric keeps the aspirin on the top shelf, and I have to reach sky-high to get it. The towel slips and my exposed boobs crash against all the stuff on the second shelf, making things fall out all over the counter.

  “Oh, damn it,” I hiss, and as I slide my fingers forward to get the Tylenol, I push it farther out of reach.

  I relax back onto my heels and fix my towel. Maybe I’ll be okay without it. My pain tolerance is pretty high. And I don’t want to have to reheat the wax while I wait for the painkiller to kick in.

  I pick up the wax from the bathroom, taking it to my bedroom because I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to lay down for this. Spreading the towel on the edge of the mattress with one hand, I test the temperature of the wax with the other. It’s lukewarm. Still good, I think. I jam the Popsicle stick in there and get the strips ready.

  Hmm . . . maybe I should YouTube how to do this. No, wait. I said no more computer today, and I meant it, damn it. I know if I pull it up I’ll see my Facebook feed, my Twitter, my email . . . No. No. No.

  This is simple—just more-sensitive hair. Same as my legs and pits. I set my jaw, grab the Popsicle stick and wipe the wax between my leg and pelvis. Then I lie flat on my back and slap on a strip of the wax before I lose my nerve.

  Silky smooth everywhere. Eric will not know what hit him! Yeah, I’m that Emilia who lounges around in her pajama shorts and tank tops, hair a bundled-up mess, and no makeup in the morning, who buries her face in her phone and computer 90 percent of the day. But underneath all that is this smooth and sexy goddess he can do whatever he wants with.

  My butt does that jiggle again, and I pull up the corner of the strip. That should be enough time for the wax to harden. Okay, Mia, deep breaths, one hard yank. Think of the outcome.

  On my exhale, I rip upward toward my chin, and the loudest curse flies from my mouth.

  “Shiiiit!”

  My eyes are watering. I think I just waxed off my skin. I’m going to take a look at this bloody mess and have to jet to the ER. I’ll need a skin graft taken from my butt cheek. I’ll have a butt-crotch.

  I jam my hand between my legs and curl into a fetal position. There’s still wax on me, squishing between my fingers as I yell obscenities into the comforter. How is there still wax? Oh my gosh, maybe it’s blood! I pull my hand out long enough to examine the lack of gore, then I jam it back, putting pressure on the better-be-hairless bikini area.

  I totally regret the no painkiller idea, but I don’t think even an elephant dart could’ve helped me.

  I breathe deep, inhale, exhale, and wait for the pain to ebb. It goes from burning to throbbing to panging and takes way too long to get there, but I find the strength to sit up and take my hand away.

  Oh my freaking hell. My hair . . . is still there. Like, nearly all of it. And so is the wax—which has not hardened, obviously. I scramble for the strip and examine three or four small hairs . . . and that’s it.

  That’s it?

  I don’t care that I promised no more phone. My hands grapple for my cell, and I’m shaking with fury, confusion, and who knows what else as I call Eve.

  “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I chant, wiping tears of pain from my cheeks with the back of my hand.

  “Hello?”

  It’s Paul. Damn it.

  “Hey, is Eve around?”

  “She’s in the shower. I can tell her to give you a call.”

  No. I need her now.

  “Um, it’s kind of important. Can you interrupt?”

  “Is everything okay? Did you hear from your dad?”

  “Not yet. I just . . . I need to talk to her. Please?”

  He sighs. “Okay, but if I get chewed out for it, I’m blaming you.”

  I hear him shuffle around, a door opening, I hear the shower stream, and then I think he covers the receiver. My crotch is still throbbing, and I’d cross my legs to relieve the pain, but I still have wax all over me. I don’t want it to glue my lips together when it finally dries.

  “Okay, what is so important?” Eve answers with a laugh.

  I dive right in. “I thought I could wax my bikini line myself, but I did one strip and it didn’t do anything but feel like it tore me in half! Now there’s wax all over me and I don’t know how to get it off, because no way in hell am I putting another strip on and doing that again.”

  “Wait, wait!” Something crashes, there’s a groan in the background, and then, “Mia, you’re on speakerphone.”

  My face fills with heat, and I slam my nose into my pillow.

  “Okay, sorry,” Eve says, and her voice sounds much closer now. “You did what?”

  “I’m in the middle of a waxing crisis. What do I do?”

  “Well, first calm down. I’ve only gotten a bikini wax once, and it hurt like hell. That’s normal.”

  “Is it also normal to not wax anything off?”

  “Look, that area is hard to do by yourself. You should call Rachel. She did mine.”

  “What?”

  “I told you to calm down.”

  Sh
e’s laughing. Why is she laughing? This is not funny. My first attempt at seducing Eric with my sexy smoothness is going straight down the crapper. He’s going to come home and find me sitting here stark naked, trying to pluck wax from my nether regions.

  “Ugh, Eve. I can’t have a girl I’ve known for, like, two weeks come and wax my crotch.”

  “I’ll ask her for you.”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s either that or go to a professional . . . which costs money.”

  I growl into my pillow. That’s not an option. I spent pretty much all I had on cute new underwear, a not-so-cute loofah because I couldn’t find a fun one, and this wax kit. Oh, and the condoms, which are stupidly expensive for a one-time use item.

  “Will it wash off?”

  “The wax?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think so, but I think it takes a certain kind of oil or something. You could look it up online.”

  “Okay. I’m gonna do that.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to call Rachel?”

  I bite my lip and glance down at myself. I want the hair off. I want silky smooth. But I can’t deal with the pain. What a mess.

  “If she’s done it before, maybe she can talk me through it.”

  “I’ll text her for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good luck, babe.” She laughs again, and I shake the phone before I hang up.

  Adjusting myself on the bed, I make sure my legs are far apart as I pull up Google and search for wax removal advice. If anything, I’ll ask Rachel to grab me some oil or whatever so I don’t have to worry about ruining any of my underwear.

  Rachel: I get off in an hour, and I’m heading right to your place. Don’t you dare argue with me.

  Oh my gosh, no.

  Mia: Really I’m fine.

  Rachel: BS.

  Mia: Just tell me what to do to get the wax off.

  Rachel: You wait for me to get there. And you’ll get a Brazilian wax THE RIGHT WAY.

  I slouch, totally torn because I want smooth, but I don’t want pain. Also . . . is it weird to have someone do it for me? I don’t even know, but I IM back anyway.

  Mia: Please hurry.

  Rachel: Be there as soon as I can. And Mia? Take an ibuprofen.

  A growl slips out again as I toss the phone over my shoulder. I do an incredibly sexy penguin waddle to the kitchen, grab a spatula from the drawer and bat at the Tylenol on the top shelf.

  Next time Eric asks me out, I’m just going to get a new outfit.

  Chapter 14

  Eric Matua commented on a picture he was tagged in

  5 hours ago

  Ugh, Emilia, if you delete this, I’ll let you take one of me when I’m actually awake.

  ***

  Dr. Shuman’s office smells like the freshly painted tan walls. I think I get higher the longer I lay here.

  “Take a deep breath for me, Eric.”

  I inhale, try to relax into the leather couch, but my body’s so wound up I’m not sure if it’s possible. And that paint smell is making me dizzy. When I exhale, Dr. Shuman shifts in his seat, setting down his pen and clipboard.

  “Better?” he asks.

  “I guess, yeah.”

  He laughs. “You’ve never been good at lying.”

  That actually makes me smile, and my stomach loosens. “Okay. The smell of paint isn’t really helping the anxiety thing.”

  “Do you feel anxious now?”

  “A little.”

  “What has you on edge?”

  “Talking about shit.”

  “Emilia?”

  “No. I can talk about Em.” I’ve always been able to talk about Em.

  “Then it’s Ali?”

  The knot in my gut tightens again. “Yeah.”

  He clears his throat, and I hear him shift in his chair again. “Do you remember what it was about your relationship with Ali that made you anxious?”

  “Everything.”

  “Give me examples.” Dr. Shuman picks his clipboard back up. The clock on the wall ticks. Sweat beads on my forehead.

  “Well, uh . . . at first, it was any time I touched her. She never seemed to like it, or shrugged me off, or forced my hand somewhere and moved it how she wanted.” I’m really getting dizzy. The walls look like they’re tilting, and I pinch the bridge of my nose and force my voice out. “I never felt comfortable touching her.”

  Dr. Shuman nods, leaning forward.

  I run a hand over my knee. Damn it, I’m shaking. “Uh . . . then it was any time she touched me. Every time I knew I was about to see her I’d panic, or find ways to get out of it.”

  He’s quiet while he scribbles on his notepad. I wipe more sweat from my forehead.

  “Do you find yourself trying to get out of situations with Emilia?”

  “No.” It’s the opposite actually. I find myself trying to spend more time with her. In fact, I wish I wasn’t here, I wish I was at home because I know she’s there. “Em makes me comfortable. We touch and it’s okay, but this morning . . . I was nervous about touching her. About screwing up something before it really starts.”

  I twist my fingers and bounce my knees up and down. There’s a stain on the carpet, and I try to breathe, focus on that stain and not imagine my incapable hands pulling on Em’s clothes or fumbling over her skin.

  “Are you taking your medication?”

  “Sort of. When I feel anxious, I take a pill, yeah.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Do you not want to take it on a regular basis?”

  “I don’t want to be dependent on it.” It took me a year to get off that shit.

  “Okay,” he says, setting his clipboard back down. “I can tell you’re getting anxious now, so I want you to sit up.”

  I untwist my fingers and straighten my spine. Dr. Shuman smoothes his tie.

  “Set one hand on your chest and the other on your stomach. Inhale for five seconds, concentrate on the rise of your chest. Hold it for another five seconds, then exhale, concentrating on the expansion of your stomach.”

  I feel like a damn idiot, but I follow his instructions. The paint smell stings my nostrils, but I can feel my muscles start to relax.

  Blowing out on the exhale, I say, “It stinks in here, Doc.”

  He laughs. “I know. But you’ve stopped shaking.”

  “Yeah.”

  His eyes move to his clipboard, but he doesn’t pick it up. He stares at it, pursing his lips in thought. “I don’t want you to become dependent on the medication, either.” His gaze moves to me. “Part of overcoming anxiety is knowing what you’re afraid of and facing it.”

  “What I’m afraid of?”

  “A relationship, Eric. And I don’t blame you. A lot of men are afraid of that.”

  I want to chuckle with him, but the reality of what he’s saying hits me hard. “Is that why I can’t get Ali’s voice out of my head?”

  “Considering that’s the only relationship you’ve had, I’d say so.” He pauses, shaking his head. “But I wouldn’t call that a relationship. At least, not in the romantic sense.”

  There wasn’t anything romantic about Ali. Sexual, yeah . . . but not anything past a certain point. I didn’t love her, and she didn’t love me. She told me when we graduated that she only dated me for status. Football player and the cheerleader . . . and I was a major disappointment. I’d heard it so often it was losing its effect on me. But having a romantic relationship has always scared me because I thought I’d end up right back in that situation.

  “So, I should face my fear with Em?”

  “Are you afraid of her?”

  “No.” Well . . . maybe. “Yes.” But it’s a good kind of fear . . . I think. “I’m not sure.”

  “What I’d suggest is when you’re with her, relax. If you don’t want to take medication, do the home remedies. Breathe, face your fears, but do it slowly—one step at a time. When you feel overwhelmed, stop whatever you’re doing, concentrate on breathing,
and once you’ve calmed down, decide whether you want to move forward or step back.”

  That sounds simple enough . . . in theory. Tolani always told me to hold on to my anchor. He dealt with the same shit one night when he was out with his wife, Candace. Got caught in a big crowd and had an attack, and she helped him through it because . . . well, she’s his anchor.

  If I concentrate on the thing that calms me, I can get through it, too.

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  “Do something fun and low-key. Reminisce. You’re friends. So be friends.” He smiles, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’ll help you get back to the comfort that relationship has provided you.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’d also avoid alcohol. Caffeine, too. Anything that will act as a stimulant or impair your judgment. Be in control.”

  At least I’m not addicted to either of those things. I nod and he smoothes his tie again.

  “Most importantly . . . you need to be open with Emilia. Tell her your fears. Part of being with someone is creating a partnership of trust. She needs to know what you’re afraid of.”

  That makes me anxious all over again. Will she think I’m weak? Trying to get out of what we’ve started? I’m not even sure how to bring it up.

  The timer goes off on Dr. Shuman’s clock, and the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Did you want to see me next week?”

  No, but I probably should. “Um, yeah.”

  “I’ll have Ben schedule your appointment.”

  “Thanks.”

  We stand and he extends his palm. His handshake is firm, and he pulls me in a bit. “Relax.” He pats my shoulder with his free hand. “One step at a time.”

  I give him a nod and drop his hand.

  The first step I’m taking tonight is doing this medication-free.

  * * *

  It’s 7:19 when I step into the condo, and Em’s coworker Rachel almost runs right into me.

  “Whoa! Sorry,” I mutter, and she laughs, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder.

  “No worries. I was just headed out.” She wiggles around me as I hold the door open for her.

  “Have a good night.”

  “You, too.” She stops in the doorway and looks over her shoulder at me. “And um . . . word of advice, if Mia’s walking kind of funny, don’t mention it.”