Casual Sext

by Lisa Lace

  “Someone who can keep you in line, let’s hope!” Matt laughs, patting me on the shoulder. He nods approvingly. “You know what? Good for you, Tom. You work too hard. Maybe the right woman will help you learn to take things a bit easier.”

  Zoe

  As I read through old messages between Tom and me, I smile.

  I lie on my back on my rose-covered duvet, my cell held between my hands above my face, my red hair fanning out behind me. Even though it’s growing cold outside, it’s warm in my apartment. I’m wearing a pair of cupcake-patterned pajama shorts, my gangly legs stretched out, my bare toes twisting in the fluffy pink blanket at the end of my bed.

  —There are so many people here tonight, and all I can think about is you.

  A girlish glee fills me with warm, fizzy bubbles. Tom’s the most engaging, charming man I’ve ever me—sort of—and over the last six months, he’s been there for me.

  —Sometimes, I feel like opening this flower shop was a stupid idea. I must have been a fool to think that loving flowers constituted a business plan. I seem to be running off my feet and making no money at the same time. How does that work?

  —Keep your chin up, Zoe. Starting a business is hard, but when the reward comes—and it will—you won’t regret it for a moment. The feeling of seeing something you’ve built from the ground up doing well is indescribable.

  I could tell Tom anything—and I did. Tom knew everything about me, except what I look like.

  When Tom first messaged me, I was suspicious, because his profile didn’t have a picture. I read his first introduction anyway because the system had matched us. Ninety-eight percent compatible. I found the way he wrote was so different from everybody else on the site. He was funny and articulate.

  During the weeks that followed, we exchanged hundreds of messages. When I asked him for pictures, Tom would only tell me that he thought it was more fun to let the mystery linger, although he sent me the occasional body shot to keep things interesting. If things go well, you’ll get to see me on our first date. Just look out for the most handsome man in the room. It doesn’t matter which room ;)

  I appreciated Tom’s bold sense of humor. He was confident, which drew me in and kept me hooked on the mystery. Another profile with no picture would have soon lost my interest after a few, dull, generic messages, but not with Tom. For him, I keep my phone on all the time, unable to wait for the next message.

  We’d been talking about a work party that Tom was going to tonight. I didn’t know much about what Tom did, only that he worked in publishing.

  —How’s the party going?

  —Boring as hell. I wish you were here.

  —New York’s a long way to come for one night.

  —It would be the night of your life.

  I shiver with excitement. Tom’s words always send tingles zipping through me. Part of the beauty of not having a picture was that I can imagine him however I want. In my mind, he’s tall, but not too tall—just enough that I could rest my head on his shoulder. Just tall enough that I could kiss him without standing on my toes.

  I imagine him dark and dashing, with a bit of mischief in his eyes, and a smile that makes my knees go weak. I picture him as the most gorgeous man in the world.

  He’s probably nothing like the way I imagine him. How could he be? If he was a handsome, sexy man, he wouldn’t hide behind his keyboard and pretend that keeping his photo to himself was some fun game. Then again, those body shots were perfection.

  Soon enough, I’ll find out. Tom arrives in town on Friday to visit family, and that’s when we’ll meet.

  I’ll be waiting for the night of my life on Friday.

  I’m going to turn your world upside down.

  My heart beats faster. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man, and Tom’s flirty promises keep me up at night with vivid, lustful fantasies.

  I’ll open the door when he arrives. Straight away, I’ll recognize him as the man I’ve been picturing.

  “I’ve waited so long for this moment,” he’ll say. Then, without another word, he’ll step through the door, wrap his arms around me, and kiss me so hard and so deeply that I lose all sense of time.

  We’ll fall into the bedroom. He’ll lead like he’s walked through my apartment a thousand times before, full of a bold, suave confidence that makes me feel like a Bond girl.

  He’ll throw me down onto the bed; rip off my clothes. I’ll run my hands down a perfect row of abs. We’ll make love all night, our bodies blissful and alive.

  My mouth is dry, my palms sweaty. The vision makes my head spin. I’ve held onto this fantasy for so long: the day I meet the man who’s already won my heart.

  Please let him be the one.

  Tom

  It’s drizzling when I arrive in Portland. Everything looks gray and dull like I’m viewing it through a dirty windshield. It’s a far cry from the bright lights of New York City.

  Everything is so slow. There is no urgency about the place; no buzz. If I screamed “fire!” right now, the people would finish their coffees before they considered moving. I already feel restless.

  Laura’s three-bed townhouse is on Morning Street, only a ten-minute walk from East End Beach. We used to spend our summers on that shore, building sandcastles as kids, drinking when we were teens.

  I bet Megan gets up to the same kinds of mischief now. She’s fifteen, after all. When I was fifteen, I was taking girls up to Fish Point, giving them a nudge toward the ocean, then pulling them back from the edge into my arms. I won a dozen hearts with that old trick. I would never let you fall.

  Laura’s wooden slat house is baby blue. It has a small raised porch with a white fence surrounding it and a navy blue front door. There are trees planted along the street. It’s a wholesome place to live.

  I don’t bother knocking on the door because I know Laura’s not home. It’s two in the afternoon, and Laura’s probably busy comforting some bride who’s realized she can’t get into her dress on the day of the wedding or ripping into some photographer who’s taking a smoke break when he should be snapping shots of newlyweds.

  Megan and Jack will still be at school. If either of them came home now, I probably wouldn’t recognize them. Jack was just eighteen months old the last time I saw him, dressed in a little black outfit for his father’s funeral. Megan had been nine, a happy child before Mike died. Laura says she has an attitude these days.

  I lift the corner of Laura’s welcome mat and find the promised key. I shake my head as I pick it up. People are trusting out here.

  I’ve brought the first of four suitcases up, and I try to keep my grip on it as I turn the lock and push into the house, dragging it behind me over the threshold.

  Inside, it smells like chicken pot pie and Jack’s sneakers. I suppose that’s what family homes smell like. My New York penthouse apartment smells like polish and whiskey.

  I leave my case in the hall and take my time to stroll around the ground floor. I’ve only been here twice: at Laura and Mike’s housewarming party, and at the reception for Mike’s funeral.

  The place is a little worse for wear than those times. There are scuffs on the painted calico walls, and chips of plaster that have come away here and there. There’s a stain on the burgundy rug in the living room—looks like ink. The carpets on the stairs are old; I doubt they’ve been replaced since Laura and Mike bought the place.

  I recognize a stab of guilt in my gut. An entire renovation of this place would be pocket change to me, but Laura would never ask for a handout. I respect her for that—almost as much as I want to take her by the shoulders and give her a good shake for being so proud. I may not be the most heart-to-heart kind of guy, but I’ve got more than enough to share when it comes to the material things. Just ask me, Laura. I’m not a mind-reader.

  After I’ve taken a quick walk around the place to refamiliarize myself, I take a second stroll around, slower this time. I give myself the chance to drink in more than just the imperfection
s.

  Like the photos on the wall. Look at how many memories Laura has made.

  There are pictures from a decade or more ago when Laura and Mike were not long married, and Megan was just four or five. The three of them are walking on some park path, Laura and Mike swinging a grinning Megan between them. Mom probably took the picture, years before her mind started deteriorating.

  I’m pierced by another stab of guilt. You missed the last good years of her life, Tom.

  There are more recent photos, too. Without Mike. Laura is beaming in all of them, but she looks tired. Her hair gets shorter in each picture like she can’t handle the extra inches of maintenance as time goes by. The manicure disappears; she starts to look older than thirty-five.

  I pull my cell from my pants pocket to call Laura.

  She answers after two rings. “TJ! Are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Great! Did you find the place all right? I thought maybe you’d have forgotten where my house was.” I hear the tongue-in-cheek scolding in her voice.

  I chuckle. “I remembered.”

  “Long trip?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of food and sodas in the fridge; help yourself. Or else you can go to the grocery store. I was thinking we could order takeout later tonight.”

  “Sounds good. I’m not sure what time I’ll be back tonight, though.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m just meeting up with someone.”

  “Is it Bill? That guy’s a jerk.”

  “No. Someone else.”

  “Typical. I finally get you to Maine, and you’re already ditching me.”

  “I’ll try not to stay out too late.”

  “You’d better not.”

  I hang up and switch to my messages. I write to Zoe.

  —I’m here.

  Her reply zips back within seconds.

  —Come over. The apartment above Petals, Main Street.

  Zoe

  I’m flushed. My whole body is tingling in anticipation. I’m giddy with expectation.

  I don’t have long to get ready. Tom is on his way. Still, I’ve prepared for this night. I slip into the black lingerie I bought specially for this, followed by the silky black robe. I tighten the belt around my waist. I brush my waist-length hair until it shines, and layer my lashes with black mascara.

  I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if it’s too much. Is it too suggestive? Am I sending the wrong message?

  My mind revisits some of the more explicit messages between Tom and me, and I grow bold. This man has waited six months to see me for the first time. I want to make it worth the wait.

  And what will he be like, I wonder? I close my eyes and picture the handsome man of my dreams. He’ll wrap an arm around my waist and pull me close. He’ll open my robe, and let the silk fall. His eyes will grow wild with desire.

  The fantasy makes my skin grow warm. My heart flutters in my chest. I scrunch up handfuls of my hair at the roots to add volume, then tilt my head forward and flip it back in a wave. I used to hate my red hair, but now I view it as a sign of my sexuality. Vixen.

  A bottle of wine is chilling in the fridge. Two glasses are waiting on the counter. I’ve picked a single red rose from my stock in the store downstairs and set it in a thin vase on the living room coffee table. I’ve dimmed the lights. I’m ready for the night of my life.

  I hear a knock at the door. Three bold, confident raps.

  My heart stops; I breathe quicker. I run my fingers through my hair one final time, straighten my robe, and go to the door. I take a deep breath and strike an alluring pose before I open the door.

  I pull it toward me, then gasp in horror. “TJ? What are you doing here?”

  I blush and wrap my arms around myself to hide the silhouette of my figure beneath the robe.

  Laura’s younger brother is standing at my apartment door. It’s been six years since I last saw him, but I’d recognize him anywhere. A strong, chiseled jaw; dark, piercing eyes; finally, an arrogant smile that makes his good looks a lot less appealing.

  “Zoe?” TJ says. His eyes wander over my body. At first, he looks surprised, but then amusement creeps in. “You’ve done a lot of growing up, I see.”

  “What are you doing here?” I repeat. I take a step over the threshold and cast my gaze to the top of the staircase, looking for my date. “I’m expecting someone.”

  TJ raises an eyebrow and chuckles. “TJ—Thomas Junior; Tom.”

  Tears prickle in my eyes. I raise a hand over my mouth. “Is this a prank?”

  “No, Zoe. It’s not a prank.”

  “Why have you been messaging me?”

  Tom looks as shocked as I do, but where I’m reacting with horror, he seems to find it funny, intriguing. “I didn’t know I was talking to this Zoe. It never even entered my mind that you could be Laura’s Zoe. I thought I was talking to a stranger.”

  “I’m not a stranger. I’m your sister’s best friend.” I narrow my eyes. “Did you really not guess it was me? You knew I had red hair and green eyes. Didn’t you put two and two together?”

  “The messages you were sending me didn’t exactly make me think of the dorky girl-next-door I used to know. Why didn’t you figure it out? You knew I was called Tom and that I worked in publishing.”

  “Because we always called you ‘TJ.’ Plus, Tom is about the most common name in America. You can’t blame me for thinking there might be more than one Tom working in publishing in New York.” I lift a hand to my forehead and shake my head. “This is a nightmare.”

  Tom laughs at my reaction and takes a step toward me. “Am I really that bad? How would you know? You haven’t spoken to me in years.”

  “And whose fault is that? You haven’t been back to Maine since Mike’s funeral.”

  His face darkens. He bows his head and speaks with regret. “His death was a tragedy.”

  “Laura needed you.”

  “I was there.”

  “You mean you paid for an expensive coffin? She needed more than that, TJ.”

  “Tom. Please. Nobody calls me TJ anymore.”

  “Yes, they do. You’re just not here to hear it.”

  “You’re being hostile.”

  “I’m in shock.”

  “I am, too, but let’s not forget what brought us here tonight.” He takes another step closer. His eyes catch mine. “We’ve been speaking for a long time.”

  I look down at the ground, my arms folded over my chest. The hair that I’d worked so hard to make shine shields my face. I shake my head. “This is too weird.”

  “Why is it weird?”

  “You’re Laura’s brother.”

  “You said. But you know what? I’m also the person you’ve been messaging for the last half a year. I don’t know about you, but I can’t let go of a spark like that so easily.”

  I swallow and slowly raise my eyes. I’ve never looked at Tom in this way before; the way someone looks at a person they desire. But he’s right. There’s a spark between us, as clear as day. It’s been burning for a long time.

  I step back. “You’d better come in.”

  Tom enters the apartment. I watch him as he takes a few steps down the hall. He’s wearing a pair of sandy chinos and a white shirt. A Rolex on his wrist catches the light. He places his hands in his pockets and looks around. His face gives nothing away.

  He’s handsome. When I’d been imagining the man of my dreams, I never realized I was picturing someone so close to TJ. Yet here he is, tall—but not too tall, dark, with captivating hazel eyes.

  I shut the door behind me and quickly twist the dimmer switch on the wall to brighten the light in the room. I nod towards the sofa.

  “Make yourself at home. I’m going to get changed.”

  He smiles. “Sure.”

  In my room, I’m filled with blind panic. Shit, Zoe, you’ve been sexting Laura’s brother. I sink down onto my bed and put my head in my ha
nds. I know that the relationship I’ve had with Tom has been more than innocent flirting. I’ve told him things. We’ve connected.

  How can Tom be TJ?

  Tom is a sweet, kind, and caring intellectual. TJ is a spoiled brat with a superiority complex.

  I quickly get dressed in a pair of jeans and a loose T-shirt and step back into the living room.

  Tom is holding the single rose in his hand. He smiles at me when I return, and places the flower back in its vase. “Looks like you went to a lot of effort for tonight.”

  “I’d been waiting to meet this man for a long time.”

  “You mean me.”

  “I still can’t quite get my head around the fact that you’re him. I mean, you’re TJ.”

  Tom winces. “I always hated that nickname.”

  “Why?”

  “Thomas Junior. It’s just a way of reminding me that I’m supposed to be my father’s double.”

  I scoff. “Don’t worry. You’re nothing like your father.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  I realize I’ve been harsher than I intended to be, and I try to backtrack. “I mean that you’ve taken different paths, that’s all.”

  “You mean my father’s an altruistic miracle-worker, and I’m a power-hungry tyrant?”

  Yes. “No.”

  Tom crosses one leg over the other and frowns at me. “Everyone wanted me to be a doctor, like him. And everybody’s pissed that I did better.”

  I sit down beside Tom, and it’s my turn to frown. “You think you did better than him? He’s saved hundreds of lives.”

  “And don’t we all know about it!” There’s contempt in his voice.

  “You should be proud of him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I read you just released a new fashion magazine.” I purposefully inject judgment into my voice in response to Tom’s disdain for his father’s profession. What have you done that’s so great?

  “We can’t all be surgeons.” He impersonates his father. “I held a child’s heart in my hand. I was the only thing keeping him alive. The very angels cried at my grace.”