Last-Minute Love (Year of the Chick series)

by Moondi, Romi

  I wagged my finger angrily at Tommy one last time, before I hurried back to the kitchen. It was time to pop the shortbread cookies in the oven, because cookies were something I knew how to do. Self-published book marketing however, was more of a mysterious beast (a beast I had twelve minutes to investigate, while these cookies bloomed to perfection).

  I sprinted up to my room, grabbing my laptop and hopping onto the bed in one quick motion. I was selling three copies a day now of “Year of the Chick,” which was great…but still not the kind of money that would pay for a year in Paris. I’d recently heard about authors selling hundreds of copies following a giveaway of their book. They had to give away thousands of copies to actually pull this off, which seemed totally counterintuitive.

  I dug deep into a popular message board to find out more (if my friends knew what I did in my spare time...).

  After five minutes of reading, I found a bunch of authors who insisted it could work. It had something to do with rankings while you were free which connected to “post-free rankings,” a popularity list, your visibility on the “also-bought” pages of other popular books (umm what?), and some other “algorithm” business that went totally over my head. It seemed strange and slightly disturbing that as long as your book was in front of enough faces, you were bound to sell tons of copies...even if your book kinda sucked. On the other hand, was a brick and mortar bookstore any different? The publishers who negotiated end-cap space or entire racks for their books sold the most, while the ones on the dusty bottom shelf of a seldom-travelled aisle…didn’t.

  I decided to join the game, and enrolled my book in this promotional program, by promising I wouldn’t sell it anywhere else for three months (whatever, almost all of my sales are here anyway).

  I scheduled a free promotion for a few days after Christmas, when everyone would hopefully start using their brand new e-readers, and loading them up with books. I also found a list of websites I could inform about my free promotion.

  Once that was done I stared at my over-flowing bookcase and shook my head. Several years ago, when I’d first dreamed about writing books and being an author, I’d never imagined how much of it would hinge on website exposure and free digital copies and complicated algorithms. At the root of it though the book still had to be decent, otherwise readers would tell you all about it. Even if your book wasn’t horrible, readers might still tell you to get a life. In my case I had two of those “get a life” reviews. At first they had made me sick, but when I looked at the bigger picture and the ten great reviews I did have, I knew I’d live.

  I could’ve spent another five or six hours learning about the world of self-publishing, but unfortunately my twelve minutes were up. And the line between a melt-in-your mouth shortbread cookie and a crumbly mess? Oh so fine. I sped back down to the kitchen and pulled the tray out of the oven. I wouldn’t dare touch the cookies in this delicate white-hot state, so instead I used my X-Ray vision to see through the bottom of the tray. X-Ray vision says “done!”

  I put the next batch in the oven and tapped my fingers against the counter, in a house that felt way too quiet. My brother was in the depths of his basement bedroom, wrapped in a Snuggie no doubt, and my mother had dragged my father out grocery shopping before the Christmas Eve closing bell. It was only my sister and her husband coming over, but my mother made it seem like she was hosting a governor’s ball. The fridge was packed with food, but still she needed more, from mainstream grocery stores to her Punjabi specialty places. It was all to make an Indian-inspired Christmas feast large enough to feed the US army.

  Except there were only six of us.

  To my utter relief, my phone started vibrating with Laura’s lovely face on the screen.

  I smiled and answered the phone. “Merry Almost Christmas!”

  “You too!” she said. “Got the tree up?”

  “Tree is up, cookies are almost done, my parents are out getting food for a hundred non-existent guests…it’s a good old fashioned Indian-Canadian Christmas!”

  “Well I’m glad you’re doing well.”

  I frowned. “You mean you’re glad I haven’t stabbed myself, even though I know he’s in Denmark and probably with her right now? Oh, and as predicted, not ONE e-mail!” I shook my head and glanced at the clock. “It’s ten p.m. Copenhagen time. He’s probably screwing her right now. Like up against the wall or some shit.”

  “Romes…”

  I made my way over to the cookies that were cooling and gently checked one for softness. Perfect. “You know...I bet he asks her to punch him in the face while they’re having sex. He seems like the kind of guy who’d be into that, right?”

  “Well I don’t exactly know all the signs for guys with face-punching fetishes,” she said.

  I smiled in spite of myself.

  “I have an idea Romes,” she went on. “Why don’t you just relax and eat some chocolate?”

  My smile disappeared. “Or how about a nice big Danish dripping with icing? Oh wait, that’s what his girlfriend’s enjoying right now!”

  “Romes!”

  I accidentally crushed a precious cookie in my hand, which brought me back down to reality in a crumbly mess. “Sorry. I guess I’d been holding that in for a while. I mean sure, distracting myself with the author stuff is helpful, but it can only do so much, you know? What I keep asking myself now is: what’s the point of this torture? Where will it even lead? I can’t take it!”

  Just then the front door opened and my father pushed his way in, his arms full of groceries we didn’t need.

  “Sorry,” I quickly said. “Gotta go.”

  ***

  Gathered around a very unfashionable Christmas tree, my family and I opened presents on this snow-covered Christmas morning.

  We began with the ten-year-old family tradition: Tommy gets to open his presents first.

  I placed an uneven-looking package in snowman gift wrap in front of Tommy. He smelled it curiously. In the absence of his opposable thumbs I ripped it open on his behalf, to reveal a feather toy, a mouse toy, and a big bag of fish-flavoured treats. “Well?” I said excitedly, hoping this year was finally the year when he’d say “Woohoo!”

  After one quick glance his pudgy fur-ball ass walked away. Whatever.

  Next it was my mother’s turn to be the Christmas elf, as she tossed soft packages to each of us one by one. My detective skills confirmed there were pyjamas and socks inside, since by now those were the only things my mother was allowed to buy for us. Years before she’d buy us ill-fitting blouses and stacks of cotton underwear. The underwear stock-up had been useful as a child, but opening up a pile of granny panties at age twenty-one? No thanks.

  With the sleepwear and piles of chocolate from our stockings now open, it was time for the part I hated most. Neema could feel it too, as my mother now held the package we’d jointly bought her. Every year, no matter what the gift, my mother would scoff, snort, say it was a waste of money, say she didn’t want anything at all, and then tell us to return it. No matter how many times it happened my ego couldn’t get used to it. And in that one daring year when we’d actually listened to her and didn’t buy her a thing? I couldn’t even remember what had happened; it was probably so bad I blocked it out.

  I cringed as she tore at the gift wrap.

  She opened the box next, and the room was suddenly filled with an ominous silence.

  “Hmph,” she said. This first indiscernible noise was bad news.

  She held up the fancy-looking beige and brown handbag, this classic Coach satchel that my sister and I had spent a pretty penny on. We’d discussed this beforehand at length, finally settling on the neutral colours, after examining my mother’s closet and getting a sense of her personal style. I’d even made sure there was a zipper, since I noted how all my mother’s current handbags had sturdy zippers. None of that “single-button tote” shit for MY mom!

  She held up the purse at arm’s length and frowned. “How much did this cost?”

 
Neema spoke first. “Not that much...”

  “Do you know how many purses I have?”

  “But this is a new style,” I insisted.

  “Do any of my purses have holes in them?”

  “No...” started Neema.

  “Then why would I need another one? Stop wasting money on these things.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Check if you have the receipt,” she added, and with those final words, the last of our hopes dashed away.

  Merry-fucking Christmas.

  ***

  My siblings were in the basement playing video games and cursing at each other, a tradition that I normally loved, but somehow I wasn’t in the mood. Meanwhile I could hear my mother’s knife noisily hitting the cutting board, with my dad’s Bollywood movie that we’d rented for him in the background.

  I stared out my bedroom window at a starlit sky, remembering how people would always say that no matter how far away you were from someone, we all stared out at the same constellations, which meant...we weren’t that far away at all.

  What a bunch of bullshit.

  I grabbed a book off my shelf that I’d been meaning to read for months. It was called “One Day,” and it was a book where each chapter was one year later in a man and woman’s relationship, except they’d never really been in a relationship at all. They were just two people who never quite managed to let each other go.

  As I opened the first page my phone buzzed to life.

  Could it be?

  Instead of the face I was hoping for, it was the one I would have never expected.

  “Hello?” I said, as I slowly climbed into bed.

  “Happy Christmas Roms.”

  I automatically smiled at the “moms” pronunciation of my name. Only you can get away with that. “Merry Christmas James. I’m surprised you called. Did you forget you already sent me a Christmas card?”

  “Consider this the audio version.”

  “No, no, I hate those stupid cards with the horrible battery-operated songs. I mean as if something that sounds like ‘teee, teee, teee, te-te-te-te-te tee-tee’ could ever compare to the classics?!”

  He quietly chuckled. “Was that ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’?”

  “Yes! I guess I’m better at this than I thought.”

  “Will you perform another?”

  “Umm no. Anyway I like your audio card a lot better. Say more things, please.” I smiled, remembering the warmth of an accent I hadn’t heard for months.

  “Did you have a nice Christmas?” he asked. “Is the family all gathered ‘round the turkey and butter chicken?”

  I laughed. “We gave up on turkey years ago, but it’s definitely a cultural fusion! What about you? Are you calling from England?”

  “Oh no, didn’t make it out to see my parents this Christmas; it just became too hectic in the end.”

  I pictured James at home alone, wrapped under a blanket with a mug of hot chocolate and no one to snuggle with. Did I want to be that girl? Or was it Erik’s blanket I dreamed of? Things were becoming confusing.

  I suddenly realized the line had been silent for too long. “Well I’m sure your parents miss you very much,” I quickly said. “Who wouldn’t?”

  “That’s sweet of you to say. So how’s the book business going?”

  “It’s going alright,” I said. “I’m having a big giveaway after Christmas. I guess I’ll know more after that.”

  “Well do keep me informed,” he said. “I enjoy receiving your updates on the topic.”

  “And you do the same! When are you off to Greece again?”

  “In three weeks.”

  “Well don’t spend all your time working on your tan! You need to write your next epic screenplay from this!”

  “Okay Roms, will do.”

  “Thanks for calling,” I said. “It was nice to hear your voice.”

  “You as well. Bye for now.”

  I hung up the phone and suddenly realized it had been a whole year since I’d met James in New York. Is that why he had called? And how on earth could I have forgotten?

  I quickly decided that Erik was the one to blame. He was screwing up the past and screwing up my views of right and wrong. All I knew in that moment was that if Erik turned out to be nothing, I would feel like a giant idiot...

  ***

  The day after Christmas, I was grudgingly pushing a cart through the aisles of a big-box retail store (which was owned by the company I worked for).

  Laura was by my side, and a crowd of frantic shoppers surrounded us. They looked like they were either suffering from rabies, or running from an imminent zombie attack. I wasn’t sure which, but I stayed on the lookout for foaming at the mouth.

  We turned into the Kitchenwares section, and from somewhere nearby a pot or pan clanged as it hit the floor.

  “Watch it!” yelled a woman from somewhere we couldn’t see.

  “That means we’re getting closer,” I said.

  Laura shook her head with widened eyes, as she unzipped her coat in this overcrowded cesspool of body heat.

  “Why do people get like this for crap they don’t need?” she said.

  I sighed with satisfaction. “Because I told them to.” I gestured to the end-cap display. “Every product chosen with care, and every price analyzed to death, until that moment when we find the shopper’s after-Christmas G-spot.” I nodded proudly as I pushed the cart further into the aisle.

  Laura chuckled. “You’re definitely evil enough to work in retail.”

  “Damn right. That’s why they pay me the…” I frowned, “...moderately-sized bucks. Anyway I just need to find this fry pan that my mother so doesn’t need, then I promise we can get the hell out of here.”

  “I hope so. You pick me up for a coffee and we wind up in Retail Hell.”

  “Well EXCUSE ME!” I mouthed , as we turned into another aisle.

  I heard a phone buzz, but this time it wasn’t mine (no surprise there, when I’m still on a Danish hiatus). Laura pulled it out of her pocket and groaned loudly.

  “Are you seriously still mad at him?” I said.

  “He’s such a jerk sometimes.”

  I stopped the cart and turned to her. “Because he didn’t propose to you on schedule? You know I like Dave, but you’re killing all the romance by turning this into a business deal!”

  “Okay,” she said calmly, “Maybe a ring wasn’t mandatory, but a sweater? Seriously? It’s not our first Christmas and we’re not in junior high, are we?” Her voice was shaking now. It was amazing what relationships did to people. Maybe it was better to be like me, floating on the outer edges of someone else’s. Nope, thinking it doesn’t make it true. This is now confirmed.

  I returned my focus to Laura. “Yes, a sweater reeks of freshman romance, but he probably got gun-shy with all the pressure you’ve been putting on him. And we know he’s not an ass-bag, so give the guy a break.” I patted her gently on the shoulder.

  She was still pouting.

  “Seriously dude, you don’t wanna drive him away. I mean he loves you. But if you keep being a control freak and he runs, well what’ll THAT do to your ‘workback schedule’?”

  Her eyes filled with terror.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Now back to our mission or we’ll never get out of here!” A woman in a puffy coat pushed past us as I stared at a row of fry pans. Which all looked exactly the same. Dammit.

  “So how are YOU doing?” she asked, as I consulted the ad in the flyer.

  My eyes never left the page. “Oh you know, just your typical identity crisis. I have no idea what I mean to Erik, and I also don’t know what he’s doing when he’s not talking to me. And not just when he’s in Denmark.” I sighed and looked back at her. “Even when he’s in New York it’s such a mystery.”

  “When you think like that you’re just asking to get paranoid.”

  “Really? Am I being paranoid? New York City is the land of temptation. He probably gets five blow jobs a week from the hooker
s in Times Square.” I took off my jacket and tossed it in the cart but I wasn’t done. “So when he gets back from Denmark, I’m sure all the hookers will be offering ‘January Clearance Specials.’” I looked her straight in the eyes. “I do promotions for a living, I know how this works.”

  Laura appeared genuinely concerned for my sanity. “Dude, they don’t have prostitutes in Times Square anymore.”

  I couldn’t compute what she’d just said so I continued on. “Do you know he once told me New York is full of beautiful women?” I stared off into a distant corner. “I can just read the headline now: ‘Danish Village Boy Goes Wild in Manhattan.’”

  “What kind of newspaper would report on a slutty villager?”

  My eyes widened. “Only the ‘New York Times’!”

  We both started laughing.

  “I’m going crazy, aren’t I?”

  Laura’s expression became serious. “You just need to know what this ‘thing’ really is. And the sooner the better, ‘cause people stand to get hurt here.” She pointed at my chest. “Including you.”

  “I leaned on the cart and sighed. “You’re right. I need to see him soon or this is all a waste of time.”

  I returned my focus to the current task, and at last found the fry pan of my mother’s dreams, hanging up high in the top corner. I stood on my tippy-toes and reached out to grab it. “Twenty percent discount mom, you’re welcome very much.” I took a quick look at our surroundings. “Now I just need to find a toaster oven.”

  “Excuse me?!” Laura was about ready to throttle me.

  “For my uncle!” I said innocently. Laura scowled as we turned into the next aisle, to the sound of another pot clanging as it hit the floor.

  I only wished I had ten more relatives to buy for, because shopping was the only distraction from an ugly fact. The fact that Erik and I were sharing a break from reality, and the fact that it would probably all go up in flames...