Sweeter Than Chocolate: Valentine's Day Anthology

by Gina Kincade

  “Add some Jello or mud and this is every man’s fantasy.” A low chuckle carries through the room.

  “Hooonnneeeyyy,” Georgia coos. Jumping to her feet, she stumbles to the door, falling against Glenn’s chest. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Lexi texted, asking me to save you from becoming a drunken Uber mishap.” He waves to the cemetery of finished wine. “Judging by the number of empty bottles on counter, I waited too long. Holy shit, whose idea was it to add the Patrón?”

  We both point a blaming finger at the other. A hearty guffaw shakes his shoulders. “Care to tell me why I walked in to find two of the hottest women in Chicago wrestling on the rug?”

  Georgia ducks out from under his arm. Her narrowed eyes and scrunched nose send hair-raising chills down my arms. I hear the low to high growl warning of a pissed off cat. I know this look and oooh, Glenn is about to get crock examined. Georgia is a shark in the courtroom, one of the best at pulling truth from people on the witness stand. She is blitzed and her claws are out. I prop up on my elbows for a better view.

  “You think my best friend’s hot? Me rolling around on the floor with her makes your motor hum? A fantasy, you said?”

  “It’s no legendary pillow fight scene, but…” Fireballs shoot from her eyes, crispy frying him. Shovel, shovel…each statement digs a deeper hole. My imagination shows him teetering on the edge. One wrong move and ahhhh, he’s falling while she buries him in shit. “Chill, Georgie.” He pulls her back into his embrace. “Pint-size fairies who are extra aren’t my type.”

  I snarl a growl, flipping him off for using my eccentricity as a negative.

  “But I’m still a man, with eyes, and Lexi is gorgeous. You say it all the time. And FYI, every man gets turned on by a good old-fashioned chick fight. Besides, my heart belongs to a leggy blonde with superior arguing skills.”

  Her face does that melty, I’m-in-love dreamy thing for a second, before her eyes grow saucer wide. “Yes! Glenn can help us compose a response.”

  “Ugh,” I groan, flopping spread-eagle back on the floor to watch the ceiling spin with kaleidoscope colors. She explains the whole fiasco, taking too much time to explain our nonissue.

  “Honey, baby, snookums.” She coats the words with more syrup than a stack of pancakes. “What would keep you texting once you discovered your number snafu.”

  “Tits. Show him breast. He won’t care if he accidentally texted the Pope and he will respond,” he deadpans.

  Swiiish. I fancy swinging my pretend samurai sword and take sick satisfaction in his head bouncing on the carpet still wearing his smug smile.

  “She can’t send a stranger her chest…” Georgia scoffs.

  “I never said send hers.” Glenn interrupts, his severed head chatters from the carpet. “Google tits and send him the saggiest, rocks in socks pair you can find, along with a message about him punching in the wrong number. He’ll respond opening the door of communication, and you’ll both get a good laugh over the pic.”

  He’s a genius. Despite him thinking with his moron-stick, his idea is gold. Shaking off my creative imagery puts his head back on his shoulders. I army crawl to my phone, copy the perfect cartoon topless granny, paste it in the chat window, and type.

  Me: Since you sent me some eye candy, I thought I’d return the favor. You brought Grams McSagg-a-boobs her first hint of arousal this century. I wish I could say yes, we miss you, but IDK you, and TBH, if you deleted the number this message’s intended for, she’s not worth it anyway.

  The sent swoosh fills the air. I watch the three dots appear and vanish more than I can count. Nervous and regretting my choice of words, I winch myself off the white plush rug, stumble to the kitchen, and down two shots of tequila.

  Oh no. What if he’s gay? Or married? Why didn’t I think? Miss me yet doesn’t mean he’s single. Neither does his faux pas on number entry. He could have lost his phone and contacts. God, I couldn’t remember shit if I had to manually enter someone digits. A wife or life partner will hunt me down and tattoo a large red A on my face Hester Prynne style.

  “Glenn, she’s freakin’ out,” Geo hisses. “Take the bottle before she downs the whole damn thing.”

  “Like I said, extra,” he murmurs through a chuckle, yanking the expensive liquor from my grasp.

  My phone vibrates; startling me, it slips out of my sweating palm, slamming face down on the linoleum.

  Through the new cracks to my windshield glass protector, I heft a sigh reading unknown in the dark gray notification box.

  Chapter Eight

  Him: Gravity hasn’t been kind to Grams, those are some serious droobies, but bet she was rockin’ when she was a young cartoon. As for my big drunk thumbs tapping in the wrong number. Sometimes a wrong is right.

  Georgia’s leering over my shoulder laughing over his horrible flirting. I won’t tell her heart balloons filled my eyes from his comment. I’m too alcohol influenced to be rational but I can point out his sap.

  Me: I’m flummoxed and fighting to remove the cheese bomb you threw. My kingdom for a cracker.

  Me: Help…

  Me: need a Ritz…

  Me: my screen’s vanishing under the yellow fake Cheez Whiz.

  Him: Harsh, that was some of my best work. So you’re a woman who uses words like flummoxed. Guess I gotta step up my game.

  Him: Wait, you are a woman right? Not that there’s anything wrong with dudes…

  He’s cheeky and light but the devil on my shoulder is chomping to take a stab and see if he is full of shit.

  Me: Hmmm…I’m 80% female.

  His response dots appear and disappear, and I visualize him stuttering to formulate an answer. A wicked snort pushes past my lips and I look to Geo for approval. My living room’s empty. I recollect a mumbled goodbye while I worked witty banter in my head.

  Me: I’m getting whiplash from your dots. Relax. I don’t spend my time dressed as Madonna nor do I possess a penis. I’ve been told I’m 90% extra and due to my love for spouting ‘that’s what she said’ the last 10% is a twelve-year-old boy.

  Him: Would I be an ass if I admitted relief? Nothing wrong with it, but I’m not in to crossing swords with another dude. Maybe we should do the whole singles ad shtick, ya know s/w/m/33 seeks s/d/f for a little m/s/m/t/g?

  Me: I’m afraid to ask what m/s/m/t/g stands for…

  Him: Not a damn thing. It’s just letters I threw in for flair.

  My drunk fades to sleepiness and my head bobbles but I want to keep chatting.

  Me: If I give my stats, can we pick up our conversation again tomorrow?

  I press send, he responds with something swoony but my heavy lids blur the words. Before giving in to passing out, I shoot back s/w/f/28 with a smiley face.

  ***

  I crawled to bed around three, stiff and sore from napping on my table. My alarm blares, drawing me from dreamland where I met a hot man via accidental text. Head pounding, I swear a cat crossed my face taking a piss in my mouth. Even my eyelashes are hungover, refusing to cooperate and open.

  Whose idea was it to get drunk on a Wednesday?

  A few slaps at the nightstand silences the brain-rattling siren but doesn’t stop the bomb of text message alerts. To my eyeballs’ distress, I pry open one lid, ignoring Satan laughing at me in the corner as he fists his hand rolling nausea through my stomach.

  Georgia’s barrage of questions takes a back seat to the unknown stream of messages I believed were all a dream.

  Dun, dun, dun, ricochets through my aching noggin. “Oh God, what did I do?” I read, proud of my snazzy ability to convey attitude via writing until I see my last message, one I don’t remember sending.

  Me: I like you. Or the image of you. It’s all muscles yummy. I’d swipe right for sure. Can’t wait ‘til morrow when we chat again.

  I ended it with a kissy face, peach, and eggplant. Universal lingo for dick and ass. I emoji proposition a stranger based on a selfie sent to a wrong number. I’m going strai
ght to hell: no passing go or collecting $200. The devil’s cackling bwahaha, waving a come-hither finger. I give him my own finger; throwing up a Hail Mary to the heavens while crossing my toes this man never contacts me again.

  Well, maybe not never. He was smoking hot.

  Chapter Nine

  After a day of my so-called bestie laughing her ass off over my dilemma, while fighting the mother of all wine crapulousness, Netflix and my couch beckons. At least I didn’t have any hearings today, not sure my sloshed brain held the power to deal with a judge. Bonus, my phone stayed thankfully silent.

  I’ve sworn off alcohol for the moment, unwilling to suffer another morning after. A quick order to the Thai restaurant down the block and I settle under a fuzzy blanket to watch some mind-numbing horror.

  Nothing kills a head and heart full of woe better than a good psychological scare.

  Remote in hand, I scroll, dropping it when my Minions giggle.

  Kevin, Bob, and Stuart stand on my coffee table pointing a disapproving finger. Curse you Despicable Me and my love for cartoons. I dispel them with a wave of my hand, cautiously upturning my phone.

  Him: Does sending those emojis mean we’ve already sexted, and now we can move on to the blind date portion of our stranger relations? LOL. I promise you the pic I sent is me, so how bout you return the favor?

  I could play dumb or claim drunk and disorderly. The smart thing is to close the line of communication but I’m lonely.

  Yes. I see you there shaking your head and saying uh-huh. Ask yourself what you would do if you were me? This man is all kinds of Liam Hemsworth, aka Thor, delicious and he’s talking to me. Could be a catfish or one of those men who lures in batty, single, desperate women to steal their kidneys, but what the hell.

  Me: Can we forget the last message I sent? Would you believe my finger slipped?

  Him: That never works when I say it. *winky emoji* Are you saying you don’t think I’m hot?

  Me: Awful. Does your fragile male ego need my confirmation of what you already know? Besides my opinion is not complete since your face wasn’t in the photo. I reserve judgment after I’ve gathered more evidence. Test 1: How about we watch a movie together. If we mesh on all things M. Night Shyamalan then maybe I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

  Him: Split? The Sixth Sense? The Village? What’s your poison?

  Me: Impressed *wide eyed emoji* You know your M. Night. You get an A. I’m cueing up Devil.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m freaking out. A blustering wind slams blobs of snow against my patio doors and I swear someone lurks in a dark corner of the kitchen. Might be my coat rack but I’m not taking chances.

  “I can’t do this.” I crawl from under my blanket, stopping the movie. Our conversation is full of getting to know you questions. Favorite color, holiday, food. All mundane, proper first date inquiries without crossing the line of true identity we’ve drawn in the sand.

  We agreed staying anonymous is exciting and freeing. No expectations, obligations, or embarrassment when I spout random craziness. For all I know, he lives in another country but I enjoy talking to him.

  He has already seen the movie and finds my fright hilarious because nothing happens in the first half hour, but looming anticipation combined with my overactive brain has my finger stabbing the stop button.

  This is my routine. I adore a great horror so long as the gore is minimal. The more mind twisting the better, but it takes me days to finish unless I convince Geo to watch it with me.

  Yes, I am a chickenshit. Stop judging me.

  Me: I’m switching to Friends to clear my head then, since last night’s bad decisions left my head foggy, I’m going to bed but I need to finish this movie. I will not allow spooky music and creepiness to defeat me. Watch with me tomorrow?

  Him: I have plans all weekend.

  Right today is Thursday. Stupid, Lexi, stupid. A man with a body like his won’t be spending a Friday night watching a movie. If he is, it’s sexy time ambiance. I can’t clue him in on how pathetic my social life is.

  Me: OMG I lost track of the days. Of course I’m busy too. How about Monday?

  The second I hit send, I hear the desperation in my words but can’t take it back now. Maybe he won’t pick up on it.

  Him: It’s a date. Shoot me a message when you’re ready to hit play. Have a great weekend, WNC.

  Me: WNC?

  Him: I had to give you a name in my contacts. The unknown label drove me nuts.

  Swoon, he’s not perfect. Not that I believed he was, because no one is, but any insight on his glitches boosts my eccentric ego. I smile at my name for him. AFD. Abs for Days.

  Him: Wrong Number Chick. Talk soon. *kissing emoji*

  My heart thumps from the stupid yellow circle blowing a heart-shaped smooch. I’m still smiling as I climb the stairs and snuggle under the covers. The Crystals doo-wop their hit song “Then He Kissed Me” from my bedside, serenading me to sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  “I’m heading out. You coming?” Georgia peeks her head in my door, eyes widening on the file mountain on my desk. “Awe, Lex. Leave those until Monday.”

  “You know my need for empty space won’t allow that. Besides, I don’t have anything else to do tonight, might as well get caught up.” I force my lips to turn up high enough my face hurts.

  “Sociopath, Lexi. Your smile screams ‘I’ll kill you in your sleep.’ Come to dinner with me and Glenn.”

  Third wheeling on her date is more pathetic than I want to be. She won’t leave until I prove I’m okay spending my Friday night working. I inform her I could leave, but for the sake of honesty I remind her I will sneak back later because leaving this pile unfinished isn’t happening.

  “Fine,” she huffs. “Walk me down and grab yourself some coffee. If you’re spending your night in sad overworked land, at least do it caffeinated.”

  Guilt sends my eyes to the side. “I’ve had plenty already.”

  She leans over my desk, peering in my trash can where three large white and green cups rest, waiting for the cleaning service to empty. “Starbucks? You brought a trio to work with you instead of grabbing a fresh cup from Java Tom’s? Wouldn’t be because you’re avoiding a certain barista, is it?”

  “What?” I scoff. “No. I enjoy the scorched taste of reheated coffee. It’s my new passion.”

  “God, you suck at lying.” She grabs my hand, dragging me down the hall to the elevator.

  ***

  My heels clop louder with each step toward the coffee shop. I don’t inhale a full breath until my eyes survey the room, finding it minus Rhodes Milam. After he sent me to lockup for contempt, I refused to meet his smug face. Starbucks is down the block between my townhouse and office. Their baristas don’t pass judgment or wear smarmy, sexy smirks, so I grab a few cups, which I microwave and sip on through the day.

  Not an ideal situation, and it tastes like ass, but it’s better than the sludge we make in the office and I never risk running into him. Silly, worrisome, and totally insane because here I am ordering a latte and of course the owner isn’t working on a Friday evening; he hires employees for that.

  The cold February bluster fills the coffeehouse as customers enter seeking warmth and caffeine. We work our way through the line, place our order, and step to the end to wait for our cups. Geo is still campaigning for me to blow off my caseload when a small boy bolts between us. His tiny legs wobble as his feet skid around the end of the counter. Before he reaches the swinging door, sealing off the back of the store, the man I’ve been avoiding pushes through.

  “Uncle Rhodes!” the lad cheers, giggling as he’s swept off the ground in a tight, swinging leg hug.

  “Hey, buddy. Where’s your mom?” Rhodes asks, and so far, he hasn’t seen me. I watch his plush lips kiss the toddler’s forehead, right under the matching flop of inky hair.

  “Parking the car,” he answers in a sweet high lilt as the female version of Rhodes rushes through the door.

  “My God
, the city needs to dump more piles in the lake. Finding a spot is impossible with all the nasty snow stacked up everywhere,” she complains, glancing to her watch. “Shit, I’m late. You sure you’re okay keeping him all weekend?”

  “Bro time, right, Tommy?” he responds, tickling the kid’s belly.

  The high peels of cute laughter fill my ovaries like a balloon. Bigger and bigger.

  “Yep. Pizza, bear, and chickens.” His chubby cheeks shake with his rapid head nod.

  Rhodes barreling chuckle hits between my legs. Far too much activity is partying it up in my lady bits.

  “Pizza, beer and chicks,” he corrects.

  Tommy scrunches his upturned nose. “That’s what I said.”

  “Go, Lizzy. I’ve taken care of this tiny human since he was power puking and exploding diapers. Now he’s cleaner and more fun.”

  POP! My ovaries explode.

  “Lexi and Georgia,” the woman behind the counter calls.

  Rhodes head whips to where I hover, interloping in their moment. Panicked at the discovery, I look at Geo, but her face is all melty from watching too.

  Women are suckers for a paternal man. Especially us gals who see tumbleweeds topped with the heads of our future would-be children roll through the barren ghost town of our chances at motherhood.

  His smile grows Grinch-style smug over the head of his tiny doppelgänger. We’re a month past Christmas, but this grin is spot on with the Whoville hater. He saunters with a child on his hip to where Georgia holds me in place.

  It should not be sexy but damn, it is. Because he’s torpedoed a path, his sister cocks a curious sculpted brow and follows to see what has captured his attention.

  I squirm but I need the wrist Geo’s fisting. Flamethrower heat climbs up my neck, reaching my hairline, surely turning my skin tomato red.

  “Hi,” Tommy says, waving five chunky fingers. His round cheeks are pink and his indigo eyes innocent. I can’t fault him for looking like the boil on the ass of my life he calls uncle.

  Before Rhodes shit all over my radar with his blatant sexiness, I visited Java Tom’s four times a day. Two weeks later, I’m forced to suffer rather than deal with his judgmental bull. Who cares if he owns the café and controls a courtroom, or if he’s delicious with his shaggy hair and vibrant eyes?