Sweeter Than Chocolate: Valentine's Day Anthology

by Gina Kincade

  Pfftt…not this woman.

  My imagination conjures Carol Kane’s haggard old lady from The Princess Bride. She is running around the shop hunched over screaming, “LIAR,” and lecturing me on true love.

  “Lexi, this is my nephew, Tommy, and my sister, Liz. Guys, this is the woman who keeps my hair soft by conditioning it with coffee.” I want to smack him hard enough to knock the glint out of his eyes but I smile, pinching my lips tight to keep vile words from spewing forth.

  What starts as a giggle becomes Liz bent at the waist, gasping for air between sucking laughs. When she’s composed enough to speak, wetness dots her lashes. “You never said she was so cute. He’s flustered and off his game because of you. For two weeks he’s bitched about this woman who not only criticizes his coffee, but also keeps dumping it on his head. Since my place is closer than his, I witnessed the sticky mess both times. Priceless!”

  “Thanks, Sis,” he chides, flipping her off behind Tommy’s back before turning his steely blues on me. “Saw you slugging through the lobby yesterday carrying Starbucks.”

  “No,” Liz gasps. “Not the enemy.”

  “Avoiding me?” He pouts his plump pink bottom lip. Alternate dimension me punches him but reality Lex really wants to bite it.

  I’m a lawyer, and in the courtroom confrontation is the name of the game, but as a woman I know when to cut and run. I grab my cup, drag my trapped wrist to my lips, and bite Georgia’s thumb. She calls me a fucker under her breath but I’m free. I pull out my phone, pretending it vibrated, make an excuse about being needed upstairs, say my nice-to-meet-yous, and jog out the door. The pretend sound of squealing tires fills my ears, and if I were a cartoon, skid marks would mar the floor from the speed of my retreat.

  I flop in my office chair; secure in my aloneness, I enjoy my first sip of yummy white chocolate mocha, humming in appreciation as it warms a path to my stomach. Rhodes Milam invades my thoughts. One hookup wouldn’t hurt. Yes, I’d self-ban myself from Java Tom’s forever and suffer cold coffee, but it’s an even trade to break my sex drought. A Dr. Ruth mirage appears in the chair in front of my desk. She eyes me over the top of her glasses tsking with a shake of her head.

  Even Ruthie knows casual sex is out of my comfort zone, but damn it I’m tired of poncho wearing, Clint Eastwood western whistling over my unused vagina.

  Chapter Eleven

  After finishing my work and trudging the blocks to my home, I spend hours trolling my internet dating accounts. Wincing in suffering agony over far too many dick pics and propositions, I stare at the texts between me and AFD. The angel and devil debate with sound reasoning over whether or not I should send him a message. The holy halo wearer won and I settled for cleansing all three levels of my home instead. I start on the top floor, scooping ash out the fireplace, changing my sheets, and arranging my office. Second floor, I again empty the remnants from fire, hose down the patio doors, scrub the wine stains from my creamy shag rug, and Swiffer the open hardwood. I two-step and cowboy boogie to Blanco Brown’s “The Git Up” while wiping out the cabinets and tossing expired food, then finish with clean sheets in the guest room on the lower level.

  If I keep the music loud enough, I avoid the sound of my aloneness chopping at my soul. Sunday night, I snuggled in to read the suspense thriller Ravyn. Lost in the pages, I jump out of my skin when the phone rings. AFD lights up the screen.

  Holy shit, he’s calling me. “Alexa answer the phone,” I yell, following with a shaky questioning “Hello” when the call connects.

  “Hey. I hope this is okay. I thought it’d be easier to finish the movie if we talk instead of text.” His voice is scratchy and muted but not in a drunk dial fashion, it’s more of a stuffed up, I can’t breathe way.

  “No, I like this idea.” I smile, wanting to ask if he’s sick, but wondering if this is his natural sound I refrain. “Thought you were busy all weekend?”

  “My plans cleared up when I woke this morning unable to pull oxygen through my nose. I’ll apologize now in case I succumb to the head pressure and fall asleep. Promise you’ll stop watching and wait for me to protect you from the scary demon?”

  Aww, he sounds adorable and young all clogged up with germs. I affirm my compliance and cue up where I left off, right in the heart of spooky music. Why, moviemakers, why? Is it necessary to add to the scare factor with a bass-pounding warning track? We get it, okay, something bad is going to happen. Stop trying to make me shit my pants.

  I barely made it through the opening credits last time but I have a protector now.

  “I’m on speaker, right?” he asks.

  “Uh huh,” I mutter, muffled by the fuzzy blanket over my face.

  “So why can’t I hear the movie anymore? Did you turn it off?”

  “No.” I shake my head, peeking out from the fisted fleece. “I-I-I muted it, opting to read the close captioning but then five mini devils wearing the characters’ faces started conga lining on my coffee table, twisting their creepy heads one at time saying, ‘pick me.’ The floor creaked up in my bedroom, and I’m certain that damn old woman is my neighbor who offers me cookies once a week. Fifty Shades made elevators all sexy, but M. Night brought the sin to new levels. I’ll never ride in the damn tin box again and I hate the stairs.” I spew all in one lung exhale.

  “Did you say there are dancing evil-doers on your table, and wait, is someone in your place?” he asks, concern hugging his words.

  “Remember me mentioning how my bff’s boyfriend says I’m extra?” When he confirms his recollection, I explain. Describing the random characters and people who appear as real as me within my overactive head. Animations, illusions, and hallucinations enacting actions and responses I’d never do in real time, but which help me deal with the potholes of life. It’s not normal but who the fuck wants to be normal…yuck. Peculiar is more fun and if he can’t deal, well, a hearty fuck off parade is waiting in the wings.

  “I’m taking a timeout on responding. My head’s fogged with a dose of NyQuil and I need full brain capacity or I’ll screw this up. Table it for tomorrow, yeah?” He yawns and I feel like a tool for dumping all this on a sufferer of the Manflu.

  I demand he eat chicken soup, get plenty of rest, and end with informing him I’ll check on him soon. He didn’t disparage my crazy but the full weight of it hasn’t jackhammered his brain yet either. Georgia has been my friend since college and she still squirms when I react to my delusions.

  ***

  He’s sick for a week. We talk here and there between his bouts of sleep. I still don’t know his name or where he lives, but hearing his voice is what I hurry home for. The presence of his name on my screen flutters through my heart and goosebumps my skin. This is the most absurd relationship and for all my intelligence, I’m dumb-woman pig slop when it comes to him. I think I’m falling for a man I haven’t seen and don’t know if I will ever meet.

  Georgia gushes how perfect her Valentine’s Day in Hawaii will be. Since it’s on a Friday, Glenn planned an elaborate extended weekend. He showed me the ring he’s planning to propose with, and though I turned into a giant snarling green monster of jealousy, I’m happy Geo found her one of the few men who know how to get it right.

  A wintery blast blew over the city at midnight. I envision Elsa on top Willis Tower holding out her hands as she lets it go in the form of buckets of snow and ice. Perfect weather for my black heart and for the one day I’m a card-carrying love hater.

  Roses, lilies, carnations; an entire assortment of floral perfumes the office. Everywhere I look someone gushes over their delivery.

  They suck and I want to kick them in the shin while shoving these gifts up the sender’s asses.

  AHHH…okay, I’m a snappish yeti stomping through the office, biting off heads. I imagine the daggers sticking out my back are plenty. My roaring and growling earns a wide berth from my office mates and if I send my paralegal for coffee one more time, she is liable to go all Lilly Tomlin in 9 to 5 and put rat poison
in it.

  After many apologies and offering to pay for her dinner and let her leave, she hugs me tight, promising next year will be better, collects her dozens of flowers, and walks to the elevator. I dislike the sad eyes I meet around the floor.

  Inside I scream for them to riot their ‘oh poor, Lexi’ and shut the fuck up. Admitting I’m unfit for people-ing and don’t have Geo to use as buffer, I sequester myself in my office until the hustle and bustle outside the door silences.

  It’s late, I’m hungry and out of work. Chocolate, pasta, CARBS; food will be my warm body substitute, and I plan to eat until I forget how much this day sucks. I haven’t heard from AFD since yesterday and it’s not helping my crabbiness. I thought we were building something; turns out he is a Lego block to the foot. Hurts like a mother while pissing you off with its existence.

  Over it, I grab my bag and head out.

  Chapter Twelve

  The lights flicker, drawing my eye. I watch them blink, switching my gaze to the window. Outside, white consumes my sight. It’s dense, like pressing your forehead to a wall and trying to look through it. I shiver, pulling my Dakota sheepskin coat tighter across my chest and patting myself on the back for wearing slacks, a thick sweater, and fur-lined boots. The illusion of turning to a block of ice the second I step beyond the revolving door is interrupted by the arrival of the car.

  When the doors part, I’m knocked back by a coffee bearing, mustard apron wearing assface, who isn’t paying attention to where he’s barreling.

  “Argh,” I growl, “What the fuck? Our offices are closed,” I shriek, checking my expensive jacket for wet spots.

  He looks up at my outrage, face ashen, “Shit, I can’t win with you,” he groans. “Your friend told me to bring you a peace offering. Special for you, a white chocolate peppermint latte.” He nods down to the cup in his hand.

  “I was told the syrup was out of season?” I angle my head, pursing my lips, remembering one of his employees snarking at me when I tried to order one in January.

  “I order it special for you. Plus, I fired the barista who got shitty. It came in yesterday.” He shoves the orange paper cup into my hand. The succulent scent of an Andes Candy warms my nose.

  “Thank you,” I mutter.

  He taps the button, reopening the car. I swore after finishing Devil I’d never use this box of death again. One day of climbing twelve flights of stairs ended those aspirations. I get enough stepper-cize moving between the floors of my townhouse.

  Mind on my three-block walk between the office and home, I miss the hesitation of the doors and the quick flash of the fluorescents. The silence is awkward but thankfully the trip is fast on a normal day. Eyes on the lowering numbers, I watch the floors tick by when with a spine-jarring jolt the car slams to a stop and bathes in darkness for the two minutes it takes the emergency light to kick on.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” I punch all the buttons but nothing responds.

  “The storm knocked out the power. We know you’re stuck and are working on it, but the city is under a travel advisory. Get comfortable, it will be a while,” a voice bellows through the overhead speaker.

  Rhodes yanks his apron over his head throwing it in the corner. He tosses up his hands. “Great,” he shouts.

  “Bad things happen for a reason,” we both mumble the tag line from Devil at the same time. I twist my head. Eyes wide, I search his questioning face.

  His hands linked behind his head offer a glimpse of his stomach from his shirt riding up. Black ink swirls on his skin.

  No! No way! I shout in my head. He lives in Asia, Europe, or Mars. Not Chicago and not this egotistic idiot. Without thinking, I grab his shirt, exposing his torso. The abs, the eight pack, the ink.

  Son of a bitch, he is my anonymous crush. Abs for Days is my nemesis, Rhodes Milam.

  His brows climb, blending with his hairline. Eyes full of guilt and wide enough to fall out of their sockets, his chest moves faster.

  I fancy my jaw hitting the floor, followed by the large boot of life kicking me between my shoulder blades to knock the oxygen from my lungs.

  Panicked and twisting with anxiety, I struggle to breathe, swaying on my feet. Phone in hand, I shoot off a text; crossing every body part I can overlap in hopes I’m wrong. Surprised I have service I fling off a simple, “Hello. How are you?”

  After the swoosh, I wait, wishing for a Xanax or twelve.

  I don’t factor in his signal strength when I happy dance because his phone stays silent. Before I finish my second mental twerk, a tone jingles from his pocket. We’re close enough I see his screen and he sees mine. Both light up with the same line. Mine black, his blue.

  “Fuck my life,” I yell, falling to my ass in the middle of dirty, salt-covered floor.

  He catches my coffee and with dexterity, manages to grip my forearm to slow my tumble. Black dots pop up in my eyes from lack of air. My AFD is sweet, kind of accepts my weirdness though we haven’t discussed it yet, and sounds adorable when he’s sick. I didn’t care if he was cat-ass ugly with squinty eyes and puckered lips. Assuming his photo was a fake, I like him enough to move beyond the superficial. What started as an oops turned into funny messages and long nights spent on the phone until he passed out from germ infestation, which I hoped would become sickeningly tweeny type conversations where we argued over who’d hang up first. Then, when the time was right, we’d exchange names, locations, and figure out how to meet and find our ever after.

  If only my life were a Hallmark movie instead of a horror train wreck so awful even M. Night would say “daaaaaammmmnnnn, girl.”

  I was falling for AFD, who is actually the man I’ve taken great pains to avoid. Rhodes is repugnant, vulgar, looks awful in baby shit yellow, and he inspires episodes of carnage whenever he opens his mouth.

  Can someone drop a house on me now?

  A warm cocoon filled with the scent of coffee and the subtly of soap soothes, slowing my gasps. Smooth strokes up and down my back, accompanied by a strong arm holding me close, and a soft gravelly voice reminding to breathe and settle, slows my attack. The black dots fade, my lungs stop burning, and though I’m exhausted, when my muscles relax the calm is welcome.

  Rhodes sits next to me, his arms hugging me, and my face rests on his pec, allowing me to breathe him with each inhale. His hot palms caress, offering comfort to match his words. We rock side to side and his breath moves my hair.

  Settled, I pull away, despite inclinations to stay. I scoot, slumping against the wall and take a drink of my now cool coffee.

  As I swallow, suspicion rolls in like a thunderstorm. “Did you know it was me the whole time? You have access to my number at the courthouse.” A lump in my throat chokes me. “Oh, please tell me this wasn’t your idea of joke?”

  “God no, Lexi.” He fists his hair with a wary downturn to his eyes. “But texting wasn’t an accident. Georgia slipped me your number, said I would have a better chance coming at you as a stranger. My intentions were pure from the first message.”

  My mind conjures a rocket soaring through the sky, dive-bombing down on Geo’s bikini-clad body, blowing her off the beach. I take glee in her caterwauling yelp as she flies miles offshore before plopping in the ocean where Jaws swallows her.

  “Your mind’s creating. Tell me what you see?” he encourages

  For him, my eyeballs fill with black and with a wave of my hand I open a hole in the floor, sending him plummeting to the depths of hell, where he burns to ash as I cackle and drink wine with Satan.

  I huff out a breath, giving him my back, whispering a prayer for them to get this steel contraption moving.

  Chapter Thirteen

  An hour later, the voice of doom assures us they haven’t forgotten we’re here. How noble of them: assholes. I want to scream and demand they hoist me away.

  Where’s the beefy, strapping fireman who carries the damsel to safety? I. Need. A. Hero.

  “Lexi,” his faint voice startles me from the many dismembermen
t of Geo and Rhodes scenarios I’ve conjured. “Talk to me. I’m still the same guy you’ve been chatting with. I’m sorry for how this worked out, but I refuse to apologize for getting to know you. I was an ass when I propositioned you. But I’d been trying to get your attention, and that day when you batted those big blue eyes at me, I made a snap decision thinking cocky was the way to win.”

  “Why? Why not be yourself?”

  “Because you ignored me. My employees knew I was interested, Georgia, my sister, everyone but you. I thought being bold would leave an impression.”

  “It did. I found you loathsome.”

  “But at least you found me.”

  A laugh bubbles; against my will, it snorts free.

  His stomach growls, to which mine offers a responding gurgle. “Got any food in that big bag of yours?”

  Aghast, I school him on the specialty of a Hermès Birkin bag. One does not carry food in this bag. Well, on normal day you shouldn’t, but today I stole a heart box of assorted candy off some fool’s desks. My sad singledom deserves the instant gratification of shoveling copious amounts of pilfered sweetness in my mouth.

  Everyone knows the best part of this horrible greeting card holiday is the day after. Half. Off. Chocolate. Day. Stocking up on discounted yumminess is almost worth the hassle of dealing with all the buy-this-to-prove-your-love bullshit.

  A sly smile pulls my lips as I pull out the obnoxious, oversized red monstrosity with the ginormous pink bow. I’m so hungry, I don’t take the time to use the map to find my favorite pieces. Instead, we eat. I don’t even mind the nasty apricot cream I usually toss in the garbage. Instead, I offer it to Rhodes, considering it a smidge of retribution for being a dicksicle.