by Julie Olivia
“And how do you expect to carry this recliner back?” Natalie asks.
“My own strength.”
“Ooh, get help from a hot New Yorker.” She switches her accent to exaggerate and make ‘Yorker’ sound more like ‘yawkah.’
“Absolutely not,” I say.
“Missed opportunities.”
I sigh, switching back to the video call from my GPS. “I left London for a reason, Nat.”
“And why was that?” It’s like every time I talk about my move, she needs to hear it justified to her once more. Losing a best friend can do that, I suppose.
“To be alone,” I say.
Unsatisfied, she rolls her eyes. “Depressing.”
I don’t respond, instead trying to sidestep the person who just shoulder-checked me out of the way. I yell a quick “Oy!” but don’t follow through. I was just standing here with my arm Frankenstein’d out on a video call in the middle of the sidewalk—I likely deserve a quick shove.
Two blocks later and I’m in front of the furniture store. In the window display is a maroon recliner adorned by a crooked sign haphazardly tied in fishing wire around the base stating FINAL SALE in bold, Sharpie’d letters. Given the yard sale aesthetic, I fully expect to discover that it doesn’t recline whatsoever, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.
My recliner was lit on fire, I think my cat may have pissed on it, and I moved here on a budget; I must suffer the consequences.
“Okay, I’m at the shop,” I say. “I’ll chat later, Nat. I got this.”
“Always a self-sufficient queen.”
“We don’t use her name in vain.”
Natalie shakes her head with a smile, we exchange goodbyes, then I end the call and slip my mobile into the front pocket of my overalls.
The bell on the door rings a dull tune when I enter, sounding exhausted from a lifetime of use.
I make a beeline to the recliner in the window, not stopping to inspect it but instead wrapping my arms around the base in a bear hug.
Does it budge?
No.
I look to my left to see a rounder chair, egg-like, maybe even similar to a comfy womb. When I plop myself in it, my bum floats up to heaven in comfort.
Perfect. Much more reasonable.
The sign next to it says, in the same scrawled writing, PAPASAN $200. Ah, so that’s the technical name of this pod-shaped delight.
“That’ll do,” I say to absolutely nobody, picking it up and hauling it with me to the checkout desk in the back.
I shuffle past the other couches, dining room tables, and hutches, letting out heavy breaths with each step, and finally drop the papasan then pop my hand on the counter bell. The ding echoes throughout the store. I didn’t realize how empty it was when I arrived, but when I’m on a mission, tunnel vision is about the best I can do.
I tap my hands on the counter, rolling from one fingernail to the next, creating a tune that devolves into Jingle Bells. I pull myself up and lean at the waist to peek over the counter. I wonder if I’ll find an employee on break. It was a place I commonly found David when I picked him up from the bodega, though his breaks lasted anywhere from five minutes to two hours.
Oh, David—the man who left me the now crispy pee-soaked recliner, made love to me in that recliner, and cheated on me with a coworker, ensuring that I sobbed in that recliner. Yes, That David, the catalyst for me leaving London, not be confused with That Rory. Or That Bill. Or Those Other Men. Some people have a face for television or a voice for radio. I must have a fanny for infidelity.
I ding the bell repeatedly, irritated by the memory, hoping the shrill noise will draw me out of my mental spiral.
Turns out it didn’t take a shrill noise to draw me out, but instead a low, haunting voice.
“I bet they can hear it,” it says.
I jump, clutching my hand to my chest, no doubt willing my heart to settle. However, it doesn’t settle—not at all, not one bit—when I spot who the voice belongs to.
It’s a man, but not the type of men I’ve experienced in the past with gangly limbs and a devious brow. No, this man is broad-shouldered, tall, and noticeably missing the subtle hint of despair that accompanies the average businessman. He lacks the look altogether, really—straight-backed with confidence, high cheekbones, and a curved jawline, perfectly proportioned like a Brad Pitt or Robert Pattinson type.
“I’ve been waiting in the queue for ten minutes,” I say, the words spouting from my mouth before I can stop them. Not like I would have anyway, but the tinge of guilt I feel after makes me wonder if I should have.
“Ten minutes? How absurd,” he says, a smile pulling at his lips. And what a clever smile it is.
“Was that sarcasm?” I ask with a smile of my own.
He laughs, deep and nice, like a low bass string being plucked on a guitar in heaven. “Wasn’t yours?”
“Okay, so maybe I’ve been here more like five minutes,” I admit.
“The wait must be agonizing.”
“I’m patient,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
The man squints back at me, a challenge. “I can tell.” His eyes dart to the chair I dragged to the counter. “Nice chair you have there.”
I wonder if it’s mockery. I’m also curious just how long he’s been in the store and if he watched me lug the thing to the counter, huffing out air like an animal in heat as I struggled under the weight of it. Did that serve as a mating call? Another look at this man with his eyes the color of warm chocolate behind his dark Buddy Holly-esque frames, and one can wonder.
“I set my old chair on fire,” I say.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Tell me it was an accident.”
“The candle did it.”
“Damn candle. Seems like trouble,” he says.
“Caught it smoking the other day.”
He gasps jokingly, and I laugh.
“And why are you here?” I ask pointedly, looking down to the item gripped in his fist by his side.
“Oh,” he says, holding up the thing and running his other hand through his pitch-black hair. His locks are messy, but in a purposeful way, like he runs his fingers through them to keep the laid-back look alive. It works for him. “Pillow.”
“A throw pillow?” I ask.
He turns it around. “Sure. I like the dragonflies on it.”
“You’re going to wait another hour for a pillow?”
He barks out some laughter and glances around the store. “We won’t be here an hour.”
“We might.”
“Well, it’s a pillow worth waiting an hour for,” he says. “It looks comfortable enough to have a sick day on.”
“Pardon?”
“That’s the test of good furniture—you have to be able to watch hours of television on it comfortably. So…” He lifts the pillow with a boyish smile. The man can’t help but be irresistible. “Pillow.”
“Ma’am, are you ready?” a voice asks behind me, and my heart leaps for the second time. Do people in this city have some innate superpower for sneaking up on others?
Behind the counter is a teenager—who I can only guess is the solo employee in the store—wearing a polo shirt and a name tag with scribbled writing. He stares at me like I’m a loon. I clutch my chest once more, and impeccable jawline man laughs again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shaking his head and biting the inside of his cheek.
“Just the chair, please,” I say to the employee, pointing at the papasan on the ground. The harsh finger point makes me feel bad. It may be a sorry gathering of fabric and cushions, but it will soon be my sorry gathering of fabric and cushions. It’s practically family.
The teenager, looking exhausted by his job, starts tapping on the keyboard. Fast forward ten years and this boy might be a spitting image of David, still in retail and still an associate. I always expected more of him, possibly a manager role or an owner, but he held the exact same entry-level job with few aspirations but too much charm for his own good—something t
his particular adolescent lacks.
As I’m reaching in my purse and handing my card over, Mr. Perfect Jawline must shift, because his scent of sandalwood washes over me like a warm breeze. How can we be in a populated city with no beach and yet he smells like a quiet romantic evening on the shore? It’s intoxicating, and I barely register when my receipt is printed and handed back to me until it’s being crushed against my fingers and the employee is clearing his throat to urge me to take it.
“I got it, thanks,” I say once I come to, shoving it into my purse and stepping to the side as the jawline extraordinaire passes me.
“Can you even carry that?” he asks me, lifting an eyebrow just as I’m staring at the daunting piece of furniture in front of me.
“Yes,” I say defiantly. Though, I hadn’t entirely thought through how I would lug this back to my apartment. It was hard enough bringing it to the counter due to its awkward size.
After he hands his payment over to the teen and takes his pillow back, he clears his throat. “I can help if you want.”
“I’ve got it.”
“I’m just saying, I mastered handling Swedish furniture in my past life.” His eyes crinkle at the edges, pulling off the very subtle art of smiling without a large grin. Ah, so we have a funny man with the Ikea jokes. I’m smiling at him before I can even stop myself. I want to not laugh at all, but I still snort out an unattractive laugh.
“I’m Fran,” I say, reaching out my hand. His hand is rough, warm, and firm when it shakes mine. It doesn’t default to the weak fish grip men commonly reserve for petite women like me, and somehow that makes him all the more appealing.
“Owen,” he responds.
“I’ve never met an Owen” is all I can think to say while continuing to hold his hand. Clearly, I’m wise and wonderful with words.
“Now you have.”
If romantic comedies have taught me anything, it’s that a good meet cute is the start of a wonderful relationship, and this meet is quite cute, if I do say so myself. But, no, I’m not here to have cute meetings or meet cute people or whatever, unless they’re people I can sit on. Wait—scratch that last part. Imagining sitting on Owen is going to lead down the wrong path…the path to romance and heartbreak. No thank you.
I realize we’re still shaking hands. I pull away and clear my throat. Owen simply laughs.
“Well…” I deadlift the papasan, grateful for my revenge visits to the gym for the past two years. My legs are like steel, and I’m proud of the Superwoman inside me. Though, how sustainable this is, I’m unsure. “It was nice to meet you, Owen.”
“Likewise, Fran.”
I would say that was that and I continued on with my life, but when I make it to the door, Owen is already jogging ahead, opening it for me.
“Hello again,” I grunt, squeezing past as he presses against the door to let me by. My hips touch his thighs. When I turn to fit through the threshold, my fat bum brushes his crotch.
Good lord.
I wonder if that was a cell in his pocket or…no, naughty Fran.
Upon reaching the sidewalk, I realize I overestimated my strength as I lower the chair back to the ground, the disassembled base rattling in the egg center. Well, now it’s gonna get city street gunk on it. Fantastic.
Owen stops in front of me, watching with a small smile as I hunch over, hands on knees.
“Tell me, Fran…” Hearing my name on his lips feels odd and exhilarating all at once. He’s got that thick all-American voice, the one that says your name just a bit longer than any other words in the sentence. “Are you up for coffee? Or maybe tea?”
My heart stumbles in my chest and I let out a laugh. “Does my accent make you think I strictly enjoy tea?”
“Not at all,” he responds, tilting his head to the side. “Though, you know, maybe.”
“I should be offended,” I say.
He smiles. “Well, there’s a café one block over if you can find it in your heart to set aside the offense. I’ll even carry your new chair.”
“What’s the catch?” I ask.
There’s a pregnant pause, and he shakes his head as if trying to make sure he heard me correctly. “The catch?”
I purse my lips, wanting both to retract the statement and marvel at the fact that I did indeed put that out in the world.
“Aren’t you something,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. Something. He smiles, and it’s so infectious my face heats. Without another word, he reaches for the chair on the ground. I bend down and grab it instead.
“I can carry it.”
“Seriously, I don’t mind,” he says, chuckling.
Owen bends down again to pick the chair up, tossing his pillow on top. It looks feather-light under his touch. He could probably carry me over his shoulder like a shepherd herding sheep and it wouldn’t faze him, but that’s beside the point.
Natalie did say I needed to make friends, I suppose.
“Fine,” I mumble. “And thank you.”
The café in question doesn’t take long to get to. He’s barely broken a sweat by the time we arrive, even while winding through crowds with the heavy chair, once accidentally knocking into a man who grumbles obscenities under his breath.
We walk in the café, me holding the door open for him this time, and he ceremoniously lowers the chair to the ground next to a table seated for two. It’s in the corner near the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the busy sidewalks.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks me, shoving a hand into his back pocket and displaying a brown leather wallet.
“Oh, no, thank you. I can buy my own drink.”
He tilts his head to the side.
Right. This. It’s always a struggle having to explain to others why I don’t like getting my things paid for, but I break into the monologue anyway.
“I just don’t like someone paying for me until I get to know them. What if you don’t even like me? Then you’ve wasted cash.”
He laughs once more. “Like you? Is this a date?”
My face instantly grows hot, and I’ve blushed enough times in my life to know that every exposed part of my skin from my cheeks down to my chest must be bright pink, like some kind of carnival cotton candy, though probably less appetizing.
“I didn’t say that,” I correct.
“It’s only coffee. Well—tea,” he says before giving me a quick tsk and shaking his head with a smile. “Wow, assumptions, assumptions.”
I really wish I was better at this whole talking-to-a-hot-man thing. You would think at twenty-eight I might have learned, or that maybe my bitterness toward men would cause the intimidation factor to decrease, but apparently, I’m still just as uncomfortable as I was at eighteen.
Owen heads to the counter while I excuse myself to the restroom. Once I lock the door behind me, I have to steady myself on the sink, clutching the edges in my fists.
“Pull yourself together, Fran ol’ girl. Get. It. Together.”
My forced words of encouragement do nothing to pull the red from my cheeks. I run one hand through my blonde bangs, trying to muss them up enough to get their fringe back intact. It helps a little, but one look at my silly white overalls and I’m wondering why I’m on this faux date to begin with.
Owen is hot. Very, very hot. And funny. And I’m in here looking like a washed-up Gwen Stacy, lack of Spider-Man seduction powers and all.
Seems like he’s getting the short end of the stick, if you ask me.
I exhale, straightening my posture once more and flashing myself quick finger guns. Always the surefire sign of a winner.
When I exit the bathroom, Owen is at the front collecting his order. I file in line. I half expect him to turn around with my cup of tea with how much of a gentleman he’s insisted on being up to this point, but with a small smile and only one cup of coffee as promised, he walks back to our table.
I place my order, collecting it from the counter and sitting across from him at our quaint table near the window. He h
olds his drink between his palms, staring at me and curling his lips in before breaking the silence.
“Tell me about yourself, Fran.”
“Is this an interview?” I ask.
He chuckles. “It could be. What do you do for a living?”
“Definitely an interview.”
Telling him my job title will make this entire experience awkward. I already know that. A title like penetration tester combined with me sitting directly across from a man wondering what type of penetration he could offer—because, yes, let’s not deny that that is what’s happening—I feel like it’s a recipe for disaster. Cue the instant thoughts of the eggplant and peach emojis.
I tilt my head to the side, foreseeing the future, the jokes, and then having to explain the job without making myself sound like an even crazier person than I already look like. But there’s no way around it.
“I’m a penetration tester,” I say, pursing my lips again.
He barks out a laugh, which is exactly the reaction I expect. “Me too,” he says.
That I did not expect.
I squint. “You’re joking.” It’s fate. It must be. What else could it be?
He shakes his head. “Would someone with the title ‘penetration tester’ joke about that?”
I shake my head in disbelief. A fellow colleague in the field, and one with a decent sense of humor. An odd camaraderie tugs at my chest, and I dislike how intrusive it feels. I’m not supposed to be here flirting with a man, yet oopsie-daisy, my face is red hot once more.
“I sometimes prefer ethical hacker,” I say, offering the alternate title for the field.
He shrugs, flashing me a smile in the process. “Unfortunately, less fun.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, slowly nodding. He’s cute, but that comment…I should have expected it. I’m accustomed to the bias around women in the tech field. I’m used to the subtle comments, and I’ve spent enough time in my career enduring them to be on the defense much too quick.
Strike one, Owen.
“How’d you get into that?” he asks.
“Taught myself,” I say.
