Thick As Thieves: A Romantic Comedy

by Julie Olivia

  Goodness, what year is it? Do Americans actually do that?

  I place my mobile back in my purse with yet another slow nod. It’s hard to have any other reaction. “Brilliant.”

  “Fantastic. See you then!” She adjusts the strap on her backpack and exits the shop, bell dinging behind her as if to announce a departure reserved strictly for fairies. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was one in a past life, or maybe is one in disguise right now.

  “What a peculiar person,” I mumble as Lara takes her seat.

  “So, seals…”

  Ah, I spoke too soon.

  I browse the meet-up page that night while catching up on the current state of aquatic creature affairs, per Lara’s recommendation. The group Emma showed me is large, but I suppose that’s to be expected from a meet-up in the city. I’m flicking through the attendees for no other reason than to see what equally nerdy cute men exist in New York. As it turns out, there’s a nice mix of trimmed beard nerdy and unkempt beard nerdy. Something for everyone.

  It’s only when I catch a picture of a man with cheeky glasses mid-laugh that I have to pause full stop.

  My instinct instantly wants to say it’s Owen—Mr. Prick McGee—and I let out a giant exhalation just to have the whole world feel my frustration. It’s like I need everyone to know how upset I am that this man has popped up once more. But this urge is countered by the fact that, A, the only living being that would hear my frustration is Leia, and B, I’m utterly entranced at seeing him once more—at least at seeing a man who I think may be Owen.

  The longer I look at the picture, the more unsure I become. The hair is just as unruly and mussed up as it was on Friday, but it’s noticeably shorter. He stands in front of a waterfall wearing a wet shirt that clings to every perfect muscle as if he just emerged from the water after a friend’s dare or maybe even the temptation of just living even a bit. Maybe I’m just making up narratives, though. Even though he’s soaked to the skin, that hair still curls at the ends, and his smile still radiates through the image.

  The issue with this photo is that it’s so zoomed out and pixelated, it’s hard to make out whether this is the same man. Sure, there’s the undeniable look of him—the pure charm, the genuine smile carrying from his face and out of the picture as if to say Pick me to be the reason you attend this meet-up, but who’s to say that charm doesn’t exist with another human being?

  Before I know it, my index finger has clicked on the picture, and I’m inside this mystery man’s profile.

  The first item of note is that the picture size doesn’t budge one bit. Still small. Still pixelated. Still as indecipherable as before.

  The second notable item is the name attached to the profile.

  Elijah.

  Not Owen. Not Mr. Tease. An entirely different man.

  How many men with tech-relevant careers in New York look like mysterious Mr. Owen? Maybe it’s just an American thing to have the mid-laugh charming smile with perfect teeth. At least he isn’t holding a fish. From my two seconds browsing a dating app while bored, that does seem to be the norm here.

  I want to explore this man more, but the only bit of lead I have left is that this is his first time attending this particular meet-up. His profile contains two other meet-ups similar to this one with varying takes of ‘NY Hacker Meet-up’. Sometimes ‘NY’ is before the word ‘meet-up’, sometimes after. They get crazy with it, I can tell. Do I click another one to see if he has attended those? Do I dare search his posting history?

  I slam my laptop screen down before I can continue overthinking. My stomach feels all jumbly, like maybe I forgot to turn off the stove and can’t remember, but the only heat in my life is stemming from the aching sensation that this mysterious furniture shop man is slowly driving me insane to the point where I’m insulting other men who look similar.

  Am I truly so uncomfortable that I feel the need to make mental enemies with strangers?

  Yes. Decidedly so.

  Though, I think the real question is if I should be surprised I’m even acting this way to begin with. Wasn’t it Rory who told me I’m an overthinker? An obsessive neurotic? Wasn’t it also Rory who threw out my bedside table notebook so I’d stop waking up to “scribble silly ideas”? He said the pen noise kept him awake.

  Owen didn’t seem like the kind of man to get annoyed with scribbles, did he? Neither does this Elijah fellow—or maybe I just have high hopes for American men. In reality, I’m sure men do not differ from one continent to the next.

  Leia meows at the beluga peeping out of the water on the television, and I marvel at the open ocean it swims through, bathed in the orange glow of the sunset.

  Oh, to escape the aquarium of overthinking. One could be so lucky.

  4 Francesca

  I’m not surprised when I receive a text on Thursday from the fairy princess, Emma, telling me that if I don’t show up tonight, she’ll be very, very sad. It’s followed by three sparkle emojis, so that lessens the guilt factor slightly.

  I dress two hours before, having lounged in sweats all day while working. I attempt to combine femininity with badassery—a light pink dress and combat boots. Why? Because Shania Twain once said, Let’s go girls, and I take that sentence to heart.

  Lace up your boots, ladies. We’re going on an adventure.

  The meet-up hotel is located one very confusing train ride away. When I arrive, I almost wonder if I’ve gone to the wrong location as the dilapidated lobby only has a couple people flitting about on their mobiles or sitting in the lounge chairs. Thankfully, a sign with block letters stating ‘HA Meeting Below’ with an arrow pointing to the stairwell indicates I’m on the right track.

  The stairs, which are quite a bit less tidy than the pristine lobby, empty into a basement area. I almost stop right before the last flight, as I feel the coolness of the air conditioning hit me and wonder, once again, if I might have lost my way. It isn’t until I hear murmuring below that I move forward.

  When I twist around the last landing, I spot the source of noise. There are dozens of people crowded in a basement room, filling the air with the reason for why the air conditioning is cranked up to full throttle. Mumblings of conversation drift toward me. Small talk, maybe, catching up with each other’s weeks. I feel like the odd woman out, but I decide that until I cross over the threshold, I will always be the odd woman out, so I take the plunge.

  One boot in, and the rest of me follows.

  Thank you, Shania.

  Although my first task should be to find Emma, I immediately notice everyone holding tiny serving plates. There are remnants of strawberry heads with wilted leaves, crumbs of maybe ruffled crisps, and then—holy good god of all gods—is that a blueberry scone on that man’s plate?

  I search the crowd like a bloodhound in rabbit season and spot the source: a buffet table. Buffet tables are my weakness. This free meet-up group doesn’t know what’s coming to it. Skirting around the crowds, clinging to the wall like décor, I tiptoe over to where the implied bag drop-off is, stepping through the bookbags, and finally arrive at the glorious cloth-topped table that holds nearly devoured goods.

  I scan the spread while grabbing one of the remaining small plates. Tons of honeydew and watermelon are left, bits of some popcorn kernels sit at the bottom of a bowl, three or four chicken salad croissants adorn a platter—don’t mind if I do—and then a glorious bite-sized scone, the last wonderful one, appears before me.

  My hand twitches of its own accord. Reach, my dear friend. Deliver me to heaven. But before I can get remotely close to the last remaining vestige of happiness, another hand darts in and snatches it. My precious!

  I look up in shock, absurdly offended by how that just played out, ready to clock the man who just denied me this one joy—but when I see who took it, should I even be surprised?

  There he is, Mr. Wonderful himself: furniture store Owen. My stomach curls in on itself and withers. It’s criminal to look as decent as he does, even as he’s chewing on
the last remains of my one-bite treat. One hand is placed in his pocket, adorned by a clever little watch, eyebrow quirked, hair gloriously pushed to the side like a man who just removed a motorcycle helmet and shook his hair out. He’s just as beautiful as I remember. I hate him for it.

  His eyes widen at my appearance and he stops mid-chew. “Fran?”

  “What are the odds?” is all I can get out. I can’t tell if that’s because I’m still on edge due to how deprived I feel at the loss of food, or if his devastatingly solid jawline is lulling me into a state of stupor.

  He claps his hands together, brushing off the crumbs with a chuckle as his expression relaxes from similar surprise to enjoyment. “Nice to see you again too.”

  I say nothing in response to his sarcasm, instead narrowing my eyes.

  After a moment of silence, I see a slight twinge in the middle of his brow, his expression fading from humor to slight concern. He opens his mouth to speak. “Fran, I—”

  “Fran!” a voice calls. My head is spinning with the number of times my name has been said in the past few seconds, as I’ve grown accustomed to just being ‘Hey you’ and ‘medium Earl Grey!’ at the café all week.

  I turn and—oh thank god, it’s pixie girl Emma here to save the day. Never thought I would be so emboldened by the presence of a near stranger. Her hair is curled, landing just below her chin to give her the fae ethereal look. There’s even a bit of glitter dabbed on her eyelids. I didn’t know Shakespearean fairy queen chic was a thing, but here it is.

  “Hi!” I say. “Sorry, I think I’m a tad late.”

  She’s already beaming, eyes darting between Owen and me like she’s just been handed a new dolly at Christmas. She waves away my comment into oblivion. Right—how could I be so silly as to apologize?

  I glance at Owen, whose brow has furrowed even further. In contrast to Emma, who looks like she’s constantly in a state of floaty heaven, Owen looks like he’s seen a ghost—confused and shocked. The creases between his eyebrows would scream given the chance.

  “You know each other?” he asks, almost a stammer. He’s looking more at Emma than me, as if she is the one to blame for our union. Well, I suppose she is, though why it’s any of his concern, I have no idea.

  “Do you two know each other?” I ask.

  Emma nods feverishly, and my stomach drops.

  Of course they know each other. Wouldn’t that be my luck? I’ve only met a handful of people in the big city, yet here I am serendipitously running into the same group of friends. Owen, Lara, and Emma…did I just move into a New York sitcom where we all go to the same coffee shop and hold the same careers?

  “Oh yay!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together.

  “Yay?” I ask tentatively.

  “Well, you’ve found—I mean, met Owen!”

  I’m thoroughly confused, as my brain wants to declare loudly, but the entire situation has me so tightly wound that the words instead feel like they’re smothering me.

  “Right, nice to meet you, I guess,” Owen says. His hand is already raised, complete with a small lopsided smile. I might see it as adorable, but his floppy hair isn’t fooling me.

  “We’re acquainted,” I say, almost an accusation.

  Emma’s eyes are wide and doe-like as she quietly murmurs, “Knew it.”

  “Pardon?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says quickly with a shake of her curls. The people in this country get weirder and weirder every day. I feel like Alice in Wonderland but caught between the real world and struggling to keep my head above ground, feet dangling down the rabbit hole.

  “Owen’s great. Best person here by far.” The obvious compliments tumble out of Emma’s mouth like water finally releasing from a dam, and my heart rushes with it.

  Then the unwelcome feelings come on…and I wonder if he and Emma are dating. She seems a bit young for him, not that he looks a day over thirty, but she also doesn’t look a day over twenty. I bet he’s into the younger women. I bet he’s the type of guy who likes to trade them in for the newer model every few years or so.

  “Emma—” he hisses, but she doesn’t let him finish.

  “Have you signed in?” she asks. “I’m sure Owen can show you where the sign-in sheet is.”

  Why is she so pushy about me speaking with Owen? Is this a weird share-your-partner thing? Did I stumble into the Hackers Who Swing meet-up? Because, not only am I out of practice with the whole sex thing—the mission to remedy that is not nigh—I didn’t even bring a partner. How am I supposed to participate?

  Wait, I think I need to sort out my priorities.

  “Yeah, I did take the last scone, so…” Owen says, nodding. Well, at least he’s aware of his wrongdoing. “It’s the least I can do.” His eyebrows are tugged in the middle once more, creating a crease on his forehead that could give puppies a run for their treats on the art of asking for an apology.

  Twist my arm.

  “Sure,” I say. “Lead the way.”

  He nods his head toward the stairwell as he shoulders past me. The scent I’d thought I’d forgotten wafts back into my atmosphere once more. Beachy. Maybe a hint of nutmeg or spice. It lingered on me the rest of the day when I lugged my new chair back to my apartment, and it returns once more with a vengeance. I don’t think I’ll shake it off me for a week.

  I quickly shove half the gathered sandwich in my mouth once he turns, tossing away the plate in the nearest bin. I look over my shoulder and find Emma beaming after me like some proud mother watching her daughter leave for homecoming. Weird girl.

  We snake through the crowd, exchanging small ‘pardons’ along the way, me with my mouth full of chicken salad like a hamster hoarding sunflower seeds. We end up back near the stairwell where we are greeted by the welcome table, which I must have zoomed past due to the pastry distraction. It’s quieter with the sounds of conversation more distant than by the snack corner. It’s more secluded—relatively, at least.

  I find the sign-up sheet in an effort to do anything but have conversation. Though, when I bend down to write my name, taking time to finish the sandwich, I know Owen is looking at me. I can feel his eyes just as one can the heat of the sun. When I’m done flourishing my signature and checking the acknowledgment box, I see that my intuition was correct. He hasn’t stopped looking at me for a moment, though when I meet his gaze, he at least has the decency to look away with what might be misconstrued as embarrassment.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says after a second, pocketing both hands.

  “It’s a small world,” I say.

  “Yes, but as you said, it’s a big city.”

  I can’t think of any response to that. The weather is nice? I can’t remember if it was. How was your day? No, that sounds too cordial. Seen those sports lately? Yes, that’ll do.

  “Have you—”

  “So when did you meet Emma?”

  We both start at the same time and each stop to let the other speak. Instead of continuing, I glance out in the crowd and see little fairy Emma chatting with a younger guy sporting a backward cap and loose t-shirt. She seems less interested in their conversation and instead keeps stealing looks at us out of the corner of her eye. With her sly smirk, I can tell she believes she’s clever, but cleverness isn’t how I would describe someone trying to recruit me into their weird sex party.

  Unless she has a track record of succeeding. What an odd thought…

  “Coffee shop a few days ago,” I say. “So…” I say the word a bit louder than intended and with absolutely no direction in mind. Owen’s eyebrows are raised as if anticipating a subject to follow. I don’t have one, so I resort to the only thing on my mind. “How long have you and Emma been together?”

  Owen barks out a laugh, shaking his head immediately. “Oh, we’re not—no, no… She’s my co-worker.” I want to comment that that doesn’t actually clear things up but decide not to. When I say nothing, he lets out an exhalation. “You know…I wouldn’t have asked yo
u to a coffee shop if I were in a relationship.”

  “Some men do,” I shoot back.

  He laughs. “What do you think I am, a monster?”

  I shrug, and we catch each other’s eyes. His are narrowed, as if trying to figure me out. There’s nothing to figure out. He’s likely just another man, and I’m just another woman who knows better.

  “I’m cautious,” I say, shifting from one boot to the other. Though, here I am at a meet-up after being invited by a total stranger who is friends with yet another unknown neighbor of mine. “I have my reasons.” I say it almost to convince myself more than anyone else, but it’s clear to me that my mistrust has more to do with blokes rather than women.

  “Tell me your reasons.” He cocks his head to the side, interested.

  I cross my arms without thinking. “I work in the field of distrust.”

  “Fair,” he says, his tongue pressing into his cheek. “But so do I.”

  “I just…” It’s a silly thing to consider why I might be so prone to distrust because I truly believe I have so many shining examples. Has my career made me jaded? No, it is the men in my life who have done that for me. While that answer is best left unsaid, there’s something in me that wants to respond, and I can’t pin it down, so instead I squash it. “Listen, I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

  He grins with that oddly alluring ‘I’m having the time of my life’ smile—the one that was so apparent on the mysterious doppelganger man online.

  That’s right—Elijah. Why am I not looking for him? It’s a massive misstep wasting my time with no-good Owen when I could be making friends with his less evil twin.

  But, I’m not with Elijah in this moment. I’m with Owen, and he’s still scanning me from forehead to chin, stopping just before what would commonly be considered pervy territory. Fine, I’ll give him that. He’s a gentleman, I guess.