by Hope Irving
“Really?”
“Of course! I’d love to see the man that modern technology brought you.” Soon enough, we’re discussing my initial fear of online dating, and I provide details on how we grew closer after I commented on some posts of his paintings. “I see…” Her hands circle her glass. “I have a few social media accounts that I use to keep in touch with my relatives. But it shows a fabricated version of what’s going on in someone’s life. It doesn’t seem genuine to me.”
Thoughtful, my index finger approaches my mouth to bite the corner of my nail, but I stop myself right before I ruin my expensive manicure. While the fabricated life comment irks me, there’s not a trace of judgment in her cheerful voice, and she’s right. Alie G has never been anything but healthy, addicted to fitness, and a meditation guru. Alie G is an influencer, not a student forced to put her education on hold due to a lump in her breast. Alie G doesn’t need actual friends or family, because she has tons of virtual followers. She’s ageless and... fabricated.
I shrug, thinking that Tig’s online persona doesn’t match what I’ve witnessed from him so far. Unless it’s the other way around. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
“You know, social media’s my part-time job.”
“Oh, really? Please, do tell…” She waits, nursing her beer.
“I’m on sabbatical and getting more sponsors than ever.” I retrieve my phone from my purse and show Eileen my numerous accounts, concentrating on the Instagram and YouTube ones that I’m particularly proud of.
She glances at the videos. “Oh, female empowerment. I dig that, too!”
“Yup, that’s one of the messages I preach. I’m all for equity between men and women.” Yes, I’m bragging, but I’m proud of my achievements. Potential sponsors offer me a fair amount of money to advertise their products. However, I only accept those that I truly believe in, and partnerships are always mentioned so that I don’t cheat.
“Nice,” my unlikely friend approves.
“Most of all, I’m trying to help people live a healthier lifestyle.” I scroll down to my latest videos. “I mean, I offer fitness advice, have friends demonstrate, give nutritional info… I’m a certified fitness nutrition specialist!”
“Wow, you’re incredibly driven for a girl your age,” she encourages. Her linking my aspirations to my youth doesn’t make sense. I’ve seen countless adults lacking motivation.
Deep down, I’m well aware of what fuels my ambition. My family’s privileged pedigree. My mother’s painful death. My father’s endless expectations. My shoulders slump, and my right foot kicks the chair next to Eileen.
“Alie, what’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”
I ignore her worried expression and carry on with my explanation. “The idea is to provide tools to prevent some…” I struggle to find the right words and run my fingers along the arm of the chair. “Some illnesses or reduce some risks… It doesn’t have to do with weight; it has everything to do with—” I abruptly stop, swallowing the painful memories related to my mom’s health issues in addition to my own. I hate being weak and vulnerable, so I scan my surroundings in haste. It’s mid-afternoon, and the place is pretty empty. Thankfully, there are no patrons nearby to eavesdrop. My shoulders crumple, and my kicking accelerates… I didn’t expect it to affect me so much. Fuck!
Eileen’s pointer finger lifts my chin again. We stare at each other wordlessly for what seems like hours.
“That bad, huh?” Her thumb reaches for my cheek, and I realize that silent tears ruined my light makeup. Tears that I couldn’t allow myself to shed when my mom died, when Catherine left, or when I got sick. Tears that I wished nobody would ever witness. Tears that I buried so deep that I forgot they were waiting for the right moment to well up. I’m so caught-up in my pity party that I barely hear the scraping noise of Eileen’s chair. I barely register that she’s moved next to me. I barely notice her arm hugging me. “Ohhh, child. Whatever happened to you, my only advice is for you to let it out. Keeping it bottled up will make it worse. Trust me, I speak from experience.”
Her words move me to welcome her comforting hug. Her words move me to embrace her motherly presence. Her words move me to take advantage of the support she’s offering. My tears swell into nonstop sobs until my eyes are so dry, they itch.
“Here.” I thank her for the tissue that she produces to blow my stuffy nose.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ve never…” And now that I can breathe, hiccups start. Today’s not my day! My dad wouldn’t be proud, I’m sure. My misery makes me giggle, but she doesn’t join in.
She juts her chin towards a tall glass of water that magically appeared during my breakdown. “Drink this. Then I suggest that now that the tears are out, you let the words do the same. I guarantee you’ll feel better afterwards.” She rubs my back for a while, waiting for the hiccupping to cease.
Grabbing the glass, I guzzle it, then lean my head on her shoulder while working on my breathing. Once I’ve regained my composure, I follow her advice and spit some of my story out… Intimate details about how cancer affected my family and how, years later, I was diagnosed. I’ll be honest, talking about what my mom and I have been through is liberating. The entire time, she listens quietly, only interrupting to move the conversation forward and encourage my confession.
I heave a sigh when I’m finally done and she releases me from her embrace and suddenly asks, “Have you ever tried yoga? I’m sure it would do you good.”
“I’ve tried a couple of times on my own, but the group thing doesn’t do it for me.”
“Is that because you’re afraid to lose some of your precious control in front of an audience?”
I laugh at her accurate assumption. “On the nose!”
“Oh, that reminds me of something!” She claps her hands together excitedly. “Have you ever tried goat yoga? It’s a big thing now.”
“Goat yoga? Are you serious?”
“Indeed. You should definitely check it out. They have retreats and everything… It’s a fun way to practice yoga and might help you take the edge off.”
“Okay, I’ll Google it.”
“Now,” she starts with a broad smile as she scoots back in her seat, her hand firmly grasping mine, “let’s get back to the romance. The moment I mentioned your online man, you moved on to your social media skills. Don’t get me wrong, it’s fascinating, but let’s talk about sex, shall we?”
I’m no prude by any means, but my face turns beet red at her blunt suggestion. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, please. I disclosed plenty of juicy information earlier, didn’t I? Now it’s your turn. There’s nothing to be ashamed of! After all, isn’t sex one of the vital components of life?”
Feeling self-conscious, although I’ve longed to find someone I could be myself around, I nod approvingly. Eileen fits the bill, and I’m grateful for my newfound friend. As if we’ve known each other for years, the outspoken woman leaves me speechless by reading my mind. “So… you didn’t call me because you were too busy exploring your chemistry?” She winks and teases me when she sees my face heat up.
“So true!” I freely concede this time. “I’m pleased to announce that our chemistry is even stronger in real life than online.”
“Good for you, Alie. Passion is really important in a relationship.”
Once again, I pour my heart out to the endearing, hyper woman that I barely know, and it’s eerily therapeutic. I’m careful to omit details like his inked skin, my self-appointed mission, and his history with Sybil. The funny thing is that having this conversation with her feels oddly natural. I never would have imagined that things would come to this between Tig and me. This fast. This intense. This unsettling.
I fought the urge to call him after he kept his promise and fucked me senseless—and then some. I fought the urge to thank him after we spent the rest of the same day watching back-to-back Keanu Reeves movies until I fled to my uncle’s place at Central Park West fo
r some much needed distance. I fought the urge to text him for a repeat to determine whether our first encounter had just been beginner’s luck.
Eileen laughs at that, and her face breaks into a gentle smile at the rest of my story.
I lost. I called him. I thanked him. I asked him. He won, and I’m thoroughly happy that he did. So far, the sex is simply too good. So far, postponing my plan is the most reasonable option. So far, I pat myself on the back for flying over here and giving him a try. Seriously, though, whether it’s due to our chemistry or our lust. My skills or his. His piercing or my eagerness… I can’t wrap my head around my infuriating attraction to this guy who made me come like none before. I’ve always considered tats barbaric, but his match the darkness of his paintings and sickeningly appeal to me; I’m both completely grossed out and insanely fascinated by his ink that I can’t help but touch whenever he’s around. After all I’ve told Sybil, you’d have to torture me to confess all of this. It makes no sense at all.
No longer fighting it, I explain that this online creature took me aback by not pushing the issue about my breasts. No questions asked. No touching attempted. No mockery expressed… It’s unlike what I’ve previously experienced.
Still, as the words easily tumble from my mouth, it dawns on me that I’m somewhat appeased. No more erratic breathing. No more racing heart. No more itching skin. My mind struggles with the idea of us, but my body is strangely on board with this tattooed stranger.
After a while, I feel the need to redirect the conversation to another subject. “Anyway, weren’t you supposed to fill me in on your son’s wedding? You told me that you have pictures! What are you waiting for?” I need to keep my mind occupied by something other than Tig de Luca, especially since he invited me to his art opening later tonight, an event that I haven’t told a soul about because it sounds way too official for my taste.
“All right, all right…” She pauses for effect, then explains, “Michael, my only child, is the one man who’s grounded me.” David, the amiable bartender, treats us to guac and tortilla chips. After they exchange a knowing look, she returns to her story. “It’s the one good thing that came from my first husband, Edward. Pun intended!” She giggles, and I can tell that the alcohol is beginning to loosen her already verbose tongue. “You see, I was too young when I had Michael, foolish enough to believe that a kid would strengthen my first marriage that was falling apart at the time,” she reveals, munching on chips piled high with the thick green dip that’s unusually decent for an Irish pub.
The pride in her eyes makes me feel lighter, and I clap my hands together. While on the plane, I wondered how she felt about the wedding. Today, it’s clear that she’s thrilled, so I let her select pictures of the newlyweds.
“Here, Michael’s the one with the dark blue suit that brings out his beautiful eyes.” Her chubby thumb touches the screen as she points out her son. She zooms in and passes her phone across the table. “Isn’t he handsome?”
“He sure is.” Michael looks so familiar, but I can’t place that handsome face, those broad shoulders, or that charming smile.
“Some claim that he resembles Channing Tatum.” Is that why I feel like I know him from somewhere? “And that’s his partner… I mean, husband—” She chuckles at her honest mistake.
“Troy,” I blurt out before she does and my hand flies to my mouth. “Oh my God! I can’t believe this.” My mouth goes dry at the realization that I met her son the night I first saw Tig in person, but people called him Mike. Troy’s words from that night resonate inside my head. May the force be with you, young Padawan. Instinctively, my hands cover hers. “I met them a few weeks ago.” And then, what she said on the plane comes back to my buzzed mind. “It can’t be, though…” My nails scratch my chin as I blank out, thoughtful. “Isn’t your son a fashion designer? The man I met owns a bar… I…”
“Wow, Alie, your memory is good. Michael studied fashion, and I honestly thought he was. It seems that sometimes life throws you a curve ball and things change. The unexpected twists and turns are what make life exciting, don’t you think?”
“I guess…” Even though I agree with her for the most part, there are some twists of fate that I wish I had the ability to change, like what happened to my mom. But I keep that to myself and let her get to the point once she’s cleaned up the chips.
“You see, my son discovered that he’s bi late in life, and I must say that it came as a complete shock to me. As for his career, he studied to be a designer but ultimately chose to invest his father’s money into a bar with his dream guy, now his husband, who dreamt of owning the place. I should’ve kept better track, I guess!” She slams her palm against her forehead and giggles. “I’m happy to see him happy.”
I fidget nervously and take a deep breath, then repeat, “Yeah, twists and turns!” Bitterness seeps into my voice, but I can’t help it. This coincidence amuses me, but I prefer to keep my relationships separate, especially after what I’ve shared with Eileen today. I didn’t expect her to somehow be connected to Tig through her son.
Thank God, she doesn’t know him!
I let out a relieved sigh as the thought crosses my mind.
“I’m telling you, Alie, my son who’s scared to death of needles found the strength, out of love, to get matching tattoos. Here.” She proudly flashes a photo of her son’s inked skin: I’m his. Not something that I’d choose to wear forever, even if my repulsion for tats has lessened a bit. She waves David over for another Guinness. Damn, she can definitely hold her liquor. But I decline her offer for a refill; I’ve already had too much. Waiting on her drink, she adds, “The tattoo artist was Troy’s best man. He’s quite a stunner.” She swipes through the pictures on her phone. “Look.” She thrusts her phone my way. Honestly, I’m interested in another tattoo artist.
Am I slow, or is the alcohol clouding my judgment?
I’m so fucking stupid. Mike. Troy. The tattoo artist. The stunning friend. The best man. My jaw drops so low that it’s comical. My face turns so flustered that it’s ridiculous. My pulse races so hectically that it’s dangerous. And before I can stop myself, when Eileen asks what’s the matter with me, I stutter, “That’s… him.”
My hand tightens around her phone. The state that Tig can put me in without being around to initiate it is beyond scary, and I grumble to myself.
“What do you mean? Don’t tell me that you know him, too?” Her brow spikes up and her fisted hands land on her hips. “It’s such a small world!”
“You have no idea, Eileen.” I make quick work of worrying my lip to the point that the metallic taste of blood rushes on my tongue. I wave at David and yell an order for a double shot of vodka. Staring at the four smiling guys in the picture, I can’t take my eyes off of the hot piece of man that’s been giving me pleasure in more ways than one. My entire body quivers in agreement.
What’s happening to me?
“The guy I met online…” I point at her son’s wedding picture, down the burning liquor before David has time to set the glass on the table. “That’s him…”
Bits and pieces of my earlier conversation with Eileen come to mind. I shamelessly told her about the guy that I discovered an unlikely chemistry with and the truth hits me, making everything all too real at once.
“Tig.”
Chapter Twenty
Shape of You
Tig
I can’t hold back a grin when I notice that my latest Instagram post, one of my paintings, elicited a comment from my top follower. Alie and I have been seeing each other on a regular basis since christening my bed over a month ago. I love that we’ve continued our public communication via social media and let our bodies do the talking when we’re together. In addition, we truly enjoy spending quality time together.
“Look at you!”
“What?” I growl, shooting Soraya an irritated glare. “Would you get off my dick already?”
“Oh, I’m not getting anywhere near it, my friend.” Her good mood
is underscored by the turquoise tips of her hair. Her pregnant belly is proudly flaunted in a matching long-sleeve dress. Her wicked smile is evident, and I wonder how I missed it when she started this convo. “Especially now that it’s embellished with—”
My head swivels to search for my bigmouth business associate. “Claaaaire!” My angry voice echoes through the trendy art gallery’s second floor; no matter how powerful Leroy’s speakers are, I think everyone heard me. The fucker has the audacity to chuckle at my rising temper while testing out different mixes. It’s like he doesn’t care what’s the matter. He’s just amused, which tells me that he smoked pot earlier.
“Don’t be too hard on her! We were having a girl talk and… it kind of… slipped.”
“It slipped?” My temper flares, and my mouth becomes dry. I take a quick look around. Unfortunately, the dozens of bottles of champagne and ice buckets being set out by the catering staff are the only nearby liquid. My attention returns to my friend. “I can’t believe this!” My palm slams against my forehead, and I jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “You two had nothing better to discuss than my dick? Should I be proud or offended?” I stride towards the railing and survey the area for the culprit. “Claaaaire!”
Within seconds, I hear her voice behind me. “Would you stop yelling? I was downstairs rearranging your canvases because whoever worked on the setup has a serious problem with your work.”
“I worked on the display,” I mutter, trying to control my nerves. “Thank you very much for the vote of confidence. Anyway, that’s not what I’m pissed about. I need to know why you decided to chat about my piercing with Soraya!”
“Oh, please, you’re such a prude sometimes. You guys practically grew up together! She must’ve seen your cock back in the day. What’s the big deal?”
My hands fly from my pockets and move with my words. “Believe it or not, to me and plenty of women in New York, my dick is a big deal.” My fingers thread through my wavy hair, and I start pacing. “Anyway… I thought that you had a privacy agreement and—”
