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I slump down miserably into my car and pull out my phone. No messages. Makes a change — Miles usually texts me about a thousand times a day to comment on stuff he sees or to demand things from me. My thumb opens up one of the dating apps I know Miles uses before my brain can really think it through.
It feels almost stalkerish to be doing this. I’ve set up my own profiles to keep watch over him, and I’m justifying it to myself by telling myself it's for the good of us both. I probably shouldn’t be chatting him up under a false name, but I figure that as long as he’s chatting to me, he’s less likely to be chatting up some other blonde bombshell who would be stupid enough to lead him into trouble.
Sure enough, he’s sent me another six messages on one app, and a couple on another. I guess the stock images of a pretty young blonde I picked were spot-on. I guess he has a type, after all. I don't know why, but I find it almost disappointing to know exactly how opposite his type is to me.
Hey, sweet thing, he’s typed. Wanna meet sometime? I’m ready to make you feel so good.
My heart leaps into my mouth. This is so many levels of wrong and none of my options here are good. The longer I keep putting him off, the more likely he is to drop me and find someone else on the app — someone who is actually willing to hop into bed with him. But setting up a time and date to meet feels a little bit too much like I’ve led him on.
How would a normal person even reply to that message, anyway?
My palms sweating, I text back, When do you want to invite me over?
It feels like a lame thing to say, but I’m not exactly well-versed in flirting, in text or in person. I've never really had time for things like boyfriends before. I’ve never really felt like I've been missing out either, though. It's one of those things that I always figured I'd get round to later. Later, just hasn't really occurred yet.
His reply is almost immediate. I’m free tonight if you are. I’d love to get my hands all over that sexy body.
I swallow hard. Give me a time and an address, I type back with a winky face thrown in for good measure. I'll be there.
He sends me his address, but I don’t need it. I already know where he lives. I just have to decide what to do next.
It’s only when I’m standing outside his door that I realize I should have sent a decoy over instead of me. This seemed like a great idea on paper, but now I’m actually here in front of his home, I’m starting to think that maybe I’ve gone just a bit too far.
My fist shakes as I hesitate from knocking. Am I nervous or do I just feel stupid about this whole idea? I think actually the knot in my stomach is guilt. I've lied to him. And when he finds out he's going to be furious, or upset, or both. It's hard to tell.
Everything is hard to tell with Miles. He makes me feel things that I didn't even know had names.
Still, he's expecting someone to show up, even if that someone is a busty young blonde rather than his Mexican-American stalker. I don’t feel like ghosting him nor do I trust him not to go out anyway if I don’t show. Plus, the pizza I’ve brought is getting colder by the second and I’ve got way too much for one person to eat.
I’ve only got one option, so I lift my fist and bang it against the door.
I hear footsteps approaching from within, and then the metal of the latch clanking as he unlocks it. He’s grinning like a Cheshire Cat, but his face falls the second he opens the door and sees me.
“Hey,” I say lamely, not sure what else I’m meant to say now.
“Olivia? What are you doing here?” He blinks in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together. A strong hint of cologne fills the air and I realize that he’s dressed up for this and everything.
Mock-shyly, I bat my eyelashes. “I think you should call me Marie. Marie Samuels.” His eyes fill with horror and that guilty knot twists a little tighter in my stomach.
Slowly, he says, “It was you…” Then he clearly regains the ability to think because he snaps, “What the hell, dude?”
I try a smile. “I'm sorry. I just couldn't think of another way of stopping you from going out.”
“Did you try asking?” He folds his arms and leans against the doorframe.
“Yes,” I say, a hard edge slipping into my voice. I can’t help it. He’s annoying. “Repeatedly, sixteen or seventeen times a day.” His mouth opens and closes at that because he has no defense. Neither of us are exactly angels here. “So can I come in?” I ask.
“Why?” he manages, like a single syllable is all he has in him.
“Well,” I stammer, realizing I don’t exactly have a good reason. “I've come all this way; I might as well share this pizza with you or something.” I lift the box of pizza up so he can smell it.
His stomach growls and he scowls as he steps back from the doorway. “Fine. But only because you brought food and I’m hungry.”
I slide into his apartment and hate how familiar it all is to me. It looks more like a home now than it did before, more lived-in than showroom. He’s stuck some posters up on the wall and taken most of his stuff out of the boxes. There’s a lot of it, and the decor isn't what I would have thought it would be. I was expecting him to be a minimalistic man, the kind of decoration with absolutely no style or substance. Maybe one or two soccer mementos.
But there’s stuff everywhere — little toys and ornaments, posters and kitchenware. Even though it’s scattered and disorganized, there is a theme to most of it. He clearly likes the color green. He clearly likes stripes. He clearly likes soccer more than anything.
I dump the pizza on the kitchen counter and open it up. I've been breathing in the smell of cheese the entire way here and I’m starving now.
