Chat Love (2 page)

“I don’t like the idea of you taking a cab this late.”

I open my mouth to retort, but his lips find mine again, taking away any witty comeback I might have come up with. After another minute of kissing, he finally pulls back and lets my lungs have air. He gives me a crooked grin, watching me catch my breath. Finally my brain starts working again, and I answer him. “Richard, I live in the city, I’ve done it before.”

He quickly gives me a short peck. “I promise I’m a safe driver.” He kisses me again and I pull back after a few seconds, trying to control my desire and get my head thinking clearly—because right now all I can think of is him taking me back to my apartment and having my way with him.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I fib, trying more to convince myself than Richard.

He ignores my attempts at remaining reasonable and kisses me harder, pulling me closer. We move backward and bump into a car, setting off the alarm. I pull away from him quickly to see people staring at us as they walk by.

Richard reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a set of car keys, pushing a button to silence the alarm. He flashes another grin. “Why not ride with me? My car is right here.”

I look behind him and see a black Mercedes-Benz. The car’s finish winks in the evening glow of the city. In my mind is a battle, with a little devil whispering,
His car is right here and it would only make sense for him to drive you home. Save some money; consider your safety.
Meanwhile, a small angel is urging,
You know that if he drives you home you’ll just end up sleeping with him, and we all know how that worked out with Kellan.
I emerge from my thoughts and pull myself out of Richard’s embrace.

“If you take me home, I won’t be able to control myself and I don’t think that’s how we should start things.”

I turn on my heel and rush to the curb, thankful to find an available cab before I can change my mind. I hail it down and turn back around to see Richard—obviously disappointed—standing just inches away. I open my mouth to apologize but he covers it with his, kissing me deeply.

“I understand, and I respect your choices. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I smile as he gives me one final peck. He opens the door for me and I settle into the cab, wishing him a good night as the driver begins to pull away. Through the window I watch Richard get into his car and pull out into the street.

I immediately pull my cell phone out of my purse and call Danni to share the good news. After a few rings she finally picks up, sounding anxious.

“Make it quick,” she says. I’m watching a
Grey’s Anatomy
marathon on Lifetime.”

“OK,” I say, chuckling. “I just finished my date with Richard and it was perfect, Danni. We went to dinner and had the most amazing conversation; it was better than any first date I’ve ever been on. Then he walked me to a cab, and we made out before I left.”

I hear her squeal, followed by a loud bang, which I assume is from her kicking the remote onto the floor as she jumps up and down on her bed.

In typical Danni style she replies, “What did I tell you? I should do this for a living, like on that show
Millionaire Matchmaker
.”

I hear her stop jumping, beginning to calm down. “I do believe you owe me some thanks. I want to hear you say, ‘Thank you, Danni. You are the best and I owe you my life.’”

“Danni …”

“Come on,” she urges. “Say it.”

I exhale loudly, playfully trying to sound frustrated and unimpressed, “Thank you, Danni. You are the best and I owe you my life. There, are you happy?”

“Almost; I also want your firstborn daughter to be named after me.”

I laugh at her excitement. For weeks Danni has been trying to set me up with Richard but I’ve admittedly been reluctant for several reasons. Firstly, I hadn’t ever been on a blind date until tonight, and secondly, he knew Danni. Most of the men Danni knows are acquaintances from two sources: either she has slept with them or they’ve wanted to sleep with her.

Danni Renna has been my best friend since childhood; we lived on Long Island and went to school together. Over the years, we have shared many secrets, meals, and drinks; we’ve also shared many pints of ice cream in times of crisis. I consider her a sister, especially because she understands the pressure my family is putting on me regarding marriage and children. Luckily, we both happen to be Italian. When Danni was twenty-one, she married her college boyfriend but was divorced within a year. Since then, she’s been more focused on finding a man for me than remarrying.

“Was he a good kisser?”

I touch my lips and feel tingles throughout my body. “One of my top five.”

“Impressive; it’s not easy to make that list. I knew Richie had it in him. So why are you talking to me instead of lying in bed with him?”

I sigh. After her divorce, Danni stopped believing in love and marriage and went through what many would view as a crisis. Essentially, she’d been having sex with whomever she wanted to. Although I was initially a bit concerned, I’m now glad to see her contented with her new lifestyle. Danni is gorgeous, with long, blonde hair, crystal-blue eyes, pale skin, and a model’s body. She looks more like a Swedish beauty than an Italian from Long Island.

I answer reluctantly, already anticipating her reply. “I’m not sleeping with him tonight because I don’t want our relationship to be based only on sex.”

I hear Danni huff; she’s clearly not happy with my answer. “Why not?”

“You remember what happened with Kellan. When I had sex with him on our first date, the relationship became all about sex.” That was one of the things I regretted most about my past, the way my relationship with Kellan had started—and ended. Kellan was very good-looking and charming; he could practically talk the panties off of any woman. Within minutes, he had hooked me with his deep voice, ability to speak French, and flirtatious nature. Ironically, our relationship consisted of little dialogue after that point; it was all about sex. For a while, I thought I loved him. After we stopped seeing each other, however, I realized that I didn’t know enough about him to love him.

“I didn’t hear you complaining about Kellan when you guys were having sex.” Danni huffs again. “Lu, you haven’t had sex in a long time. It’s been almost a year, right? That’s not healthy for the body; you need to work out those muscles. I’m just concerned about your health.” I can almost hear her grinning as she tries to stifle a giggle.

My cab stops at a red light. I look out my window and see Richard in his car next to me. I tell Danni, laughing.

“How’s his profile? Any bumps or pimples?”

I look over at his profile and see nothing but perfection. I wave to get his attention, but he doesn’t see me and continues to look straight ahead, waiting for the light to change. All of a sudden, I notice his pointer finger heading for his nose. I have an unfortunately clear view, and I am disgusted to see his finger reemerge covered in snot. He examines his treasure and then sticks his finger in his mouth.

The light changes and he speeds away, leaving me to stare out the window in shock and horror. I can hear Danni calling for me, wondering why I am not answering her, but I can’t speak. I’m still trying to comprehend what I just witnessed.

After a minute, it finally hits me and I quickly say good-bye to Danni for the evening, promising to call tomorrow. I feel many urges at once; I want desperately to brush every inch of my mouth, take a long shower, and vomit. My body takes over and chooses an action for me: vomit. I quickly ask the cab driver to pull over so I can throw up.

Traumatized by witnessing Richard’s habit, I go back to my apartment, rush inside, and lock myself in the bathroom as quietly as I can to avoid waking my roommate. I know that if she is awake, she will want to know details about my date. My apartment isn’t overwhelmingly small, but I do have to walk past my roommate’s door every time I enter.

Our apartment consists of two and a half bedrooms, one bathroom, a narrow kitchen, a large living room, and a comfortable dining room. My bedroom is large enough to allow me to fit my queen size bed, TV, and collection of artwork. It’s not as spacious as I’d prefer, but by New York standards, it’s sizeable. Although we share the bathroom, my bedroom is the closest to it of the two. We choose to use the half-bedroom as a walk in closet, which is packed with all of our clothes and accessories.

Anyone who enters my home can immediately tell that I’m a huge fan of art, based on my bedroom walls, which are covered with paintings and accented by a few small sculptures. I also have some art pieces placed around the apartment with my roommate’s approval. I spend most of my salary on art pieces and can often be found bidding at local art auctions.

After I graduated from college, I leapt at the opportunity to live on my own. I was thrilled when I found a cheap studio in the city. My parents thought I was going through a phase and prayed that the difficulties of city life would scare me away from Manhattan, hoping that I would then return home to marry a nice Italian boy and work in their restaurant, as my sister had done. But after struggling for a period of time, I finally started making more money and decided to upgrade to a one bedroom apartment. Extra walls may not seem like much to most people, but in Manhattan, they’re a luxury. However, at the same time that I was preparing to sign a lease on my new, independent home, my friend Autumn was losing hers. After a breakup with the boyfriend she’d been sharing an apartment with, he threw her out, sending a girl with a broken heart and a teacher’s salary into the mean streets of New York City. With nowhere to go, Autumn had asked if I needed a roommate, and we’d been living together ever since. Luckily, Danni was able to pull some strings on short notice and help us find an apartment better suited for two people in a nice, rent-controlled area of SoHo. Knowing Danni, she’d probably slept with one of the area realtors. Eight months later, and we are still living in the same place and enjoying each other’s company.

I’d been thinking about all of this while feverishly brushing my teeth. By this point, I’d scrubbed my mouth in every way possible, using the amount of mouthwash and toothpaste I’d normally use in a week. Unfortunately, I can’t also scrub my mind to remove the image of Richard picking his nose that I’m still seeing. Those lips, the same ones that I’d just seen wrapped around his snotty finger, had been on my lips just a few hours before; how disgusting.

I brush once more for good measure, indulge in a long, steamy shower, and go into my bedroom to lounge on my bed in my robe, my hair wet. I have the worst luck with men. At the rate things are going, I’m starting to believe someone’s placed a curse on me.

I close my eyes, trying to not get too upset about what had been a sudden end to a seemingly perfect beginning. Handsome, charming, sexy Richard Greenfield—why did he have to pick his nose and eat it? Why did I have to see that? I finally find a man that I’m both physically and mentally attracted to, and then just as things are looking up for my love life, they all fall apart in an instant.

It doesn’t aid in soothing my frustration when I think about how hard it is for me to meet men. The bar and club scene is not my thing. I don’t like it when friends set me up with their own friends, because when the relationship ends, things become awkward with the friend who set me up in the first place. It would be a mistake to date someone at work, because that’s where I spend most of my time.

I lie in bed and think about all of my past relationships, beginning with high school. I was a sophomore when I started dating Matt; we were in the same grade and had been friends since elementary school. That year, Matt had become both my first boyfriend and first kiss at a friend’s house party. I remember that night like it was yesterday—Matt had led me away from the house and all our friends, telling me he had something very important to tell me. We’d walked to the nearby park and sat on the swings. I remember the several minutes of uncomfortable silence that passed while we began to swing. Finally, I’d let out a long sigh. “So … what did you want to tell me?”

He’d groaned and stopped swinging. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

I had stopped swinging when I saw the frustration in his face, thinking that something was wrong. “Just say it.”

“I …” he had stammered, which I’d considered both funny and boyishly attractive at the time. “Lucia, I, um … you are one of my best friends. And I don’t know how you would feel if I tell you what I want to tell you, but I feel if I don’t I might miss my chance because, well, you are very pretty and I see how guys look at you …” his sentence seemed to go on forever as he groaned again, trying to explain his meaning.

I remember having a lump in my throat and feeling almost dizzy with nerves.
What is he trying to tell me?
I’d wondered.

Then he had let out a long breath and leaned in close. Finally, he’d said the three words that made his meaning clear, his nose hitting my face as he whispered them into my ear: “I like you.”

I had still been shocked about his confession when I’d felt his lips on mine. The kiss was light and uncertain, as if he were afraid of what my reaction might be. As I’d leaned in closer, his arms wrapped around me, pulling me in. His lips had moved swiftly from my lips to my cheek, then to my nose, and finally to every inch of my face, as he covered it with little pecks. After a few minutes of kissing, he had pulled away with eyes bright and glowing, a large smile on his face. Words weren’t needed as we walked back to the house hand-in-hand, this time as boyfriend and girlfriend.

Matt Davis was captain of the football team, a member of the school council, and frequent member of the honor roll. He came from a loving family and looked like the average American boy: blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin, with a few pimples left over from puberty. I was the captain of the volleyball team and a volunteer at the local hospital, but the similarities ended there. I was still undeveloped physically, with over-protective parents and a large, loud Italian family. I looked like the typical Italian girl with straight, dark, bouncy hair that extended past my shoulders and came to rest in the middle of my back. I had hazel eyes with long, dark lashes, and olive skin. I still look the same, except for a few new curves and wrinkles to show my age.