

Year of the Chick

By

Romi Moondi

©2011 Romi Moondi All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

[ **NOTE:** This is book one in the "Year of the Chick" series and it ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, but questions are answered in book 2!]

[ **LENGTH:** 75,000 WORDS OR 288 PRINTED PAGES]
**Brief Book Description** _(I've included this to give you a refresher of the premise, in case it's been a while since you downloaded this!)_

1. An awkward family homecoming at Christmas.

2. A humiliating public weigh-in, with two judging parents as the audience.

3. The announcement of a deadline for arranged marriage doom.

And that's just the first two chapters.

In "Year of the Chick," Romi Narindra must find love before her parents find her a husband.

To escape her fate, she wades through the waters of secret-dating, where self-consciousness is at an all-time high, and experience at an all-time low. It's the sort of thing that would turn almost anyone into a man-crazy freak with romance tunnel-vision, and that's exactly what happens to her. From whiskey-breath scum bags to uni-brow creeps and everything in between, Romi and her wingmen come up empty time after time.

And that's when she meets a charming writer.

On the Internet.

So will it be arranged marriage doom, or an Internet affair that's not as creepy as "To Catch a Predator"?

Time will tell in the "year of the chick," a twelve-month quest to find love.

This book is dedicated to all the people who feel burdened by expectations, drowned by rules, and a little too crooked to fit into a pre-assigned role. Which at one time or another, could be anyone. For you, for me, for all.
Chapter One

"Seven eighty-six please."

When I handed the latte boy his money my hand grazed his palm. I cringed and quickly wiped the clammy residue on my pant leg. _Peter's hands weren't slimy. HIS hands didn't need a dehumidifier._

My eyes bore deep into his.

His eyes stared blankly back. "Your latte's waiting at the bar."

Right.

Peter had left Canada two years before, but here I was in the place where it had all began. The place where you flirt with English baristas on temporary work visas, then whisk them away on ice skating dates to Nathan Phillips Square, then snuggly dates, then "leave the rest to your imagination dates," then...then...

Tearful goodbyes.

Promises to reunite.

Frequent phone calls.

Less frequent phone calls.

E-mails instead of phone calls.

The final e-mail that says "I'm sorry Romi, but yes I've found a 'ho."

I mean a nice respectable girlfriend.

Sure.

With my latte in one hand and a sack full of snowman cookies in the other, I headed to the corner table for a seat. In seconds I was chomping on the cookies in a sucrose bliss, as the multi-coloured icing dirty-danced its way along my tongue.

Two women at a nearby table were deep in conversation, heads lowered and intense. I noticed them whenever my eyes unrolled from the back of my head, the pit-stops in-between my cookie-induced ecstasy. They suddenly burst into laughter, and buoyed by the "ha ha ha's" their strands of blond hair began to bounce.

Oh sure, it's all fun and games when your world is one big hook-up.

My hook-up opportunities required a Batman costume for anonymity, just like they did for every Canadian girl with Indian parents. In front of our parents we were robots with the "horny" button disabled, but when the moon shone bright our howls of desire could be heard across a hundred miles.

Provided we were well-adjusted girls who'd been dating like the pros since age sixteen.

Umm...

I shook the memories of dateless years and "dry spells so long I could practically be a monk" from my mind with a swig of latte, but arranged marriage thoughts took their place. No matter how many times I searched for the logic it escaped me, and why not? In what world was it normal to never look at guys before marriage, and then have sex with an almost-stranger when arranged-marriage day arrived?

"Pfft." The sound emanating from my mouth would've seemed a lot more normal if I wasn't alone at this table. In reality the blondes seemed disturbed by the escaped mental patient to their left. I shrugged my shoulders and twirled a long strand of hair between my fingers. Thoughtfully. Worriedly.

I'm twenty-seven.

I haven't had a date in two whole years (phone-calls to English guys don't exactly count).

On the other hand I'm not morbidly obese.

But on the OTHER-other hand I wear lose shirts to hide the love-handles no one currently loves.

Back to the other hand: being five-foot-seven means the weight gain tends to stretch.

My twirling hand relaxed at the endless dating options that Toronto would deliver. All I had to do was be a little patient. What choice did I have? Desperation was unbecoming.

My thoughts must have carried away, as I found myself guzzling the last of a tepid latte. A glance at my watch confirmed the unscheduled daydream.

_Four-fifteen p.m._ _Time flies when it's a party of one._

I squeezed through the revolving doors, and raced to catch the four-thirty train.

***

Four twenty-six p.m. and I was standing on the train station platform. A broad-shouldered woman hit me with her giant satchel, an "accident" that conveniently pushed me to the back. I'd never messed with a broad-shouldered woman before, and wasn't about to start to today. Besides, my hair was silkier than hers, so karma had done its work.

The train bell clanged and for me it tolled a somber tune. My afternoon of pondering was about to be replaced with a nightly confrontation.

My sister.

I took a deep breath and boarded the train.

***

If there's one thing I learned from family sitcoms growing up, it's that sisters, despite their superficial squabbles, have a superglue-level of a bond. I wondered though, about the margin of error for this bond. Like what about the sisterly bond which is only sealed together with Scotch Tape? Or worse, sealed with only the cheap and sticky edge of an envelope?

My older sister and I were the victims of the "envelope adhesive."

I slammed the door shut against the howling wind, and that was just the trigger she needed.

"Hurry up and wash the containers, dumbass! We have to bring them home!" Neema's voice was filtered by her closed bedroom door, but it managed to pierce my ears like a smoke alarm with PMS.

"EXCUSE ME?" I yelled from the bottom of the stairs. "You've been home for an entire hour, why the hell didn't YOU wash them?" The fury within me was bubbling over, as I dusted off the snow from the shoulders of my big wool coat. It had started with the train delay right before my stop, continued with the slippery roads, and was now poised to end with a bitch-fest. _Typical._

"I always do the dishes!" she bellowed back. "You don't do shit, loser. So wash them and hurry up, I told Mom and Dad we'd be home by seven!"

"I don't DO anything?" I cried. "What about last week, when I did all the laundry? YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

No response.

I could never recall when the switch to general hatred had occurred, but somewhere along the way, my sister and I had gone from jumping on the bed singing "Like a Virgin"...to this. It was a difficult grudge to live with, since we shared a house in Toronto from Sunday to Friday night. On the surface the arrangement put us closer to our places of work. Underneath it though, was a blissful escape from my parents' harsh regime. Even though the pact to keep our crazy late nights from our parents held true, there was still the little problem of having her in my face.

At the moment I wanted to snap off her twiggy arms, but I'd save that for another time. So I went to the kitchen and washed the dishes in a rage, tossing the lids so they bounced off the rack, and splashing for the sake of splashing.

Afterwards I dried every one of the large glass bowls and their plastic lids, placing them in a milk crate lined with dishcloths. These dishes would travel back here once the Christmas break was over, only filled with all my mother's Indian food.

I thumped up the stairs and now stood in front of my closet, where small T-shirts and tight blouses from thinner days self-righteously hung. I opened my dresser drawer instead, and in one swift motion crammed my duffle bag with sweatshirts and flannel.

I returned downstairs and waited.

And waited.

I looked up the stairs and could still see the light bleeding out from underneath her door.

I figured she needed a prompt.

"HURRY UP GODDAMMIT!"

There was no response, but a minute later she finally opened the door. Down the steps she came, five-foot-nine and stick-thin with her Gucci bag in hand, and her shoulder-length hair sitting perfectly still and straightened. I wanted to explain how Gucci would pay her an enormous sum to never wear their brand again, but I was far too tired for another round of insults.

By the time we loaded up the car I was ready for a drool-filled nap. Partly because I was tired, but mostly to avoid the mere thought of a Narindra family Christmas; the judging, the dinner-table inquisitions, and the fake transformation into the girl I was supposed to be...

Chapter Two

Ninety minutes of driving and thirty of my dad's "please don't be dead" emergency calls later, we finally made it home to suburban paradise. This sleepy town in Southwestern Ontario was brimming with nostalgia. The shopping mall where I was chaperoned by my parents (forcing me to hide from my friends in the men's underwear section), the one movie theater I never got to make out at, and the one video store where I'd bump into my dentist, only to discover his love for Alyssa Milano's straight-to-video collection.

Our childhood home was filled with nostalgia too, most of it involving scolding and the smell of spices. I opened the door with my sister right behind me, and we yelled to whomever that we'd arrived. My gaze fell upon the empty living room, complete with mustard-coloured, floral-printed couches. Not to mention the matching tasseled cushions.

Charming as ever.

Of course the real "living" happened in the family room further ahead. That's where the big screen television was, and it was also conveniently next to the kitchen. It was from there, in the back of the house, that the smell of curried chicken wafted over.

As I pulled off my boots and took in the aroma, I felt the slightest brush across my calf. It was my black and white cat named Tommy. My sister scooped him up for a shower of her sloppy kisses.

Feline molestation at its worst.

I grabbed him away from her venomous lips and she bounded up the stairs. I quickly planted some more appropriate pecks of my own, but as I set him down I realized I'd been kissing the exact same spots that had been covered with my sister's lips.

Is that the same as kissing her?

I quietly shuddered.

I continued along the corridor, its walls sparsely covered with professional family photos, which marked my parents' better days and their offspring's awkward youth. The closer I got to the family room and the kitchen, the louder and louder the squeaky-voiced singing became.

_Here we go_.

It was my dad's favourite channel: All Bollywood, all the time. I could still remember the days when my dad would insist we watch every Bollywood movie ever made. I had tried my very best to develop an interest, but three-hour films complete with cheesy songs and even cheesier fights were simply too much to handle.

"Are you here?" my mother asked from somewhere in the kitchen.

I answered "yes" in the typical robot way as she continued on.

"Bring me all the dishes!"

I quickly turned back to retrieve the crate of dishes which were sitting by the door. When I finally made it to the kitchen, my eyes travelled straight to my father, who was lounging in the nearby family room. He seemed engrossed by the Bollywood singer on the screen, who was skipping around joyously in the fields of wheat. Wearing his typical beige-coloured "dad pajamas," his socks were on the floor in a pile, and his curly hair looked tattered. It seemed like it was time for him to get another perm, like he'd been doing twice a year since before I was born.

Though my father's perms were all I'd known of him in person, the black and white pictures on the mantle told a different story. These ancient shots showed my dad and his older brother, right before they came to Canada. In the pictures they were sporting turbans and beards, since proper Sikhs are never even supposed to cut their hair. Then again, it's not like their beards were hanging right down to their bellies in the photo, like Gandalf from "Lord of the Rings." That style was left to the orthodox Sikhs, whereas my dad and his brother looked more business-like in this photo, suits and ties complete with freshly-trimmed beards.

Next to those pictures was a different set of black-and-whites. In these the two had clean-shaven faces, complete with their own versions of Elvis Presley hair (as in the Elvis before the weight gain and glittery jumpsuits). My dad had always said that turbans didn't fly in nineteen-seventies Canada, at least not for those who were hoping to find a job (and not get their asses kicked).

So turbans and beards simply fell off the list of priorities, as it had for many Sikhs in the last few decades. Meanwhile my parents would stab us or have mutual heart attacks, if their children didn't end up getting married to Sikhs. _Sure, sure, that makes sense._

Leaving my dad in his "wheat-field, sing-song" trance, I turned to see my mother who was bustling away at the stove. I was constantly humbled by her skills in the art of Indian cuisine. It was natural and effortless, or so it seemed. My feelings for my mother would rotate between this sense of awe and a general fear. It was the way her eyebrows would narrow in the shape of a "v," even when her mouth was turning upwards in a smile. It was also the way she would tightly clench her teeth when she was angry, a five-foot-four-inch fireball of fury.

All intimidation aside, my mother had a head full of chemical curls just like my dad, a result of the perms she'd been getting for the last twenty years. For thirteen of those years she'd been getting these perms from me. Yes, I'd been an at-home perm artist since age fourteen. It wasn't something I liked to talk about, as it would only remind me of the odour of perm solution, and the endless hours rolling strands of hair on a fussy and impatient mother. I could only hope that karma saved a special reward for all the daughters forced to "perm up" their moms twice a year.

Twenty-six perms and still waiting...

I handed my mother the crate of dishes, careful not to stand too close to the kitchen light. It was always important to avoid strong lighting if my mother was around, for fear of being judged on any facial flaws.

Her eyes looked me up and down, as her lips pressed together in an almost-frown.

"Hmph. Hurry up and change so you can make a big salad. Dinner's almost done."

Just like that she returned to the steaming pot of curry.

I was surprised by the lack of critique, so I scurried to my room with a smile of relief. As I thumped my way down the basement stairs to my own little corner bedroom, I stopped to observe an unattractive scene in the den. It was my younger brother Sonny in the midst of a  
"Guitar Hero" showdown.

I didn't say hello to my brother, nor did he attempt the same. I wasn't sure if I'd ever said "hi" to my siblings. This was as true for my sister/roommate as it was for Sonny, the twenty-two-year-old Internet-addicted grease-head. It must've been because the word "hi" was loosely tied to affection, and affection was our sibling kryptonite.

Instead our opening statements went about like this:

Sonny-to-Romi: "Is that how nasty you look when you go to work?"

Romi-to-Sonny: "You have a nose-hair that's touching your teeth."

So with myself and my brother sufficiently re-acquainted, I slammed my bedroom door and changed into my precious comfy flannel.

***

I passed the bowl of salad to my dad, as I nervously awaited the dinner conversation. It was less a conversation and more a quiet war between the parents and the children: how much could they possibly ask us? And how little could we possibly reveal?

My father kicked it off: "Sonny, did you send out your résumé to that company I told you about? You need to find a job before you graduate."

The answer was always the same indiscernible grunt.

My mom tried to bark up a different tree: "Neema, did you e-mail the boy whose marriage profile we sent you?"

Marriage profiles? Thank goodness I'm the younger one.

"I will," she replied, never shifting her gaze from her plate.

"We sent you the profile two days ago, what are you waiting for? You are already so old." My mother finished off with a disapproving shake of the head.

"I SAID I'll reply, just let me do it myself!" In a matter of seconds, my sister had transitioned from confident twenty-nine-year-old to defensive-sounding teen.

All throughout the inquisition, I stuffed my face with mouthfuls of rice drenched in glorious chicken curry. It was liquid gold, without ever being too thick or too runny. I considered it an automatic drug, as it eased any stresses around me. But it could only be my mother's curry. Anything else was pond scum.

"Romi, how much will your next raise be?" asked my mother. "Is it coming soon?"

I did some instant math in my head, with the figure I'd used when I'd last lied about my salary, plus a number on top of that.

When the dinner and its dialogue finally came to an end, I stacked up all the dishes for my sister to wash ( _haha_ ) and wiped the kitchen table clean.

My parents were now in the family room, set in their evening lock-down positions. My mother I could see with some newspapers on her lap, as she quietly drifted off to sleep. Dad was digesting his dinner on the opposite couch, with a Bollywood action/adventure keeping him enthralled.

Down in the basement a similar scene was in progress. Sonny was sprawled on the longest couch, with the third installment of "Spiderman" just beginning.

I walked right past and headed for bed. It was only ten o' clock but I was pooped, and Tobey Maguire's man-boy chest was not exactly worth staying up for.

If it ain't Daniel Craig, it just ain't right...

***

The next morning, down in the kitchen, I took the first sip of my tea and twisted my face in disgust.

Aside from my father's special lukewarm tea, I was mildly repulsed by the hard-boiled eggs as well. I blamed my parents and their strange obsession with seasoning. It wasn't even an Indian spice, just a bottle of grocery store seasoning. Orange in colour and strong to the taste, my parents had been bathing our eggs in this crap since 1998.

I stared at the orange eggs with contempt, but the voice of my mother broke into my narrowed gaze.

"You've gotten fat."

Well that didn't take very long.

I'd been hearing the "fat" conversation almost monthly since I'd lost my "skinny-boy" teenage figure. _Absurd._

"Fat?" I said. "I've been the same weight for the last six months!"

"Ha! Your arms look like they're stuffed with cotton, and your face is getting bigger and bigger. Look how thin your sister is! Now you're double her size."

The update was definitely blunt but I wasn't fazed. I would simply wait it out like I always did. Either that or someone else would come downstairs and create a distraction.

But it's not even half past ten.

And why is she still staring?

Feeling a sudden pang of fear, my eyes rested squarely on my father who had suddenly appeared. He was the ultimate shield to attacks against his little princess.

He took a seat, cleared his throat and began: "We want you to be safe and healthy. But if you keep gaining weight you'll have to go to the hospital."

That doesn't really sound like a daddy-defense.

This had all the makings of a fat intervention.

As I recalled how the contestants in "Extreme Makeover: Weight-Loss Edition" were weighed in on an industrial-strength scale at the loading dock, my eyes fell upon our own bathroom scale.

What's the bathroom scale doing in the kitchen?

My dad rose solemnly from his chair, going straight for the sinister scale.

Meanwhile the blood quickly rushed to my face. I was angry. And scared.

"What are you doing?!" I sputtered.

"If you don't believe us, we'll have to show you." My dad placed the scale on the middle of the kitchen floor.

I fought back the tears as I considered how a grown woman could be forced into a weigh-in by her parents. I imagined how I'd later share this story with my cool non-brown friends, only for them to exclaim: "You're twenty-seven! Why don't you just tell your parents to screw off?"

There were so many times when I wanted to say "screw off!" or maybe even just say "no." But right when I would open my mouth to say the words, my tongue would get all floppy and I'd fail. They had a hold on me like only eastern hemisphere parents could. _Those scary eyes._ Getting a therapist was probably long overdue, but for the moment all I could manage was to face this head-on.

I walked towards the scale with newfound inner strength. What was I even afraid of? I'd already told my mother that I hadn't gained a pound in the last six months. So now I could prove her wrong.

The problem of course was that I hadn't weighed myself in a year.

I thought about the snowman cookies from the day before, not to mention the delicious foamy latte. Or the fact that I hadn't done a cardio workout since last November, right around the time that Peter broke the news about his girlfriend.

With inner strength officially gone, I nervously mounted the scale.

The scale blinked on and off as it processed my weight. Meanwhile I attempted to stand on the sides of my feet. I wasn't really sure how that would lessen the number but I tried it all the same.

The scale turned on for good with the final answer.

Holy Hell and God. I've gained fifteen pounds in the last twelve months.

On its own, one hundred and fifty pounds wasn't anything to cry about. I was society-accepted "average." But in an Indian society? Where a stick in a sari was the only acceptable standard?

I'm officially the family fatty.

I stepped off the scale with tears forming quickly in my eyes.

"See?" said my mother and father all at once.

I didn't say a word but the tears were actually helpful, as they managed to soften my mother's tone.

"I will take you to a herbal doctor next week," she said. "You will lose that twenty pounds by June."

Since when did fifteen pounds turn into twenty? And voodoo doctors? I don't like the sound of this.

"I'll just join a gym and eat better," I said. _Maybe_ "I'll lose all the weight in a year, maybe less." _We'll see. Just get me off this thing._

No one objected so I stepped off the scale and returned to the table. Once through with my now cold tea and repulsive orange eggs I raced from the kitchen in a flash, trying to guess how many other family mornings included public weigh-ins.

***

Later that afternoon, as I knelt on the bathroom floor and self-loathingly leaned over the toilet bowl, I started to consider my supposed spiral into fatness. I'd never even noticed the pounds being added to my frame. I mean it wasn't harder to walk, nor had last year's entire wardrobe become obsolete. And yet, fifteen pounds was a lot of weight (in Indian terms at least, in the same way that a dog's age must be multiplied by seven to get to the normal human equivalent).

I suddenly remembered I was kneeling at the toilet for a reason. There was no more avoiding this ugly deed, so I took a deep breath and scrubbed every corner with the toilet brush.

Once I was finished cleaning the toilet, I stretched back up to wipe the bathroom mirror. Before I could start, I inevitably stared at my reflection.

I still didn't see a major problem with my face, but then again I was looking from a side view, with cheeks being held in by the tips of my teeth. I let them go and finally looked straight on. With that there was no mistaking it: my face was looking rounder than it had in the past. But round in a pancake way, and what man wouldn't be thrilled by a face that made him think of his favourite breakfast food?

My gaze traveled down to my waistline. Or if I even had a waistline, in these loose-fitting flannel pajamas. I lifted my shirt to check.

Hmm...

Maybe my stomach wasn't flat, but it still had potential to achieve a flattened look (a standard requirement in the world of belly-baring Bollywood clothing).

I wasn't sold on nutrition doctors or harsh intervention or the benefits of an eating disorder, but if, with a little effort, I could tone here or there and get my mother's scrutinizing eye (aka the "eye of Mordor") off of me and onto something else, perhaps I could survive the memory of the public weigh-in without any psychological damage. _Perhaps..._

***

With Christmas now over, the holiday haze and all of its relevant smells had lifted. The tandoori and roasted-garlic chicken dishes were gone (two options to appeal to east and west), and the homemade pies had all but disappeared. I was pretty sure I'd eaten most of the food, and at my mother's urging too. She would always be offended if we didn't eat multiple helpings of her food, and meanwhile she wanted me to lose twenty pounds. It was the perfect motherly plot: set me up to fail and retain the upper hand.

And it's too damn delicious to resist.

Aside from the hearty meals, our Christmas had been filled with the usual family elements: new pajamas for all, shortbread cookies that my mother and I had baked, gifts that she didn't like, and a whole lot of time spent on video games and movies.

It never seemed odd to celebrate Christmas in our home, because we'd done it for as long as I could remember. It might have had to do with the nature of the Sikh religion, whose fundamentals didn't really clash with Christmas. But it's not like we had mangers and baby Jesuses all around. In fact we limited our focus to a tree, store-bought presents, and treats; three good excuses for "family time."

I'm sure Jesus would be fine with that.

Whether religion or commercialism, it was not about Christmas today. It was an average day at home and the tea was as lukewarm as ever.

I munched on the cinnamon toast feeling somewhat relieved. And how could I not be? The secret of my extra weight had been out for days, and no other drama had followed. This left me eating my breakfast in a mellow state, with not a single worry of an ambush.

Or so I thought.

My father appeared and took a seat right across from me. _Hasn't he already eaten?_ As for my mother, her dark eyes came into focus from the kitchen sink. It was almost as if she was zeroing in for the kill.

This time it came like machine-gun fire:

Mother: "You are getting older, and everyone your age is engaged or married."

Father: "It's true, we already waited too long for your sister and NOW look at her. But for you the time is right. If we act in the coming year, we might be able to find you a doctor."

Mother: "AFTER she loses twenty pounds."

Father: "She is right. So you get healthy now, and your mother and I will put out your ad in October. Then by the end of the year you will have some serious prospects!"

Put out my ad? Like I'm a nasty used car?

My father could sense my disgust so he continued.

"Nobody's forcing you to get engaged right away. These things take time! But in twelve months we should be almost there. We just have to find you a prince!"

He finished off his speech with a giant fatherly smile and the "bobble-head" Indian head nod.

I wasn't going to cry this time, but there was certainly a chance of some projectile vomit. My stomach lurched from side to side as I envisioned a mysterious brown-skinned man. He would inch his way to my wedding sari, undressing me one pin at a time. Or maybe he was the aggressive type, who would rip off my Indian dress in a single tear. And would I even know him? Or would he simply be a stranger who I'd gotten to know through a bunch of online photos and a voice on the phone? _Or maybe a couple of chaperoned dates if I'm lucky._

I sighed at the thought of this arranged-marriage world. Online shopping for husbands and wives, in search of the perfect make and model. But you never could be sure if you were buying a lemon. Even though I'd known my time would come (since I'd already watched it envelop my sister's life), the reality hadn't hit me until this second.

So here I sat dumfounded, in my "Winnie-the-Pooh" pajamas.

An ARRANGED marriage? This is Canada, not a village in India!

There wasn't a lot I could say at that very moment, since love had never been an approved family topic of discussion. Not to mention I was once again crippled by the eastern hemisphere parental intimidation. This time it was that special South Asian kind, based on stories I'd heard of Indian girls in Canada who'd been drowned in honour killings by their uncles, for nothing more than shopping mall hangouts (with neighbourhood friendly white boys). I highly doubted that an honour killing was in my future, but the idea of it alone was associated fear enough.

With no defense, I sat in silence as my parents casually talked about the weather.

Another battle lost.

Meanwhile I focused hard on the cinnamon toast, though it could've been a pile of brown sawdust for all I cared. My taste buds were asleep and so was I...sleep-walking through the day.

***

The last few days of the holiday break were a blur of samosas, candy canes and emotional freak-outs. This couldn't have come as a huge surprise, considering I grew up in an Indian home with a strangely opposing Canadian backdrop. Even so, I thought I would've had more time, and I'd convinced myself that my dating skills would find me the perfect mate.

Dream on.

I checked on the rice for that night's dinner, with my thoughts running wild on a possible plan of escape.

Having always been a numbers girl, I started to do the math:

-My parents won't pimp me out yet, since the extra twenty pounds is even too much for Photoshop. And it'll take a good twelve months to lose the weight. Or I could just not lose it. But then I'll be ostracized daily. Right. And meetings with potential suitors? Well Dad said himself I won't have any serious prospects for another year.

I basically had twelve months left.

But twelve months for what?

Besides avoiding Indian-Canadian men with hungry eyes I needed a plan.

There was always the dream of love, and the idea of finding someone who was willing to grow into a prince. This of course meant launching myself into the dating game. Wherever he was I had to find him. And I had to make sure he was local. _No more guys with expiring visas!_

Though I felt a sudden burst of commitment to the plan, I was also very conscious of the weirdness of my thoughts. Just days ago I'd been assuring myself that sitting back and being patient was the way.

Well that had been Plan A, but now I'd moved along to Plan Desperado.

Twelve months, beginning in January. The year of living for my heart, and breaking every rule in my parents' book.

The year of the chick.

I heard an anxious buzz and my thoughts disappeared.

The rice was done.

But me?

I was only getting started...

Chapter Three

Christmas with the family seemed a distant memory now, as early January brought with it a grudging return to the office life. My office life meant planning and analyzing print advertising, for a big-box Canadian retail store. Whenever I repeated that sentence to friends, their faces would glow and they would nod in approval. " _Your job sounds really interesting!_ " they'd say. Maybe it's because a sentence on its own couldn't capture the extent of the boredom.

I stared at my log-in screen, half asleep and half stupid because I couldn't remember my password. I knew it started with an uppercase and ended with a number for extra security, but beyond those details I was clueless.

A few more seconds passed before I noticed the silver picture frame on my desk, with my cat's precious face staring back.

Suddenly the password returned: Kittylover27.

I typed it in with ease until I stumbled on an awkward thought: _my password is Kittylover27._

The twenty-seven-year-old cat-obsessed single girl?

I immediately changed it to Manlover27, with just the tiniest feeling that my life was about to change.

"Hey Romer," said a man's voice. "It's almost nine-thirty. Are you coming to this meeting or not?"

I was too busy repeating the "Manlover" mantra in my head to produce a response.

"Maybe you're too busy picturing David Beckham naked," he added.

That's usually true.

I rolled my eyes at Todd, the lanky blond in the navy sweater. As Advertising Planning Manager, Todd held the title "boss" but rarely ever put it to the test. Instead he would just make fun of himself. Or us minions. Or the world. I was more than happy with this strange variation of a boss. Anything to help the time go by.

"Yeah I'm coming," I said, as I rummaged under piles of paper for my favourite pen. "And YOU'RE the one obsessed with David Beckham! Does your wife even know about your 'man-crush' yet?"

"Hell ya she knows. He's on my top-five list of dudes I'd do."

I grabbed my favourite pen with the easy-flow ink, smirking to myself as I followed him down the corridor.

My married boss has a list of "dudes he'd do." Yup, just a typical Monday.

When we entered the boardroom it was buzzing with bland post-holiday talk.

"Did you have a good Christmas?"

"Eat enough turkey?"

"Did your kids like their presents?"

"So how much were you dreading the alarm clock today?"

And blah, blah, blah, and shoot me in the face.

The answers were peppered with laughter. For my part I simply watched in horror.

Is this what it means to be social in the office? To pretend we give a damn about each other's lives? And if we're really as tired as we claim, then why not a pre-meeting nap?

I shuffled through the beige-coloured room, passing leather chairs and only stopping when I found one in the back, where I'd hopefully be spared of any human interaction.

Once seated I began a thorough scan of the men. _Well I AM on a twelve-month man-quest after all_.

Cancelling out Todd who was my boss, married, and sometimes protective like a "work dad," I started with the one to my right. He was Ron, a guy with an okay personality and an okay bod to match. He was also the guy who should've been chewing huge wads of gum. Unfortunately for all, he did not like gum and he did not like mints. But he did love tuna, coffee, and as of this morning's breath ( _ugh_ ), bacon and eggs.

Three other men were over fifty ( _gross_ ), which only left Mike who was leading the presentation. I'd seen this twenty-something guy around the office before, but mostly in crowded elevators, where we were relegated to sampling each other's aromas. Despite his pleasant scent, I could tell right now that something was a slight bit off. It was the creepy way he would stare so intensely at nothing. Or was it an imaginary friend? He wasn't attractive enough to investigate any further.

Since there was nothing in the meeting to look at _(and since I don't know shit about inventory work flow_ ), I used the extra time to look at myself instead.

I started with my hands. I'd never spent a lot of time examining my hands, but today I noticed that my left one was looking a bit ragged. It made sense since I was a lefty, but it didn't make me any less sad. It was wrinkled, rougher, and a little more damaged by the sun.

Maybe I should moisturize more often.

My right hand however was much more fun to look at and noticeably smoother. _I should use this hand when I'm caressing a guy's face._

I wrote a quick line about my "right hand hotness" in the corner of my notebook, while the meeting carried on at a stifling pace.

"So when you look at the peak of the graph over here, it shows how the inventory might surpass our target. And that would be a problem."

Yeah, problems suck.

No one said a word for five whole seconds, as Mike stared deeply at the left-hand corner of the room. Or at his imaginary friend. I still wasn't sure.

Once he resumed my eyes dropped down to my thighs. I was consumed by how they looked so expansive in the seated position. It was such a weird phenomenon, how the skin spread wide like a liquid mass in the polyester casing of my pants. I'm sure this was a disappointing moment in the dating process, to see a girl in her chair for the very first time. _Double the thighs, half the fun._

But how would they look if I crossed my legs? It wasn't something I normally did, but when I tried it out I was astounded! As soon as I lifted one leg on the other, I watched in amazement as the inner thighs kind of, absorbed each other.

What a marvelous re-assignment of body mass!

This was turning out to be a very educational Monday, as I'd already learned that I should show off my "younger" right hand, and that crossing my legs produced the disappearing inner-thigh effect. Feeling rather accomplished, I proceeded to take a "brain nap" with my eyes blankly open, as I often would in any kind of meeting at work.

"Are there any questions?"

My brain stirred awake as Mike stood waiting for a response. His eyes of course were locked on his imaginary friend, who was now sitting by the window.

"Well yes, I have a question," said an all-too-eager-looking Indian woman. "I had a similar method of inventory management at my previous position, and it's funny how they both have some common threads. For example..."

Priyanka---the nerdy office version of me---carried on, as I wondered if she even had a question embedded in her five-minute statement.

I cringed and twisted in my seat, so hateful of this girl's thirst for knowledge. Why would anyone ask a question at two minutes past eleven? We should've been out of here by now!

My impatience and complete disinterest made me wonder why I worked in a corporate job to begin with.

Within seconds I remembered how my parents had squashed my archaeology dream, with their common sense and unquestionable authority: " _You want to dig in dirt all day and never make any money? No, you'll be going to business school like your sister._ " Since I'd failed to convince them to support a line of work that at least sounded smart, of course I'd never manage to convince them I should chase my dream of writing. But hadn't I written a parody column for my high school newspaper? Okay...maybe that was nothing, but what about those times my articles were published? On the Internet mind you, but that still counted for something! Or the time I tried to write a novel?

The more I thought about it, the more it wasn't much at all. Maybe my parents had been right for once.

Four years of business school, plus four years and counting of "building a career," and now I take brain naps.

By the time Priyanka had finally shut her trap it was a quarter past eleven.

That's fifteen minutes of Internet-surfing I just lost. You academic cow.

I returned to my desk and started an important Google search. I was looking for extremely effective workouts, ones that would tone up my body with a minimal amount of effort. I paid particular attention to websites that would promise the butt, thighs and abs of my dreams. By the time I was finished, I had saved enough links to cover almost every major body part. All that was missing was a way to get the wrists of my dreams, and maybe some sexy "dream knees" too.

I e-mailed myself all the links, trying not to focus on the time I'd need to spend on all these workouts. Still I was motivated, as the image of bikini models pranced around my head.

My vision of a brand new body vanished with the sound of high-pitched squealing.

"Finally you're here!"

It was Eleanor with Amy by her side, my two best friends in the office. We settled ourselves at the table near my desk, with our healthy new year's lunches now before us. Healthy January lunches were consistent across the board no matter what a person's weight issues were; _we all lie to ourselves in January._ My lunch consisted of carrots, non-fat yogurt and an apple. The excitement was palpable.

I turned my gaze to Eleanor, who somehow appeared to be enjoying her little salad.

"Is it good?" I asked.

"Oh it's awesome," she said. "I put in strawberries, sliced almonds, spinach and a light vinaigrette!"

Is she on crack? It's a SALAD.

Eleanor was a few years younger than I, and basically the office hottie. With her long brown hair, striking blue eyes and sexy bod (plus that killer booty), she could round up the guys in impressive numbers. In other words, an excellent candidate for a wingman.

Amy was a few years younger as well. She had a loving boyfriend and a rock-hard body she'd developed from her boxing class. With short dark hair and big brown eyes, her biggest asset was her huge and inviting smile. This was also her biggest flaw, since at any given time some freak-boy in the office would be stalking her with "let's do coffee" voice mails.

As Amy peeled her orange she shot me a sideways look. "So Romes, tell us EVERYTHING about your holidays."

Which should I go with first, the public weigh-in or the arranged marriage deadline?

I decided to leave out the "weigh-in" from my update. Maybe years from now I'd reveal it at a drunken pool party (where I'd feel fabulous in a bikini), but today it made my family seem like freaks. So I explained the rest of the tale and finished with the action plan: "Which means I have to meet an amazing guy this year. Then make him fall in love with me. Then maybe get engaged by the end of the year." I nodded as my affirmation grew. "Because my parents can't hook me up if I'm already engaged!"

Eleanor poked at her salad, never looking me in the eye. "Engaged? Well I guess that's a goal. But wait: does this mean you're actually into guys again?"

I gasped. "I was never NOT into guys, I just wasn't looking! And why do you say it like that?" I frowned. "Do people think I'm gay?"

"No one thinks you're gay! You were just...taking a break. Good for you!" She finished with an awkward smile.

I rolled my eyes. "Look, I know I'm almost twenty-eight and I haven't had a date in two whole years." I scrunched my nose. "I shouldn't be saying that out loud."

Amy shook her head. "You really shouldn't."

I rolled my eyes. "Okay I got it. It doesn't look good if you're Canadian, or Indian, or alien. I just wanna know how to get back in! Where do you go, where do you meet them? Has dating changed in the last two years?" I sighed. "And you might have to be really detailed here, 'cause I wasn't very good at it then."

Amy answered first, as I eagerly awaited all the wisdom.

"But you don't just walk into a 'guy store' and pick one up. I mean that's what your parents are trying to do, and you don't want that! You'll probably find someone special when you're not even looking."

That's the best she's got?

Realizing quickly that "relationship girls" were useless in these matters, I turned to Eleanor with a smile. "So what if I AM consciously looking, what should I do?"

She crossed her arms and beamed, enjoying the conversation spotlight. "Well fifty percent of the world is guys. So get out in the world and check 'em out! You might even have some fun along the way. Just don't spend every night at home in your fuzzy pajamas with a slab of cake. Fuzzy pajamas and cakes are for girls who've given up or for girls who have a cold!"

This young-faced hottie was right. When was the last time I'd visited a trendy bar? Which ones were "in"? Which ones were tainted by cougars on the prowl? I'd need to sap young Eleanor of her knowledge, and maybe even ask her how she'd sculpted out the butt of my dreams.

Eleanor tossed her napkin in the waste bin and gasped. "Why didn't you take your Christmas box home?"

I sighed. "Do you know...how much...it disappoints me, that our employer gives us THIS as a Christmas gift?" I hauled out the heavy cardboard box from underneath my desk, setting it down on my lap. "I mean look at this; generic salsa, and gourmet chocolate cookies that don't even appear to be made from real chocolate." I sneered as I set each item on my desk. "And wait, there's more! Some ugly-ass wooden tray that weighs ten pounds, a bottle of olive oil, and some cheese spread that was packaged god knows where and when. I bet these are all a bunch of reject products from a warehouse!"

I tossed the items back in the box and shook my head. "Do either of you want it?"

Amy frowned. "Most of that stuff is still sitting in my kitchen. None of the food even tastes good."

"And THAT'S the appreciation you get for a year of working hard." I dropped the box with a thud, and used my foot to push it back in its spot. "Let the cockroaches eat it."

My irritation was replaced with a nervous shiver, when I glanced at the display on my desk phone. A report was due in two hours. Too bad I hadn't even started.

"Alright ladies, it's time to break this up."

"Aren't you gonna join us in our new year's stair climb?" said Eleanor. "A bunch of us are doing it to break through the desk job laziness."

I snorted. "Please, I lose my breath just from walking and talking simultaneously." Right after I said it I froze. Maybe I wasn't overweight, but was being out-of-shape "heart and lung" wise excluding me from social opportunities? Was this the gateway to being an old bag with no friends who mutters to herself and feeds pigeons in the park? I glanced at the clock again, remembering there were more pressing things to attend to.

"Maybe next time though! For now I better finish this damn report. Same time and place tomorrow?"

"Sure. We can start with lesson one: how to smile at guys in the elevator." Amy tossed me her patented giant smile as she started to walk away, while Eleanor's ass followed bouncily behind.

"Whatever!" I shouted after them. "The guys in this office are gross!"

_I hope no one heard that_.

***

A wrap-up of November-December sales was due by three p.m.

Where to begin?

As an Advertising Analyst, this wrap-up meant a lot of things. Things like: finding out how much dog food we sold, how much toilet paper we sold, how much dish soap we sold, and of course how these numbers fared against my expert predictions. If we didn't do as well as I'd thought, or as well as we'd done last year, I needed to find a scapegoat. Anyone but me and I'd continue to have a job.

It would take a bit of time for the numbers to appear from the database, which left me with a chance to get things started on the presentation slides.

Not surprisingly I lost my focus, in favour of a stare-down with the far off CN Tower. I wondered how many men there were in Toronto. One and a half million? I wondered how many of them were single. Eight hundred thousand? I wondered how many of the single ones were under forty. Three hundred thousand? I wondered how many of the under-forty ones weren't freaks, jerks, or extremely unattractive. Eighty-three? And how many of the eighty-three would actually fall in love with me? Two?

Well two wasn't bad. I only needed one after all.

***

Somehow the clock had shifted forward to two p.m. The database had gathered all the numbers by now, while I'd sat here simply staring out the window.

I read through the numbers for a couple of minutes, and discovered that our sales had sucked. Seventy percent of my forecasted sales to be exact. It was not the kind of number that would work on a report card, and it was not the kind of number that would work on big executives. So I would simply explain it away. _Somehow..._

I searched real hard for the brainwaves that made up my excuses. I came up empty. I spent the next twelve minutes saying "hmm" and twirling my hair. I then stopped to eat a granola bar, which I considered an allowable two-thirty p.m. snack.

Shit, it's two-thirty. Where are my excuses?!

And then, in a sudden burst of light, the powder-puff knowledge spewed forth and I filled up the slides:

" _Our sales took a hit in the final season, due to several external market factors. These included winter storms that affected our weekend sales on five out of nine occasions. With these decreases in traffic and Walmart's unexpected below-cost killer prices, we were not equipped to meet 100% of our forecast this year."_

I added in the snowstorm excuse when I remembered all the snow I'd been shoveling in November and December. And Walmart was always a bastard with their cost-efficiencies, so that one had to be true as well. Once that was done I referenced some products specifically, so they would know I had actually studied the report.

It felt good to put my writing skills to use, even if the cause was a bullshit one. The added confidence was enough to make me drop in some pie charts. _Who doesn't love pie?_

I sent the file to Todd with one minute left.

Phew.

With no more Monday deadlines, my brain switched off and I sunk into office down-time mode. This meant some Hollywood gossip online, my eighties Madonna playlist for a soundtrack, and a key recollection of the things I'd learned today: _showcase my younger right hand, cross my legs, and use my friends to help me find a guy..._

Chapter Four

Should I eat before the gym? Or should I starve?

I was reminded of a Leafs interview from at least ten years ago. In it the star forward described his pre-game routine, which included eating boatloads of spaghetti before every hockey game: "You have to pack it in before you play. Otherwise you're losing ten to twelve pounds in one game just from sweat."

Losing weight from sweating too much didn't seem like such a bad idea.

I brushed my teeth and returned to my room. _Screw breakfast, I need to learn how to run without passing out._

I was three weeks into January now, and a little disappointed that this Saturday morning was my very first visit to the gym. My plans had gone to Hell after pulling an ass-cheek muscle, from one of those workouts I'd discovered on the Internet. Eleanor had later explained that just because the spandex-wearing blonde in the video could do fifty "ass curls," it didn't mean I should too.

So why did that bitch-blonde instructor say "keep on pushing"?

By now I was free of any pain in the posterior region, so I held up my shiny membership card, comparing the photo to my image in the mirror.

I wanted the photo to be ugly, and I was fairly certain I'd hit the mark. I could barely even look directly at it, what with the greasy matted hair, fresh uncovered acne, and noticeably chapped lips.

Of course it wasn't my own inventiveness that led to a nasty photo. That's just how they did it in the ads for losing weight: ugly before and beautiful after. Often times the woman hadn't even lost a lot of weight, but her "After" shot looked fabulous (with the help of bridal make-up and a spray tan). My goal was a similar one. I still intended to lose a few pounds and get in shape, but no matter where I stood with my goal, I would always look better than the membership card (thanks to the mascara and bronzer I applied before each workout).

The bigger goal of course, was to have a sexy gym attendant swipe my card. He'd be repelled by the photo, but then he'd raise his eyes to see my face: "Wow, is that really you?" he'd say. "Looks like you've been making some progress!"

A few visits later, maybe he'd ask me for a date.

And that's how a quest for romance begins.

I put down the card and focused on my image in the mirror. My hair was only half tied up, with enough wisps falling down to conceal my "monkey left ear." I'd never figured out if it was better to have two symmetrical monkey ears, or instead one perfectly normal ear, and another one modeled after monkey DNA. All I knew was that slicked-back ponytails were a no-no.

Next I examined my body in these brand new gym clothes. At five-foot-seven and a hundred and fifty pounds, my flab was only pronounced in particular areas of wrongness. The worst right now was the jiggling upper-arm effect. I was only a child when I'd first seen a woman with the "upper arm jiggs." It happened on a hot summer day, when our tank-top-wearing teacher started writing on the chalkboard. As she wrote the assignment in her swift and sweeping cursive, her upper arms went wild. This way and that they rocked, swinging like a hammock in the wind. Call me superficial but I didn't want to be a human hammock.

Besides my upper arms I was struggling to hide my back fat.

And those love handle things.

For all of these reasons I had chosen a roomy T-shirt.

On the bottom were my black and provocative workout pants. I had purchased these a week ago at Bebe Sport, and though I may not have looked like the Eva Longoria poster that was modeling the extra-extra-small-sized version, I loved what they did for my butt.

I wasn't sure what special ingredient they'd injected into the spandex, but my butt looked rather slappable in these pants. It made me wonder if the women who shopped at Bebe Sport were more interested in wearing these pants on their leisurely strolls in the city, than for actually working out. Well whatever they did, I'd be wearing them for sure in non-workout situations.

Despite the creative clothing there was serious work to be done, and being home for the weekend meant my parents would be quick to remind me.

"Romi! Are you going to the gym today?"

From my mother's voice upstairs to my asymmetrical ears, I now had my first reminder.

When I made it to the kitchen my parents were positively beaming.

"Do you want me to come so you're not alone? Maybe you shouldn't go alone." My father was becoming more and more worried by the second, as he always did when one of his daughters was anywhere away from the house.

"It's Saturday morning and I'm going to a gym full of people. I think I'll be okay."

My parents didn't seem too convinced, so my dad proceeded with his over-protective checklist:

"Do you have your cell phone?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How long does it take you to drive there?"

"Six minutes."

"How long will you be exercising for?"

"Probably an hour."

"So when will you be back?"

"In an hour and a half."

"Okay, well call us if you're running late or we'll start to worry." It was the most repeated song on the over-protective soundtrack, and I left with its aggravating chorus ringing loudly in my ears.

***

When I strolled into the gym I was hit with a flurry of sounds. The hum of machines whizzing back and forth, the laboured coughs of people on the brink of vomit, and the "pump you up" music of Britney Spears.

As the gym attendant swiped my membership card I slumped my shoulders and frowned.

Who had let a woman man the desk? _Thank you "gym," for wasting this layer of lip-gloss._

My first destination was the locker room, a place I hadn't been in since the days of high school gym class. I had no intention of doing the naked "shower with your classmates" thing. Not when I was only a six-minute drive from my private shower at home.

Apparently I wasn't alone in this, as a throng of sweaty women came into the room, grabbed their coats from their respective green lockers, and quickly got the hell out.

As I tried to find a locker for my puffy winter coat, a woman tapped my shoulder from behind.

"Excuse me, do you know how this works?"

I turned to see a late-thirties chick, with frizzy red hair and expensive-looking Lulu Lemon workout gear.

Standing on top of the giant scale to my right, she scratched her head like a baffled chimp.

I'd never been one to deny a chimp in need, so I pressed the button titled "Lbs."

"Try stepping on it again," I instructed.

She did, and her weight began to process while I quickly looked away, as I was painfully familiar with the shame of public weigh-ins.

"Thank you," she said, sounding noticeably disappointed. I guess she wasn't happy with the number on the scale. _Join the club, lady._

At last I made it out to the workout scene, and quickly discovered that the gym wasn't all that big. There was one main area of machines, surrounded by a burgundy running track.

The track seemed a good place to start, but I stayed in the walking lane, since vomit tended to happen when I ran for any longer than three minutes.

While I walked along briskly I noticed something very intriguing. The guys near the weights were checking out the girls on the track. In fact whenever a hot girl approached the bend, three guys would let each other know, through a system of complicated head nods. Then they'd take turns stretching out their arms to impress her. This was especially enthralling since the men were quite attractive. I felt a sudden urge to join the women's showcase, but I didn't really have any sweetness to deliver. At least not from the waist up.

So instead I switched to the elliptical machine.

I programmed the machine to level five. I had no idea if five was a respectable pace, but it was better than one to four.

Before I could develop any sweat beads, the very same woman from the locker room approached me. Her baffled chimp-face was gone, now replaced with a vicious sneer.

"Excuse me, do you have this machine signed out for eleven a.m.?"

I was puzzled. "Signed out?"

"You can't use machines on Saturday unless you sign them out. This is MY machine."

Oops.

My face turned red and I felt a little guilty. "Oh, I didn't know that. Where do you sign them out?"

"On that GIANT whiteboard?" She pointed to the far end of the workout zone."Now please get off and wipe the machine. You've already wasted two minutes of my time!"

Where was the calm demeanour of a woman too stupid to use a scale? I had helped her with that scale, hadn't we formed a bond? I decided to repair our friendship with a plea of ignorance.

"Oh okay, I'm really sorry. It's my first time here and I hadn't even heard of the sign-up sheet. I guess there's a lot more to gyms than just working out! Right?" I finished it off with a friendly smile.

The woman simply grunted as I stepped off the machine. And here I had thought that helping those in need was a no-fail policy. Maybe it was more of a chimp-eat-chimp world.

I walked away embarrassed, enraged, and getting nowhere on my quest to burn some fat.

So I turned right back towards the locker room.

I give up.

Before I could officially quit on the gym, I spotted a schedule of classes. I raised my eyebrow as I read about a session of hour-long "Cardio Groove," which was slated to begin in ten minutes. There was a cartoon smiley-face next to the class, which meant that it was fine for beginners.

Hmm...

***

The room was complete with mirrored walls and beige hardwood floors. It was filled with an eclectic group of women who were busy with some pre-class chatter. From teenage girls with ridiculously tight bodies, to women in their fifties and sixties, it was truly a mix.

There was only one man in the class, and one that could not be ignored by a human with a pulse and a vagina. I could only describe him as an edifice of tanned and glowing muscles.

He was having quite a chat with the twenty-something ponytailed instructor. Suddenly she turned to face the class.

"Hi everyone! Today we'll be joined by a very special friend of mine. This is Steve Jacobs, a receiver in the CFL. He won't be playing for a while since he hurt his knee, which means our class could be a perfect form of re-hab! Alright Steve, do you think you can handle all these ladies?"

Though Canadian football wasn't what you'd call a glamourous league, there was an automatic "Woo!" from all the women.

"Well I don't know," he replied. "I've been playing football for years but you all seem pretty tough. Can I ask for some help if I get lost?" He offered up a dazzling smile to seal the deal.

"Don't worry honey, whatever you need, I am right here to show you EVERYTHING." We all turned to face a forty-something woman with a hunger in her eyes and drool dripping down her chin.

"Yeah?" she said, in response to all the stares. "I might be married but I'm not DEAD."

An uproar of laughter filled the room but I was not amused.

I was even less amused when she took the spot behind him in the class.

Since I was all out of luck in observing Steve's butt as he performed the groovy dance moves, I found myself a spot in the back left corner of the room. It was right near the exit, in case I felt the need to quit.

The instructor gave the class a beaming smile. "So how many here are first-time attendants?"

In addition to myself, ten other women raised their hands.

I sighed with relief, knowing that we'd all get through this together.

Right?

The first half hour of the class was a hot and uncoordinated mess. I didn't vomit, but whenever my eyes made contact with someone in the class, I mouthed the phrase " _Oh my god this instructor is a crazy bitch!_ " Much to my surprise, it didn't yield as many friendly smiles as I'd imagined. Perhaps their stamina was far more advanced than my level of "can't walk and talk."

We were only allowed one tiny two-minute break, which was generally used to hyperventilate and chug lots of water. After setting down my bottle and wiping the drops of water from my chin, I looked back up to find that Steve was only inches away.

He was chugging something purple in a clear plastic bottle. I would've never tried flirting with a guy this hot, if I wasn't so jacked on endorphins.

I sauntered over with a crooked smile. "So Steve...is that what you drink when you score all those touchdowns?" I hadn't watched Canadian football before, and I hated the sport with a passion. But Steve didn't need to know that.

His green eyes sparkled bright as he laughed, and his dirty blond hair was damp, with sweat trickling down his forehead. Meanwhile his nipples waved hello from behind his tight shirt, as he turned his torso right and left for a stretch.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Romi." I always hated saying my name out loud. To me it was a graceless name, full of gender-ambiguity and roughness.

"Romi eh? I like that. And to answer your question I DO always drink this, during the game and during every workout."

"Alright everybody break's over!" the instructor yelled. "Back to your spots, let's PUMP IT UP!"

Steve turned to leave, but not before whispering: "Why don't you give me your e-mail address after the class?" He added a sexy wink and returned to his spot.

I was overcome with feelings, both emotional and physical. Never had I spoken to such a muscular man, let alone a professional athlete. And had he actually asked me for my contact information?

I felt like I was high on caffeine pills, and for the rest of the class I didn't feel an ounce of fatigue. I kicked, swiveled and hopped with the best of 'em.

As we stretched out the kinks at the end of class, I closed my eyes to the soothing sounds of some music I couldn't really place. It reminded me of the Elfin hymns from "Lord of the Rings," and it made me forget that Steve would be waiting when the class was over.

The Elfin music suddenly came to a halt.

"Okay everybody, thanks for an amazing class! Now before we dismiss, can we turn our attention to Steve for a couple of minutes? He's got something he'd like to share."

All the ladies shouted "Woo!" again.

Steve walked up to the front of the class with his bottle of purple beverage. He was also carrying a cardboard box full of grey and purple pouches.

"Now football is a grueling sport, and a lot of people ask me how I make it. The truth is I've got a little something to get me through it, for every game and every workout."

This sounded strangely similar to my one-on-one chat with Steve.

Steve grabbed a pouch from the box and continued. "Inside this pouch is a very special energy mix. We call it Total Thunder, and I developed it with top-notch scientists. With this ONE special drink, you'll experience more stamina than ever before. And just to prove it, you all get a sample to try for yourselves!"

Another "Woo!" from the sweaty ladies.

"I'm going to pass these out, and when I do I'd love to get your all your e-mail addresses," he paused for a dazzling smile. "Then I can send you ladies additional info."

Steve began to pass out the pouches as I stood there in the corner, feeling about as sexy as a speck of someone's earwax. But what about the flirting? What about his waving nipples? It had all been a ruse, cleverly designed to trick me into buying Total Thunder. My humiliation quickly turned to rage.

Before I could think of an action plan, Steve was back, only now with his pouch of Total Thunder.

"Here you go, Romi. Now how about you give me your e-mail address?" His eyes sparkled once again.

"Sorry asshole, I only drink Gatorade."

In a perfect world, I would've told him that. But of course I lived in a world where you don't call giant football players assholes, especially not when their eyes sparkle green and their smiles tend to dazzle.

I recited my e-mail address out loud, and ten seconds later we said goodbye.

As I grabbed my coat from the locker room, I looked at my watch to see that it was nearly one p.m.

I'd told my dad that I'd return in an hour and a half, or by noon to be exact. He was probably on his way to the hospital now, clinging to life from complications of being over-protective.

I drove straight home only to discover that he'd taken my mother grocery shopping.

Just like that, huh? I could be dead for all he knows!

Over the next five days, I received one e-mail a day on the benefits of Total Thunder. They weren't even written by Steve, just a bunch of mass e-mails from "Total Thunder Inc."

On the sixth day I marked the e-mail as "junk," which was the perfect assessment for my very first attempt at dating in the year of the chick...

Chapter Five

Will I meet a special guy by Valentine's Day?

The view outside my window was a haze of white.

_Just your typical Canadian blizzard._ Maybe my man was somewhere out there, in his car late for work and annoyed by the weather.

With a storm this bad, I sure as hell wouldn't be meeting him today. Nor would I be headed to the gym.

So what was the back-up plan if I couldn't do cardio and help my weak-ass heart? Gooey apple pie in my fuzzy pajamas?

As I tried to decide if a quarter of a pie would be enough to fill my needs, an e-mail landed in my inbox.

It was from Jayla, a friend from my previous job.

\----------------------------------

Hey Everyone!

Sorry about the mass e-mail, but I wanted to announce it at once:

-ADRIAN AND I GOT ENGAGED!!!

The wedding's right here in Sydney on November 22nd, but we're coming back for a visit in September. That's when we'll be having our "Toronto Engagement Party" so you better show up!

By the way, thanks for all your love and support throughout the re-location, I miss you guys!

And also: AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ENGAGED!

Love,

Jayla

xx

\----------------------------------

Before I had a chance to absorb all the exclamation marks, my phone started ringing. I glanced at the call display and it all made sense.

So Laura's read the e-mail too.

"Good morning darling," I said. "Is this an urgent matter? I'm quite busy here."

"Shut up," said Laura. "I know you read it too."

I'd met Laura along with Jayla at my first corporate job. Laura was my "best friend stand-in," as my childhood one was finishing with med school in Boston. Laura didn't mind the term, and I played the same role for her, with her own best friend a two-hour drive away.

"I just read it now." I minimized the e-mail off my screen, not because I was scared to read personal e-mails at work, but because I could feel it mocking me. "Are you happy for her?" I asked. "Or are you ready to puke from all the jealousy?"

"Come on, you know I love Jayla. But also..." She let out a heavy sigh. "I guess I'm twenty-percent jealous. I just can't believe she randomly met him on vacation!"

"THAT'S what you can't believe? I can't believe she stole my dream of marrying for love without your Indian parents killing you. Like he's an Aussie white dude! I also can't believe she scored an office transfer to Sydney. How come one person gets all the luck?"

"Yeah, too bad you work at a Canadian company. There's no office transfer for you which means NO MORE foreigner boyfriends with expiring visas!" She laughed.

I did not join her in the ha ha has.

"Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I didn't quit," I said. "Maybe they would've shipped me off to...Paris. You can't not fall in love while you're in Paris." I sighed and started pulling balls of lint off my brown wool sweater, wondering all the time if decisions had any meaning at all. _Am I really meant to be here? In this job? In this chair? With not even a glimpse of a boyfriend?_

"Hey, are you listening?" Laura had apparently been talking all this while.

I stopped with the lint balls and tried to focus in. "Sorry, someone was at my desk," I lied.

"I was just saying you should be glad we left that corporate pit. I mean yeah, Jayla stayed and got the chance to move to Sydney, but remember how we had to wear suits every day? Ugh!"

I rolled my eyes at the thought of Laura's curvy bod. "Oh please, you took painted-on tailored suits to a whole new level. Long blonde curls, petite little frame and your ass bursting out of your office pants? You disgust me."

_She does, she really does._ Had I always felt this way about my best-friend stand-in?

"I disgust YOU?" She laughed. "Then why am I the one who's puking? You're so much taller than me! You can gain five pounds and no one will even know."

"Too bad I gained fifteen though. God...what the hell did I eat last year?" I poked my belly with my index finger, sighing at how easily it squished.

"So how's the gym going?" she asked. _Good ol' Laura, forcing me not to dwell on last year's menu._

"The gym's alright. It's way too early to hop on the scale, but I worked out twice in the last couple weeks. Tonight I'm gonna chill with some pie." I smiled.

"Twice in the last couple weeks? Pie? So let me get this straight: your parents are going to saddle you up with a stranger, while my Italian family is predicting that I'll wind up a spinster. And you're talking about pie?!"

"But it's APPLE pie." I loved apple pie but she had a point. I hadn't been out on the prowl even once, since Eleanor and I were in hiding from this horrible weather. But this was Canada. If we waited for spring we'd be hibernating 'til April.

"Alright that's it," stated Laura. "Tomorrow we're going to a happy hour place. There's this awesome swanky bar downtown. I haven't been, but my friend told me Thursdays are crazy."

"Crazy?" I didn't like the sound of this.

"I mean like crazy-busy. They have a velvet rope with a bouncer, and from what she said the place is just crawling with investment bankers, executives, lawyers...do I have your attention?"

"You have my full attention, but I don't know if I'm ready for this. Can't we just wait until I lose five pounds?" _As if I want an investment banker grabbing at my "rolls."_

"Gimme me a break; the weight thing's your parents' baggage, you're just trying to get in better shape, remember?"

"Hence my love-handle concern."

"No one's gonna grab your body five minutes after saying hello."

"You're right, this isn't a brothel we're talking about..." I really couldn't think of other reasons not to go. "Okay, but just to clarify...I'm looking for somebody to fall in love with, and money doesn't equal love---"

"And blah, blah, blah, I promise we'll find you a prince, blah, blah, blah. But seriously, we're going tomorrow night. We can be each other's wingmen!"

Man-hunting missions at a hot trendy bar? Maybe I'd find a Valentine after all...

***

I arrived outside the bar at six o' clock the next night, feeling nervous, cold, and tired from a long day at work. There was indeed a red velvet rope, holding in a long line of people huddled up in coats and scarves. There was also a scary-looking bouncer. _What IS this place?_

"Romes! Over here!"

I followed Laura's voice to the front of the line. Her grey wool coat hugged the curves of her short but well-toned body. I turned to the bar's long windows to catch my reflection. My wool winter coat was of similar length, but it seemed to give my shoulders a boxy look. And why was it the same boxy shape from top to bottom?

I spun around to face Laura. "How much did it cost you to tailor that coat?"

"It's not tailored."

"So your coat fits like that on its own?"

"Fits like what?"

"I hate you."

Laura simply laughed as she pulled out her phone. Meanwhile my mind raced through scenes of Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts in romantic comedies. Once I was finished I frowned at the disturbing conclusion:

-Leading ladies are always hotter than their sidekicks. So why are all my sidekicks more attractive than me?

Maybe I was in the wrong movie.

***

The bouncer let us in and I immediately lost my way. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkened interior, I sensed the beginnings of a lobby, with hundreds of candles further along the way. Those candles were my only guide to the trendy décor, complete with Japanese-inspired sculptures, black leather couches and red-painted walls.

But what was that smell?

Things became fuzzy in a matter of seconds, as my nose fell victim to the toxic levels of cologne. I wondered if the men had conspired to emit this gaseous roofie; was there a pile of passed-out women around the corner? I suddenly noticed that Laura was nowhere in sight. My mind flashed back to being five years old in a department store, and losing my parents in the dishware aisle. I eventually found them, but not before falling down the last two steps of an escalator, with my mouth slamming hard on a bin of men's underwear. I chipped a tooth that day.

I had no intention of chipping any grown-up teeth, so I stayed where I was like a fearful deer, waiting for my little Laura.

"Romes! Where were you? I thought you were coming to the coat-check." Laura was suddenly in front of me, minus one tailored coat, but plus one fitted green sweater and some hip-hugging pinstriped pants.

I followed Laura to a corner of the lobby, where a beautiful woman with giant boobs took my coat.

Can everyone please stop being so hot?

"How do I look?" I straightened out my baby-blue blouse that was saved for special occasions. Worn with my black office pants, it was a very professional outfit. Well, almost. The shirt was extremely tight and made of five-percent spandex, which managed to give my boobs some faux abundance. The only downside to a shirt so tight up top was that the bottom hugged my body too. This was less than ideal considering my stomach's little rolls _. But who'll even see them in this darkened bar?_

Laura simply smiled at my outfit choice ( _was that a patronizing smile?_ ) before leading the way to the lounge.

We quickly decided that a table was out of the question. The place was packed. I couldn't even tell where one person ended and another one began.

How are we supposed to find the men when we can't even see?

We delayed the man-search and squeezed towards the bar instead, to order ourselves some pomegranate martinis (classy yet delicious).

From there we moved to an empty space of floor by a wall post. Once we had claimed it as ours, we finally surveyed the scene.

A scene that was entirely shocking.

"Wow," said Laura, with the widest eyes I'd ever seen.

"Is this the right dimension of the universe?" I asked.

"All of these girls. They're actual, official..."

"Sluts. I mean I know as modern women we shouldn't call each other names and—"

"No but these are legit sluts," added Laura. "Is that one even wearing underwear?!"

That's all we could say before reverting to a stunned kind of silence. A silence created by an over-flowing scene of promiscuous Barbies, crowding each other on the Skanks-R-Us shelf. It was so much more than cleavage and colossal boobs (which was still intimidating, but at least within reason). It was more like mini-skirts, pointed hooker boots, and hair volumized to high heaven.

"Look at the girl standing next to the statue of the silver Buddha. Her shirt is back-less. Her shirt, DOES NOT HAVE A BACK." My voice had quickly changed from shocked to incredibly threatened.

"The one by the corner couch keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs. She's wearing a tiny skirt. I can...see things." Poor little Laura was tainted, yet she still couldn't look away.

"There's no way in hell these girls are from an office. Unless they brought duffle bags, and changed into their slut-gear after work."

Laura nodded rapidly. "I think you're right Romes. Like the one to my left is chewing bubble gum, IN A BAR, and the one on my right just asked a guy why he uses spreadsheets when he can use a calendar. These girls are from the outside."

Once I had processed her findings, I suddenly had a flash.

"I know exactly where these girls are from. They're from low-paying, boring jobs. They toil away all day and race downtown at five, so they can live out their childhood dream."

"To get married?" asked Laura.

"Eventually. But for now their dream is a short-sighted one: to sleep with a white-collar dude." My eyes bulged with realization as I continued. "They're rarely seen as proper girlfriend material, but they relieve a man's stress from his grueling day at the office. And if he's married? No big deal. Being a mistress is extremely chic right now. And it leads to a lot of gifts."

Laura looked at me, her face contorted in confusion. "So their dream is to be a mistress?"

"Damn right it is. But of course that's never enough. For every ten dudes that a girl saddles in, she's looking for the one who'll fall in love with her. Like when Richard Gere's character fell in love with Julia Roberts's hooker vagina. From there, any one of these girls can become a second wife." I shook my head in disgust. "This is the place where trophy wives are born."

I took a big swig of my martini, realizing quickly that martinis should never be swigged.

My eyes watered hard from the burning in my throat, as Laura looked on amazed. "That's a pretty detailed theory on these trophy ho's, but do you really think this bar is a place for hook-ups?"

Just then a man in a navy suit grabbed the girl in the back-less shirt. He rested one hand on her lower naked back, and guided her head towards his with the other. That's when the kissing began.

They continued to kiss for a while. Ten or twelve seconds at least.

And it wasn't even seven p.m.

"I bet he called her 'babygirl' right before he grabbed her," I said. "Why does any woman on earth allow that nickname?!"

Laura shook her head. "It's so sexist."

"Forget sexist! I mean 'BABYgirl'? Anyone who calls you that is basically admitting he's sexually attracted to female infants."

Laura laughed but I wasn't quite finished. "Call the cops, I say! On any man that dare utter 'babygirl' again..."

I swigged back the last of my martini (yes, I swigged again), as Laura and I made a beeline back to the bar.

"Do you think we should leave?" asked Laura. "Go somewhere else instead?" Her eyes never shifted from the drinks being served.

"We could," I said. "But that would mean getting our coats back...and walking in the freezing cold."

"Screw it then, we're staying here."

And just like that, our back-up plan of getting trashed was in full effect.

***

"So Laura, why did you bring me to a sex-trade bar?" I asked, slurping the final drops of my second pomtini. "And your friend recommended it! Is she a...you know..."

"She's not a prostitute! She just likes sleeping with men." We laughed. "And it's not like she was lying. This place IS crawling with men."

"But it's you and me! We're not sluts!" Though I knew my little Laura could go that route if she wanted.

"I know, I know...but at least the drinks are good."

"You know what? They damn well are. Next round's on me!"

Pretty soon we were two drunk girls at a bar, high-fiving each other for no apparent reason, and trying to guess which Barbie-slut would flirt with which banker (I was winning).

Meanwhile I was starting to develop sexy drunk eyes. It was involuntary yet mesmerizing. Sadly though, the sexy eyes were rendered useless on this night, since I sat here as a prop in this sleazy red and black bordello.

With Laura still stationed at the bar, I headed to the bathroom to relieve my bursting bladder. I squeezed my way towards the ladies room, when suddenly the front of my body brushed against some random dude.

I felt a sudden shiver, one that traveled straight to my baby-making region.

Could this be my valentine?

The man looked older than my usual target, late-thirties perhaps, and all decked out in a crisp grey suit. His hair was thick and black, shining bright from some dollops of gel. Like me he had a glazed set of drunken eyes, except they didn't look as sexy or inviting on him.

In fact he was extremely inviting, as he wasted little time in introducing himself: "Heyyyyyyyyyyy."

Sometimes a single word says a lot, and other times a single word releases a stream of whiskey breath.

"Hey," I replied, trying to ignore my own heavy buzz.

"What are you drinking honey?" Before I could say a word he pulled it out.

Oh God.

It was a glowing BlackBerry, and in seconds he was furiously typing. I was slightly baffled, since typing on a BlackBerry usually means there's an e-mail open. This guy was only staring at his home screen (which was a default desktop with some lilies and a bright blue sky).

So he's trying to impress me with his mobile apparatus.

Despite my drunken state, I knew it was time to leave, because the BlackBerry-bonehead was hunting for a trophy-whore. I also knew that if things didn't work for him here, he could stop off at the zoo for some "inter-species" action.

I weaseled away from the whiskey air, and from his big fat hand that now rested squarely on my shoulder, complete with a jewel-encrusted pinky ring.

Guys and pinky rings. Worse than a guy with a thick gold chain? Toss-up.

When I returned from the bathroom, I spotted a tired-looking Laura leaning on the bar. We were two wobbly girls and we'd had enough...

***

We shivered and shuffled down the street, myself on the way to the train, and Laura headed straight for the subway.

"Hey Laura, remember that time we went to New York for work?" I pushed my hands down my pockets as deep as they would go. "And we partied in that awesome club 'til four a.m., even though we had to go to training only four hours later?"

She laughed. "Yeah, I remember. And remember those guys we met? They partied with us all night long. I mean they ended up being losers in the light of day, but it was fun!"

"I know! All we had to do was stand in a room and the guys would flock. Not like tonight." I lowered my eyes to my feet.

"But tonight doesn't count Romes! Not unless you were planning to become a hooker. Trust me, every single guy winds up at a bar at some point. This was just the wrong one."

I thought about my work-friend Eleanor, and how she did so well at rounding up the guys. Maybe as a unit of three we'd be better. But then again, if I separated my wingmen I could go out twice as often and increase my chances. So I decided then and there to keep the two girls apart.

With chins buried safely in our scarves, we finally arrived at the aged façade of Union Station.

"Okay Romes, have a good night. Oh, and one last tip: buy some new shirts for going out."

New shirts?

"But what about this blouse? It has chest-enhancing qualities! Spandex, yo." I leaned against a lamppost and frowned. My tight blue shirt was the best thing my closet had to offer.

"There are tons of shirts that can do that, but if you had the chance, wouldn't you want a flattering shirt up-top that flows away from your stomach? You know, work with what you've got."

I forced a smile. "I guess that makes sense. I'll try to hit the mall this weekend." I stumbled towards the train station concourse, as Laura laughed and waved goodbye.

It's not that I minded Laura's fashion tip, but she could've waited until tomorrow to tell me. Or maybe she could've pretended to like it. Would it have killed her?

I boarded the train, feeling more and more disturbed by the second.

Honesty is good; honesty helps!...At least I think so.

With eyes closed, I leaned against the train's cold window, imagining myself in the warmth of friendly lies...

Chapter Six

I didn't have a date on this Valentine's night, and after spending the day at work listening to Amy's romantic plans, not to mention helping Eleanor choose a dress (for dinner with a brand new admirer), I was ready to fall into a food-related coma. _Too bad all the cake's gone._

My sister had told me she'd be home late from work, but I started to wonder if that really meant a Valentine's date. Theoretically it was possible, since it wasn't like we ever confided in each other on the details.

Nah, no guy with a functioning brain would ever date her.

I wanted to call Laura, but then I remembered her big Italian family. She was close with her cousins, as they'd all grown up together in Toronto's Little Italy suburb. I had no idea what being close to your family was like ( _confiding in them? Enjoying their presence? Huh?_ ), but I knew her cousins would be her company tonight. And I didn't want to get in the way.

So with no food or friends, my laptop was my saviour tonight. I propped my big pillows against the headboard, and leaned back slowly with a sigh. Next I pulled my blanket to my chest and checked my e-mail. I had a new one from John Turner. I only knew him from university and couldn't care less about him now, but like many other recipients, I was always subjected to his e-mail forwards.

Today it was a "must-see" link, for a blog he claimed was totally hilarious. The blog had even been turned into a book. _But I don't care what John likes. What does ROMI like? That's the only important question._

I moved my cursor to delete the e-mail, but stopped when I had a sudden thought: _someone landed a book deal from a blog?_

Even though blogs were an easy way to write, I'd always considered blogging as a pastime for losers who had no friends. Or teenagers with too many conflicting emotions. Or shut-ins who only left the basement when they ran out of chips.

But I do love to write, don't I?

I clicked on the link to have a look.

The blogging thing didn't seem that hard, but these average-length posts were written several times a week. Did people really have time for that? The more I read, the more I realized that bloggers could write about anything they liked. Maybe I could write about my man-search. _One Indian girl's quest to escape an arranged marriage: Year of the Chick!_

It's not like I actually believed that writing a blog would bring me any notoriety. In fact I knew there must be millions of blogs, most of which went entirely unnoticed. Even so, this felt like the perfect way to verbalize my thoughts, on a quest that was undoubtedly a turning point.

And so, while everyone else was either making sweet love, or eating loads of chocolate in the absence of love, I was opening an account in WordPress, choosing a picture for my header, and writing my very first post to the world at large.

***

After only one week of blogging, I could sense the joy of writing coming back. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was churning out the word count and having some fun. The feeling made me smile as I finished my latest post.

\----------------------------------

So maybe Mr. Whiskey-breath wasn't "the one," but I'm happy to be alone if it means avoiding men with pinky rings.

And the search carries on...

\----------------------------------

I'd already received five comments on my blog, two from fellow writers, and three from people who could only be described as "horny online men." They hadn't even seen my picture, yet still they were bold enough to flirt. But that's what made the Internet special... _don't ask, don't tell, just embrace the pleasant fantasy._

I myself was a lover of fantasies too, so when I strolled to my laptop an hour later, I smiled at the discovery of another flirty comment: "I can't believe you're single. I would scoop you up in a heartbeat."

It was signed by a fellow named Andy62, and it made me feel just a little special.

But Andy62 is probably a sixty-two-year-old rapist.

I immediately closed my laptop and prepared for bed, reminding myself not to look for any boyfriends on the web. Luckily I'd be back on the prowl the following night, since Eleanor and Amy were taking me out to a club. Eleanor knew the deejay and could get us in for free, but first we had to suffer through a work-related "shindig."

At least there'll be loads of free booze...

***

At five p.m. we trudged through the slush on our way to the pub up the street.

"I am so damn sick of these neighbourhood pubs," I whined, as I walked alongside Eleanor and Amy, with my lanky boss Todd and several others from our team up ahead.

"I know!" said Amy. "It's always the same type of pub. They can theme it English or Irish or Welsh, but it's the same velour benches and the same gross men who stare."

Eleanor nodded in agreement. "Any guy who's hot is AT LEAST four subway stops south of here."

"And it's not like we have any dateable guys in the office," added Amy.

"But you already have a boyfriend," I said. I hated hearing people share in my annoyance, when I knew for a fact they were happy.

Is that what empathy is? Then send it back.

Before I could curse her out loud, my mind flooded over with images of jerky office guys, married office guys, and recycled office man-whores. _Ugh._ Amy was definitely lucky.

Pretty soon we arrived at the pub called Delaney's, complete with rotting wooden archways and green velour upholstery.

"I don't think we've been to this one before," mentioned Eleanor, as she slowly loosened her scarf.

"No we haven't, but the grade-A clientele seems strangely familiar." I glanced at the front of the pub, which was buzzing with dirty old men, whose white heads of hair were rivaled only by the puffy white fur escaping proudly from their chests. Suddenly I felt unsettled in my cleavage-heavy top, as I cautiously unbuttoned my coat. I was definitely feeling exposed, but at least it flowed away from my body (a recent purchase after Laura's harsh critique on my shitty wardrobe).

"Hello ladies! Join us for a game of darts?" The man with the most amount of chest hair (and therefore the leader of the old-man pack) smiled through his grey and white whiskers.

Amy smiled back warmly, instantly regretting the move. We all knew why, as the man soaked up her smile like an open invitation.

"You're very beautiful, young lady. Let me buy you a beer."

"You idiot!" I whispered to Amy. "How many times have I told you? FROWN when you get propositioned!"

"I know, but it's my natural reflex to smile."

I had no real concept of this reflex, as I rationed my smiles like bags of flour in the Great Depression.

We eventually eluded the men, finding our group of tables near the back of the bar. All the while the old men's eyes stayed locked on our boobs or butts.

The first thing I noticed was the pitchers of beer at our table. The second thing I noticed was a multitude of appetizers. This was our company's way of boosting morale, a week after telling us our raises would be cancelled for the year. A retail recession was the cause, and yet the VPs had just received shiny new BlackBerrys.

Somebody needs to get punched.

As my head began to swirl with feelings of rage, I decided to cope with a one-night-only hiatus from the diet. This meant I was allowed to take a deep breath and then inhale some beer and nachos.

And a chunk of cheesy garlic bread.

And some vodka Seven-Ups.

And a plate of chicken wings.

Amy, Eleanor, and twenty other office-mates were right alongside me in this binge. By half past seven we were a buzzed and burping group.

Once we stopped to breathe and loosen our belts, Todd called for everyone's attention. I assumed it was a speech to acknowledge his minions' excellent work (and minimal reward).

"Alright everyone. Gather up the hot sauce. We're having a chug-off."

Or maybe it's not a speech after all.

Ten or so people immediately fell into the background, with the rest of the group focused solely on me.

"This is gonna be good," said an office oaf named Bruce. All giant limbs, sausage fingers and grade school level of conversation, I really abhorred the fellow.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I said.

"Well you know, you're Indian...you can handle the heat."

I wasn't sure if I should laugh, or kick the filthy ogre in his scrotum.

"Ohhh, so because I'm Indian I'm an automatic spice freak. Well go ask my mom how I cry when I eat something spicy."

Dumb-dumb scratched his head. "Well that's messed up, you're supposed to love spices."

"And you're supposed to love meat-loaf; why don't you ask your mom to whip you up a fresh batch?"

Everyone laughed. Everyone always laughed at my drunken verbal bitch-slaps, like they couldn't even sense my legitimate rage. Maybe my upward-inflecting "valley girl" voice was to blame.

The hot sauce challenge soon commenced, as Amy took center stage. With Todd, two burly guys and a wasabi-addicted Asian as her competition, she didn't stand a chance.

At the sound of "Go!" the five contestants poured the sauce down their gullets, from large red bottles that belonged to the bar. In any other bar we might've been kicked out, but here all the waitresses were cheering right along.

The winner would be the one who could chug down the sauce for the longest, without ever stopping to cry, cough, or puke.

The first to fail was boss-man Todd. _Pfft...big talker._

Next was burly fellow number-one, who only made it through about a fifth of the bottle. Burly dude number-two followed suit, with only five more seconds of chugging to his name.

Amy and wasabi-chick were still going hard, with tears welling up in the corner of Amy's eyes.

"Come on Amy!" I cried. "Your competition is WEAK! She already gagged four times!" Wasabi-chick's entourage shot me a nasty look.

Three seconds later wasabi-chick started coughing. She was done.

The bar erupted in applause for Amy, as she smiled her giant smile through red-stained teeth.

"How the hell did you do that?" I asked, as she paused to drink a giant glass of water.

"There's this Indian restaurant near my house that I go to all the time. Like three nights a week." She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

Before I could quiz her any further, my alcoholic buzz hit a high. I simply turned and stumbled away, my eyes on the hunt for Eleanor.

When I found her, she was busy describing her jogging routine to a trio of married office men. They simply nodded at her words with a glazed-over look.

"Hey El!" I called, pulling her away from the married zombies. "It's almost nine, when do you think we should leave for the club?"

Eleanor smiled with a pair of eyes that were drowning in an evening's worth of alcohol. "We'll leave at ten, sooo...another hour. Now here's a question: what's the rule for alcohol, beer before wine and you'll do just fine? 'Cause I REALLY want a glass of wine."

I thought about the rule for a moment, having no idea there was even such a rule. "Your version rhymes so it must be right!"

She turned to the bar while I glanced around the pub. The white-haired men were still playing darts (wasn't it past their bedtime?), but they definitely looked a lot drunker. Their aim was worse for one thing, and they were sweating so much their chest hairs were starting to glisten.

Eleanor returned with her wine and a happy disposition, while I remained transfixed by the men.

"Hey El, if I wanted to, I could totally get those men to fawn all over me. Right?"

Eleanor's drunken eyes quickly widened. "Well yeah, but why the hell would you? They're gross old men."

I ignored her and approached them, waiting to be addressed. _Three, two, one..._

"Hey darling, are you looking for someone to play with?" It was the man who had spoken when we'd entered the pub, the one with the thickest chest hair.

"Yes I am, but I'm not very good!" I grinned and tried to look as stupid as possible. Old Man River ate it up.

Pretty soon he was showing me all his best dart moves, while the other men tried to jockey for position.

As Eleanor drank her wine and laughed her ass off, I continued on with a sense of utter enjoyment. I had never considered myself as someone who would seek out the company of grandpas, but I was way too drunk to care about their age. All I knew was that deep inside their cataract-filled eyes, I was the "hot girl." Not the hot girl after twelve months of losing weight, but the hot girl here and now. And unlike my parents, or even unlike Laura and her fashion tips, these grandpas didn't judge.

As minutes passed I'd forgotten how long we'd been playing, but when I started feeling wrinkly hands on my shoulders, I knew it was time to go.

Before I could check my watch, my eyes focused in on the tiny wooden dance floor. An eighties rock anthem was blasting through the speakers, and everyone was singing and dancing.

What a bunch of losers!

For one or two minutes I stood on the edge of the dance floor, rolling my eyes at anyone who looked my way. By the third chorus though, everyone's enjoyment had sucked me in. I wanted to feel happy too. So I entered the crowd and let the nineteen eighties hit simply carry me away.

A little Rick Astley and some Simply Red later, Todd weaseled out of the drunken dance troupe.

"Alright guys, I have to get going. I keep forgetting I have those 'wife and children' things." He reached for his coat as I finally checked the time.

"It's one a.m.!" I exclaimed to no one in particular.

I looked around for Amy and Eleanor, finally spotting them sprawled onto one of the velour-upholstered benches.

"Guys, it's one a.m.! We were supposed to go to the club!"

Amy said nothing. She simply sat there grinning with half-open eyes.

Eleanor looked a little queasy. "Guys. GUYS! If I don't eat something in the next ten minutes I'm gonna puke."

It was painfully obvious that our dance club romp was cancelled. Maybe I shouldn't have spent all that time playing darts with senile men. Or maybe Amy should've tried to give a damn. Or maybe Eleanor shouldn't have gotten so drunk.

Looking at Eleanor's sickly face made me soften a bit.

"There's an all-night breakfast place around the corner," I suggested.

She nodded, so I rummaged around until I pulled out her coat from a pile on the floor. I wasted zero time in tossing it at her face, my quiet revenge for her less than stellar wingman behaviour.

We eventually bundled up, and stumbled to the diner a few minutes later. Eleanor's face went from green, to yellow, and back to drunken pink as she sucked down the eggs and toast. Meanwhile I swirled a slice of pancake in some syrup.

"These are the best damn pancakes that a griddle ever made."

Eleanor slowly raised her eyes from her plate. "Hey Romes, sorry we didn't make it to the club."

"It's fine, I actually had some fun!" I lied, not wanting to make things awkward in a diner at two a.m.

"I had a great time too!" Amy let out a cackle as she poured some drops of hot sauce over her eggs.

"You're an animal Amy, but you sure know how to entertain a crowd," I said. "And you know what? This was a pretty great night!" My second lie. "And you know what else? Maybe that's what life's all about; amazing times with friends you love." Lie number three. "And you know what ELSE? With good friends, who even says you need a man or stupid love?" My final lie for the night.

"Uhh...YOU said that," replied Eleanor. "Remember? The whole arranged marriage trap? Finding true love before your parents find you a stranger?"

"Oh right. I still have to do all that, don't I..."

Amy and Eleanor looked at me expectantly, waiting for my speech of determination.

But I had run out of lies for the night.

"I want another fucking pancake."

Chapter Seven

The greasy-haired Indian man waved his rum and Coke in the air, as his thick and bushy uni-brow wiggled around suggestively. This was nothing new, since every Indian girl whether hot, semi-hot or average was subjected to these uni-brow advances. The curse of unrelenting (and clueless) Indian men. On this special night I expected the advances even more, decked out as I was in my bright pink birthday dress (with matching nails and professionally-curled locks of hair).

"Is your name Parveen?" asked the uni-brow man, his voice barely audible over the music.

That's an interesting ice-breaker.

His voice betrayed an accent that suggested emigration from India in the last ten years. Not a "fresh off the boat" type of accent, but noticeable nonetheless. I wouldn't have minded the accent at all but in my experience, Indian-born men were incapable of tact in the matters of feeling horny. _Like I can SEE you staring at my boobs._

"No my name is NOT Parveen." I looked at everything but him as I tried to pick out Laura, Amy, Eleanor, or anyone else who'd been forced to attend my party.

"But you're Indian right?" His hairy-knuckled hand played with his collar, as if to woo me with the treasures that beckoned from beneath the fabric.

"Yeah I'm Indian." I sighed. _Where are the girls? Good wingmen my ass._ "But I was born in Canada, so I guess I'm a little of both." I didn't even know why I hadn't walked away yet. Perhaps it was a mix of boredom and sick curiosity.

"I KNEW you were an Indian princess!" He leaned in close. "So tell me...what village are your parents from?"

_Oh no, not the village question_. In every bar I'd been to, every dance club, every innocent daytime patio excursion, these fellows always used the Indian heritage topic as an "in." Since I knew the next step from the village question was a grab of the ass or worse, I released the vodka cocktail from my hand, sending it to the floor with a crash.

"Crap!" I said. "Now I need another drink!"

As the creepy Indian stared at the floor with his uni-brow bunched up in horror, I quietly slipped into the crowd. I soon found Eleanor and Amy on a white leather couch near the back of the club. It seemed like I was right on time, as Eleanor was passing out some shots.

"A birthday toast to Romi!" she exclaimed. "May you live to a hundred and twenty. And afford lots of plastic surgery!" She laughed and clinked her shot glass with mine.

I can drink to that.

As this latest burst of alcohol worked its way into my bloodstream, I stared at the ground and my smile slowly disappeared. _It's my birthday and I'm sulking._

Laura quickly made her way over, her blond curls bouncing in tune with her strides, and the light glinting off her sparkly blue tank top.

"Dude it's your birthday, so how come you're acting like your cat just died?"

I shook my head. "No I'm not. I'm just not feeling happy-drunk, you know?" I sighed. "But I do feel the urge to punch people, or make fun of freakish-looking babies. It's only a mood swing...right?"

I quickly reflected on the last month or so of my quest. Scenes of bar-hopping with Laura played in my head. In most of the scenes she was smothered by dudes while I frowned by the corner of the bar, sober half the time to prevent myself from becoming an alcoholic. And my excursions with Eleanor had been much the same.

It's not even a simple observation anymore. I need uglier friends.

I emerged from memory-lane as Laura put her arm around my shoulder. "Maybe you're frustrated because you don't have any prospects. And maybe you don't have any prospects because...you're kind of a bitch at the bar."

Oh really?

"Hear me out before you punch me in the face," she said.

I was pouring out venom with my eyes, but decided to give her a listen.

"Think back to our last time out. How many times did I spot you at the bar with your arms crossed? It makes you seem closed off, psychologically. Guys don't go for that."

That's funny, I never knew Laura had a Psych degree.

"I cross my arms because the guys around me are creepy."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is it that? Or could it possibly be that you're still not over Peter? This current idea of an ANCIENT Peter which is still tattooed in your brain!"

"Don't say his name! We call him the 'latte guy.'" The simple mention of his name was enough to nearly make me run away. Somewhere far where no one could find me. Like Botswana.

Suddenly Eleanor and Amy were huddled in close, enthralled by this intervention.

"Why can't you say his name?" asked Eleanor. "That's unhealthy, you know."

So now EVERYONE has a psych degree?

I folded my hands in my lap and cleared my throat. "As long as I call him 'latte guy' he's just a nice memory. But as soon as I call him 'Peter' he's an actual guy I had once, and who I don't have anymore." My eyes started watering. "And then I have to miss him."

I watched the mist form in three pairs of eyes. _Find an answer for THAT in your psychology book!_

Eleanor shook her head and stood up with a jolt. "Holy shit, it's your birthday; you cannot be depressed on your birthday! I'm getting us more shots." She wobbled away, as any guy with eyeballs ogled shamelessly at her ass in the mini-dress.

"Okay, okay." Laura was leaning over me now. "Forget about Peter and look ahead. It's only April you know."

"What difference does it make that it's April? I'm terrible at this." I wiped my eyes while envisioning Peter's dimples.

"Just try to be more open!" she insisted. "You don't have to limit it to bars but I mean everywhere. Smile at guys in the supermarket, hang out in the bookstore. And don't cross your arms anymore!"

Who smiles at guys in the supermarket?

Eleanor returned with a sexy male bartender and a tray of turquoise shots.

I smiled at him as he wished me a happy birthday. _Okay fine, it's not that hard to smile._ Those shots would lead to an additional round, and another after that, cementing the fact that this definitely wasn't one of those sober nights. And that's pretty much the way my twenty-eighth birthday kind of went...

***

My birthday evening led to a monstrous hangover, which led to Laura's words repeating in my head non-stop: " _Don't be a bitch to guys!_ "

The only single girls who could get away with "bitchy" were the ones with legs up to here and boobs out to there. With neither of those traits at my disposal, I spent the next two weeks being way more open.

For starters I approached the beefed-up dudes in the health food section of the supermarket, asking them what "whey" is all about.

Then I loitered around the men's magazines at the bookstore, which led to an exposure of three guys per cubic foot.

I even went to Home Depot in search of nails, and asked the male associate a series of nail-related queries.

All of this was only a sample from the two-week test, but the sum of my success was little more than a smile, a nod of acknowledgement, or an "Is there anything else you'd like to know about whey/nails?" follow-up.

I even went out to the bar for another night out. But just my luck, every guy I talked to had a girlfriend.

So if I couldn't meet a guy in broad daylight, and I couldn't meet a guy at a bar, what was left?

Internet-dating?

I backed my car out of the driveway and laughed, a nice loud laugh to break up the misery of my early-morning drive to the train.

If you're gonna start dating Internet-creeps, you might as well get an arranged marriage...

***

The laundry was done, the dishes were done, and the blogging was done. What next?

I thought about the quarter of vanilla layer cake that remained in the freezer, and rose from my bed to pursue it.

I didn't make it very far, since my legs turned to lead when I was halfway down the stairs. That's when I remembered that along with being open for the last couple weeks, I'd also been going to the gym. I'd even managed to jog for two additional minutes each time out. Layer cake was not worth the damage to my progress, so I brushed my teeth instead. This guaranteed my stomach it was out of cakey options for the night.

I returned to my bed and set my alarm for yet another Monday morning, and yet another damn week of being clueless in the dating scene.

The final thing to do was shut down my laptop, but not before one last narcissistic e-mail check. My narcissism was rewarded with a brand new comment on my blog, from someone named James Caldwell.

\----------------------------------

Hello Romi,

What a funny blog you have. Keep up the good work...

James, a distant fan

\----------------------------------

I sat there for a moment, as my face turned upwards in a smile I couldn't help. It was strange, because for all the comments I'd received from creepy men, no guy had ever thought to mention my sense of humour. And this one didn't even smother me with flirting.

I'm intrigued.

I could see that James Caldwell had a blog of his own, so I immediately clicked for a read.

I sat there frozen for the next five minutes. By the end my eyes were over-flowing with tears. As the tears started dripping down my cheeks, I wiped them away in disbelief. How on earth could seven hundred words about a guy's first love affect me so profoundly?

And who wrote lines like: " _When everything else has been taken away, all that's left is the truth._ "

James did!

I scrolled further down his page. " _Tomorrow is never guaranteed like yesterday always is._ "

This guy was deep.

I switched to the Personal Bio page. He was an ex-pat living in Barcelona, but I couldn't care less about the details. Not when his picture left my mouth hanging open.

In a small but close-up jpeg was a super-hot dude, against the backdrop of a bright blue sky. I was shocked to even see it, since the majority of bloggers never even published a photo. I didn't have a picture either, and it's not like I was hiding three nostrils or a giant hairy wart. It just wasn't common.

Once I moved past the idea of a picture, I was mostly shocked to see an actual writer who was sexy. Before I could fall into a state of drippy drool, I smartened up to the fact that his picture was of course a fake. And how could it not be? Sexy guys didn't have blogs, and sexy guys didn't know how to write. Even in the smallest chance that the picture was actually real, how did I know it was current? His generic blue golf shirt, short sandy hair and plain black shades were inconclusive.

Maybe it's a file photo from 1987.

Despite my doubts the truth didn't seem to matter, since his profile page was filled with comments. Most of his comments were from female bloggers, and they sure didn't mind letting loose with all the horny propositions.

I laughed at the thought of this psycho-freak, reeling in the women with his hot-ass, fake-ass picture.

Even so, I too left a flirty comment on his page, if only to compete with all the other drooling bitches.

***

The next day I checked my e-mail before even getting out of bed. To my pleasant surprise, another blog comment from James Caldwell awaited. So I danced my way to his blog and left one for him.

Yes Mr. Creepo, you have my attention.

***

Where has James Caldwell gone?

We'd been bouncing comments for days, but suddenly James had disappeared. He wasn't even posting new material.

Maybe he's dead.

Even though I knew this guy was probably a psycho, I missed his funny comments in my life.

This feels unhealthy.

I thought about it some more as I finished my healthy dessert of blueberries and a large bowl of ice cream ( _at least it's low-fat_ ). I knew I had to dig a little deeper, but I couldn't keep leaving comments on the same posts over and over.

Maybe I should send him an e-mail.

I audibly gasped at this psycho move.

Then I bounded up the stairs to do it.

I already had his e-mail address, since readers were obliged to provide it when they left me a a comment on my blog. But to actually abuse that personal information with a message?

You only live onc! Is that what stalkers and murderers say?

\----------------------------------

Hey James,

Where have you been? Your groupies are getting restless. Come back soon before we go into withdrawal ;-)

Romi

\----------------------------------

I fell asleep expecting nothing (besides a possible restraining order), so when I woke up to find a friendly e-mail from James I was thrilled.

It started off "Hello Romi," carried on with a mention of a screenplay he'd been writing ( _wow, a screenwriter?_ ), and ended with a promise to come back soon.

I sat still in bed with my hair in full morning disarray.

What's my next move?

Could I, the aspiring writer, actually ignore the screenwriter mention?

Yeah right, I'm already obsessed.

I would at least try to keep my return message brief.

\----------------------------------

Hey James,

Wow, you're a SCREENWRITER?

Now I feel embarrassed that you're reading such a novice blog. What a dream it would be to write all day long!

Okay, I'll try to stop drooling over your career choice now.

:-)

Romi

\----------------------------------

It was definitely brief, and possibly borderline obsessive.

Not ten minutes later, reply number two from James had arrived.

\----------------------------------

Hello Romi,

Well it's a tough job with great views of the Mediterranean and occasional benefits, but as they say, somebody has to do it.

J

\----------------------------------

Who IS this guy?

***

We'd been writing to each other for a week. I'd even managed to pull his birthday out of him and discovered we were opposite signs in the zodiac. This of course meant we were poised for strong attraction...or mutual disgust.

Aside from horoscopes, we talked mostly about writing and literature; they were fascinating passions for him and I alike. I eventually told him that I used to write a column in my high school publication, but I wasn't really sure what else to share. I had no writing accomplishments to my name, so maybe I was merely a loser who peaked at seventeen.

Let's just hope I can distract him from that.

Through it all I was starting to develop a crush. And yet, this Internet guy was probably a seventy-year-old grandma with lesbian tendencies.

Well let's not dwell on the details...

Chapter Eight

James Caldwell: screenwriter in Barcelona. Born and raised in the town of...

Actually, I wasn't sure.

Well he's single, that's a plus.

Wait a minute: was he even single? I hadn't thought to ask.

At least he's not old enough to be my dad.

How old was he anyway?

I had no idea, but based on his picture I'd guess early thirties.

Assuming of course that his picture was actually a portrait of the man himself. That sandy brown hair, those sun-kissed arms with the well-toned muscles, and what about those forearms? They had just the right amount of vein to catapult their way to the top of my forearm-fetish list ( _move over Daniel Craig_ ).

I shuddered at the thought of my heart racing fast for something that was probably a lie. If only I could look into those bright blue eyes to know for sure.

Or green eyes, or orange eyes. Who the hell knew? I'd only ever seen him in sunglasses.

I wondered if I reeked of it, my nervous but exhilarating Internet-crush. I could only hope it was hidden, since Laura was on her way to meet me, and it was way too early to reveal my excitement for a man who was possibly a fake.

I stirred a bit of milk into my tea, and found myself a seat at a table by the café's window. It was another Sunday evening, and not a very good one for the second week of May. Tree branches swayed back and forth from the abusive wind, and a darkened sky loomed above. Still it was Sunday, and what could be better than my Sunday evenings with Laura? We'd meet at this café for "catch-up talks," a place on the outskirts of the city, nestled by old shops that had been here for decades. It was the perfect change from a weekend of censored fun with my parents.

I took my first sip of this so-called "passion tea," which was passionately gross but little else.

A minute later Laura arrived and entered the queue, while my thoughts drifted back to the mysteries of Internet connections.

As I started to weigh the pros and cons of an Internet relationship, Laura took her seat with a steaming latte in hand. I took a whiff and it smelled like heaven. I wanted to pour it on my naked body. Or maybe just drink it.

"It's so nice to see a friendly face," I said. "So what's in the latte?" My whiffing was becoming chronic.

"It's a hazelnut latte but it's zero fat, and now they make it with sugar-free hazelnut syrup, so I saved like twenty grams of carbs!"

I stared at my tea repulsed. Sugar-free syrup? How had I never heard of sugar-free syrup? Back in the era of the latte guy, I would've been the first to hear of breakthroughs in syrup.

Laura removed her checkered Burberry scarf and folded it onto her lap. "So what's the latest in Romi-land?"

I wanted to tell her that a boyfriend was in the works (even if James didn't know it yet), but at the moment he was more like a character from "The Sims" computer game.

Instead I would focus on healthy living, the second favourite topic after "boy talk."

"Well with all the jogging I've lost four pounds but my mom says she doesn't see a difference." I rolled my eyes. "And she still hasn't stopped about this voodoo weight-loss crap. She insists that I meet with a 'special' doctor." I scowled. "But who wants to drink a green smoothie made of monkey heads? Nuh-uh, I will skip all that voodoo shit."

She laughed. "Monkey heads? I'm pretty sure what you call voodoo is what the rest of the world calls a nutritionist. Dumbass."

"'Nutritionist' is not even a real profession."

"Yes it is!"

I sighed. "Oh sweet Laura, adding an 'ist' to something doesn't make it a profession. And if it does then screw nutrition; I wanna be a cakeist."

Laura sipped her latte with widened eyes. "You're insane."

Insane? Or had I just deflected the attention off of me?

Score one for Romi the genius.

"So Laura, what's new with YOU?"

"Well...there's this guy."

I raised my eyebrows in genuine interest. "There's a guy and I've never even heard of him?"

"Oh you've heard of him. Sort of. Remember Mark?"

This was getting juicier by the second.

"You mean Mark as in your brother's best friend?"

She frowned and started rubbing her temples. "Yes."

"Well how the hell did this happen?"

"You know how sometimes my brother and I run into each other at the clubs?"

I nodded.

"Well it happened again last night. Mark and I were chilling at the bar, which was the first time we'd ever really talked without my brother close by. And...we really hit it off." She smiled.

"That's great!"

"Not really. Mark kept darting his eyes like he was scared we'd be seen. Let's face it, nothing can ever happen." She pulled at one of her blond curls in frustration.

"I don't really get it though," I said. "It's not like your brother was planning to date him instead."

"Very funny."

I considered her quandary for a moment. If Laura was chasing a "conflict of interest" dude, why couldn't I chase an Internet guy? I just needed more information on James Caldwell. _But back to Laura first..._

I drummed my fingers against the table. "Well...he may be off-limits according to your scary Italian brother...but let's remember a more important fact: how long have you been single? A year? And we know there's an obvious attraction, so don't write it off just yet."

I could see I was getting through to her. _Just a little bit more..._

"When will you see him next?" I added.

"At my brother's birthday party. It's in a couple weeks."

"Well your brother's gonna be way too drunk to know what's going on, so it's the perfect opportunity. Just make sure your dress is a jaw-dropper."

Laura smiled as she imagined this magical dress, and we soon switched the conversation to one of her bitchy co-workers. All along, the Internet guy never strayed too far from my mind...

***

As I pulled my car into the driveway that night, I was faced with a troubling thought:

-Doesn't James care that he knows not a thing about my looks? Does he even think about my looks? His life can't be all screenplays and exotic parties, can it? CAN IT?

For all James knew I was a white-haired grandpa with Internet skills. And even though his picture was likely a fake, at least I knew the age-range he was posing as.

And yet he'd never once asked about me. His lack of inquisition could only mean the following:

1. I am simply a pleasurable e-mail "buzz," and he has no intention of taking it any further

Or

2. He's gay

From what I knew, he was a physically fit male in a form-fitting T-shirt. Not to mention a sensitive writer.

Oh my god, I'm crushing on a gay dude.

With my head held low from the obvious failure of my cyber "gaydar," I walked into the house and trudged upstairs, wanting nothing to do with my inbox.

Despite my elective decision for e-mail "de-tox," I still turned on my laptop as I changed into my PJ's. And I still signed into my e-mail. Who was in control of my body right now?

The narcissist.

I wasn't expecting any e-mails from gay James Caldwell, especially because it was my turn to answer his latest. But what was I even supposed to write in response, when I'd asked him what the toughest thing about writing was, and he'd calmly answered "Writing in a language other than English."

Still bug-eyed by the talent of my gay boyfriend, I was surprised to see his name featured boldly in my inbox.

Two e-mails in one day?

\----------------------------------

Hello Roms.

Just on my way out to dinner and had a passing thought, or a question to be exact.

Did you ever have any second thoughts about putting your name to your blog? I know I didn't, then again, I couldn't think of anything worthwhile to call mine...but I must confess, I've been overwhelmed with readers suddenly wanting to befriend me on Facebook of all places.

Perhaps using my own name wasn't such a good idea after all.

What's your experience?

J

\----------------------------------

My heart started racing a mile a minute. _I have a nickname now? But that's not how you spell it! And why is he mentioning Facebook all of a sudden?_

He had searched me...because he wanted to see my picture... _because he's NOT gay!_

Unfortunately for him, my private profile didn't answer any questions at all. Even my picture was hidden from the average stalker. Feeling quite stalkerish myself, I searched his name in Facebook.

Why didn't I think of this before?

Only one James Caldwell came up, with the same familiar picture I'd stared at a hundred times. The rest of his profile was private.

Damn.

Without another thought I hit reply.

\----------------------------------

Hey James,

My blog is coming along okay. And thanks for the tip on speaking from what's inside. Right now what's inside is my affinity towards the male figure, but you'll know what I mean when you see my next post! :-)

As for Facebook I haven't had the problem you describe, but now I'm afraid. Let's just hope no one finds out where I live and hatchets me to bits!

Romi

\----------------------------------

So maybe it wasn't the subtle move of a pro.

Oh well, if he wants to see my picture, he'll make the next move.

I hugged my flannel-wearing knees up to my chest and tried to calm myself. As if in-person encounters weren't confusing enough, now I had to deal with all these words on a screen? Maybe this road was inevitable for me, and hadn't I heard story after story of people finding love on the 'Net?

The mysterious part was trumped by a growing concern. I suddenly realized how accessible I was. Why did I ever use my name in the URL? It was an amateur move, and all I could hope was that my parents didn't learn how to "Google."

It was almost eight o' clock in my time zone, which meant that James was long asleep so I didn't have to sit by the screen.

I headed downstairs to warm up some of Mom's famous cooking. Tonight I decided on her chickpeas in gravy or "channa," paired with a freshly buttered naan I heated up on the stove. I sucked down the meal in minutes, and licked all the butter off my fingers when I was done.

I'm on a diet but I'm still human.

Twenty minutes later I was back in my room, ready for some Sunday night blogging. I switched off my e-mail to concentrate, and in a trance started typing like a demon on speed:

\----------------------------------

Whatever happened to the glory of man, in all his rugged nakedness?

I'm not too sure, but when it comes to art and anatomy, all I hear about is women. I don't deny the beauty that is smooth and curvy "woman," but I certainly have my limits (such is the curse of being "hetero").

And that brings me to men...manly men.

\----------------------------------

I continued typing for half an hour straight. By the time I was finished expressing my love for art (that's all it was), I instinctively opened my e-mail.

And that's when I saw it again.

James had written me back.

But it's half past three a.m. in Barcelona!

I excitedly clicked on the message:

\-------------------------------------

Hello Roms,

Then I will leave it to you to connect us on Facebook...if you are not against such a thing, of course.

J

\--------------------------------------

Even when he wanted something, he came out of it looking cool. How did he do that? Maybe he was really Daniel Craig, but with a different name and picture to stay anonymous.

Because yeah, Daniel Craig likes to blog on the side.

I would certainly add him as a friend, but a much more important task lay before me first; I had to comb through all my pics and delete every one that wasn't hot.

I scrutinized picture after picture, deleting any image with the slightest hint of a flaw.

A speck of a zit? _Delete._

A slightly oily forehead? _Delete._

Any angle that revealed a semblance of a double chin? _Delete!_

And on the flip side: any angle that created the illusion of bigger boobs? _Keep, keep, keep!_

By the time I was finished it was half past ten, and I'd gone from my original two hundred and sixty photos, right down to forty-three. I crossed my fingers as I sent him a "friend request."

Please don't think I'm gross!

I brushed my teeth and soon drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a world where he'd find my face agreeable.

***

The next morning I awoke to five new e-mails. Three of them were comments from last night's blog post ( _yeah, as if I care right now_ ), and one was a "friend acceptance" from James ( _hooray!_ ).

A final e-mail was written by the man himself.

I opened his e-mail first.

\----------------------------------

Good morning Roms.

Nice to see we are "friends" now.

Enjoy your day.

J

\----------------------------------

I beamed with delight, and my smile cracked the patches of dried-up drool that were covering my cheeks.

Before I could hop, skip and dance my way to the bathroom, I suddenly remembered Facebook, and the fact that I could now view his profile.

My stomach switched the dial to "eeek!" as I nervously clicked on his page.

I sighed with relief at his "single" relationship status.

Then I saw his five hundred friends, which was another big sigh of relief. Hopefully some would serve as character witnesses later in our "online relationship."

And the best part of all? His picture was not a fake!

He was everything his first picture claimed, with a sparkling pair of blue eyes to boot!

I could see all this from photos he'd posted of his nights in Barcelona, and trips to all of Spain's most popular beaches. I smiled as I clicked from picture to picture, soaking in his sexy appearance.

By the tenth picture, my smile transformed into a neutral purse of the lips _. Is that girl just his friend? What's with his arm around her shoulder?_

By the twentieth picture I was squirming in bed. _Are there THAT many beach babes in Spain?_ By the thirty-sixth and final picture, I was frozen in disbelief.

I closed my laptop and tried to erase the images from my mind, but how could I? Some hot friends here, a bunch of bikini-clad bombshells there, it was culture shock of the cruelest kind. I lived in Canada, where not only did the average-looking girls outnumber the hotties, but where six months of the year we didn't worry as much about our abs or legs or asses. We were too busy sporting our thick denim and puffy winter coats.

I felt like I was going to be sick, but I didn't like the thought of mixing any vomit with my morning breath. So I forced it down and rose to brush my teeth.

Feeling zero desire for food of any kind, I went straight from the bathroom to bed, and back to my dangerous laptop.

I clicked through his pictures again, as masochism took its hold. Had he no ugly friends? And why did the appearance of female friends out-number the males? And were those girls even only his friends? There was a hidden desire in those glitter-coated eyes, I could sense it. And did he really have to frequent all those bunny-laden beaches? Couldn't he just get a spray tan and call it a day?

I left for work with no real answers to go on, and only a vague recollection that I'd woke up with a beaming smile...

Chapter Nine

On the train in to work I closed my eyes tight and tried to take a nap. Too bad for me I remained wide-awake, as I couldn't stop obsessing over James's local hottie surroundings. But was I even surprised? As if he'd willingly go where the "uglies" were at. Not that unfortunate-looking women were confined to certain places. Well maybe the library.

My brain wasn't even making sense anymore, for goodness sake I loved the library! It was all his fault for leaving me with so many questions.

MEN!

When I finally arrived at the office, an e-mail to James was the first thing I wrote:

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Hey James,

Nice pictures! You sure seem to run with a hottie social circle ;-)

Romi

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The "wink" in my message was only for show. I was angry. It was crazy to feel all this rage towards a guy I'd only e-mailed for a couple of weeks. Even crazier was that my emotions fake or real were confined to concrete words and typed-out winks.

Who even "winks" in real life? That would be the creepiest shit ever!

I twirled a strand of hair ferociously between my fingers, almost enjoying the pain.

Before ever drawing any blood from my scalp, I released the hair as his e-mail response rolled in.

Well that was fast.

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Hello Roms,

That's a small bite of the Catalonian spirit that breathes through this city, you should taste it one day. Moving to this city was an easy decision I can assure you.

How is Canada today? Still covered in a blanket of snow?

Warmest regards,

J

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My stomach rolled around in my body three times. I felt wretched, and then I felt wretched for feeling wretched.

I did not like being the lowly street rat in this tale of two Internet hearts. _And NO it's not still winter in Canada, and NO I'm not jealous!_

To top it all off, did he have to sound so smart and proper in all his e-mails? It was attractive of course, but not when it made my e-mails sound like ghetto-trash. How did he even get so distinguished-sounding? Probably all that time spent writing screenplays. _Ohhh, you're so fancy!_

I needed a good comeback response. Perhaps I could drop in a line that made fun of Spain, so he would feel like a loser for living there.

What was in Spain anyway? Sexy dancing. Awesome food. Beautiful weather...

DAMMIT!

I tried something different by Googling "Why Spain sucks."

Most of the responses were in Spanish (so Spaniards hated Spain?), or focused on the theme of why Spain "doesn't" suck.

You've failed me, Google!

Throughout the day I read his e-mail many more times, hoping it would sprout some ideas. On the tenth read, I heard a voice that made me jump in my chair.

"Well, well, well, what's going on over here? Sending personal e-mails at work?"

I let out a gasp as my boss Todd hovered right above me.

I turned with a reddened set of ears but composure in my voice. "You know how it is boss, I'm a popular gal."

"You? Popular? Don't make me laugh. Who the hell's James?"

Todd leaned in closer, trying to read off the screen.

"Stop reading it, loser!" I closed down the page as quickly as I could. "It's no one. And besides, is it wrong to have some friendly male correspondence? It doesn't always have to be romance."

"Who said anything about romance? I'm more concerned about stalking. Like I'm worried for the guy you're stalking in that e-mail. Seriously Romer, don't harass people on the Internet, it'll get you into trouble."

"I am NOT a stalker! Anyway he's just a friend. Mild acquaintance more like." I couldn't look Todd in the eye, and he noticed.

"Dude...oh no. This is not some guy you met on the Internet is it? Are you 'cyber-dating'? Because I'll tell you right now, whoever he is, add thirty years and a criminal record."

"What? Cyber-dating? Me? I may be single but I'm not desperate. HAHAHA. HAHAHAHAHA."

Was he buying it?

Todd cocked his head and eyed me strangely.

"Alright," he said. "Time to get the critters from daycare. Now don't be a loser and work 'till five o' clock or anything."

"Yeah, like I'm gonna work 'till five for YOU."

Todd smiled and shuffled away, with my psycho-cyber-cover still in tact.

As soon as he was gone I packed up my belongings too.

Time to help Laura find the perfect dress, and time to admit I have an Internet problem.

***

I browsed through the aisles of Tiffany and Co., my face all aglow from the light bouncing off the pretty jewels. I was totally entranced by the engagement rings, but it was less an ancient demand that floated in my head (drilled inside by modern society, bridal magazines and girly competition), and more an obsession with the meaning of it all. To think that a man, any man, would spend so much money on a piece of rock, to tell her she was his for good. Did guys really do that? What an incredible feeling it would be, to no longer fear getting dumped.

"Would you like to try one on?"

I jumped at the sound of the Tiffany's associate, and his surprisingly friendly voice. Why would he even ask?

Maybe I looked like a classy girl with a wealthy boyfriend. And why not? I was wearing a pink and satiny shirt that tied in the front with a puffy bow (one of my recent purchases, after Laura once told me I dress like a bag of shit... _a girl never forgets_ ). I looked like money, it was true.

I stood frozen as I stared at the elf-like associate, with his delicate gestures and disturbingly small hands.

Finally I answered. "Uhh...no. I, I, I..." I wasn't really sure why my mouth seized up, but all I could do was gurgle with a wide-eyed freak-girl expression. What I wanted to say was that a girl who hasn't dated in two (and a half) long years shouldn't be trying on twenty-thousand-dollar engagement rings. But it wasn't my favourite conversation.

The Tiffany's elf looked disturbed and glided away, with Laura quickly taking his place.

"So are you ready to be my very own personal shopper?"

"Absolutely. Bring on the skanky-dress stores!" I laughed and patted her on the shoulder.

"You need to shut the hell up. But...we will be visiting the skanky-dress stores."

And off we went, to find my friend something sexy with a dash of smut.

***

"I am NOT comfortable with this. It shows all the curves of my ass!"

I rolled my eyes. "When will you learn that the curves of your ass drive all the men wild? And it's pink. And it's a halter dress. Hot arms, hot shoulders, hot ass, what's the problem?"

Laura was on dress number twenty at the seventh store we'd visited. I was tired, but I still understood her need for the perfect look.

"I'm scared that it shows too much!"

"Okay, let's just clarify your goals a bit. On a scale of 'one to provocateur' how provocative do you really wanna look?"

"Umm....six?"

"Only a six?" I shook my head. "Well now I have a whole new vision in mind. Let's hit up the Guess Store next." Laura changed back into her navy blue suit as I considered my secret plot. The Guess Store was at the opposite end of the mall, so as we made our way down there I would bring up the Internet guy.

We walked through the mall inhaling the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon buns (that our diets wouldn't ever let us eat). The calming smell made it feel like the perfect time to talk.

"So Laura, I need some advice...about a guy."

"OH MY GOSH YOU MET A GUY?" Everyone around us turned to have a look. None of those looks were from sexy men who wanted a piece of me. Mostly just from grannies, or from teenage boys with oily T-zones.

"First of all quiet down," I whispered. "And secondly, it's a little more tricky than that."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! Tell me everything."

We now walked along at a slower pace, while my heart on the other hand quickened its beat.

"Well, I came across him a month ago, and we've been...corresponding regularly. For basically the last two weeks."

"What do you mean by 'corresponding'?"

"Well you know..." I took a quick breath. "E-mail."

Laura snapped her head back, in a "possessed by a demon" kind of way. "Wait a minute. How did you meet him? Like online dating? Who is he anyway? What do you really know? And also...what the hell are you doing?"

"ALL valid questions. He's this guy I met through my blog. He's a writer too, actually a screenwriter. So you know, that's a major plus point." My voice grew quicker as I tried to justify it all. "He's also really clever. Oh, and really hot. I know the hot part is true because we're friends now on Facebook. Plus he has lots of Facebook friends, who all seem fine with his title of 'screenwriter.' Which means he's totally telling the truth!" I looked at her and smiled.

Please don't think I'm a psycho!

"Okay...but what comes next after flirting? Are you guys gonna date? Like don't you have to MEET him to date? And where does he even live?"

I squinted my eyes for this one: "Right now he's living far away. In Barcelona."

A few seconds passed before she finally spoke. "Okay...I don't really know what to say to that."

"Trust me neither do I. Like this hot writer guy just fell into my life. And it's not like we're dating of course. But it's every day, this constant contact."

"Right..."

"And I ask myself...why? Especially now when I can see just how vibrant his life really is. Like trust me, his friends and I mean female friends are smokin'. Or who even knows if they're only friends? Aren't Europeans supposed to be slutty? And if the pictures are any clue, he goes to the beaches all the time. And that doesn't even include the topless ones!" I sighed and dropped my ass on the nearest bench.

Laura sat down next to me and waited 'til I met her gaze. "Dude, why are you freaking out?"

I pulled at the puffy satin bow of my shirt. "I'm just not sure why he's talking to me. He has everything he needs in his three-dimensional life."

"Well first of all stop being so emotional. And secondly you've had a pen pal for a couple of weeks. That's it. Don't you need to get a little further before you start to act all psycho?"

She had a point. I would usually wait a bit longer before "obsession-mode."

"Why don't you guys start chatting online?" she suggested.

"NO." I shook my head. "I'm actually glad we haven't done that. Like if I'm going all crazy just from e-mails and pictures, can you imagine how I'd be if I saw him online and he didn't respond?"

"Right, you're way too crazy for that. Then you guys need to talk on the phone."

The blood rushed straight to my cheeks. "The phone? But that's so...relationshipy."

"What are you, twelve years old? Talking on the phone is NOT a relationship. And besides, what if he has a high-pitched voice like Mike Tyson? You need to figure all that out before you go any further. But he's got a good start with the sexy accent. He's Spanish right?"

"Actually no. He's an ex-pat living in Spain. So just American I guess." I sighed. "But yeah, I hope he doesn't sound like Tyson. Anyway this all sounds great, but there's one problem left: how do I bring up the phone chat? That's a huge step from e-mail."

Laura laughed and rolled her eyes. "God you are such an amateur. Why don't you just wait a day or two before you answer his e-mail? Trust me, once you throw the routine off he'll be begging for your attention. You guys will be talking on the phone in no time."

Diabolical!

"But most of all," she continued. "Promise me you'll be careful, and don't make any sudden plans to meet. This is still the Internet, you know."

I put my arm around Laura and smiled. "Thank you. And I promise, he's only a fun distraction. I'm just killing time!"

We resumed our stroll with the truth explained, minus one itty-bitty lie. I wasn't just killing time, I was already feeling a million different things, positioning myself to get completely screwed over.

Would I?

A few seconds later we were standing in the Guess Store, and a few minutes after that, Laura was holding a mauve-coloured dress against her frame, with a skirt that flowed away from her hips. As soon as she tried on the halter-top dress, it dissolved any fears relating to her curvy ass. _Mission accomplishe_ d.

***

After heeding Laura's advice and ignoring James's e-mail, the next morning I was welcomed with a message.

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Hello Roms,

It has gone rather quiet at your end, I guess you are busy with work or whatever else it is you do. Did you know I have never been to Canada?

I have travelled through so many countries in my life and yet Canada was never one of them, isn't that funny?

Back to work for me. Don't be a stranger.

J

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Unlike the morning before, the smile on my face could not be wiped away by a sickening discovery. I was appeased, enchanted, and wildly attracted to this man.

I needed to keep the thread going.

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Hey James,

Thanks for your e-mail.

If you haven't been to Canada I can say you're missing out. It doesn't snow all the time and some of us are even pretty fun!

Anyway I'm off to work and then maybe another blog post tonight. I hope I can come up with something; it's just hard to write about a man-quest that isn't so full of...men. Ha.

Good luck with writing, hope you get a lot accomplished today.

Romi

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He answered immediately.

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Hello Roms,

Well that's a tough one regarding your blog. Usually the stories are right next to you, but it requires a good hard look.

If you'd like a bit of help, send me your number and perhaps we can brainstorm a little.

Kind regards,

J

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Did I dream it?

No, it was real. But life was never this good to me, unless it wanted something in return...

***

After a week of grappling with time zones, my train schedule and the inconvenient presence of my sister, I was ready for the call.

My sister was on her way out to dinner, and when I finally heard her go down the stairs (and away from the paper-thin wall that kept our bedrooms apart), I assumed the dialing position. Maybe I was being overly cautious, but as much as my sister and I hid our partying behaviour from our parents, we were mutually untrusting in matters of the heart. As far as I knew, she'd never had a boyfriend and neither had I. And we kept it that way. Maybe we both knew the existence of a boyfriend was the very best blackmail should it ever be required. So why take the risk?

Without telling James a thing about my spying sister, I asked for his number and told him I would make the call instead. Hopefully he wouldn't find that weird.

The phone card kept slipping in my hand, so slimy it was from being crushed by my sweaty palm. Was I really this nervous? With more than enough experience in long-distance phone chats, I should've dialed his number with confidence. But with each added digit my saliva production dropped.

So dry.

When I finally put the phone to my ear, the stomach churns began.

Holy crap, he's going to hear my voice.

"RING."

Holy crap, I'm going to hear HIS voice.

"RING."

What if he sounds like Mike Tyson?

"CLICK."

Chapter Ten

Minutes must've passed as I sat there on the floor, leaning against the bed with my heart pounding fast. But really it was only a second and then I heard his voice.

"James Caldwell."

I tried to gasp but my lungs were stripped of air. Meanwhile my stomach dropped to the floor, falling through the basement, even further through the dirt, and finally landing with a thud on the earth's core.

It was his accent. A deep-voiced, perfectly enunciated English accent.

Like Jude Law live on the air.

Say something, say ANYTHING!

"Hi...it's me. Romi. From Canada."

Yeah, real smooth.

"Hello Roms. How are you?" His voice was making me melt. The conversation hadn't even begun and I was already in dire need of a towel.

But wait a second...Roms? Like "moms"? _It's "Romes" dumbass!_ It was a first offense so I let it slide.

"Fine thanks," I said. "You took a while to answer. I thought you might've fallen asleep."

No he didn't take a long time, it was only two rings; WHAT AM I DOING?!

"Yes well, it is past midnight here. But then again it's Barcelona. I rarely get to bed very early."

_Oh right, your sexy and exciting life._ Feeling annoyed seemed to instantly calm my nerves.

"Well your voice is a surprise," I said. "I assumed you'd be American."

"No 'fraid not. All English all the way."

I was drooling by now. "English!" I mumbled it strangely, which may have made it sound like a question.

"Yes English," he repeated. "As in the Queen and Buckingham Palace, red buses and black taxis, fish and chips and David Beckham... although I am not quite sure why I just put those two together."

"But you live in Spain?" I had to buy some time to compose myself. _Just keep him talking._

"Well I grew up in Wiltshire, which is South West England...by the way your voice is somewhat amusing."

I winced and shook my head. "Oh god, do I sound like a pre-pubescent boy? I have this insane fear of sounding like a boy in recordings and over the phone...not that I'm in the habit of being in recordings but...you know what I mean."

What the hell was I talking about?

James laughed gently. "No you don't sound like a pre-pubescent boy for which I am enormously grateful. The Internet is a strange place, you never really know who is on the other end but you...you just sound bubbly and innocent, which is quite a relief I can tell you."

Boy does somebody have it wrong!

"You've read my blog James; I'm neither bubbly nor innocent. Just a little crazy perhaps."

Sure, tell him you're crazy in the first conversation. Guys love that.

"That's true," he said, his voice momentarily crackling as the telephone connection fizzled.

"So can you tell me a bit more about your life as a screenwriter?" I asked. "It's hard to get information out of e-mails. I practically have to beat the details out of you!" I started laughing. Then quickly began to wonder if he actually thought I was abusive.

"Wasn't the point of this conversation to talk about your writing instead?"

"I know, but we need to warm things up. You go first."

Yeah, you keep talking with that luscious accent.

"Alright..." he began, "well for one thing it's very easy to become distracted out here. Blue skies, blue seas, great food, great wine..." he trailed off.

And hot Spanish chicks damn you!

"I'm guessing it's great for inspiration?"

"Oh indeed that it is," he said warmly. "Imagine starting your day with the sun on the terrace, a few sheets of blank paper and a strong black coffee. Simply magnificent, can you picture that?"

Umm no.

At that moment I looked out my bedroom window, and the beige brick wall of our neighbour's house looked back.

"Wow, that sounds so beautiful," I said.

Is that all you can think of to say?

"A light breeze in the air," he continued, "the smell of the ocean sweeping over you, a few soft pastries with freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast, and the morning sun heating up your skin all the while. Are you with me?"

Yeah I'm with you, and the thought of soft pastries is making me drool. Damn diet!

"Oh yes, I'm right there. I mean come on, pastries!"

Great, now he knew I was a sugar-happy pig. Was there a way to hit rewind and start this conversation from the top?

"We'll get back to the pastries later," he said. "But tell me - are you a smoker?"

What? Don't burst my Mediterranean bubble with some random question! I want pastries and sun and Barcelona! Sigh...

"No. I don't smoke and never have."

What a strange thing to ask. Unless he was screening my mouth for a possible make-out.

I had so many questions to ask him, so I grabbed one at random from my list. "Hey James...how old are you? I hope it's not rude to ask, but I'm wondering if you're secretly a miracle of science, who's like a hundred years old but only looks thirty."

"I look thirty? Well I'm flattered. But no, I'm thirty-seven, turning thirty-eight in a few short months. Does that answer your question Roms? Is age important to you?"

"Romes," I said between gritted teeth.

"Excuse me?"

"It's Romes, not Roms."

"But your name is Romi," he said, with a typical English air that instantly made me picture Hugh Grant.

"It's pronounced 'Romey,' like 'homey' or umm...'Pony.' Not like 'mommy'!"

"Mommy? Excuse me?" He chuckled. "Err I think I catch your drift on the name now...anyway where were we?"

"You were asking if age was important to me."

"Ah yes, well is it?"

I sighed.

"No not at all," I said, now biting my lip hard. _Like when you're hot and you have that accent, what else do I need to know?_ "Your age is hardly relevant, I mean look at George Clooney, almost fifty and still a heartthrob, how do you men do it?"

"Just chalk it up to a good diet, lots of sea air and healthy living," he said, breathing in deeply before adding "the Mediterranean way."

_Isn't the "Mediterranean way" copious amounts of sex and olive oil?_ I opened my mouth to speak but luckily found the brakes.

"That's good!" I exclaimed. My answers were dissolving into two-syllable affairs. Was I under a spell? Why couldn't I sound cool?

"So listen," he said. "What do you do for a real job - anything exciting? Glamorous perhaps? All red carpets and champagne parties in the snow?"

I was suddenly smiling...if only he knew. Vodka was extremely familiar, but champagne in my world rarely went beyond the five-dollar variety, bottled in an obscure country I had never heard of. So how would I explain my utterly mind-numbing corporate job? It would lead us nowhere but a dead-end street. So of course I grabbed his mention of the weather and started running...

***

"Hey James, can I ask you something?" We'd been talking for a while now, and at some point I had sprawled out on the carpet and was flat on my back.

"You can ask any question you want. I might not have the answer, but you can certainly ask the question." I could feel him smiling as he spoke.

Always the cute comeback with this dude.

I moved my left arm from behind my head, resting it now on my stomach. "Well I was just wondering, don't you think it's odd how we're talking on the phone like this? I mean we're in different countries, different time zones, different everything I guess... "

James interrupted and finished the thought. "But despite all the differences...we have this common bond of writing."

_Did he just say "bond"? As in me and him, fused together 'til the end of time?_ My cheeks were burning hot as I blushed.

"Roms you just reminded me..." he paused but I cut him off swiftly.

"Romes! It's Romes."

"Right, gotcha.. anyway look we were to talk about your writing tonight. And suddenly it's one a.m."

"Oh right, that pesky time-zone thing." I frowned.

"Of course we'll speak again," he said. "But before I go, maybe a quick mention about your blog."

All my brain heard was "of course we'll speak again." _Hallelujah!_

"Go ahead I'm listening." _Sure I'm listening, just give me a sec to wipe away the drool as I envision our second call._

"Well part of what makes blogs attractive to read on a regular basis," he began, "is a form of consistency or a common thread. For you I would focus on: complementing your background colour with your header, keeping your word-count in the same range for every post, and writing on a schedule so readers know when to check in. Maybe twice a week would work for you."

I had a feeling that my eyes were spinning around in that crazy, infatuated way. I had never in my life heard a man talk about my writing. If there was a form of Viagra designed for Romi, this would be it.

"So your thoughts on these suggestions?" he asked.

Oh shit, I should probably say a word or two.

"They're great, I'll get started right away!" Could I have sounded any more like a cheerleader? _Repulsive_.

"I am glad to hear it," he said. "We'll discuss things in greater detail during our next conversation. But for now I should get to bed if that's alright with you."

Of course that's not alright with me! We should talk all night until the sun rises, then fall gently asleep with the phone cradled on our shoulders and a trail of drool on my chin!

"I keep forgetting it's so late!" I exclaimed. "Of course you need your sleep."

"Indeed, but let me say that I'll be the one to call you next time. These calls must be expensive for you."

You can't call me, I've got privacy issues man!

"Oh it's fine," I said hurriedly. "It's like two cents a minute, and you really don't want my sister answering the phone. That's the last thing you need...interrogation by the Bollywood Mafia."

I tried to laugh it off.

"Right-o, fair enough," he said. "I won't argue with that."

Hell no you won't.

"Anyway it was nice talking to you James."

"It was nice talking to you too Roms."

"You're not coping too well with my name, are you?"

James laughed.

"Bye Romi."

AND??? Don't leave me hanging without any romance!

The line started beeping.

Did he just hang up? Was that goodbye? Where is the romance?

I grabbed the phone and started dialing again, convinced that we had lost our connection. Whilst dialing I rolled over and tried to stand up, but my leg was asleep so instead I staggered across the carpet like a drunken idiot, the phone flying right from my hand. I groaned out loud. Not the ending I had envisioned.

I would need at least three hours to analyze the call. What I knew off the bat was that despite being total strangers he was so familiar. But in another way so mysterious. He also seemed to know what I was thinking. Meanwhile I had zero intuition on his thoughts. Yet every second was...pure exhilaration.

It was a strange and surprising mix.

What I knew for sure was I wanted more and I wanted it often.

Does that sound slutty?

What I didn't know for sure was how this fit into the "year of the chick." In fact, it didn't really fit at all, since back on that night when I'd been checking on the rice and forming my twelve-month plan, I'd promised myself to exclude any dangerous foreigners. Which meant I now was on the edge of breaking the biggest rule.

Well too damn bad 'cause I want more...

Chapter Eleven

The next morning at work the conversation with James was fresh in my mind, but not in a very good way. The more I played it back the more negative it became. I couldn't deny the "Jude Law" richness of his voice, or the chuckle that could melt a million hearts, but did I even say more than ten intelligible words? I was so unprepared for the voice on the other end, since I'd been free of English accents for two whole years. _And it's not like THAT ended well_. But then he spoke, and of course, I choked. Almost everything I'd said was a variation of "great," "yes," or "that sounds cool!" A talking toy doll would've had more things to say.

Since I clearly didn't have a lot of high-points to share, I minimized the details in my morning call with Laura. I could sense she was stressed out anyway, with her brother's birthday party and the chance to be with Mark only three days away.

Once I finished the call with Laura I resumed my latest blog post. It was the best distraction besides actual work, and the last time I'd checked "actual work" contained zero satisfaction.

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Every night it's the same. I'm in the car, I roll to a stop at a traffic light, and I cross my fingers...hoping to find a man.

I've been playing this game forever, with the following fantasy stuck in my head:

-I turn to the car on my left (or right), and at that very moment, I lock horny eyes with the man of my dreams. As my innards come to a boil, "Sexual Healing" begins to play on the radio.

But here's how it goes in actual life:

-I lock horny eyes with a no-nonsense "soccer mom"...or a greasy teenage dude...or a thin-moustached pedophile. I abruptly turn away, stupid as I feel for getting pre-maturely horny.

And now, here's my question to the lovely men:

-WHERE ARE YOU? Do you take the bus? Do you not leave the house? Just quit your hiding please, 'cause really, I'm not crazy! (But I WILL find you, one way or another...)

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In reality, of course I wouldn't find Mr. Right in a nearby vehicle. Not when he was across the Atlantic Ocean. As my cursor hit "Publish" I felt a wave of satisfaction. At the beginning the blogging had only been a reason to write. But three months later with the comments building up, I no longer felt like a crazy person writing to myself. I felt like people were actually listening.

***

I was glad to be wrong about James finding me boring, changing his phone number, and moving to Greenland via the witness protection program. I mean I must've been at least okay at this phone call thing, since we were currently fifteen minutes into our latest conversation. I'd even had some interesting things to say, though his accent continued to be a loin-rumbling distraction.

I needed to ask him if he'd ever recorded audio books. They could be about anything at all and I would listen; football, colonoscopies, my sister...

"Roms, you are still listening to me, aren't you?"

"It's Romes!"

"Did you ever consider I might enjoy calling you 'Roms?'"

"No."

"Well I do," he said laughing.

Did you ever consider this is MY world, and the only people who dare call me "Roms" instead of "Romes" are those at a distance? In which category...you currently fall...damn.

He wasn't finished.

"Well anyway you let me know if I'm boring you, I know I can ramble at the best of times. Here I am talking about the beautiful Catalonian beaches that lay waiting at my doorstep, and you barely have a word to say."

So maybe I was right all along; he though I was a twit with no original thoughts.

"Trust me James I find it very interesting. Going to the beach just isn't something I do, for a couple of reasons."

"Reasons such as...?"

_Oh great, now I have to explain...next stop crazy-town._ I clutched my pillow tighter as I lay in bed, hoping I could hold it together.

"Well for the first thing I'm not a very good swimmer, and I'm not a very good swimmer because my parents were not very good swimmers. I don't think my parents have ever worn bathing suits, and if I ever saw them wearing such attire I would cry."

And you said I don't have anything to say. Pfft.

He laughed. "Well I suppose that is a fairly good reason."

I nodded to myself. "Trust me it's a big one, and it sort of brings me to the second reason." I covered my mouth as soon as I said it. The train was now headed for crazy-town, was there any way to stop while he still found me semi-normal?

"Now what would that second reason be?" he asked. "Or should I guess?"

"It's just that...well..." The sweat was beginning to gather on my forehead. _Just get it over with._ "I just don't like being around a bunch of people so exposed. And I also don't like having to stare at all those bodies. Because in most cases...the human body in its many forms, is gross."

There. Next stop, full on psych-evaluation.

"I'm not quite sure I follow you." He paused. "Are you telling me Canada only has nude beaches? That might be a cause for concern of course."

I burst into laughter. "No, thank God! As if I'd parade around like that. I choose my clothing carefully for a reason." I whispered the last part. "To hide all the flaws!"

"Flaws? Thank goodness you didn't say 'claws,' you had me slightly worried for a second. Look I'll only say this: find me the most perfect person on the planet and I am very sure they also believe they have flaws. We all do, it's just part of who we are and I can assure you, you don't seem very flawed in your photos online."

I could feel myself blushing, but I didn't want to dwell on his compliment and ruin it. "Thanks. Anyway the beaches here aren't nude, but to see all those ages and body shapes strutting their stuff? All those tattoos and unsavoury angles on full display? It creeps me out."

"Ah, so you confess to not having any tattoos then?" he asked.

"That's right sir I am tattoo-free. Are you disappointed?" I turned on my side in bed and looked behind me, imagining what it would be like to have a tramp-stamp. It would have to be pretty big to make a mark. _Well at least I'm wide enough to carry a fetus._

"I'm not disappointed at all," he replied. "I am just not really a tattoo kind of person, if you know what I mean. But I did once date an Italian woman who had a couple in the most peculiar of places. Or three if I remember correctly, and not all available for public viewing."

"Oh." Once I uttered that word, every speck of air escaped from my mouth. I had nothing else to say, as my mind raced with images of adventurous sexual exploits with James and his tattooed lover.

Kill me!

"So what did you do today?" he asked.

_Thank God!_ I was relieved with his change of subject, which was sure to be free of tattooed Italian porn stars.

"Me? Ummm...nothing of importance what about you?"

Wow, Time Magazine should do a piece on my wildly exciting life.

"Well I've been working my fingers to the bone on a new TV series, and with a deadline looming this coming week, I have a feeling I will be late with it." He paused. "But creativity can't be forced, right?"

"Right!" I said strongly, though not really sure at all.

"But I will tell you a secret," he said softly, as if someone might be listening. "I hate writing for television, there is simply no art to it. It's chewed up, spat out and forgotten the next day. Films however, ah yes, films are where the real romance to writing lies, and next week I'm starting up a new script, on spec."

"On spec – wow!" What the heck did "on spec" mean?

"Should be a lot of fun, I'm looking forward to it."

"Well thank you for the window into your writing world. You could talk like this for hours and I'd listen." I stretched my toes and smiled.

"Well there aren't any hours left for me tonight," he said. "It's already two a.m. But I must say it was fun to learn about your beach phobia..."

I laughed. "Hey! You weaseled it out of me. You writers and all your questions. And thanks for kicking off with some writing advice this time. It's so easy to get distracted with you."

"No problem. And you better run for cover, as I still have one more question."

I sat up a little straighter. _He wants to know if I'm in love with him? Affirmative!_ "Well ask away before I steal any more of your sleep."

"I was just wondering if we should perhaps make our next chat a Saturday one? I don't know about you but this time-zone gap is a little bit jarring for mid-week. With a weekend conversation we could start much earlier. Don't you think?"

_He wants a SATURDAY chat?_ The weekend flexibility made a lot more sense, but how would I tell him I went home to my parents every weekend? That they controlled my life in a way no travelling dreamer could ever understand?

I couldn't, so I lied. "I'd love a Saturday chat...but there's a family reunion this weekend. You know how it is. All samosas and noisy relatives." I laughed. _A family reunion? Does anyone_ _even_ _have those anymore?_ "How about Tuesday instead?" I was almost certain my sister would be late that night.

"Tuesday should work, but let's try the weekend another time then," he said.

"Sure!"

"Okay it's late. Good night Romi."

"Sweet dreams James."

From the second I shut off the phone I was filled with worry. His sexy accent and romantic existence seemed a distant memory now. All I could see was that sooner or later, I'd have to let him know about my sheltered loser-life.

***

With Saturday (and my fake reunion) well underway, I thought about James and how I was supposed to be caressing my phone to the sound of his dreamy voice. I'd essentially turned him down, and was worried he might retaliate...in a wild and drunken partying kind of way. But was he really a partying guy? All I had as evidence was a handful of photos.

The combination of guilt and uncertainty stayed with me during dinner that night. I had little reaction to the family conversation... _Sorry what's that? My second cousin got engaged, and she's only twenty-two? And the guy is a wealthy engineer? That's interesting...no wait: I don't give a shit._

The apathy broke when a new and scary topic came about.

"But we never re-modeled the kitchen. How can we get a good price?" My mother spoke the words with her token disdain.

"Don't worry. The market is doing well here," said my father. "The hard part is finding a good house in Toronto. And we still have to sell the girls' house too. That's a lot of work!"

My sister and I jerked our heads in the direction of my father.

My sister spoke first, with a look of pure childlike fear: "You're selling this house?"

"YES we are selling this house," he said. "How long did you think we would stay here, with you girls living so far away?"

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_. That was my sister's response, through a hollow expression and eyes googled out to their extremity. I was having the exact same reaction, along with the lettuce that would not go down, as it rolled in my mouth like rubber.

"And Sonny will be finished school by the end of August," added Mother. "After that, we can all come to Toronto." My mother finished off with a smirk; it was almost like she knew she was killing our bad-girl party.

"It will probably take until January," Dad explained. "To sell two houses, and find a new one that your mother doesn't hate." He chuckled to himself as he wiped a grain of rice from the table.

_January?_ The death of my social pursuits lined up perfectly with my deadline to find a man. So if I couldn't meet, enrapture, and get engaged to James by January (while I still had the freedom to gallivant), I'd be locked in a dungeon and sold to the highest bidder (or any bidder, as long as he fit the racial profile).

"What about your jobs?" asked my sister, with the deepest concern for their careers I'd ever heard.

"Hmph! We work in government services," answered Mother. "Our jobs go with us."

Dammit, they had a comeback for everything.

"Don't worry about our jobs," my father stated. "Worry about your future. All you need is a boy from a good family."

This conversation was exasperating. All the while my brother tried to stifle his chuckles. What was he so happy about? The idea of watching his sisters' lives go up in flames? Well...probably.

While he sat there amused, I steamed at the idea of being a shut-in again. It reminded me of rules from the teenage years, ones that would soon take effect on a permanent basis. Like the rule where I was banned from going to the movies with my friends ("Go with your brother and sister! They're the only friends you need. And I don't trust those Canadians. They do drugs!")

Yeah, this is gonna get ugly.

That night I lay in bed wide-awake for a while, my thoughts undefined but coloured by an overall gloom. At half past one I finally shifted, turning my gaze towards the blinking laptop.

Oops, did I forget to turn it off?

James was still asleep, but for the last couple of nights I'd been sending him funny messages, or "dream mails" as I liked to call them. I was all out of funnies tonight, so I turned back around, robbing the keyboard of its nightly grope.

Oh James. How do I get you to marry me?

The rational part of my brain should've punched out any "marriage musings," but they passed right through with ease. That's what tended to happen when the "rational" part of one's brain barely made up ten percent. The rest of me knew this heartthrob writer could have any woman he wanted in Spain. But instead he was spending time with a freak like me, online and in phone calls at least. That had to mean something, didn't it? But then again, what if we met and he hated something physical about me? Like the way I smile, or how my ass seems so much bigger when you're standing right behind it?

It was a risky proposition, but if James factored into my quest to find a man, I had to meet him (and I had to do it soon). By the second visit a proposal would be ideal, and then we could break the news to my parents.

I can't be placed on a marriage website if I'm already engaged!

Of course, my parents would still hate his guts for not being Indian. But a kind man? A good earner? It could be worse.

Yes, just get engaged moron! How hard can it be?

I changed my mind, and sent some e-mail funnies after all.

\----------------------------------

Hey James,

FYI: I can see into your dream. My only questions are: what is Scarlett Johansson doing there? And why aren't you wearing any swim trunks?

You disappoint me.

;-)

Romi

\----------------------------------

I turned out the light with the hope of meeting up with him in dreamland, for some laughs and a whole lot more.

***

With Tuesday evening here and my sister staying late for a conference call at work (or for whatever she was doing, it's not like she would ever tell me), I was ready for my favourite voice.

"James Caldwell."

My smile went from normal to giant. "Hi James, it's me." Was I allowed to say "it's me" without my name yet? Or was that a boyfriend/girlfriend type of thing? "So how's Barcelona tonight?"

"Tonight it is far too beautiful to sit indoors, which is why I am out on the terrace, soaking up the warm sea breeze. The culture is so vibrant and it really comes alive at night. A cold gin and tonic, a few olives and I could write here until sunrise."

Olives? Excuse me while I gag.

"That sounds beautiful!" I said.

"So tell me about the girl behind the blog, tell me about you, tell me about your last relationship."

_Uh oh_. This was not my kind of question. What was I supposed to do? This was the moment to either lie or tell him the truth. It was a big truth, since my blog had never specified just how long I'd been a dateless wonder.

I couldn't think of a lie, so I stalled.

"Why would you even wanna know? I'm just some freak on the other end of the phone."

I was suddenly a mix of emotions. Mostly a split between nervous and "loserish."

"Oh just curious," he said, giving nothing away in his voice.

"Fair enough," I said, without really answering. I let the silence hang between us for a moment. "Let's just say me and relationships don't have the best track record, you know what I mean? In fact," I said, grabbing at any word I could find, "me and relationships are kind of like peanut butter and...and...( _what doesn't go with peanut butter, dammit?_ ) olives!"

"Peanut butter and olives?"

"Yes peanut butter and olives, exactly. And also, I fall hard and fast, or not at all. Which means the frequency and longevity of my male encounters is... umm...below average."

"What?" he said clearly confused.

"Great." I exhaled loudly. "So what about you?"

"Did you actually just answer my question?" he said laughing. I could hear him sipping gently from his glass, the ice cubes clinking together. No doubt a bowl of black and green olives sitting next to him Why did he have such a perfect life? Sitting around drinking long cocktails and going to exotic parties in beautiful places with gorgeous people.

Who does he think he is – James Bond?

"Roms? Hello? You still there?"

"Where else would I be?" I said, ignoring the fact he had just got my name wrong again. _Just busy trying to hop into your world via daydream._ "So do you ever get vacation and stuff?" I asked, quickly moving on to a safer subject. _As in a vacation to Canada._ I could suddenly hear that damn drink jiggling around again.

He laughed. "My life is kind of like a vacation, wouldn't you agree? But seriously though, I tend to write in blocks and it depends on what I am working on. I usually take a six-week break after completing an intense project like a film or similar."

"Uh-huh," I said nodding. _Should I be writing all this down?_

"In fact I've planned a break in June."

June? But that's so soon!

"Speaking of which," he continued, "I won't be around much from this weekend as I'm off to Italy for a while. Hopefully the sprawling piazzas and blue-green waters will be good for inspiration. This film isn't going to write itself." He sighed. "I have padded out the ideas but I need to make some headway with it."

Okay, so maybe it won't be a visit in June.

The mention of his script switched my busy brain straight into writing-mode. I could never get enough of hearing his writing stories, or travel stories, or anything stories. A single strand of his hair was more exciting than my whole life.

By the time our conversation ended, I felt like we had reached a new plateau. _We're just two compatible souls who happen to be apart. But how do we get together?_

The pressure of meeting was clouded by a more immediate truth. The one where I couldn't even speak to him on weekends.

Lucky for me he was headed to Italy, which gave me plenty of time to stall.

***

The next few weeks hummed along in a blissful manner. James e-mailed me often while in Italy, which really kept me company with Laura also away (off in France, enjoying a vacation with her cousins).

But with all those nights staying in, Amy and Eleanor started to wonder what was up. Wasn't I looking for a guy after all? I was, but now I had an Internet one.

So after nearly three weeks of changing the subject, I told them the story as I'd once told Laura. Only this time it was full of encouraging highlights.

As I shared each important detail that day, I could almost see a flicker of pity in their eyes. It surprised me. Didn't they know how lucky I was? I'd even shown them some pictures of his face and bulging muscles. Were they blind? Maybe they just couldn't see the possibility of love by unconventional means ( _The Internet: not just for pervs anymore!_ )

When I told the same news to Todd (because I couldn't hide my joy from work-dad Todd), he had a totally different reaction: "I'm gonna screen him the second he gets here. I also know some people in Europe. Do you want me to send them to Barcelona? To scope this freak-show out?"

I assured all of them this guy was for real, so in the end they could only wish me luck. And they did, but those looks of concern stuck around.

What's their problem?

***

On a hot and humid Monday evening, I turned the car into my street, only to find my father's van in the driveway.

What the hell is HE doing here? And why after work? I'm supposed to call James in ten minutes!

I was already nervous about calling James, since he was back from Italy and sure to bring up weekend chatting again. But a surprise visit from my parents? Nothing good could come from this.

I quietly opened the door, and looked down the hall to find my parents at the kitchen table, papers scattered everywhere.

Wait a minute. Are those real estate papers?

But that would mean they'd found a new house already, six months before the January estimate.

Impossible.

But anything is possible when it's something bad...

Chapter Twelve

I entered the kitchen with a cautious set of baby steps.

Those are not real estate contracts on the table. They are not, they are not, THEY ARE NOT.

"Romi, come in here and sign these contracts!"

Goddammit!

I was five feet away from the kitchen table, but I didn't move another inch. My thoughts were a bit of a blur, but I knew if I stood there frozen, I wouldn't be able to reach far enough to grab the pen. Which meant I wouldn't be able to sign the forms, which meant that everything in life would stay the same.

"Come in here," my father repeated, as he straightened the collar of his shirt. "You have to sign these forms in seven different places." His voice was leaving traces of annoyance in the air. "And did you even hear us when you walked inside? We sold our house back home! And we found the perfect house over here!" His annoyance disappeared, to be replaced with boyish glee.

"And it's huge!" exclaimed my mother as she giggled. Since when did my mother giggle?

I had never seen my parents as happy as they seemed right now. So why did I feel like I had thirty days to live?

Do I even HAVE thirty days to live?

It was best to hear the facts, so I dropped my big satchel on the hardwood floor, and moved towards the kitchen just an inch at a time. "How did you sell the house so fast?" I was getting too close to the contracts now, so I slowly inched back.

"Someone came to see our house a few days ago," said my father, as he folded the corners of the pages I needed to sign. "And they loved it so much, they made an offer on the spot. And their mortgage was approved this morning!" He looked up and smiled at my stoic face.

"What about this house you bought? I haven't even seen it and you already decided? And how can you afford a new house, you haven't even sold THIS house!" I raised my hands at these walls, these walls that had enabled so much drunken misbehavior.

"What is there to decide? It's big, it has a beautiful yard, and it's in a quiet neighbourhood. I couldn't believe it was still for sale. A miracle!"

If by miracle he meant a horrifying twist of fate.

"And remember, you girls better help with the mortgage payments!" My mother narrowed her eyes as she looked my way. Was she staring at my face or the dollar sign in front of it?

"Yes, and that's why you girls have to co-sign the contract." My dad grabbed the shiny brass pen and stabbed the air in my direction. "Go ahead, sign!"

At the risk of painting the kitchen walls with vomit, I opened the fridge and pretended to look for a drink. The instant cool-off helped, but I still hadn't asked the ultimate question that would seal my fate (or coffin).

"So...when are we moving?" My face was now deep inside the fridge, to hide myself in case I started weeping.

"Our buyer wants us out by August fifteenth," said my father. "So two more months!"

So it wasn't thirty days until the death of my soul, but a much more forgiving sixty-one. Was there some poison in this fridge that I could take?

"What are you doing in the fridge?" said my mother.

I'd had my head inside the fridge for ages, and for some odd reason I was clutching a carton of eggs.

"Nothing!" I closed the fridge and sped right out of the kitchen.

"Romi, SIGN the papers!"

"Can't I change out of my work clothes first?" I thudded up the stairs like a petulant child.

Once in my room I paced back and forth and tried to cry. The tears would help me clear my head, and maybe help me figure out a way to get my James...and keep him.

Oh shit, James!

I looked at my watch and pictured him waiting by the phone at half past midnight. I was supposed to call fifteen minutes ago!

There was no way to call him now or even later, since my parents wouldn't leave without my sister's name signed in blood.

So I sent him an e-mail instead.

\----------------------------------

Hey James,

Sorry I didn't call, but I just walked through the door and I'm really beat. This long commute weighs me down sometimes. Can I call you in a couple of nights?

Sorry again,

Romi

\----------------------------------

I hit "send" in a blur then took a little moment to breathe. I hated lying to James, but I couldn't explain the truth in an e-mail.

My bigger problem now was a soul-crushing stack of papers. I changed into a T-shirt and some cotton pajama pants. _Airy clothing is best in the face of torture._ Then I made the ominous descent to the kitchen.

I thought about staging a revolt, and saying things really loudly the way Mel Gibson did in "Braveheart." But what would I even say?

I didn't have a plan, I didn't have a script...I didn't even have one Oscar-worthy line. So I signed all seven times.

Me and my parents, under one roof in two short months.

It was two hours later and I still couldn't picture it. I tried to relax my brain as I took a long sip of spicy chai. It was my mother's after-dinner specialty for guests, but I guess she was feeling like tonight deserved it too.

As I took the last sip I heard the front door slam. _Welcome to Hell, big sis._

She was home from another fake meeting I suppose, and she took in the news with a bit of a lively reaction. Like appalled mixed with intermittent anger.

I wanted to tell her "resistance is futile" but she had this "you can't make me" expression, like a greasy toddler who doesn't want a bath.

None of her questions even made a dent. Not when my parents were totally blinded. And I still didn't know what this stupid house even looked like.

A half an hour later my sister let it go, embracing defeat with her signature emblazoned on seven different pages. All the while she looked like she was waiting to explode. Like she was trying to hold in...a secret?

My eyes opened wide once I'd figured it out. She had a dude! I'd never really given it a lot of thought, but how else would I explain her frequent nights out? I mean today it was nine o' clock, but what about the nights until midnight or half past two?

As my parents at last left our place for a late drive home, I asked it: "So tell me right now: do you have a dude?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeahhh, sure I do. Now back the fuck off."

I knew well enough not to press it any further (we had a history of getting into "slap fights"), but the truth was pretty clear. She totally had a dude. If only she'd shared this earlier, maybe we could've collaborated.

But did it really matter now?

We'd been solitary siblings from the start, and now it was much too late. _Live alone, die alone. With sixty-one days left to live..._

***

The next day at work was reclusive and low in productivity. James had agreed to a phone call for the following night, but what kind of talk would it really be? How would he feel when I told him that in eight short weeks, we wouldn't even talk at all?

I needed advice, and I already knew it wouldn't come in the form of work friends. Eleanor and Amy had their eyes full of worry, and I wasn't in the mood to prove them right.

Which was why I needed Laura. She was back from France and back on track with Mark, after getting more acquainted on her brother's birthday night.

As for she and I? We were back to getting drinks and catching up.

***

I collapsed into a chair on a beautiful restaurant patio in Toronto's richest neighbourhood. There were potted plants, comfy leather chairs and the sweetest summer breeze flowing in and out of trees for a constant pleasing rustle.

The fancy meals were definitely out of my price range. But a drink with a friend? That I could do.

Even if our talk was bound to get heavy from her serious advice, at least it could start out fun. Especially here, where everyone was so good-looking.

_Oh hello...who's that?_ A man in a Ralph Lauren golf shirt and crisp-looking khakis immediately caught my eye. As he paid the bill and rose from his chair, I let out a tiny gasp.

I can totally see his package!

Yes, those pants had definitely been to the tailor ("Just the crotchal region please. Take them in a few inches all around"). Or maybe they hadn't seen a tailor at all. Maybe he was simply a walking bag of...

Hey, where'd he go?

Mr. Package disappeared as a pink-tank-topped Laura and her curls swept into view.

"Hey!" I said, feeling rather flush but managing a smile. "Nice tan by the way. So how's your precious Mark?"

Laura didn't flash her big smile. She simply stared.

"Uhh...are you okay dude?" I said.

"The Mark thing is done." The rage in her voice was about to bubble over.

I sat there in silence for a moment, my eyes saying _"What the hell?"_ and my mind thinking _"Dammit, this means I won't get to focus on ME!"_ This was tragic, but I wasn't a total asshole. So it was time to step it up and be a friend.

"How do you go from absolute bliss to this?" I asked. "Please explain."

"Well here's the short version: we were talking online last night with a webcam. I thought he was being sweet. Until..."

"Until what?" What could go wrong with a webcam talk? It was better than voice alone, though in my case I was glad James hadn't brought it up. Because A: I liked wearing PJ's, and B: I didn't like that I was still several workouts short of my new and improved toned look. Not to mention the camera would add ten pounds. _I don't think so._

I suddenly realized that Laura hadn't answered my question. It was hard to keep track with my thoughts running wild. _I guess I AM an asshole-friend after all._

"Until WHAT?" I repeated.

She stared at her lap as she spoke. "Until he stood up, unzipped his pants, and showed me his raging boner."

Excuse me?

Before I could react our waiter arrived, to deliver the frozen mango cocktails I'd ordered earlier.

I smiled and ushered him away. Then I started laughing. And laughing.

I couldn't believe I'd almost fallen for that.

"Was that your punch line?" I asked. "You're hilarious!"

I swallowed up my giggles when Laura's stony face didn't move (only now she looked ready to strangle me).

A boner on a webcam? Seriously?

"Wow sorry," I said. "I think I was in shock. But why were you guys even using a webcam? You only live forty minutes apart!"

"I know, but since we're keeping our encounters secret from my brother, we're sort of easing into meeting up. Or were." She sighed. "I didn't even want to use a webcam. We were talking on the phone just fine, but he kept on begging me to come online. He wanted to show me something special. Well now I know what THAT was."

I couldn't help but shudder, and it wasn't from the chill of the cocktail. "God, that's disgusting. But do you think you maybe somehow transitioned to the topic of his wiener? Maybe he thought you had given him a signal?"

I winced as I waited for Laura's bitch slap, though like any good friend I was simply playing devil's advocate.

"Uhh...NO. There wasn't any signal, because I'm pretty sure I'm not a 'ho! I mean yeah we flirted at the party, but to go from flirting to that? That's his boner on the Internet!"

Wow, and I thought I had problems.

I took a long sip of the slushy cocktail. "That's awful. So what exactly did you say?"

"I basically called him a sick twisted pig. Then he was all like 'So, I guess I screwed up my chances with you.' Uhh...YEAH, I think you did!"

"I still can't believe he's your brother's best friend. Like why is your brother best friends with a pervert?" I rubbed my bare arms which now had goose bumps from the icy drink, trying all the while to keep my mind off of Internet boners.

"Oh please, do you really think guys sit around and share that stuff? Like: 'Hey, what weird pervert shit did you do last night?' No, they only tell each other when they've scored." She took the straw out of her drink and started chugging it from the glass.

Damn.

"Or maybe he DOES know Mark's a pervert," I suggested. "Which is why he'll kill him if he dates you!"

Laura frowned as she gazed at a couple passing by. "No, he'll kill anyone who dates me. Which is crazy since my parents are just waiting for me to find a boyfriend! God, they're all working against each other. But who's even working for LAURA?"

I smiled. "Well I'M working for Laura. I'm just sorry I have nothing to show for it yet." I finally saw a smile creep across her face. "Seriously though, today's like the day of the dicks or something."

"What?" Her face appeared suddenly confused.

"Oh...never mind." I decided to save the Mr. Package story for a rainy day. "But really, are you okay? I mean besides all of that?"

"I guess. But I think I'll stay off guys for a while. So what about you...how's James?" She clasped her hands together and tried to smile. "Every time you text me you mention another phone call. It sounds like things are progressing." Laura's weak smile became a little bigger.

Okay, here we go.

"Actually it's great. I mean after the initial flirting, he's revealed himself as this rich writing soul who makes me feel like I can do things I was too afraid to even dream about." I sighed.

"Wow...that sounds pretty great." Laura was still smiling but it looked a little forced.

"But..." I began, "there's a problem. My parents just bought a house in town. So me and my sister are moving back in with them...in eight weeks." I watched her eyes widen and continued. "And James has no clue I'm an overgrown infant who's completely controlled by her parents. And even if he keeps in touch and makes a visit someday, I'll be on some ridiculous curfew."

I was all out of breath so I took another sip of my drink, feeling grateful for frozen vodka and exotic fruit.

"Wow. Shit. Well let's be positive and assume he'll understand. And let's assume he visits you too."

It sounded like a full-of-crap theory but I nodded.

"You could just lie to your parents, right?" She slowly nodded. "Like tell them there's an office function, and you have to stay out late?"

I shook my head. "I doubt it. They see no reason why I'd be anywhere past ten o' clock. But why even worry about that now? I doubt he'll stay in touch once the phone calls are off the table." I frowned.

"Oh Romes."

"Maybe I should end it? Before I start to care too much?"

Oh please, as if I'm not already too obsessed.

"Well the way I see it now, with or without your parents he lives in Barcelona. What I mean is...either way you're kind of screwed."

I frowned. "What kind of stupid advice is that?"

Laura's blue eyes were ready to shoot some daggers.

"Sorry," I quickly said. "I know you've had a bad day. But seriously, what the hell do you mean?"

"What I mean is you have nothing to lose! You never knew if it would work out anyway! So tell him the truth about your family. Just wait and see what he says."

"Can you tell him for me?"

She laughed. "Shut up. Just remember to live in the moment. Whatever happens you have benefited from this contact. Seize the day!"

Laura used a few more familiar quotes to get me back to good, and from there we transitioned into cherry martinis for the rest of the night.

And from that drunken night came a sober one. On this one I was poised to share some very crucial news: _Hey James, I wear a diaper and my mom chews my food before I eat it. Do you still want to stay in touch?_

Chapter Thirteen

I counted the strokes as I brushed my hair. It was a method of distraction like counting sheep, though I wasn't allowed to pass out. Instead I was killing time until my phone call with James in six minutes.

No, make that five minutes.

After twenty-six strokes I flung the hairbrush across the room. What next? I stared into the oval mirror again, and straightened out my bright pink top. It was work appropriate but almost not, as there was definitely some cleavage action. It was also a little fitted which was fine, because I'd lost a big five pounds after all.

Since I liked the shirt (and the accompanying tight black office pants which encased my ass like honeydew melons), I decided not to change into my PJ's. I actually needed to look good, for the exact same reason I'd been brushing my hair:

Nerves.

Telling James the truth was a frightening pursuit. Which meant I needed to feel as confident as possible.

For me, confidence didn't come from the inside out. It came from the outside, and stayed there. It occurred to me in that moment, that I should never give advice to teenage girls: "That's right girls, skip some meals and show your cleavage!"

I dialed his number slowly, trying very hard to remember Laura's words: _"You guys were probably screwed anyway, just live in the moment!"_

Right.

"James Caldwell."

Hi James Caldwell, please don't chuck me!

"Hi it's me," I said. "I love how you answer the phone by the way, it's so proper."

I was nervous all over but I prayed he wouldn't hear it in my voice.

"Well how do YOU answer the phone?" he asked, sounding slightly amused. "Do you shout out 'Yo'! or something else distinctly urban? Do people even say 'Yo' in Canada?"

"They sure do, it's one syllable and therefore highly efficicent. But I just say 'Hi this is Romi.'" _Oh yeah, I'm just a big ol' ball of captivating tonight!_

"Of course you do," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

I didn't answer. My thoughts were far away from his words. I needed to get to the point before this conversation did its usual loops over the Mediterranean. Somewhere along the way though, Laura's "attitude adjustment" had fallen from a gaping hole in my brain. All I could think was this guy had a million options, and the option of "me" couldn't possibly be a good one. A fact that I needed him to know.

"James, there's something I've been meaning to tell you. I'll start by saying I'm not married, I don't have a boyfriend, and I wasn't born a man." It was good to get the basics cleared up. "The truth is though," I continued, "you somehow found me in this vast expanse of cyberspace, but what you found is a lot more complicated than you think."

"I'm sorry, but I don't really know what you're talking about," he said. "I enjoy our conversations, so what's the problem?"

"But that's the thing!" I exclaimed. "The problem is it won't continue."

Silence.

I stopped coming up with ways to drag it out. "My family is psychotic."

"Hmm...yes I do remember that description from your blog," he said.

I couldn't help but smile, and it helped calm the crazies in my brain. "Yes, that's them! They're not that bad when they live an hour away. In eight weeks though, I'll be moving back in with them. And unfortunately, they are not the type who would approve of me having endless chats with unauthorized fellows on the other side of the world."

I banged my head against the headboard repeatedly. _Loser! Loser! Loser!_

"Ah, I see," he said. "I guess we will just have to stay in touch via e-mail...if you still want to. Or I could just call you during your lunch break, when needed, on your cell phone. You do have a cell phone don't you?"

He'd done it again! How did something so simple slip right past me?

"Of course I have a cell phone, duh!" I shook my head. "That was going to be my second suggestion." _Of course it was._

"Right, well there you go then. Problem solved."

I suddenly felt the world lifted off my shoulders. I'd convinced myself this talk would end horribly, yet he easily smoothed it out with his rational sensibilities. I wondered what it was like to have your default button set to "logic" versus "psycho."

Men are so weird.

The conversation was over before it had even begun, but this time I didn't care.

Things are looking up...

***

I was squished on the train and the air conditioner was broken, on this sweltering mid-July day. To top it all off we were stuck between the first and second stations. On any other day my brain would've been screaming profanities. And how could I forget the aroma of people's body odour? On a day like this I'd normally be wishing to have a Michael-Jackson "disappearing nose." On this day, however, I felt an overwhelming sense of calm...contentment even. I pictured myself arriving home, writing another blog post, stopping for a healthy dinner, and working on some brainstorm activity for the novel loosely based on my blog (which I'd bounce off of James of course).

Life simply seemed a little more worthwhile, yet I was not even one inch closer in my quest to find a man.

Or at least not in three-dimensional terms.

***

I popped a grape into my mouth (yes, I now ate fruit on a regular basis) and started to type my next blog post.

\----------------------------------

Let me start by saying I am all in favour of girlfriends wearing flannel pajamas. Here's why:

-Flannel pajamas are loose and roomy, which is perfect for romantic engagement. Translation: the naughty bits are easily accessible

-Flannel pajamas are soft, and I'm pretty sure that softness is synonymous with sensuality (or at least they both start with "s"...)

-Even if sex is not on the agenda, flannel pajamas are a welcome addition to the girlfriend/boyfriend bed. Why, you ask? Because they're "cuddle-licious"! Like even if a dude is NOT a big cuddler by nature, the fuzziness of flannel is irresistible to him. It's akin to being back in his mother's womb, and since ninety-percent of guys have that latent "I wanna date my mom" tendency anyway, you really can't go wrong...

\----------------------------------

I downed a few more grapes and fully understood what James had meant in a recent conversation. Half of the search for love was discovering what you liked and what you wanted. And if James didn't want me in flannel, we were going to have a problem...

***

This was one hot summer I wouldn't soon forget. My room swelled with heat even with the air conditioner on. Which was why it was best to lay on the vent as I spoke to James.

"It's getting late," he said. "I've set my alarm early so I can work on my script."

"Well that's my cue to hang up and call the next guy." I laughed.

"Right," he said. "Well I don't want to keep you." _Clearly that joke didn't land._ "Oh before I go, I should tell you I've planned out when my schedule will open up."

Suddenly the vent with its cold air blasting was not enough to keep me cool. "Oh?"

"Yes, it looks like it will be October. And I was thinking I'd never been to Canada, so it might be time for a visit."

I lay there frozen and blind, my eyes having popped out of my head.

I suddenly came back to life. "Yes! I second that idea." A clown smile was now fully plastered on my face.

"It's only an idea right now but let's see where it leads."

I didn't hear a word. All I knew was that James was coming to Canada.

Chapter Fourteen

"Do you need another box?" My dad's muffled voice was somewhere between the garage and the basement.

"I need THREE more boxes!" I surveyed my room, which was now a disaster thanks to "Moving Day." It was the room I'd grown up in from the ages of eight to twenty-three, and now it was littered with long-forgotten crap.

As I rolled up some sweaters in a ball and piled them in an empty corner, my phone started vibrating...from somewhere.

It buzzed again and I finally found it, hiding underneath a tie-dyed T-shirt from 1993 ( _was tie-dye even cool in 1993?_ ).

It was a text message from Laura: " **Coffee date with Dave was great! Dinner tmrw, I'll e-mail you my top 3 outfit picks. Eeek! xo** "

I smiled at the thought of Laura and an actual gentleman. At least he seemed like one since he hadn't yet whipped out his schlong. _It's a start!_

I had very high hopes for this Dave character. It had less to do with him, and more to do with fate. My little Laura, who'd only been off guys for five short weeks, had randomly met sexy Dave at the gym. Yes, it was the fate of the gym gods for her...and the fate of the Internet gods for me.

I glanced at the clock and it was already half past five. Had I actually been packing for three straight hours? Yet I'd only taped a single box.

I waded through some old pajamas and right past my laptop too. It was not the right time to be e-mailing James, since it was Saturday night and he was probably out with his friends.

Not that I'm jealous anymore. He's mine.

Still it was odd, that as I trudged through my lame-o days he was six hours forward, living out the hot summer nights in Barcelona.

But I'm NOT jealous.

I hadn't heard James's voice in a week and a half. I'd been too busy driving back and forth from one house to the next, loading and unloading heavy boxes.

At least my upper arms aren't flabby anymore.

Despite the gap, the memories from our talks kept me eager and inspired. Each time we spoke he'd drill some more creative ideas in my head. From brainstorms to storyboards to free-form writing sprints, I couldn't believe I'd started out as a nervous first-time blogger. By now the idea of writing a novel seemed no harder than losing some extra flab: time, effort, determination and sacrifice.

And maybe some "slimming tea," with side-effects no one likes to talk about.

Even though James had the world figured out, it's not like our talks didn't benefit him as well. In each conversation I was sure to make him laugh, and how many times did the hot Spanish babes make him laugh? _Exactly._

I heard a light thud outside my door. The drop-off of more cardboard boxes.

My dad opened the door and surveyed the disaster. "I only had two more boxes," he said. "Put the rest of your stuff in a garbage bag. Or just throw it out. Why do you even have so much? Half of it's from ten years ago."

As my dad shuffled away I gazed around the room and could see he had a point.

Like why do I still have my "period jeans"?

I held up the jeans that had once been my go-to pair. All slim-fit and high-waisted, I'd been rockin' these at age fifteen. But when a red-ink pen exploded in the front right pocket, everyone thought I'd had a "period mishap." My parents never bought me a replacement pair, so my style became defined by big untucked T-shirts and jeans with a hidden red stain.

Once I tossed the "period jeans" in the "donate" bag, the pile of yearbooks found me next. _Well these I have to keep._ I regarded these as teenage time capsules, and one day I would show them to my interracial children (the ones that would sprout from my Indian eggs and James's white-boy seed).

That's right you kids, look at mommy in ninth grade, with her braces and thick eyebrows.

Or maybe not.

I tossed away the first yearbook, and grabbed one from 1999.

Yes children, this is mommy at age sixteen. She doesn't have boobs yet but her moustache is coming in nicely.

And to think I walked around like that and tried to meet guys.

I grabbed the next yearbook, because it had to have been better at age seventeen.

Yes children, look at mommy and her thin, misshapen, practically missing eyebrows. She finally started to pluck!

My yearbooks were dangerously close to being tossed in the garbage pile, but luckily I uncovered the final one:

-Senior year

I knew it had to be good, since by age eighteen I'd found a part-time job, and was buying all my own trendy clothes. I even wore sexy makeup!

I flipped to my graduation picture with bated breath.

Yes children, look at mommy and her fancy styled hair for graduation! And hey, check out her frosted pink eye shadow, and the matching pink frosted lip-gloss. It's the kind that porn stars wear!

How could they all be so hideous?

It wasn't the era I could blame, because the popular girls' pictures were still attractive.

Bitches.

And the worst part? The cool and pretty girls were married now, and some had even given birth! I couldn't even think of one who was alone. At least not from any of the Facebook updates I'd seen.

Before I could wallow too deeply in the wasted years, my brain went ahead with a juicy little question:

-How do all those pretty high school girls look today?

As it turned out, most of them were kind of "thick" these days. And they'd been way too busy recycling boyfriends to ever get out of suburbia. I mean sure they were settled now, but they had zero chance of meeting Prince Charming on the web.

Not like me, so suck it, bitches!

I decided to keep the yearbooks for nostalgia's sake, and if James or our future children ever got a hold of them, I'd simply explain it as an "awkward phase." One lasting several years.

Come on, it happens.

***

With the last boxes packed and sealed, my cat Tommy safely trapped in the pet carrier, and my mother running back and forth in a frenzy, we finally looked like a family ready to move.

Like many of the cheesy television shows I'd grown up with, I braced myself for the tearful moment when I'd shut off my bedroom light for the final time. But the tears never came. Instead I could only gaze at the four bare walls in horror, entranced as I was by the sponge-painted purple and green design. I had begged my mother to paint these walls nearly thirteen years before. Just the thought of all those hours "dabbing" paint sent a pain through my shoulders. What a pity for the future owners.

Later that night our cars pulled up to the brand new home. I had already been there five or six times for drop offs, but this was the official homecoming. We marched inside in single file, and as my dad closed the door behind us, I could've sworn I heard the sound of an iron bar door sliding shut. " _Welcome to the maximum security prison. Your orange uniforms are in the corner, one size fits all..._ "

***

"So," said Amy. "How's week one in the prison?" She and Eleanor walked alongside me with morning lattes in hand ( _everything in moderation, yo!_ ).

"What?" I could barely hear a thing with the construction going on across the street from our building. _Another expensive condo development, and...ugh! I just swallowed airborne dirt!_

"Are you okay?" mouthed Amy as I wretched by the side of the street.

I nodded yes, whilst trying to decide if dirt was a carb-free snack.

Amy tried again but a whole lot louder this time. "I SAID HOW IS PRISON?"

I thought about my answer as we turned the corner, away from the direction of the office and the maddening noise.

"Prison's okay. But it's only been four or five days. And most of those days were spent emptying boxes or cleaning." I shrugged my shoulders. "I like knowing that dinner's on the table. But I don't like having a boyfriend via e-mail."

"So he's your BOYFRIEND now?" said Eleanor. I didn't even have to see her face, to imagine her eyebrows rising high.

"What else would you call him? I know he likes me, he's fine with my crazy parents, and he pushes me to reach my goals."

"And yet you've never seen actual words escape his physical mouth." Eleanor laughed but I barely even cared. Not on such a beautiful day, with the sun beaming bright and the late summer breeze gently passing through my hair.

"You know what I think?" said Amy. "I think it's romantic. Two Internet soul mates separated by the ocean. Wait 'til you tell that story to your grandkids!" Amy looked a whole lot nicer in her floral summer dress when she said things like that. _Thank goodness for the wisdom of a person who's in love._

"Yeah...but when are you actually going to meet him?" asked Eleanor. "Like that trip he mentioned for October...did he book the flight?" She stopped directly in front of me, with her slicked back ponytail giving her an air of domination.

I fiddled with a button on my blouse. "He told me he's going to visit. All I need to do is be ready!"

"Which means he still hasn't confirmed a thing, has he?" She sighed. "I'm not saying he's a flake, but get him to put that shit in writing! I just don't want you getting your hopes up, you know...if he cancels."

"Cancels?" I gasped. "Of course he wants to visit, he said so himself!"

"Well then you have nothing to worry about...do you?" Eleanor glanced at me with worry, as late morning pedestrians pushed past our sidewalk stand-off. Amy meanwhile was leaning against a flower shop window, her short brunette waves surrounding a zoned-out expression.

"He's NOT going to cancel." I stared back at Eleanor with my teeth fully clenched.

"Okay, I get it," she quickly said. "But please do ask him if he booked the trip."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not going to pester him about it! Then he'll think I'm needy and psycho. Besides...I already asked him last week. He said not to worry."

I suddenly realized he'd never brought it up since his very first musing. Was it weird that I had to ask?

Eleanor started shaking her head. "Just be careful with this guy."

"Okay, okay!" I finally smiled at her. "I guess I'll need his flight number eventually. I'll ask him in a couple of weeks when it seems more normal. You know September...when it's only a month away...he'll definitely have all the details by then."

She sighed. "Alright."

"Speaking of James, it's been fourteen days since I've heard his voice. And only two more hours 'til I hear it again." I smiled as we resumed our stroll, only now in the direction of the office. "First I'll send some work-related e-mails so people think I'm busy. Then I'll get back to my personal e-mails to James!" I squinted at the sun with my smile even bigger.

"Is that all you do every day?" said Amy. "Personal e-mails to James?"

I shrugged my shoulders and continued walking.

A day in the life of an Internet-girlfriend. Now when's lunch?

***

I hurried through the carpeted aisles of the bookstore, finally slowing down when I reached the ones labeled "Erotica." It was quieter here. Well of course it was. Only people like me were in this aisle at high noon, pretending to browse the seedy books whilst chatting on the phone.

Well me and the odd pervo.

James would be the one to call this time, and the waiting made me nervous like a schoolgirl. I distracted myself with the titles on the shelf, my eyes eventually resting on "Clarissa." If the cover was any indication, this was a "girls plus girls" type of tale.

Maybe it's worth a quick flip-through.

Not knowing how much time had passed, I let out a gasp when I felt a vibration in my pants. _Oh right, the phone._

I pulled the phone out of my pocket and practiced the initial greeting in my head. Hopefully something that would give off a sultry tone.

"Hello there."

"Hello, it's James. Are you all right? You sound like you have the flu."

_Okay, so I can't pull off "sultry." Good to know._ I reverted to my usual valley-girl tones. "I'm fine. Just needed to clear my throat."

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Book store. Erotica section and before you ask... don't ask."

I won't," he said laughing.

"But I can tell you that business seems pretty good." I lowered my voice for the next part. "There's a man in the next aisle. Checkered shirt, faded jeans, kind of geeky. I can't imagine the last time he enjoyed the company of a woman. I'm nearly certain he comes here just to flip through the novels, specifically to find the sex scenes."

"Wonderful, the kind of chap you take home to meet Mum."

I laughed. "You got that right. His forehead is already glistening."

"Right, I think that is enough details for one day," he said, with a tinge of amusement in his voice.

_Prude!_ I was only trying to spice up the conversation...talk about missing the point. I tried to switch my brain to a much more decent topic like writing, but for some odd reason I wasn't really feeling the flow.

"So how was your day?" I asked. _Great, now I sound like a boring wife._

"Oh my day so far has been good. A few too many phone calls and not enough work, but that's the way it goes sometimes."

Oh so now I'm stopping him from working?

"Maybe I should let you go then," I said, still walking around the store and staring at my feet.

"Oh no it's fine. This is a no-brainer."

If this guy was trying to make me feel good he had fallen at the very first hurdle. _Time to change the subject._

"So when are you landing in Canada?" I asked, but the blurting didn't stop right there. "As in what date, airport and flight number?"

Nice one, perhaps next time I should be more direct.

"Well I did say it was only an idea Roms."

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did and it's not a five-minute hop. That doesn't mean no but I have a few things to take care of at the moment."

Like Italian women with tattoos in strange places?

I kicked the leg of a reading table before realizing someone was sitting at it. The middle-aged woman glared at me. I made a face and kept walking.

"So it's off then?" I said.

And can I punch you yet?

"No I didn't say that. Let's see what turns up, okay?"

What does that MEAN dammit?

"Sure."

"I will e-mail you soon."

Oh so now we are hanging up?

"Sure, it was nice talking to you James."

"Bye for now."

"CLICK."

I looked at my watch to discover it was only seven minutes past noon.

Our first bookstore chat and we only lasted seven minutes. Was this a sign of things to come?

Chapter Fifteen

How can they still have so much to say?

I'd thought that after two weeks straight of family dinners, we'd have no more awkward topics to cover.

And yet, there was always something.

"Make sure you're finished all your cleaning by three o' clock tomorrow." My mother eyed my sister sternly.

"Why? Tomorrow's Saturday. I can do it whenever I want." My sister nonchalantly reached for another piece of roti bread.

"No you CAN'T do it whenever you want. We found a boy for you. He wants to meet you tomorrow."

My sister, surprisingly, had little reaction to the news. Or maybe it was just that she was used to this ridiculous process. In a typical scenario, they'd find her a respectable man from an Indian marriage website, resulting in an awkward visit to his family's house. From there her adamant rejections would follow: "He told me he parties with his friends, he doesn't write nice e-mails, he doesn't like playing golf..."

It was a formula for failure, but she was running out of reasons not to. Or reasons that my parents would accept, anyway. It really made me wonder how I'd ever face the problem myself. With each additional rejection she was wasting more excuses I could've used! And through it all, my parents' positioning continued to harden.

Which is why I need James to meet me, fall in love with me, and tell me I'm "the one." No biggie.

"Did you hear what I said? You should be lucky anyone will look at you; thirty years old..." She clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

My sister didn't say a word, but instead filled the airwaves with a two-second burp. For my mother the burp was as good as a verbal acceptance.

"And make sure the house is very clean. I don't want his family thinking we didn't train our daughter."

Wait...the bachelor is coming HERE?

I had always wondered how two sets of parents could go from being complete strangers, to coercing their newly introduced children into "promising forever." And all within a single tea-time. Well as of tomorrow, I would wonder no more...

***

"You're wearing THAT? Why would you wear a big shirt like that? It looks like a man's shirt!"

My mother's voice seeped its way through the remarkably thin walls, and straight into my very own bedroom. It was a useful reminder to never try Skyping with James.

I continued to eavesdrop as my sister resisted being dressed in a "sellable" way. If it was I on display at the bridal market, I would not only wear a giant shirt, but I would also skip out on plucking my eyebrows. I'd also hold off on mascara, and maybe put on fungal foot cream in his presence. _Yeah, let's see how much you're interested in marrying THAT._

Lucky for me I was not the main focus of this afternoon's sell-off, so my outfit was pretty generic (just a blue T-shirt and my favourite jeans).

I headed downstairs to await the arrival of the mystery man, but before the first step my mother blocked my way.

"What are you doing? They're going to be here soon!"

"Yeah, I know." _Chill out Mom, the house looks spotless._

"And why are you wearing jeans?" she asked. "Are you going somewhere?"

Why would I be going somewhere?

"I'm wearing jeans because I had to get dressed. I can't wear pajamas in front of the guests."

"No, YOU aren't going to meet them!" she said. "Are you crazy?"

Huh?

"But you told Sonny to get dressed. I thought we're all meeting the family."

"Sonny is. But not you. If the boy sees YOU he won't want to marry HER." My mother pointed at my sister who was now in the hallway. She glared in my direction, as I tried my very best not to smile.

"What, you think you're too beautiful?" said my mother, while looking me up and down. "You still need to lose weight."

"But I HAVE lost weight." _How had this become about me?_

"You need to lose more, but if he meets a younger daughter with fairer skin, he'll never choose the older one."

Ahh... racial and age discrimination. My favourite combo.

"So Neema's too dark and that's a problem? You really want her to marry a guy like that?" I put my hands on my hips and continued. "Someone who only cares about skin colour?"

Wow, was I seriously standing up to my mother?

"DON'T talk to me like that. Don't you dare."

I lowered my shoulders and cowered in fear, returning to my role as the offspring minion. _How does she always do that?_

"This is Indian culture," she continued. "When your skin is darker it's a sign of lower class. People get darker when they work in the fields all day."

But Neema grew up in a Canadian metropolis!

"So why are we even meeting him then? If he's going to think I'm LOW CLASS?" My sister's eyes were glistening intensely. She could see an opportunity. An out. And she was not about to let it go.

"Because you make good money and he's having some trouble finding girls. But you'll look too dark if he sees HER." My mother pointed at me in disgust. _So now I'm a disgrace to the family?_

"Should I go somewhere then?" I didn't mind the idea of an afternoon away, maybe I could go downtown and meet some friends.

"No! You sit in your bedroom with the door CLOSED. And don't make any noise. Don't walk around, don't go to the bathroom. Just total quiet."

What the fuck? Keep me trapped in my room like the demented mutant daughter?

"I can't sit in my room all afternoon! I've hardly even eaten today!"

My mom rolled her eyes. "We brought a whole box of samosas for tea. Go downstairs for two minutes so you can eat. TWO minutes! Then go to your room and close the door."

I stared in disbelief.

"GO!"

I sprinted down the stairs with my two-minute window ticking fast. I searched for samosas in the oversized kitchen with its excess of counter space and stainless steel appliances. I finally found them in the corner by the fridge, next to a bag of bagels.

I inhaled the first samosa in four giant bites. As the digital clock on the stove switched to minute number two, I started with the second potato pocket, which was as flaky and delicious as the last. I finished it off and reached for a glass from the cupboard, but froze when I heard the sound.

'DING DONNNG.'

Uh-oh.

I ditched the glass and leapt up the stairs going two at a time, almost colliding with my mother and sister. My mother simply glared as she made her way down, which was her signal for me to keep running.

My bedroom door clicked shut at the exact same second that the front door opened, with my dad's cheery voice now in greeting mode.

I made my way over to the bed, careful not to step on the two creaky floorboards hiding underneath the carpet.

' _Cause God forbid they should discover the upstairs-mutant. Shield your eyes from her hairy hunchback!_

Once I was comfortably in bed, I didn't really know what the hell I was supposed to do.

All the action was happening downstairs, but from my closed bedroom door I could only hear muffled voices.

Distracted by a flake of samosa pastry caught between my two front teeth, I worked it over and over with my tongue, trying to set it free. I couldn't, so I picked it out with my fingers. Then ate it.

Well that takes care of that. Now what?

If only I had squeezed in that drink of water. I was so damn thirsty, but strangely I also had to pee. In fact I really had to go, but a flush of the toilet from upstairs would sell me out.

How long did these stupid marriage negotiations even last?

From what I could tell, the familiar clang of dishes in the kitchen hadn't even begun. Which meant my mother was still in the "ice-breaker" phase with the family.

This could be a while.

I grabbed my laptop and opened up my e-mail.

There was nothing new from James, but it was my turn to write him anyway. I had tried some writing techniques on "how to paint a setting," and though my efforts didn't seem too impressive, I was eager to ask for his feedback.

That was the good part. The bad part for me was that I wasn't very pleased with the state of our recent contact. We'd only had one additional rushed conversation at the bookstore, as the rest of the time he'd been busy. But what was he so busy with at six o' clock in the evening? It just seemed so much better to talk to him at midnight Spanish time, when he was drowsy, unoccupied, and a lot more receptive to my banter.

But whose fault was that anyway? This was all my doing, since I couldn't even call him from home. Then again, that part wasn't totally my fault...these were simply my unfortunate circumstances.

Did he even know how hard this was for me?

Maybe it was time to paint him a little picture.

\----------------------------------

Hey James,

So GET THIS: as I type these very words, there's some Indian family and their son here to see my older sister.

(!!!)

A day ago, my sister knew nothing about this. Now she's sitting in the living room, with hands clasped together I'm sure, not saying a word, but being totally judged on every breath and every eye-blink. And by the end of the day she'll be forced to decide if he's "the one."

Is that all it takes then? Whatever happened to the fine art of conversation? And I mean many, many conversations? And the fine art of...all the lovely things that follow? ;-)

Sigh...

Romi

\------------------------------------

It was definitely high on enthusiasm, but just what I needed to get his "white knight" ass into gear.

Meanwhile my bladder was screaming for attention. I thought about it for a moment, and it seemed to me that if I very quietly opened the door, it wouldn't really seem like a bomb going off. After that? Just three quick strides to the bathroom.

To succeed I'd have to make a major sacrifice: NO FLUSHING.

It seemed horribly primitive, but quiet times did call for quiet measures.

I rose from the bed and tip-toed to the door, side-stepping the creaky floor boards once again. A second later I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, and slowly turned the knob.

'CLICK'...'SQUEAK.'

Had it always been that loud?

I didn't want to take any further chances with squeaky doors, so I slipped into the bathroom, left the door open and went to town.

I strained my ears to see if I'd been exposed.

Nope. Conversation still going. Phew.

I quietly sighed and finished up, fighting all my instincts to flush. I made it past the toilet with success, and washed both my hands with a thin stream of water from the tap.

As I tip-toed back towards my room, my eyes caught an interesting sight. It was a view of the living room, but I could only see it well if I looked straight down and to the left.

I walked backwards and crouched on the ground, obscured by the staircase, but now with a better view.

His parents looked the standard part, late fifties, boring, and seemingly incapable of letting loose.

And the guy? He didn't look much different than the sleaze bags I'd seen at the bar. All hair gel and skinny-shaped beard.

My sister seemed entirely uncomfortable, with her eyes to the floor and her hands clasped together, just like I'd imagined. My brother on the other hand was totally distracted by his phone.

I couldn't see my mother, which meant she was somewhere in the kitchen. Which also meant the tea would soon be on its way out.

As for my father he was having the time of his life. He and the son's father were caught in a fit of boisterous laughter. It had to do with an infamous weird old man from their Indian region of birth. And yes, these two old dads came from neighbouring villages. A fact that was a virtual clincher for a perfect match.

As they continued now with a film-by-film breakdown of their favourite Bollywood actor Amitabh Bachchan, I lowered myself 'til I was flat on my stomach. It was a much more comfy position and superior view.

About a minute later the tea and samosas made their way into the room, along with some square pink Indian sweets. I could almost sense some tension being lifted off my sister as she focused on the food. It was her I mostly watched after all, trying to detect how she could possibly tolerate meet-ups such as this (especially with his mother eyeing her like a hawk).

"So, where do you work?"

WHAT?!

It was hair-gel boy, making his first attempt at conversation.

My sister took a long sip of tea. "ATL Communications," she replied. It was her best attempt at sounding dead inside, and a good one. _You're such a pro!_

"Oh, that's a really good company."

As he continued to pepper her with interview questions, the two sets of parents traded secretive and giddy looks.

A few seconds later my father spoke up. "You two go take your tea in the dining room. Then you can talk by yourselves."

Oh no, private time.

I'd heard about "private time" from fellow Indian-Canadians. This was the most important section of arranged marriage meet-ups. It was the time when the parents expected the prospects to learn about each other (for however long it took to feel okay with getting married).

In most cases "private time" lasted no more than fifteen minutes.

As the two complete strangers rose to leave the living room, I realized my cover was in jeopardy. One look up and they would see me.

I hopped up from my stomach like an agile feline (I hadn't known I could do that), and in three little skips returned to the seclusion of my room.

Phew.

I checked my e-mail but James hadn't responded. _What's the matter? You can't respond within ten minutes anymore?_

Annoyed and a little exhausted from the hallway acrobatics, I snuggled up in bed, and decided to initiate an Internet search.

I typed in "Indian matrimonials" and waited. I never would've dreamed of such a Google in my life, but I was curious for what was in store.

Over two hundred thousand results came up, so I picked the most popular one ("IndianMarriageMatch.com").

In seconds I was hit with a sea of red and gold, along with many messages in ugly-ass cursive:

" _Find your best partner for life! With pictures too!"_

" _Big database with thousands of possible matches!!"_

" _Help your child find the right marriage match!"_

Well the last one wasn't surprising. We were here to gain approval from our parents after all.

I shuddered but continued to the search field, which allowed you a "free of charge" limited search.

Well it's not like I have anything better to do.

I typed in an age request of twenty-eight to thirty-five, a height of at least five-foot-nine, and just for fun I put an income of above one hundred thousand.

And out come the freaks.

The screen filled up with lawyers, doctors and engineers.

Okay so maybe they weren't freaks, but was this supposed to turn me on?

Well aware that I was being superficial, the pictures actually made me laugh. I laughed because if the guy was ugly, the picture was taken from afar ( _well not far enough!_ ). If, on the other hand, the guy was a pudgy chap, the picture was limited to exposure from the neck up ( _but that double-chin don't tell no lies_ ).

Most of the men were actually born in India, which wasn't surprising, given how hard it was to find Canadian-born men with money. "The Canadian generation doesn't work as hard," as my dad always said.

After spending a bit more time reviewing hobbies like "watching Bollywood Films" and "long walks on the beach" ( _how many beaches are there in Canada?_ ), I closed the laptop and moved it away in disgust.

_None of you guys can write, none of you guys are super-hot, and none of you guys can make me laugh all day._ I knew full well that I was making some assumptions but I didn't care. So I closed my eyes and drifted off, hoping for my knight to come and rescue me soon.

***

I awoke to the sound of loud voices. This could only mean the boy and his family had left. I glanced at the clock to discover I'd been sleeping for over an hour.

I stayed right in bed because the voices weren't the least bit muffled this time. I could hear it all, and I knew this script already.

It was my parents, sounding frustrated and angry. "Why can't you say yes?!" they cried. He had a great family, a nice demeanour, and he made enough money to make a very good joint income. They were perplexed. What was the problem with their daughter?

Part two of the script was my sister. "I don't know him yet," she explained. She wanted to e-mail for a while before making a decision. And she claimed he wasn't friendly in their one-on-one chat. These were sloppy excuses, and ones which were now too familiar to my parents.

I had no intention of returning to the downstairs world, as I was now quite comfy in my mutant-daughter cave of seclusion. So I put on my headphones and played a happy song. _You can never go wrong with "Lucky Star" by Madonna._

I suddenly remembered James, and opened up my laptop with anticipation.

Hurrah, he replied!

\----------------------------------

Hello Roms.

Interesting world you live in. Arranged marriage or not, I think you will find fifty percent of marriages end in divorce these days anyway. There is no easy answer.

J

\----------------------------------

I sat there frozen in disbelief.

"Fifty-percent of marriages end in divorce?"

What kind of dickhead response is that?

Chapter Sixteen

"So El...do you think he's jerking me around?"

It had now been over a week since James's dickhead response to arranged marriages. We'd been e-mailing just fine about writing, but nothing else. Worst of all, I'd asked him again about his trip and it was still unconfirmed.

Eleanor and Amy were my only sounding boards, with Laura so lucky in love by now. _I CANNOT handle hearing how happy she is._ Without our office chats I'd be hopeless.

"So he still wouldn't give you a date?" asked Eleanor. I shook my head. "But October's only two weeks away," she continued. "Is he waiting for a last-minute deal?"

"Maybe he's cheap," offered Amy.

I dropped my forehead onto my keyboard. _Maybe he's cheap?_ There had to be another reason for James's aloof behaviour.

The three of us continued to discuss it at my cubicle, eating through my stash of emergency M&M's on a quiet Friday afternoon.

Was he really going to keep me in the dark until October arrived?

Why would he ever do such a thing?

So he can chuck you if he needs to in the next four weeks. No non-refundable flight, no irreversible commitment.

"But that's crazy!" I cried.

Eleanor eyed me quizzically. "You think it's crazy for me to get highlights?"

Ah, a new and exciting topic was afoot.

"No. Sorry. I was thinking of something else."

"Thinking of James?" said Amy. "You are SO obsessed with him!" Amy pointed and laughed.

The "point and laugh?" About my serious dilemma?

I cleared my throat. "I am not obsessed with him. But for all our pleasant contact, wouldn't he WANT to meet me? Just to see if this is worth hanging on to?"

"Does he even know you like him?" said Eleanor.

My eyes widened. "Uhh hello, do we e-mail? Yes! Do we talk on the phone? Yes! That counts for something, right?"

"Depends on what you talk about," she said.

"Whose side are you on anyway?" I felt defeated.

"Or..." Eleanor began.

"Or what?" I asked.

"Or maybe he's a little gun-shy? I don't know. Sometimes the fantasy is easier than...a reality that might not measure up."

Yeah, I used to think that too. BEFORE I discovered that we're soul mates!

"But why would he be disappointed? I'm freakin' awesome!"

"Yes, I know that. And YOU know that...clearly. But he might not know it yet. Maybe you're funny on the phone and in e-mails, but what are you really like?"

"Awesome!"

"Right." Eleanor looked around at nothing in particular. Suddenly her eyes lit up. "You know what you need to do? You need to forget about all this. Just focus on tomorrow night. Booze and dancing all night long, with no parents here to stop you!"

It was true. With my parents on their way up north to visit a friend, my siblings and I would have the house to ourselves 'til Sunday. My sister had agreed to watch the house and answer calls (since I'd played the part myself too many times), and my brother was a virtual unknown ( _maybe he'll chill with his greasy loser-friends_ ). I, on the other hand, with alcohol seeping from my pores, would watch the sun rise with Eleanor and Amy.

Either that, or I'll be puking by the side of the road at four a.m.

Puke or no-puke, maybe I needed an anything-but-James kind of weekend.

***

Sometimes my blog posts took on crazy forms, and sometimes they felt pretty close to life. Like arranged marriage meet-ups, for example.

\----------------------------------

Behind door number-one is a guy who will date you but screw you over later. Behind door number-two is a guy you have a crush on but who'll never look your way. Behind door number-three is a secret, but you'll likely have to try doors one and two before you ever find the answer.

But wait: what if you could skip all of that, and choose door number-four instead? Because behind that door you'll find a husband, one that you can have for the low, low price of being strangers.

So which would you choose?

\----------------------------------

This was probably the post where I'd piss off any readers who were "pro" arranged marriage. But having a voice had a lot to do with having an opinion.

So I kept on typing.

***

"AHHH!"

I yanked the curling iron out of my hair, throwing it to the ground once I finally got it loose. All the while my left ear throbbed with pain.

I hadn't burned myself with a curling iron in years. Was this a bad sign? Maybe I wasn't supposed to go clubbing with my hair all sexy and my boobs on display. I smoothed out my shirt and stared into the mirror. A short-sleeved clingy blue shirt would not be a scandal on its own, but the ultra deep v-neck gave the shirt a special quality, the one that said: "Not appropriate for broad daylight"

On the flip side, the fact that I was wearing jeans versus girls who'd be wearing napkin-sized skirts? Well that brought me back to the level of a nun. But the NASA-engineered push-up bra I was wearing? I wasn't sure how the governing nun would feel about that.

I picked up the curling iron and kept on going.

So what if I'm trying to look hot? Maybe I need some three-dimensional male attention.

How wrong could tonight even be, when James was always going to sexy seaside parties?

Once satisfied with the level of voluminous curls, I shut off the iron and quickly made my way downstairs.

I turned towards the kitchen to find my sister doing the dishes. It was definitely a surprise, because it's not like my parents were watching right now, which was the only real reason she'd been doing extra chores all week (her attempt to diffuse their anger from her latest matrimonial rejection).

"What are you doing tonight?" I asked, as I poured myself a glass of ice-cold water.

"Nothing. Just watching a DVD and going to bed."

Yeah right.

***

Following a train ride full of delays, I stepped out into an Indian summer night in the city. Amidst the lights, honking horns and sidewalks full of scantily-clad girls, I took a deep breath and smiled.

Feels like home.

I could almost taste the long-awaited vodka passing through my lips, a feeling that quickened my pace as I hurried up the street.

Toronto's clubbing district wasn't too far away, so I decided to walk there on this beautiful balmy night. As I cut across the financial district and headed west, I was greeted with the city's homeless. I recognized a few from the daily commute, but they looked a bit different without all the safety of the sunlight. Like the one I was approaching, for example. _Does he have yellow eyes?_

I walked past him quickly, with the sound of his voice yelling "Rich bitch!" echoing after me.

Up ahead was an Indian couple, but the girl wasn't really the sort you'd take home to your mom. I could tell as much from her super-short skin-tight dress and spiked heels. But that wasn't all; it was the fact that her dress had a giant oval hole cut out of the back, all the way down to her butt crack, which tonight was adorned with a chain-link golden belt sliding low around her waist.

For once I didn't make any snide little comments in my head. Instead I smiled at the idea of this girl breaking out, letting loose against the usual Indian restrictions. The more she walked her shaky high-heeled steps, the more I smiled. This girl was living in the moment, and wasn't that what life was all about? The last three months I'd spent sitting in front of the laptop, or feeding my heart through a voice on the phone. Not without its benefits of course, but I needed to breathe in excitement as well, much like this spiked-heel hussy.

I rounded the corner of the street, and was suddenly hit with a troubling thought:

-Had James and I peaked?

I shook it off and walked towards the bar where a giant bouncer waited. He stared at my chest for a bit, and then let me inside without a cover.

This was the first time in my life I'd ever skipped a cover charge.

Yay for push-up bras, let's party!

***

I entered the club and my eyes plunged straight into darkness, but the booming sound of music somehow guided me along.

My eyes eventually caught up to my ears, and when they did I could see that I was standing in a very cool club. Walls painted black with hardcore designs in red and purple, it was Toronto's full-fledged rock club.

As I looked around the place I noticed a distinctive feature: there were approximately six guys to every girl in the club.

And the women who were even here? They weren't the insanely hot ones who made me hate my face.

Things are looking up.

I spotted the back of Eleanor's head by the bar (hair stick-straightened to perfection) and made my way slowly over, lingering long enough to get some horny stares from the fellas.

"A vodka and seven for my friend!" Eleanor smiled at the muscled bartender, and pulled me in for a hug.

"Hey El. Hey Amy...hello Stuart." Amy's tall and buff boyfriend Stuart was already well into the booze. He barely even noticed my presence as he snuggled up to Amy in the hopes of a kiss.

"So I've come to a decision," I declared, as everyone stopped to listen. "I want to have fun, and I want to drink vodka!"

"Well I can take care of the second one."

Huh? Who the hell is that?

The muscled bartender smiled as he slid me a drink. "This one's on me."

_It's on HIM?_ I grabbed the straw for dear life, and finished the drink in one breath.

Eyes watering and gasping for air, I proudly exclaimed: "Another!"

This is going to get ugly.

***

My body flailed around in the middle of a dense crowd. I'd lost track of Amy and her boyfriend, but Eleanor and I were in the thick of it. Or at least she was somewhere in the crowd, as the young attractive men were doing their best to smother her. As for me I had a killer buzz on. I eventually grabbed a shred of her sparkly black tank top.

"Are you okay in there?" I screamed the words but they barely floated over the music.

"Yeah I'm good! But I need to go to the bathroom soon! One more song?"

At that exact moment, everyone paused as the opening bars of a nineties favourite began. Then everyone screamed in delight, including me.

One more song? Hell yes.

As I head-banged my way through chorus number one of this teenage classic, I almost head-banged right into a random dude. Except he wasn't some random dude, as he seemed to be dancing on the outer edge of guys swarming Eleanor.

"Is that your friend?" he asked, as the music slowed to begin the second verse.

I looked towards Eleanor and laughed. "Yeah, the guys really love her!"

"She's alright, but you have a different look. I like it."

ME?

The music started up loud and fast once again, cutting off our conversation. I continued screaming out the lyrics to the song, but snuck in little looks when I could. He was wearing a plain blue T-shirt, with a full-sleeved white one underneath. The long white sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing a slim but strong-looking set of forearms. He was also a pretty fit guy, maybe a runner and six-feet tall at least. To top it all off, brown shaggy hair with a matching set of warm brown eyes.

Wait a minute...

Suddenly I realized this guy who was dancing in front of me, was an actual, official clone of the latte guy from three years past (minus the English accent).

Was this a test from the universe? A temptation to re-visit the past, and possibly screw over James?

Oh right, James.

"Come on, come on, I have to pee!" The song was suddenly over and Eleanor was dragging me downstairs, while the guy I'd been dancing with mouthed the words "I'm Andrew!" and smiled.

"Who was that guy Romes? He's cute!"

"No, he's totally creepy," I lied, still confused as to the meaning of this lovely guy, and how I should actually proceed.

Once I finished washing my hands, I smeared my lips with an extra thick layer of gloss. This was no surprise, since my lip-gloss application while drunk was always sloppier. Which of course meant I tried to fix it by putting on more. _There, perfect._

I spotted Eleanor by the hand dryer, furiously typing on her BlackBerry.

"Who the hell are you texting?"

"Just a couple friends who might meet us here." She smiled to herself in a knowing kind of way.

"You're up to something," I decided.

"No I'm not. Now let's go back there and dance! Maybe we can find some different guys. I'm kind of sick of those dudes."

So Eleanor was sick of five dudes, but I was still intrigued by one. I immediately scanned for blue T-shirts once we'd made it back upstairs.

Unsuccessful in my attempts to locate Andrew, Eleanor and I were back at the suddenly overcrowded bar, with "last call" less than an hour away.

"Are you sure you don't want another drink?" she asked, as she took her first sip of a fresh vodka tonic.

"No, no." I shook my head and turned away. "I think I'm gonna ride the wave." In truth it was less about the wave and more about the rumblings in my stomach.

I stretched out my face left and right then up and down, trying to eliminate the numbing effect of the vodka. By the fifth stretch, two big guys lumbered over and grabbed a hold of Eleanor.

"Let's dance!" they cried. She simply laughed and let them drag her to the dance floor, as another nineties favourite began.

"Don't mind my friends. They're a little crazy!"

I couldn't help but gasp from the sound of an unexpected voice. I turned and saw the same blue T-shirt, with Andrew's lovely head right atop it.

"You're not gonna waste this song are you? It's less than three minutes long!" He cried. "Sing it!"

In a matter of seconds we were singing and smiling and dancing once again.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Romi!" I immediately looked away, hoping he wouldn't weigh in. I really did hate my name sometimes.

"That's a beautiful name!"

What?

How come James never said my name was beautiful? All he ever did was pronounce it wrong and laugh.

I focused my attention back to the song and Andrew. The more closely I looked at him, the more he seemed a little bit...bleary-eyed. I guess he'd had a lot more to drink since I'd seen him last.

"You know what I love about this club?" he suddenly asked.

"The wicked music? The cute male bartenders?"

He laughed. "Not the second part! I love that there aren't any stuck-up bitches here. You know the ones who never give you the time of day? Those girls don't go to 'rock bars' and I love that."

"Well I've never been a fan of stuck-up bitches either, so I guess we're both winners!" I smiled and looked away but he wasn't finished.

"Do you know what I ALSO love?"

"Uhh...no."

"I love that you're funny...and different."

Wow, this guy is spreading it on thick.

As the song faded out a slower one started up. I didn't know this one, and while it still had a rocky feel, the guys and girls were moving into slow-dance position.

That's when Andrew took me by surprise, suddenly slipping his arms around my waist. He pulled me close and looked me dead in the eyes.

The second he touched me, alarm bells sounded in my head and they all screamed "James!"

I couldn't attribute my fear to any form of logic. It was only a dance, I'd never met James, and I didn't even know how much he liked me.

Despite all absence of logic the dance felt wrong.

I pulled away but that didn't make it any better. All I could see was Andrew's mouth heading straight towards mine. I turned my face just in time for his lips (and tongue!) to smack my cheek.

In his shock at the rejected kiss he released me. "I'm sorry," I said. "But I'm not really here for that tonight. Just dancing and having fun." I slowly cast my eyes up towards him, and he didn't look very impressed.

"That's not a problem at all. This town is full of teases. I just didn't think you were one of them."

Before I could finish gasping he was already walking away. _So he thinks I'm a tease, big deal. As if I'm not allowed to dance without sucking someone's face? I have rights!_

Eleanor arrived at the perfect time, as the voices in my head were getting louder.

"Did you finally get rid of those losers?" I said. I laughed at the thought of those cretins, but stopped when I noticed new people right behind her.

"Yeah, they're gone. So Romes...I just ran into a couple friends. You know Lucy already." We exchanged standard smiles and hellos.

"And this is my friend Arjun." Eleanor stepped aside as he approached, this full-fledged Indian man.

He flashed a friendly smile and started talking. "Hey there, Eleanor's told me a bit about you." He didn't have an accent at all, but I could sense that he was here for a reason.

What's going on?

"Romes, I need to help Lucy scope out some guys. Why don't you two get a drink before last call?" She walked away with a wink, and before I knew it Arjun was leading me to the bar.

This time I did need a drink, so I sipped it hard as he told me about his job in the city. He was nice, with a good sense of humour too.

Nevertheless, I fumed at the thought of being set up with a guy, any guy, when Eleanor knew damn well I was already "occupied." And why an Indian guy? Eleanor had at least six white friends who were cool and single. So why did she run for the first spicy man she could find?

Maybe she's trying to arrange me, just like my parents.

I excused myself in a quiet rage, heading straight towards Eleanor and Lucy.

I grabbed Eleanor by the shoulder and spun her around.

"What the hell are you doing?!" I yelled. I wasn't sure if she could hear me over the music, but her lip-reading skills would fill the gap.

"What are you talking about? Don't you like Arjun? You guys would be perfect together!" She smiled her warmest smile. As if that would make a difference.

"Oh I see, he's perfect because we have the same coloured skin? Because we're from the same culture? Is THAT your view then? Cultures shouldn't mix? Then why are we even friends?!"

Eleanor's face rearranged into an angry expression. "That's not what I was trying to do! He has the same sarcastic humour as you, I thought you guys would hit it off!"

"And that's the other thing! Who are YOU to go around setting me up, when you know what's going on with me and James!"

"Oh THAT? Well actually I have no idea what's going on with you and James. Does HE even know? And believe me I'm rooting for you, but he is not your boyfriend. He's not anything to you until you meet. YOU NEED TO ACCEPT THAT!"

Wow, low blow.

I heard myself growl, an actual, audible growl, as I contemplated slapping her across the face. Or maybe I could take someone's glass and smash it against her head.

So how did my night go from "living in the moment" to THIS?

Chapter Seventeen

I awoke to find half my body hanging off the side of the bed, arms dangling freely like a corpse.

What time is it?

It was barely even eleven a.m. Way too early to deal with the day.

I turned the other way to find my pudgy cat Tommy sitting on my pillow. He looked angry.

"Hey precious, did anyone give you breakfast?" My words only came out in a whisper, as I'd clearly lost my voice from the night before.

His angry expression changed to widened eyes and a desperate meow.

After two stumbling attempts, I rose from my bed and in an instant my head started throbbing.

Here comes the hangover.

My stomach felt rotted and empty, but the simple thought of food set my vomiting cylinders in motion.

Whatever was churning inside I managed to send it back down, as I slowly made my way to the basement. I grabbed Tommy's food dish and started to remember the events from the night before.

Blue T-shirt guy, feeling guilty for being an "almost-'ho," El trying to arrange me with her Indian friend...oh yeah, THAT.

I poured some kibbles into Tommy's bowl, as my emotional thermometer started rising. _That bitch is just as bad as my parents._ There was so much more I could've said to her last night, but all I could do was storm right out of the club. I remembered Amy and her boyfriend trying to stop me, but I almost knocked them over as I darted for the exit.

I also remembered the eighty-five dollar cab ride home, which could have been avoided if I'd slept over at Eleanor's like I'd planned. On the other hand, eighty-five dollars so I didn't have to see her face? _Worth it._

The only thing I remembered after that, was stumbling into the house at three a.m.

I looked myself up and down.

At least I'd somehow managed to put on my pajamas.

I dragged myself up the stairs and back into bed. I was not going to deal with Eleanor today, but my parents would be home in a few hours. This only left me two more hours to rest, before I'd have to scrub off all the booze that was encrusted on my skin. So I drifted, all the way past drooly land, into the valley of slow rhythmic breathing, and right up to the doorstep of vivid dreams.

But then I remembered my car. My car that was sitting abandoned in the train station parking lot.

Dammit.

***

By four o' clock my parents were comfortably home with their cups of tea in hand, and the television spewing out their favourite Indian soap opera. As for my car it was safely in the driveway now, but only after a twenty-dollar payment to my younger brother, since I'd forced him to crawl out of bed and drive me to the station.

Sitting in my room (and perfectly able to hear that goddamn Indian show), I cranked up the music on my laptop. A moment later I turned my attention to a script, an edited script that James had allowed me to preview. I was so excited to read the words that defined his biggest passion. I sank my teeth into page after page, captivated by every engrossing description.

His story was a tale of true love mixed with harsh realities; from social-class divide, to conflicting ambitions, to years apart, this script made the online thing seem easy.

Two hours later I sent him my reaction with some special encouragement. This script was going to be his worldwide breakthrough. It felt so good to know that, but even better to tell him in my very own words.

On the slightly negative side, he still hadn't mentioned anything personal in his e-mails of late. I didn't want to be greedy, as I very much appreciated the writing talk...but is that all we'd be from now on?

What about the flirting? And what about his visit to Canada?

***

I zipped in and out of the aisles of the liquor store, my eyes darting back and forth the entire time. Someone might've thought I was nervously preparing to rob the place, but my eyes were only darting to keep a close eye out for Indian people. Or Indian men to be exact, since Indian women weren't supposed to drink, and therefore wouldn't ever be seen in the aisles of a liquor store.

Which of course meant that neither should I.

Yet here I was, looking for the perfect bottle of wine for Jayla's engagement party. Yes, my now-engaged rebellious Indian friend living in Australia was back in Canada for her party.

And she needed the perfect wine.

I tried to concentrate on wine labels, but I still couldn't fathom that Jayla was even in the country. She'd announced her engagement in an e-mail seven months ago, and since then I'd gone from dead inside, to hopeless, to intrigued, to infatuated, to happy, to in love, to frustrated, to angry, and now to worried. Seven out of nine were attributed to James.

A lot had happened and she didn't even know a thing about it. But in under an hour, I would get to know a lot about her. Her man, her ring, and her halo of happiness. If only I could introduce her to a man of my own: "Hey, do you mind logging into Facebook for a sec?" _Right._

I eventually found a reasonably-priced bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, straight from the vineyards of Chile. To be honest I didn't know shit about wine, but a "friend of a friend" had brought it to a party once, so I was sold.

I paid for the bottle and grabbed it in one fluid motion, excited to have made it through my liquor store visit without any Indian contact.

And that's when I bumped into an Indian spy.

By "Indian" I meant he even wore a turban, just like my father once had. He stepped aside to let me pass, but not before eyeing the following: me, the bottle, then me once again. He may have even shaken his head in disapproval, but I didn't wait around to find out for sure. How could I? Any longer and his brain would scan my face through his "Indian facial recognition program." The last thing I needed was this man to find out who I was, so he could go and tell my dad that I had broken "prohibition for women."

I unlocked my car and hurried in, to save myself from any further judgment by the Indian look-outs. Carefully placing the bottle in the passenger's seat, I referred to Jayla's e-mail print-out, complete with the directions to her parents' house.

It wouldn't take long to arrive at her house by five o' clock on a Saturday. And all I had to do was be home by eleven. I was actually surprised by the generous curfew, but I suppose it had to do with Jayla being Indian. Not to mention that her parents would be there to chaperone.

Of course I didn't feel the need to tell my parents she was marrying a white guy, or that her mother was a lover of the wine.

Details, details...

***

I turned the corner to Jayla's street with my mouth gaping open. It was mansion after mansion, with manicured lawns expertly maintained, and a three-garage minimum standard.

As for Jayla's home it did not disappoint. Four garages and a lawn complete with beautiful shrubbery.

And is that their Benz in the driveway?

I was shocked by the wealth of her parents. I'd worked with her every day for two whole years, and she'd never even mentioned it once.

I approached the huge double-doors with the heavy bronze-plated knocker. Or maybe it was pure bronze, what the hell did I know? Tapping it three times, I stood there and nervously waited.

No one came.

There were cars parked all along the street. Maybe it was hectic inside and no one could hear me.

I banged it again with double the force, and finally the door opened.

"DUDE!" she screamed.

It was Jayla, in a spaghetti-strap floral-printed dress, perfect for this warm autumn day which was more like the last bits of summer. And the jet-black hair draping down to her elbows? Well that was perfect too.

We suffocated each other in a hug, finally stopping for a breath ten seconds later.

"You look amazing!" I exclaimed.

"So do you Romes! I'm LOVING the pink lacey top, you're so much girlier than I remember!"

Did I used to dress like a man?

She grabbed the bottle of wine from my hands, a motion that put her engagement ring into the spotlight. It was a beautiful rock, raised on a pedestal and sitting on a platinum band, which itself was adorned with six mini diamonds. Yet another perfect thing.

"Oh and by the way, why didn't you ring the doorbell? When I walked by I thought someone was breaking down the door!" She snorted. "Loser."

_Oops._ I shrugged my shoulders. "So listen, I have a question. Since when are you SUPER rich?"

Jayla shook her head. "I'M not rich. I live in Sydney where I only buy things on sale...but my parents? They do alright." She winked and led me down the hall.

I walked through the enormous kitchen, which was all about the huge marble countertops. Meanwhile I smiled at the various strangers who were picking out their appetizers. A bunch of them were older and probably relatives, but there was also at least a dozen party-goers closer to my age. They might have been Jayla's high school friends or university pals, but all in all they were a glowing and attractive bunch.

Jayla stopped at the patio door which led to a beautiful yard, complete with a deck, gazebo, and multiple lounge chairs surrounding a man-made pond. At least twenty people were already milling about, strolling through the yard and enjoying champagne.

Suddenly she steered me by the shoulders, and back in the direction of the appetizers. "Go eat some food, mingle with Laura and her SEXY boyfriend, and we'll catch up later for a serious session. I just have to go downstairs and help the men." She rolled her eyes. "Translation: my dad and Adrian can't figure out how to unhook the speakers. We need some tunes outside dude!" She laughed and skipped down the stairs.

Laura's already here? Laura and DAVE?

I'd been hearing about "gym-boy" for almost two months now, but had yet to finally meet him for myself. By now he was more than just a gym-boy, as Dave and Laura had been spending nearly all their extra time together. Coffees, dinners, romantic summer walks in the city, they'd been inseparable.

I couldn't spot them in the yard, so I grabbed a plate and filled it with appetizers. I chose vegetables, chicken kebab, and a spring roll. _It's not THAT unhealthy._ Next I grabbed a glass of champagne from a tuxedo-vested man serving drinks.

Dressed up servers and champagne? Do I even belong here?

With hands full I carefully made my way outside, bumping into an Indian granny as I did. The granny patted me on the shoulder, nodding and saying "Ohh!"

I had no idea who she was but I returned the smile, since I of course was a part of this wider clan. The Indian tribe.

I walked around the yard a bit, listening to people rave about the food or each others' clothes. Eventually I settled in a chair by a trickling fountain. The sound of the water in conjunction with the singing birds, the warming sun, and smell of flowers were altogether overwhelming. I closed my eyes to soak it all in.

"Well hello there."

My eyes quickly opened, and standing above me was Laura in a loose brown halter top, beaded coral necklace and washed-out jeans. She looked earthy, tanned, and... _the hell with Laura, what about this hottie with his arm around her waist?_

He offered his hand and a smile. "Hi, you must be Romi. I'm Dave."

I put down my glass and stood to shake his hand. I'd seen pictures of him, but the two-dimensional version didn't do a thing for the original. He was muscular and tanned with a shaved head, perfect teeth, and the sort of cologne that made me feel like dropping these already low-rise jeans. He wasn't that tall mind you, but the perfect height for my little Laura. Like a big brown bear hovering over Goldilocks.

Her perfect boyfriend...and I'm so damn jealous.

"Nice to meet you," I said. "I like your shirt." _Wow, what a loser thing to say._

"Yeah...thanks. Hey Laur, do you want another drink?"

"Thank you, I would love another drink. A vodka and---"

"Cranberry. Yeah, I remember." He smiled at her and walked away.

Laura took a seat in the lounge chair next to mine. "So...what do you think?"

"Well I love that he calls you 'Laur,' and I'll take him once you're done. PLEASE?"

I laughed but it was hard to mask my own troubled yearning. I was feeling like the odd one out in this garden party of love.

Laura sighed. "I still don't even know where he came from. How he randomly fell into my lap. I'd never even used a leg-press before! But I went for the machine, and so did he at the exact same second!"

"Well yay for leg-press machines!" I chugged back the glass of champagne, drowning my envy in the fizzling yellow bubbles.

"It just goes to show Romes, accidents do happen with a purpose. And that's why they call it fate." She smiled as I stared at my empty glass.

How inspiring, now where is Mr. Tuxedo and that tray of bubbly?

Dave returned carrying three fresh drinks in his colossal hands, including more champagne for me. _Well this guy keeps getting more and more perfect._

We ate and drank and talked and laughed. I was emotionally removed from the experience, but mesmerized by his dazzling smile. His moving mouth on that three-dimensional head which was only two feet away...it was a fascinating concept.

Out of nowhere my ears flooded over with Indian music.

"I guess the speakers are all hooked up now. Does that mean Adrian's here?" I craned my neck and looked around, but all I could see was a yard packed with up to fifty people by now. Much like Dave, Adrian was a total hottie in pictures. But would his in-person presence drive me insane as well? I was hoping so, as eye-candy was all I had going for me tonight.

With the sun now set, the patio was glowing with pretty lanterns, candles, and strings of twinkly lights. Many of the revelers were relaxing in lounge chairs, with the rest tightly huddled in their personal party cliques. I heard the beginnings of applause, and joined in the clapping as I figured out the reason.

It was the couple of the night, coming down the steps hand-in-hand.

Adrian was everything I could've expected and more. Incredible build, dark brown hair, six feet tall, bright blue eyes and a wicked tan. I wiped a tear from my eye, not because I was overwhelmed by the romance, but only because this was officially the party of beautiful men, with everyone getting a slice except for me. But I forced on my smile as required.

At least they have an open bar.

***

"Do you know how much I LOVE the sound of crickets? Well actually I love the sound of anything when it's mixed with a trickling fountain."

"You are such a freak Romes." Jayla laughed but didn't even open her eyes. It was nine thirty now, and most of us were sprawled out on various lounge chairs or even on the grass, with the speeches now over and our bellies full of food.

"Hey Jay, how come Indian music at YOUR house doesn't sound annoying?" Far from annoying, I actually liked this slow-paced Hindi duet.

"You like it because you don't have to like it. 'Cause here you won't be judged if you switch it to Madonna. You'd be surprised how much you like the Indian culture, when it's not being shoved down your throat."

"But you're marrying a white guy. With a hot Australian accent by the way. Isn't that the opposite of liking your culture?"

I opened my eyes as I heard her sit up fast.

"Here's the thing," she said, arms folded and eyes now intense. "When you're far away from Indian culture, and instead just absorbing a totally different vibe - like I've been doing with my WHITE dude in Australia - you start to see where you come from a little better. You know...seeing the forest from the trees? Like I've been begging my mom to teach me how to cook all her Indian food. But I barely have the time to even learn it anymore!"

My eyes widened. "Are you kidding? Any time my mom tries to make me cook Indian food she starts off with scolding. You know, how I'll never be a good wife because I can't even make Indian food. Or she'll complain that so many other Indian girls know how to cook, even though they're younger than me. That's how she BEGINS the lesson." I sighed and rolled my eyes.

"That's because you're being judged on a single standard. Marry a well-off Indian guy, or fail. I can see how it might be a turn-off."

"Which brings me to my only real question for you," I said. "How are your parents smiling and laughing, when you're about to marry a white guy, and spend the rest of your life living thousands of miles away?"

Riddle me THAT.

Jayla shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. "Believe me, they weren't smiling or laughing when I told them. In the end though, it was down to a couple of choices: accept me, or disown me."

I smiled. "Wow, that's my favourite ultimatum ever. Can I use that?"

"You mean....can you use it on your parents when you tell them about JAMES?" Jayla raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

How the hell does she know about James?

"Let's just say that Laura and I had a little chat." She winked and grabbed her glass of wine. "So is there anything else I should know about Mr. Caldwell, before I offer up my advice?"

One deep breath and a huge run-on sentence later, I gave her all the details I could think of, ending with my latest concern on his visit or no-visit plans.

"Okay, I'm ready to weigh in." She took a sip of wine and leaned in close, so our faces were inches apart. "I went to Thailand with no expectations. Then I met Adrian, and we spent two incredible weeks together. Afterwards we went our separate ways, not expecting much to be honest." She set down her glass and grabbed both my arms. "It should've been over, but the e-mails and phone calls began. That had to mean something, right? I was always honest about how I felt, and willing to put in the effort. I'm not sure we'd have made it if my pride had gotten in the way. Do you see what I'm saying?"

I stared at her blankly. "Dude, I'm drunk. You have to give me the dumb-girl version."

She released one arm and patted me on the shoulder. "What I'm saying is...I don't know your whole situation, but if you put in all your effort and stay honest, how can you go wrong? I just don't think that James would've talked to you this long for nothing." She squeezed my other arm. "So why are you suddenly afraid he's avoiding you on a personal level?"

I quickly nodded. "You're so right! Plus he's finalizing his script right now...I bet he's just really busy. But try telling that to my bitch of a friend." My blood began to boil at the mention of Eleanor, who I hadn't said a word to in the last seven days.

"Huh?"

I shook my head. "Never mind. So here's what happens now. I'm going to call James next week." I smiled. "And he's GOING to tell me when he's visiting. I want a flight number, I want an itinerary..." I paused. "And I want my damn first date."

I stretched back out on the lounge chair. What a relief to have a friend with some real-world advice.

If it worked for Jayla it has to work for me.

"Hey..." Jayla trailed off and seemed confused. "Where the hell did Dave and Laura go?"

I looked around the yard but couldn't see them. "I'm sure they're around. Maybe they're inside. Or maybe they're in a closet getting frisky." And why wouldn't they? It was one of the perks of being close enough to touch.

Jayla's eyes nearly sprung from their sockets. "Laura getting freaky at someone else's party? I don't think so."

Before she could finish laughing, Laura and Dave emerged from inside, hand-in-hand and looking rather flush.

No way.

"Hey guyyys." Jayla wore a sly smile, and mouthed the word "slut!" to Laura when Dave wasn't looking. I only pointed to her shirt, which was no longer tucked into her jeans.

As she frantically tucked it in, Adrian emerged from inside, settling beside Jayla in what was now a stunning image: _one hot couple to my left, one hot couple to my right._

It was a fifth-wheel moment that left me with two final options:

-To sell my soul to the highest bidder, or to make sure that James got his ass on a plane.

But let's not forget a third special choice: volunteer my genitals to science, and forget about this dating thing for good...

Chapter Eighteen

Three days after Jayla's party, I was huddled in my chair on a Tuesday morning at work, trying not to fall into a pity-party trap.

My positive vibes were being put to the test, as I couldn't stop reading my unanswered e-mail to James.

\----------------------------------

Hey James,

It's almost bedtime and I still have my mind on the office! It seems like every day lately is a three-hour meeting I don't care about, a mind-numbing project that takes too much time, or a discussion I don't want to be involved in.

It's just hard sometimes to focus on your amazing writing tips, when I've got crappy-job-syndrome over here. Can't I fast-forward to writing full-time just like you? ;-)

I don't know what I'd do without our conversations.

You're still visiting next month, am I right?

Anyway I'm still free at lunch tomorrow for a chat, so give me a call at 12:15, I'll be waiting in my usual spot.

Romi

\----------------------------------

Was it the mention of the trip that had stopped him from replying? Was there something else wrong with the e-mail? Or maybe I was just being paranoid.

OF COURSE I'm being paranoid!

I literally shook my head back and forth, as if to purge all the "crazy" from my brain. Once I was through I filled up my head with rock-hard logic: _if you haven't scared him away in FIVE months, he isn't going anywhere now. So smile dammit!_

"What the hell are you smiling about?"

I spun in my chair to find my work-dad Todd looking lankier than ever, in a buttoned shirt and beige dockers.

"I'm smiling 'cause I've got the power!" I didn't care how lame it was to shake my fist, it was helping me find my resolve.

"Jesus. Have you been reading self-help books or something? I'm worried."

"Don't be worried," I said. "Life's just better when you strive to make it good. It requires effort, but also courage! And...it helps when you've got some fate in your back pocket." I pointed to my butt and winked.

Did I just point to my ass and wink at my boss? Who cares, it's working. I'm feeling more confident already.

"I guess this has to do with your Spanish lover-boy who pretends to be British. So is this loser ever coming to visit? Last I heard he wouldn't seal the deal."

"He's coming in October like I said. And I'll be finding out the details today. OKAY?"

I crossed my arms and glared at him.

"Well it's about damn time! Remember to bring him by the office when he comes. He needs my seal of approval."

"Oh suurre." I rolled my eyes. "Bringing him by the office. That'll be his number one tourist stop."

The more we discussed it out loud, the more and more real his upcoming visit became. I hoped Todd would hang around so we could talk about it even more.

"Okay, I'm bored with you." He sighed and took a look at his watch. "I'm leaving for an early lunch."

Todd strolled away without a second look, leaving me alone with another half an hour 'til the call.

I spun back around to face my monitor, and noticed that Amy had e-mailed. It was another invitation for lunch, for myself, Amy...and Eleanor. This routine had been going on for weeks, but Eleanor and I were still in the midst of our silent battle.

Nobody tries to arrange me with their Indian friends, NOBODY!

Like usual I declined the request and suggested a one-on-one coffee instead, leaving poor Amy right where she was: helplessly caught in the middle.

***

I began my ritual walk through the aisles of "Erotica," trying all the time to stay at peace. The end of summer had resulted in even less traffic in these risqué bookstore aisles, making this spot ideal for conversations in early autumn. Funnily enough it was September twenty-third, and only our second chat of the entire month.

But I'm not here to focus on the negative!

I stared at my cell phone clock.

He was already a minute late.

I grasped the phone tighter, like somehow the extra squeeze would be enough to make it vibrate.

When he was five minutes late, a pit began to form in my stomach.

At eight minutes late, I'd bent the front cover of "Alicia's Escape." I stuffed the damaged book of sexy tales in the corner of the bottom shelf.

At eleven minutes late I wasn't really sure what to do. He'd never been more than two minutes late for a call. Was it time to feel worried? What if he was dead? There was always the chance he had died, but how would I know? This macabre concept was the scariest part of our overseas relationship.

Fear of his potential death made me wonder if perhaps I should call him instead.

But if he's still alive won't that seem too obsessive? Wait...what if he's avoiding me on purpose?

I gasped at the thought. It was only one e-mail which he hadn't replied to. And it hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours.

Relax, woman!

Unless he was trying to avoid the touchy subject of his visit.

No. He would never do that.

Thirteen minutes late.

The fifteen-minute rule was in place for our phone conversations, with now only two minutes left. Neither of us had ever mentioned such a rule, but when twelve-thirty hit (and I watched as it did), I turned and headed straight for the exit.

I pulled my denim jacket closed and crossed my arms, making my way through the strong autumn wind in the direction of the office. The phone remained tightly clutched in my hand, which meant I wasn't really sure about the time on the digital clock.

And I didn't want to know.

I returned to my desk at a half an hour late.

Had he e-mailed?

No.

My lunch was waiting in the fridge, but the simple thought of food repulsed me.

I twirled my hair in hyper-fast rotations, trying to understand or make excuses for this crisis. I suddenly remembered how I'd stood him up once for a scheduled call. But I was very apologetic, almost sickeningly so.

Which meant of course he would show me the same consideration in return.

Which also meant I couldn't cave.

DO...NOT...WRITE!

I opened up a spreadsheet I'd been avoiding all last week, using it now to distract myself from writing him an e-mail.

The spreadsheet plan worked until two o' clock, when Amy called me up for the coffee break I'd totally forgotten. That too was a good distraction, until I remembered that anything I told her would funnel back to Eleanor eventually. And so I became self-conscious of my words, because for Eleanor to know that James might have stood me up?

No, I'd die before I'd prove her right.

He'll explain, and everything will be just fine.

By four o' clock all distractions had failed, so I started to type a new e-mail.

\------------------------------------

Hey James, how come you never called today?

\------------------------------------

NO!

I deleted the e-mail and locked my computer for the day.

Going home early.

At twenty past five I was sitting in my car, a half an hour earlier than usual.

I started to wonder...was there a sub-conscious reason for why I'd left early? Hadn't I just bought myself some time for a call? Before my pride could scream out _"No bitch, no!"_ I was already entering the pin for the phone card, and coming up next was his long-ass number.

"RING."

Was this a bonehead move?

"RING."

What if he'd actually died?

"CLICK."

"James Caldwell."

A sudden wave of fear washed over me.

I'm a psycho!

"Hello, anyone there?" he said.

Oh God.

"Yes, sorry. It's me Romi."

Silence hung in the air.

Crap!

"Hello. I wasn't expecting you. Is everything okay?"

You weren't expecting me?! Well I was expecting YOU five hours ago!

He clearly wasn't dead or in any mortal danger, so I decided to be more direct.

"I'm fine but I was starting to worry about you. You didn't call this afternoon..."

I closed my eyes and hoped for a big apology.

"Ah yes, I'm sorry I didn't e-mail you in time," he said. "Something came up."

THAT'S IT? What's "something" anyway? A whore?

The blood started rushing to my face, with my heart now pounding in my ears. I couldn't think of anything to say.

"Hello?" he said.

I cleared my throat and began. "I'm here. But I'm having some trouble working this out."

"I'm sorry," he said. "Working out what exactly?"

Oh sure, play dumb.

"Working out how five hours passed from our scheduled call, but you couldn't even acknowledge it? That doesn't seem like you. I was worried that something might have happened."

"Look I said I was sorry."

Suddenly I could see what he was doing. He was letting me get upset with as few of his words as possible. That way it was easier to label me "emotional."

Smart plan, wrong girl.

"Please don't jerk me around," I said.

There was a pause.

"I'm not sure what to say to that, I mean look I have a life and job to take care of as well. So we missed a phone call. Is that the end of the world? Is that the size of it? All this touchiness because of one silly phone call?"

He was going to force it out of me, and I wasn't going to fight it. But I turned up the air conditioner a little before I said it.

Take a deep breath.

"What I mean is...are you avoiding me? Are you even coming to visit or have you cancelled? Because it's almost October."

He sighed into the phone. _A sigh?_ "Okay...you have to understand something. The trip was never a sure thing and I said that up front. So please don't say 'cancelled' like I'm ruining promised plans. I brought it up in July for goodness sake. And I don't believe I ever reinforced the idea."

Oh...my...god. He's ditching me.

It was taking all my energy to continue breathing evenly.

"So you're not coming to visit in October?"

I closed my eyes and braced for it. The dreaded information I didn't want to hear.

"I wish you wouldn't say it like that," he said.

Why was everything quickly turning into my fault?

I didn't say anything but I was getting close to tears.

"Listen Roms, I said I wanted to visit because I did, that's it. Why all the weird and different behaviour now?"

WHAT?

"No James, YOU'VE been acting different!" My voice was sounding whiny now, but I didn't even care. "To me you seem more distant, like your interest in me has faded. Maybe now I'm just another one of your writing projects."

Once I said it out loud I was truly starting to believe it.

"Roms you know I like you. But...sometimes I feel like you think I'm going to save you from your life."

I traced my finger around the steering wheel, concentrating hard to keep the tears away. "I don't know what that means."

"Well for the first few months," he began, "you always made me laugh. There was really no comparison to that. But lately it seems that every other topic with you is 'arranged marriage' this or that. I'm not trying to belittle your culture, but sometimes you make me feel like I'm an answer to your problem. And that makes me wonder if you're being realistic about our contact."

As he finished up the last of his words, the immediate emotions set in: offended, shocked, and belittled.

"Look, I might get carried away sometimes with the topics that bug me, but that's because these topics bug me! I mean why do we e-mail every day, if we can't tell each other how we feel? Or maybe it's just YOU who never says how he feels. Or maybe you never feel the need to vent. Maybe your life is perfect."

"What do you know about my life?"

Okay, wrong button...back it up!

"I don't know a lot, evidently, but I simply thought the progression of our contact was to meet. Was it wrong of me to think that?"

I wiped away the tears that had formed from these honest words. It was starting to feel like a losing battle.

"That's not what I'm saying," he said. "But you have to pay attention to our lives. How different they are, the distance between us. Who knows if we'll ever meet? That doesn't mean I wouldn't like it, but you have to accept the possibility that...maybe we won't."

It was the worst he could have possibly said.

I took a deep breath and prepared myself to salvage this disaster of a chat. "James, we've been in touch almost every day for five months. This is not merely something that pen pals do. And suddenly you're so distant. You just don't sound like yourself."

"But that's the point Roms; what am I supposed to sound like to you? What is your expectation of how I should be, when you haven't even met me?"

"Why are you saying these things? You sound like a stranger right now."

"You seem upset. Maybe this isn't the best time to talk."

Now I was getting angry. _Stop treating me like I'm a mental patient!_

"Listen," I said with my teeth fully clenched. "All I'm saying is there has to be some forward movement here...or it's pretty unhealthy to continue."

Did I really just say that?

"Continue what? We haven't started anything."

He did not just say that, did he? DID HE?

"But..." I started. I couldn't finish as he interrupted quickly.

"I'm sorry but I can't make promises to someone I haven't met. In fact I never make promises period, not for a long time now. I wouldn't want you doing anything you think is unhealthy. So if this contact doesn't work for you, maybe it needs to stop."

And then, after five great months of communication, the longest silence deafened us with crippling force.

"I have to go now," he said. "It's getting late."

"Okay." I couldn't think of anything else to say, but it didn't matter anyway. He had already hung up.

I gave myself ten minutes to cry it all out. Ten good minutes for some raw emotion, and then I'd go home and walk through the door like nothing had happened.

The emotionless cardboard cut-out Indian daughter...

Chapter Nineteen

That night when I arrived home, I went through the motions as required. _Greet the parents, feed the cat, make a salad, set the table._

No one had a clue that my heart was on the edge of being crushed to smithereens. The hardest part was trying to eat a full dinner. Food seemed irrelevant tonight, and I didn't want to let it in. My mother suspected I was ill, which was perfect since it gave me an excuse to leave the table.

So I went to my room and fell asleep by nine o' clock.

No phone calls, no e-mails, no nothing.

***

I didn't even wait for my alarm the next morning. It was five a.m. and I was up, already switching on my laptop.

A minute later I saw his name in my inbox.

\----------------------------------

Hello Romi.

Last night's conversation seemed intense. I hope you're feeling a bit better, you seemed a bit tightly wound.

J

\----------------------------------

Wow.

So nothing had changed at all. Is this how it was with guys? In one ear, and right out their butt-hole?

I didn't even know what I would say, but I wasn't quite ready to deal with him yet. First I had to deal with an e-mail to my boss. _Sick Day here I come_...

***

I groaned into consciousness at noon. I vaguely recalled muttering the words "I'm siccckkk" to my mother at a certain point, but other than that I'd been sleeping on and off the whole time. It was a new and lazy first.

I still didn't know what to write to this emotionally-challenged block-head. He who had never seemed emotionally-challenged before.

I switched sides on the pillow, my symbolic way of considering his perspective. Okay, so maybe the arranged-marriage mentions with him as my saviour were a little bit much, but they hadn't been entirely serious. And if it seemed like they were serious, well he could talk to me about it. _I'm not a psycho man-trap in actual life!_ And shouldn't he have already known I wasn't a psycho by now? Maybe it was time for my blunt response.

Stand-by for the hate-mail reply.

\-------------------------------------

Hey James,

I just woke up now because I didn't go to work. I don't feel well today.

Not really sure what else to say...

Romi

\-------------------------------------

It wasn't even "hate mail" really. It was "logic mail," and how could you fight with logic?

I crawled out of bed to begin my day, and I could sense it was going to be a crazy one.

***

A half an hour later I was back in bed with a steaming cup of tea. And waiting there for me, almost like a ticking time bomb was his next response.

\----------------------------------

Romi,

Just so we are clear on this, I never signed a contract that said I would visit and when. It was a nice idea back in July and that was it. Quite frankly I regret ever having mentioned it.

If you ask me - and let's face it you have done that often enough in the past - it's high time you stopped playing the victim so well. You are in a crappy job you don't like and have parents that can't accept you have grown up. It seems your greatest creative talent is complaining about the two.

You have great potential as a writer. Tear the walls down and start living your life.

James

\----------------------------------

The first part of his note made me furious. The second part made me think. But a couple of minutes later, the second part made me furious too. Of course it was easy if you grew up in England and your parents had no rules and you conveniently had all of Europe at your doorstep. But had he ever walked a mile in Romi's damn shoes?

Apparently not.

Fine, end this shit.

\-------------------------------------

Hey James,

I'm not sure what to tell you.

I guess I got it all wrong. That's all I can think of right now.

Romi

\----------------------------------

Even as I told myself it was "closure," there was a sprinkle of hope in that final e-mail. I wanted him to tell me that I hadn't misunderstood after all.

But he didn't tell me that, or anything at all that day. Which could only mean the end of this Internet chapter in my life...

Chapter Twenty

Starting over.

From scratch.

With no more ocean of conflict.

To my surprise, I was mildly excited. The idea of searching for someone, where I wouldn't be restricted to the Internet and the telephone? Hadn't that been my goal all along? To find a three-dimensional man?

Then again, how sad was it to know that I'd never meet the man behind the Internet legend? The man who made me so much more of a writer, and the man whose pictures I was skimming through again, even though it was eleven days and counting since the "break up."

Sunday night and nothing to do but pine.

I zoomed in and out of the pictures I had saved in my special "James" folder. This folder contained all the very best shots of James, but in case anybody should ever get a hold of my laptop, I'd labeled it as "Q3 '11 Results Analysis."

It hadn't been hard to compile all these photos, as I'd copied and saved them from Facebook. I'd refrained from telling any of my friends I'd done this, but deep in my heart I knew it wasn't crazy at all. He did give me access to his profile after all.

Depending on the quality of the picture, if I zoomed in enough his face on the screen was practically life-sized. Which meant that if I raised my laptop to eye level, it was almost like he was sitting right in front of me.

Oh my god...what have I become?!

I set down the laptop in disgust, whilst suddenly feeling sweaty in this otherwise airy T-shirt. And much like my friends who had felt this way already, I was starting to worry for my sanity.

I need to forget that face!

It was only a two-dimensional face after all, how hard could it be to forget a flat face?

I selected the folder and hit "Delete."

But it wasn't so easy.

"Are you sure you want to remove the folder "Q3 '11 Results Analysis" and move all its contents to the Recycle Bin?"

Why did my laptop always have to be so specific? Couldn't it make its own decision just this once?

I hit "No" and decided to delete the pictures one by one.

Baby steps.

Much to my surprise, the beach pictures weren't the hardest to delete. But the close-up shots, where he was staring right into the camera? Those were the heartbreakers.

DELETE.

Before I could even hesitate, I also deleted all the pictures from the "Recycle Bin."

In reality, this exercise wasn't as sad or as liberating as I'd imagined. Maybe it was because all the pictures I'd lost to oblivion, were not really lost at all. They could be easily accessed again through the powers of Facebook.

But had I ever really claimed that I was ready to move on for good?

Baby steps...

***

\----------------------------------

Subject: Coffee Break? My treat...

Location: The Usual

Time: 9:30am

\----------------------------------

I made it official to Eleanor with a meeting request. I always felt like it was harder to "decline" or ignore a meeting request than it was to dismiss an e-mail. Besides, I'd had enough of being "declined" lately.

A minute before the meeting time she accepted, and that's how my apology to Eleanor began...

***

"So...I'm a dick." I took a big sip of my toffee-nut latte and looked at her for acknowledgement. Yes, I was having a latte, and I didn't care if it was two hundred calories. Not today.

"Oh yeah?" Eleanor sniffed at the soy-vanilla latte I'd bought her. To take the first sip was just like accepting the olive branch. So a sniff meant she wasn't quite there yet. Plus she looked kind of scary in her bright red v-neck sweater.

"I won't trouble you with the 'excuses' version, so...you did nothing wrong by setting me up with Arjun. Sorry by the way, if he thinks I'm a cold bitch." I crossed then uncrossed my legs, not really liking how the corduroy rubbed between my thighs.

Eleanor raised the latte to her lips, and then lowered it back to the table. _Dammit, so close to an accepting sip!_ "That's right, you don't have to give me the excuses version, but I'm still kind of curious. WHAT was going on in your head that night? Were you drunk? Were you having a mental breakdown? I've never seen you like that before."

I really had to think about this one. Why did I fall off the sane-train?

I pulled at the collar of my big black turtleneck sweater. It was the sweater I wore when I wanted to hide from the world. But even this sweater couldn't hide me from the truth.

"Well...maybe ten percent drunk and ten percent mentally unstable."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "And what about the other eighty percent?"

I considered the truth and let out a sigh. "Let's just say I was still pretty consumed with what I'd witnessed at my house. You know, that awful showcase of a supposedly perfect Indian guy who's a stranger, but perfect nonetheless because of stats on a page." I rolled up my sleeves as I could feel myself getting fired up. "Meanwhile spending five months communicating with a virtual stranger? Well he sure didn't feel like a stranger to me. I actually became attached to him. To James." I couldn't help but cringe when I said his name.

Note to self: replace his name with "Internet freak-boy." It will ease the pain.

It looked like Eleanor was waiting for more so I continued. "What was I saying? Oh right, I was totally attached, and there were future expectations in this 'attachment.' But apparently I imagined it all. Because I'm just a crazy freak from the Internet."

Eleanor simply stared.

"So yeah," I concluded, "that was the other eighty percent."

I looked up at Eleanor again, and all she could say was "Huh?"

We both started laughing at once. It was my first big laugh since the very real break-up of my fake-ass relationship.

And the cherry on top? Eleanor took a nice long sip of her latte.

I was relieved, but also pretty sick of "just getting by" on my friendships. I could do a little better than this rambling barrage.

"IN OTHER WORDS," I added, "my stupid brain lumped you in with my parents, also known as the 'arrangers.' It's just that in our world, no one takes the time to accurately analyze behaviour. The personality profiles are so dry. Like if you're a parent, you have three jobs: make sure your kids don't become slutty druggies, make sure they study all day and get good jobs, and make sure you get them married off." I frowned at this trifecta that defined my existence. "And if you happen to be this 'project work' offspring, you don't need to have a personality either. You simply have to meet the criteria mentioned above. It doesn't matter how you get there, what your feelings are, what makes you laugh, what sort of things make your soul dance, you just have to be: pure, free of drugs, free of booze, smart, and eager for marriage."

I cleared my throat for the finish. "Therefore, you immediately resembled the 'parental profile' when you brought me to Arjun. In reality of course it was nothing like that. We weren't at my house having tea with his family, we were at a bar!" I laughed as I realized how ridiculous it all sounded now.

"But despite the obvious normalcy of the event," I continued, "I took one look at him, listened as you told me how we'd get along great, and I snapped." I sighed.

"The worst part is," I concluded, "I didn't even come to my senses until now. Which is why you're still allowed to hate me." I lowered my head in shame.

Eleanor punched me in the arm. "I don't hate you! But I have to say...James really did a number on you. Or actually, I think you did a number on yourself. I mean you can't let a guy take over your sanity. Because I know you, and most of the time...you ARE a sane person!"

I felt enlightened for agreeing with her, but dumb for how I'd acted during much of the "James trance."

"So now what?" I asked. I was really at a loss this time, sitting in the middle of this hollow existence.

Eleanor clasped her hands together and smiled. "Well for a little while at least, you're going to let ME run your life!"

It's not like Eleanor could mess up my life any more than I already had.

"Okay," I said.

"I hope you understand what that means though. Like when I tell you to go for a run, smile at a cute guy, and delete Sir James off of Facebook, you're going to do it, right?"

I shook my head in disagreement. "Two out of three dude. I am NOT deleting him from Facebook."

"But why?" I could see some irritation creep across Eleanor's face.

Because I miss him, and I want to keep tabs on his "relationship status."

No, wrong answer.

"If I delete him, it'll be like he won. Like he's sooo amazing that I can't even handle his presence, because I'm just wayyy too distraught." I rolled my eyes. "And besides, maybe you can put up some pictures from our next hot night out. Not that I'm trying to make him jealous, but you know, it never hurts."

"Oh, okay." She nodded. "That totally makes sense."

The more I thought about James in my conversational attempts to forget him, the more I knew I'd be stalking his Facebook profile before I went to bed.

I mean no, I will NOT be doing that. Okay good.

With the internal battle of crazy vs. super-crazy settled ( _for now_ ), I focused my attention on the most deserved topic of our reconciliation.

"But enough about me El. Tell me what's new in YOUR life." I leaned back in my chair to relax as she filled me in, and for the first time in a very long time, I really, really wanted to know.

***

I stumbled through the door with a pair of sore legs, an aching back, and arms that felt like spaghetti.

Best gym session EVER.

It was my first time working out for an extra half hour and I was proud. Of course, any progress I'd made in this entire week would be more than cancelled out by tonight's Thanksgiving dinner.

I rinsed my water bottle in the kitchen sink, making sure to peek into the oven at the two roasting chickens glistening with glaze. Or chicken sweat, or whatever that was. _Mmmm..._

"Are you going to make the potatoes?" asked my mother who was busy washing dishes.

I rolled my eyes. "Let me shower first."

Legs still sore, I managed to climb up the stairs and straight to the shower.

As the hot water started to drench me with its constant pressure, the moment I'd been dreading arrived. The "James flashbacks." The worst part was, they weren't even flashbacks, since none of the events had ever happened. They were more like "would've been, but won't ever be" flash forwards: first smile, first handshake, first laugh. Next fifty laughs. First hand-hold. Another ten laughs. First hug. A build-up of nervous anticipation. First kiss...

I wish I could've told him: "See? I wasn't forcing you to save me from my parents. I just wanted to meet you once. Say 'hi' and take it from there."

But gone was the time to clear things up.

So the showering, that segment in the day when I couldn't stop my mind from drifting off, the showering continued to torture me.

Thank God it only lasts ten minutes.

I dried myself off and slipped into my loose-fitting Winnie-the-Pooh flannels. They were the perfect pajamas for stomach expansion.

Bring on the Thanksgiving fat!

Back in the kitchen now, I set to work on my favourite scalloped potatoes. I had the process fully memorized: _spread the potato slices in a glass dish layer by layer, and all along add in the following: flour, sliced up onions, some tablespoons of milk, and of course the shredded cheddar._

Mmmm...

My mother had been kind enough to boil the potatoes, so I sliced them up into their thin little circles. It was meticulous but calming work, and since I knew what I was doing my mother didn't scold me at all. Meanwhile my father was laughing at an Indian comedy show, which was so not funny at all.

I smiled.

Maybe this family's not so bad after all.

My mom went out to the garage to take out the trash, but when she returned...something was very different.

She looked utterly furious.

"Lying? LYING to us?" The rest she mumbled under her breath.

My dad approached her with a look of alarm. "What is it?"

"Your DAUGHTER said she was playing golf for an office tournament."

My sister wasn't going to be home for another hour. But were they really surprised she was lying?

Seriously, who goes golfing in October?

"Yeah? So?" said my father.

"Her golf set. It's still in the garage behind the ladder."

What kind of dumbass lies about golfing and doesn't even take the clubs?

Just as soon as the peace in my home had embraced me, my parents were now in their fiercest attack mode.

My mother approached me with a pointed finger. "Where is she? I know she told you everything."

"I don't know!" I cried.

And I really didn't!

I finished with the potatoes as fast as I could, shoving them in the oven and escaping to the basement.

My brother was watching "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," one of my favourite movies ever, and the perfect time for a little comedy.

I sat there watching for at least ten minutes before he spoke.

"Where is she?" His face barely moved and his body laid still on the couch.

"I don't know!" Why did everyone think I would know? She and I were practically strangers. Two sisters with the same approved outward personality profiles, but completely blind to what was really in each other's hearts.

"When the hell is dinner?" He rubbed his belly from overtop his worn grey T-shirt. "I'm starving. There better be lots of food."

If there was one thing Sonny and I could agree on, it was our love for rich and delicious food. And tonight's fusion Thanksgiving dinner was no exception. The menu called for regular roasted chickens, tandoori chicken, scalloped potatoes, steamed vegetables and pumpkin pie.

"Trust me there's tons of food. But will we even get to eat with all the drama she's causing?" I had a feeling this night was on an ugly path.

Long after the potatoes were done (with the pie now cooking peacefully in the oven), my biggest fear surrounding dinner was realized.

Eight o' clock, no big sister and a set of angry parents.

I checked on the pie and headed back down to the basement. Before I even made it past the first three steps, the front door opened and I saw her.

I tiptoed to the doorway and shook my head at her. "Next time you wanna lie about playing golf, take your golf clubs with you, dumbass!"

Much to my surprise, my sister's face didn't contort into the agony or fear I'd expected. She almost looked a little glazed over.

With steady steps she made her way into the kitchen, as I stood in the darkened stairwell within earshot of everything.

As if I'm going to miss this!

"How was golf?" my mother asked in a casual tone. She loved kicking off her attacks with a juicy trick question.

"Uhh...I wasn't playing golf," she said.

Silence.

Maybe my parents weren't expecting the honest admission.

"We already know you lied," said my father. "So now you better tell us the truth. Do you have a BOYFRIEND?" He said the word "boyfriend" as if describing a crack-head neighbour.

"No, but I've been talking to someone. I saw his profile on the marriage website, and we started e-mailing." She paused to clear her throat. "Then we met to have coffee, and...we like each other. Will you meet his family?"

Wait a minute...her dude is an INDIAN guy?

My jaw dropped.

My parents' jaws were likely in a dropped configuration as well, though I couldn't know for sure since the kitchen was obscured by the stairwell.

My mother was the first to break the silence. "Why did you meet him without our permission?"

Was it my imagination, or was my mother trying to mask her excitement with faux "taken-abackness"?

"And why did you lie?" said my father. "If there's one thing we tell you kids, it's to never lie. We will always catch you. And Neema you never need to lie, you can ALWAYS talk to us."

Oh yeah Mom and Dad, you're just SO easy to talk to. Everything's fine just as long as we never leave the house.

"I didn't want you to meet him until we talked," she said. "I can't decide to marry someone right away. But he's really nice."

"Was this the first time you met him?" asked my mother, still trying hard to sound angry. "And don't lie again."

"We had coffee one other time," she confessed. "And we talked on the phone."

I had to applaud my sister's bravery. I mean she hadn't revealed that she'd been seeing him for almost a year (if her late nights out were any indication), but this was big.

"I don't like this," said my father. "I don't like what you did. Don't ever lie like that again. So...how old is he?"

"What does he do?" added Mother. Both of them had given up on being pissed. They were excited.

I continued to listen as she described this man whose existence I'd suspected for months.

Indian background? _Check._

Same religion? _Check._

Older than her? _By one year, so check (and phew!)_

Doctor, engineer or a high-powered business man? _Engineer._ _In other words, check times a zillion!_

I was happy for her...but also about to shit my pants. My parents had a spot in the local Indian newspaper advertising my sister. They also had a profile for her on all the matrimonial websites.

Would they cancel the paid memberships, or simply change the bullet point details (and jpeg) to now reference me?

I was beginning to lose my appetite.

"Come and eat!" yelled my mother.

Oh great, NOW you want me to eat?

My mother and father changed to the topic of the glorious meal that was before us. I took a quick look at the scalloped potatoes.

And I felt like I was going to be sick.

Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts.

I somehow managed to compartmentalize my fear, and ate at least two thirds of what I normally would. As for my parents, they never once noticed my reluctance to have a third helping. Their thoughts were too busy running wild with wedding plans. I could see it in their rapidly shifting eyes.

My sister on the other hand ate her dinner calmly, with a visible weight now entirely lifted off her shoulders.

And her only words as she passed me in the kitchen once the dinner was complete?

"You're next."

Chapter Twenty-One

I stared out the window, my eyes fixated on the beautiful people walking past, on my favourite little corner of Toronto where "rich" met "hot."

It was a Thursday after work and Laura and I were right where we'd been four months ago, when she'd confessed to being faced with a "sausage surprise."

Only now we weren't sitting on the patio, instead safely sheltered from the wind-chill and some evening flurries.

"Are you getting a drink?" asked Laura, as she browsed the cocktail menu.

"Actually...just staring at those people out there is giving me a shiver. I kind of want hot chocolate." I played with my long purple scarf, tightening it slightly around my neck. It wasn't really made for warmth, but I liked the thin and almost sheer material. _Slave to fashion._

"Well surprise, you can actually afford to drink all those calories! Like what would you have said a year ago, if I predicted you'd be wearing a tight v-neck sweater, without it looking three sizes too small?"

"I would've asked you to bring me a manual on how to be bulimic. There's no other way it would've seemed possible." I still wasn't free of those mild stomach rolls that most people get when they're seated, but regular workouts at the gym with the goal of joining the office stair climbs had gradually made a difference.

"How much weight have you lost in total?" she asked.

"Uhh...sixteen pounds."

It was four pounds shy of my parents' weight-loss goal, but it's not like I'd been shooting for that anyway. Besides, being one pound under my best adult weight was good enough for me. And who didn't love climbing multiple flights of stairs without hyperventilating?

More importantly, exercise was a good distraction, not to mention a needed one, when my life was so devoid of emotion.

I ordered my hot chocolate and Laura chose an "exotically spiced cider" (or named as such so it could justify the hefty price). She crossed her arms as the waiter walked away, her gaze focused squarely on me.

"What?" I said.

"You know exactly what. As in what's your latest status?"

I ran my fingers through the tassels of the scarf, imagining all the ways I could respond.

"Be more specific please."

"Okay. Well are your parents still cool? They haven't pulled a fast one?"

I smiled at the thought of my parents, and how my sister's news had affected them so profoundly. They were in love with his family, and drooling at the prospect of hosting a giant Indian wedding.

"You know how my parents used to look at my sister? Like an object." I held up a glass as an example. "Like a depreciating asset on the market. But now that my sister's getting married in only NINE months?" I paused for effect while Laura gasped. "Well now they seem a lot more needy. Like they'll miss her or something."

"Nine months? Wow. But wait a minute, if they're acting all needy, I assume they haven't tried the whole website thing with you?"

I laughed. "Not only have they not tried to put me on a website, but they shut down the account and cancelled the newspaper ad. And you'll love this next little bit. My dad said 'Don't worry, you have plenty of time. We can wait another year or so.' My dad said THAT, to ME."

"Isn't it funny how things work out?"

I smiled. "Yeah I guess so. They're already insanely busy planning her engagement reception. It's happening in January, and from the sounds of it it's going to be a big one. Like two hundred people at least, just for an engagement!"

"Well that might be good...you could start to stay out later and they wouldn't even realize." I noticed a flicker of mischief in Laura's smile.

I laughed. "You are a horrible white-girl influence." She had a point though. My parents had barely batted an eye at my after-work excursions.

When the waiter arrived with our drinks, Laura looked a bit alarmed. "Oh no!" she whispered, as he hurriedly walked away. "I know you wanted hot chocolate, but you forgot to say 'no whipped cream!'"

I examined the swirly mountain atop my drink, with flecks of chocolate shavings as the final accessory. "Well actually," I said, "I think I can swing it...and I think I will love it." I smiled and cradled the cup like a newborn baby (a newborn cup-shaped baby with a frothy head).

"Well now I am officially jealous." She stared at her cider and sneered. "So my next question...have you forgotten about 'you know who' yet?"

I stirred the whipped cream and tried not to flinch at the thought of him. "Well A: it's only been five weeks. And B: I'm pretty sure I'm thinking about him NOW since you brought him up!"

"Oh, sorry," she said. "But you know what I mean. Is he still on your Facebook?"

I rolled my eyes. "He sure is. And he seems to be having a blast. At least if you go by the beautiful pictures from the beach he just posted. The beach...at sunset." I sighed. "It's so much nicer at that time, since that's when all the people put their clothes back on." I continued to over-stir my drink.

"Any girls in those pictures?"

I shook my head. "Nothing beyond the usual suspects. I just wish he'd do something really jerky. Like post a picture of himself sucking face with a model, along with a caption of 'Ha, ha, ha, Romi!'" Laura laughed as I went on. "I just wanna stop caring. Hopefully he'll commit a heinous crime and I'll hear all about it." I took a big sip of hot chocolate. It was so damn rich that my body instantly calmed.

"But you're doing so much better now!" she exclaimed. "You've gotten over him like ninety percent by now, right?"

"It sure doesn't feel that way." Suddenly my chin started quivering. _Oh god, not now. I've been two whole weeks without tears!_

"Oh no, you're getting upset. Let's change the subject!"

But it was too late for that. The "sad little girl train" had already left the station.

"You know what the worst part is?" I looked at her with eyes full of sorrow. "I actually feel like I've gotten progressively stupid."

"You're not stupid at all! Every experience makes you wiser." She quickly nodded as if to convince me.

Sorry dude, not buying it.

"How am I wiser?" I whined. "With the 'latte guy' at least I had actually met him! We spent some time together, so at least there was a basis for getting my heart broken. But this time...I fell for someone I never even met. And according to him I imagined it all!" I slammed my fist on the table, and the cutlery bounced with a shock.

"I promise you you're not stupid." She pointed to my drink. "Now finish that amazing hot chocolate before it gets cold!"

I ignored her and continued on my path of self-destruction. "Imagine if I told anyone this story. If I told someone that AFTER being crushed by a long-distance dude, I let myself get crushed by an Internet-dude next. Do you think they would believe I finished high school?"

Laura frowned and furrowed her eyebrows intensely. "I do NOT accept this sadness," she said. "You act like it's the end of everything!"

"Isn't it? The 'year of the chick'...what a bust."

For some inconceivable reason, my admission of failure was a happy occasion for Laura. Or it must've been...why was she smiling?

"I change my mind," she stated. "You did NOT finish high school, because you're totally blind to the awesome position you're in!"

Laura seemed to have lost it, but my "chin quiver" was stabilized, so I decided to listen for more.

She took a deep breath. "I've been keeping up with your blog, and I know you never wrote about 'him,' but your posts are getting funnier and funnier. It's like you don't even believe in fairytales anymore."

"I don't. I mean that damn Cinderella getting everything she ever wanted? I wish I could meet her and say 'Hey Cind, I found your glass slipper! Now please bend over while I shove it up your ass!'" I shook my head in disgust.

"Okayyy. But also," she began, "maybe next year you'll get around to writing that book you always talk about, you know beyond just the brainstorm. So tell me again: how does this seem like the end of things? Hmm?" She smiled with an air of victory.

Bitch needs to get off her happy pills.

"You know what the funny thing is?" I said. "When we first started talking about writing, and he asked me if I wanted a happy ending for my novel, I practically squealed when I said yes. And now...I'm not entirely sure that I won't kill off the heroine." I sighed. "I'm not entirely sure if I even want to write it anymore."

"Romes, shut your face!" she cried. "You've come so far on this writing thing, and a lot of it's because of him! At least be grateful."

I sneered.

"Okay, forget the writing," she quickly said. "But remember, you thought this year would end by being forced into arranged marriage doom. Instead it's like a new beginning! So no more 'pity party' Romes, or I will put on my coat and march right out of here."

I smiled, but I really had no idea how another twelve months would bring me closer to love, when the first twelve months of trying hadn't even caught a glimpse of it. But at least I wasn't getting any closer to arranged marriage hell.

Fine, I'll take it as the consolation prize.

"Okay, your pep talk worked," I said. "I won't jump off a bridge."

"And you also won't sit at home every night watching rom-com DVDs."

"Trust me, I am well aware of how those cutesy little movies spread their poison. Or maybe I poisoned myself, but dammit I'm very impressionable! Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan are more destructive than crack cocaine." I shuddered.

"Yeah...but I still kind of loved him in 'You've Got Mail.'"

"But he isn't real! There is no knight in shining armour outside of movies!" I cried. "And you know what I realize now? At a certain point, you have to be your OWN knight in shining armour. It might mean pumping iron, growing a beard, and ruining your manicure, but is it worse than kissing a flat-screen version of a nineties Tom Hanks?"

"You kissed the screen?" she said, suddenly embarrassed for me.

I frowned. "Shut up. What I mean is, I get it now. James was never going to save me from my life. As soon as I started to think that, he was gone. I guess I needed to learn that lesson for myself." I finished the tepid hot chocolate in one long sip.

"Now it really DOES sound like you're over him."

I nodded my head. "Yeah, sure."

The only thing I'm over is this topic.

"By the way, how's Dave?" I asked. "Are you guys all in love and stuff?"

Laura started blushing as soon as I mentioned "love."

"So when are you two getting married, hmm? Or is it still a little too early for that? 'Cause you know me, always jumping the gun."

We both started laughing and I had to admit, it was maybe a little bit funny.

My horrific failure in the art of Internet seduction...

***

Writing a blog post at six a.m. was not the sort of thing I'd ever thought I'd end up doing. But how could I deny cerebral-programming? My brain was simply used to the six a.m. rush; that feeling of checking e-mails, re-reading e-mails and writing e-mails back. It had been two months since the end of all "that," yet still I felt the urge.

So I continued to feed the habit, only this time I was writing for myself...

\---------------------------------

Ask me to paint you a picture of Hell, and you won't see any fiery pits or a muscular red-skinned Devil; instead I'll draw you a grid of the "House Wares" section.

The small appliances...the miles of cutlery...the (gulp) dishes; these are my triggers for self-mutilation.

According to the chicks on television though (who are the obvious benchmarks for realism), buying crap for your house is supposed to be fun. Not only is it supposed to be fun, but it's supposed to be addictive. Whether it's the crazed, twitchy-eyed woman stocking up at the "Sale of the Year," or the chicks on the sitcoms swapping their wedding gifts (and purchasing ten more items along the way), women love their house-related products.

So why don't I love them too? It's yet another reason why I strongly suspect that I'm twenty-percent "man" (I'll reveal the rest of the clues another time)...

\----------------------------------

In my writing haze I eventually realized these teeth weren't going to brush themselves. So I hit "Save" mid-post and made a date with my terrible work ethic.

Next stop: blogging at the office...

***

"Are you going to the Christmas gala?" Eleanor looked at me with pleading eyes, her and Amy my dates for an office lunch at my desk.

I frowned as I peeled back the lid from my yogurt. "It's my third Christmas working here, and I've never once forked out the cash for these fancy galas," I said. "Like why should I have to PAY for our office Christmas party? I prefer our casual parties better. Getting drunk at a bar with the cool people. Let's stick with that."

"But it's fun!" exclaimed Amy. "You get to be all dressed up and there's tons of wine."

"There's also tons of boring old executives with their husbands or wives." I rolled my eyes. "It's so awkward. And besides, you expect me to go without a date? It would be like high school prom all over again."

Eleanor tried to hide her smile. "But maybe you wouldn't be dateless..."

Excuse me?

I eyed her cautiously. "Go on."

"Remember Arjun?" she asked.

I immediately blushed at the sound of his name. "You mean the guy who probably thinks I'm a psycho? He saw me scream at you that night. Don't you remember?" I shuddered as the memory consumed me.

"He doesn't think you're crazy, I swear! I told him you were drunk that night because I forced you to have lots of shots. I blamed it on me. See? I AM a good friend." She smiled with satisfaction.

"I know you are," I replied sweetly. "But I've only talked to this guy for two minutes. I can't take him as my date to a gala. That's too forward!"

"No it's totally cool. I told him it's like a big 'group' thing," she said, while picking out the grungy-looking lettuce from her salad. "I'll be taking Arjun's friend, and a couple of his other friends are going with some girls in Accounting. Which means Arjun would be more like your guest for a big group party!"

Maybe it wasn't such a crazy concept. And my parents wouldn't mind a work-related Christmas party. "But I don't even have a dress," I pointed out. "And it's not like I can stay out super-late."

"Don't worry we can shop for a dress next week. And Arjun is Indian remember? I'm sure he'll be cool with your curfew. Must be home before midnight, just like Cinderella!"

I rolled my eyes. "Don't even mention that stupid bitch. I don't wanna hear another thing about Prince Charming, or magic slippers, or any of that happy ending garbage." I was suddenly ready to start up a street fight with anyone. _Intense._

Eleanor looked a little frightened. "Okayyy Romes, sensitive topic. Got it."

"When is this damn thing anyway?" I asked between spoonfuls of yogurt.

Amy consulted her Gala promotional flyer. "Saturday December 20th!"

"You carry your Gala invite in your purse?" I chuckled.

Amy wasn't fazed. "I love dressing up."

"Okay then," I said. "Sign me up for a ticket El. And one for my 'guest' as well."

"Awesome! And I'm also giving him your number. You guys need to talk on the phone before you spend a whole evening together."

My heart rate suddenly quickened. "I'm not so sure about that. Isn't that a little too fast?"

"Too fast?" Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "Romes, I think the Internet has skewed your sense of reality. And for the last time: this is NOT an arranged marriage set-up!"

She rose from her chair and put her arm around my shoulder. "Just relax okay? A little fun won't kill you."

A little fun, a nice dress, and a date to the magic ball. _Move over Cinderella..._

Chapter Twenty-Two

I took a long sip of my tea, as a blanket of snowflakes fell down fast, obscuring my view of the street.

Sitting and staring out the window seemed like the best thing to do. There was always work of course, but me and work and Mondays rarely ever mixed.

I heard a muffled buzz as my phone began to vibrate from deep inside my bag.

A text message this early in the morning?

I pulled it out to read the message: " **Eyes open, sailor! Because I KNOW I just caught you sleeping at your desk ;-)** "

I smiled at Arjun's latest text, and dropped the phone back into my bag, knowing I had to wait before replying.

Don't wanna look too eager.

Arjun had started texting me a week and a half ago. Most normal people would've probably talked on the phone by now, but there was still ten days until our very first "date," and I didn't want to go too fast. He did seem sarcastic and funny though, just like Eleanor had said. I wondered what it would be like to spend some actual time with him. Things would probably start out well, since my plum-coloured dress would totally rock his world. A steep three hundred dollars, my low-cut dress was a form-fitting masterpiece (and the material was thick enough to hide any lingering imperfections).

Aside from the outward confidence of having a sexy dress, I wondered how my insides would feel when I saw him. Would I get so excited that I'd feel the sudden urge to puke in his face?

I needed a guy who could make me feel like puking thick streams, 'cause that's when I knew it was real. _Please make me hurl, Arjun._

I suddenly wondered if Arjun had a profile on Facebook _._ If he did he'd add me soon, but in the meantime I could check if his photo albums were public. Hopefully his hottest pictures would light the "Romi fire."

I logged onto Facebook and scrolled through the newsfeed first, as I could never help but check people's updates.

I moved down the page pretty quickly, until I reached a certain name that would always catch my eye.

James Caldwell.

And the update: "James Caldwell is...soon off to LA to talk films."

I gasped.

He'd sold his script to Hollywood! Or perhaps I was reading too deeply.

I read the update again, and quickly realized that sold script or not, it would be rude to ignore the development.

But wouldn't it be dangerous to open up that door?

Maybe I could send him my kudos in a one-line public message. But that was so impersonal! I wanted to at least be sincere.

What if it was me? What if I had a book deal? Would he congratulate me? Of course he would!

I opened up my e-mail and took a deep breath.

\----------------------------------

Hey James,

I hope that Hollywood is ready for your greatness!

Will keep an eye out for your name on the silver screen.

Romi

\----------------------------------

If this had happened back in that other dimension of "Internet addictive mental stimulation," I'm sure my e-mail would've gone on longer, but for now I wanted to play it cool. Not to mention that it was the first time I hadn't sounded like a self-absorbed or giddy and obsessive fool. Maybe I was growing up.

Overall this was a different era, one in which a close-ended e-mail was definitely the way to go.

I felt a lot better for at least having sent it, but I needed to return my focus to my current existence. My current and "local" existence.

I grabbed my phone and started texting Arjun: " **You caught me b/w a quiet snore and a puddle of drool. Don't judge ;-). And you're way too chipper for Mon. morn. Loser.** "

"So now you're texting at work?"

I turned to find the one and only Todd hovering above me, like so many other times in my office life. _How does he walk so quietly?_

"Uh, I was texting my mom." I said defensively.

"Your mom? Does she even know how to text?" He rolled his eyes.

"Yes...?" _My mom, of all the people I could've picked._

He started scratching at his short blond hair, while at the same time kicking the bottom of my chair. _How primitive_. "So, does this mean you're back in the saddle?"

Nothing would've pleased Todd more than to know I was back in the game. Especially after he'd seen me cry at my desk over James ( _awkward!_ ). He'd threatened to have him killed, like any good work-dad would.

"I don't even know what you're talking about," I said.

"Hmmm..." he mused, still kicking my chair like a jackass. "Just tell me he's a local."

"YES he's a local."

"HA! So there IS a dude! You're so easy to trap."

"Shut up." I tried my best to hide a smile. "And go away, I have work to do."

"Yeah, like getting all 'worked up' with the guy on the phone. Just keep your pants on okay? This is an office."

"You did not just say that!" I hissed. He didn't wait around to defend himself. Instead he strolled away in his aimless manner.

I wasn't lying, I really did have lots of work to do. Like answering those e-mails I'd knowingly ignored on Friday.

As I typed away, my eye kept falling back to the minimized window on my task bar. My personal e-mail account was calling out to me.

Open up the screen! Hit "Refresh"! There might be a message from James! Come onnnn!

I tried to ignore the crazy voice which had been dormant for weeks, but after watching myself type a shit-brained response about sales growth in vacuums, I couldn't fight the feeling any longer.

So I flipped to my personal e-mail and hit "Refresh."

This is insane.

Just like that, James bounced into my inbox as a brand new message.

I hadn't seen that in two whole months. I breathed in and out for ten straight seconds. And then, with one eye closed and the other one squinted open, I read the message:

\----------------------------------

Hello Roms.

Thank you for the kind words. It's nice to see you being as enthusiastic as ever. Hope all is well at your end.

Don't be a stranger.

J

\----------------------------------

I suddenly felt so aware of my existence. My heartbeat pounding in my ears, the blood rushing through my body, and the sound of my heavy breathing.

What's going on with me?

I stared at the e-mail for a while, worrying about how open-ended it really was. It was only polite to answer, right? But that would mean continuing our thread of contact.

Was I about to embark on a dangerous path? I wasn't sure, but to make matters worse my phone started vibrating.

Oh crap, Arjun!

A second later my desk phone started ringing.

Oh crap, Eleanor!

She was calling me to meet her for a walk in the underground mall, a usual routine for our highly unproductive Monday mornings. I rose from my chair with a single thought in my mind: _do not tell Eleanor a thing_...

***

I walked past the stores in silence for the first little bit. Meanwhile Eleanor described her latest eventful weekend.

"I mean YES, we hung out after the bar and got some gyros," she said. "You know, my group of friends with his group of friends. But now he's already calling and texting non-stop. And I'm talking about consecutive text messages. What should I do? It's not as if I like him in 'daytime' hours." Eleanor slowed her pace and turned in my direction.

Answer the question. ACT NORMAL.

"Well what's the usual way to ditch a clinger? Ignore, ignore, ignore. And if that doesn't work, tell him you're really busy with life right now. 'Life is running away from me,' you'll say, but you'll call him when you get the chance. Except you never will." I smiled and hoped my answer would conceal my disturbing thoughts.

"That's true! Good tip Romes. So...are you and Arjun still texting? Or have you switched to talking on the phone?" She stared at me with brightened eyes, as we walked past the generic purse and wallet store.

"Ugh, how does this horrible store even stay in business?" I said, trying hard to change the subject. "No one is ever here, it's probably a front for a drug cartel." I shook my head in disgust, while Eleanor continued to stare.

Fine, fine, distract her with Arjun-talk. But DON'T mention James. She plays for the "Arjun team" now.

"And to answer your question, YES, he texted me this morning. It was funny and cute so I wrote him back. I guess you could say it's continuing nicely."

I tried to smile like a girl caught up in an early infatuation, though the feelings were quickly switching gears.

"That's great!" she said, while playing with her long mane of hair. "You guys should talk on the phone though. That should be your goal by the end of the day. Get him to call you!" She was elbowing me now, and continued to, until I finally told her what she wanted.

As I thought about a phone call I considered Arjun's voice. I'd heard it before, and nothing about it had stirred anything inside. It was just the sound of words being spoken.

But was I really being fair to Arjun? Or was I maybe just comparing his voice to a perfect English accent? _Damn you James!_

After what truly felt like the longest morning break of my life, I returned to my desk and plopped into the chair with a sigh.

I have to write him back.

I breathed myself into a calmer state, the one where my fingers wouldn't shake so I could actually type.

\----------------------------------

Hey James,

Yes, I'm trying to be more enthusiastic these days! Working away, working out, trying to write, and taking life a day at a time.

By the way...I think about our past communication sometimes.

Romi

\----------------------------------

I hit the "Send" button with relief, but seconds later I was feeling pretty stupid. What was I even hoping for this time? To ignore the lovely guy who was right here in Toronto ( _oh shit, I should reply to Arjun's text!_ ), and keep being hung up on James?

It was time to think things through.

What is the probability of James being your boyfriend? What is the probability of Arjun being your boyfriend? Weigh both options to determine if you're stupid.

STUPID!

I grabbed my phone and furiously texted Arjun.

Once I sent it I was already feeling better.

This is real. That other thing? Not.

I leaned against my chair, feeling surprised by this Monday's level of stress. And it was only half past eleven.

No one was around so I dropped my head on my desk, trying to organize my thoughts a little better.

In the end, one major thought beat out all the others _: less than two weeks left until the Christmas Gala. Stay focused!_

The Christmas ball would be a turning point for me, a real chance to end off the year with the humble beginnings of a courtship. Or if not an official courtship, then at least an evening of fun with some three-dimensional people!

Yes, I needed to transition back into the world of moving objects, and e-mails from James weren't exactly helping my cause.

I opened up my e-mail.

Time to log out.

It was strange, the way my brain and my fingers never seemed to be in sync. My brain instructed me to log out right away, but my hand moved the cursor until it hovered right on top of the "Refresh" button.

Once I clicked, I found yet another reply.

NO!

It was the last thing I wanted, so why did I feel just the tiniest tinge of excitement?

\----------------------------------

Hello Roms,

Are you free at lunchtime today? If yes, let me know and I'll call you, would be good to catch up.

J

\----------------------------------

Catch up? Did the last two months not happen? _Who is this guy?_

Despite feeling utterly confused, saying "no" would mean obsessing over what he might've said. _And nobody obsesses harder than me._

The choice was clear, so when Eleanor and Amy came by my desk with their lunches in hand, I buttoned up my coat and flew past them, mentioning something quick about a lunch-hour errand.

Here we go again...?

Chapter Twenty-Three

I removed my bulky wool coat and draped it over my arm, as I found myself again in the aisles of erotic literature.

I'd told James he could call me at quarter past twelve, and this time I didn't have to pace back and forth in endless wait; my phone started ringing right on time.

"Hello?" I said, sounding rather meek.

"How are you Roms?"

Still with the nickname! I really hate this guy. Is he even allowed to call me that anymore?

I switched the phone from hand to hand, trying to dry my sweaty palms on my pants.

I'm fine thanks," I said. "And what about yourself?"

This feels awkward. And forced. And as if I care what he's been doing the last couple months?

"I'm well thank you, though perhaps a little stressed about the trip to L.A. next week."

"That sounds cool."

But it's not Toronto, you olive-eating English idiot.

"Is this related to the script?" I added. "And congrats again by the way." Even though his casual air annoyed me, I smiled when I mentioned his script.

"Thank you," he said. "And yes it has to do with the script. It came up very suddenly though. I'm struggling to wrap things up before I leave."

"Sounds stressful..."

Why am I in this phone call again? I should be texting Arjun!

"Stressful yes, but also exciting." He cleared his throat before continuing _. Damn, even THAT sounds hot in his accent._ "So tell me, what have I missed?"

"There's only one big item you missed," I said. "My sister is engaged."

"Wow, well there you go, there's one for the books."

"And here's the best part: he's a perfectly acceptable Indian guy, and my parents are in love with him. She'll be married in nine months."

"That's quite a whirlwind, I must say."

Being in the spotlight was building my sense of comfort. _Maybe I'll just roll with it._

I turned the corner of the section "G to N," walking and talking at a quicker pace. "It's a hell of a change. And since my parents are totally consumed with my sister's wedding, the thought of 'arranging' me is suddenly low on the list. Can you believe it?"

"Sounds like there is hope for you yet, if you ask me." His voice had that same rich warmth I remembered.

I laughed. "Yes there is, if only for a little while! It's just so funny, how they start to act all needy once they know one of us is leaving."

"Entirely unexpected of course..." he said, his voice trailing off.

The silence suddenly shook me into reality. _This isn't right._

"James, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why did you call me?" I traced my fingers along a row of erotic titles.

"It was time to catch up again," he said.

_Oh, sure._ "And we couldn't do that over e-mail?"

"Yes of course we could have, but I am so busy preparing for my U.S. trip next week that it was easier to call. Besides, what easier way is there to find out what the weather is like on the East Coast? That way I'll know what to take with me."

"East Coast? Huh?" I massaged my forehead, in a mixture of confusion and frustration. "No wait, stop, this is too much now. I mean first I don't hear from you in like...forever, and here you are calling me to talk about, well, I don't know. What are you talking about James?"

Or was it me who was on crack? It didn't matter anymore, I wasn't done.

"I mean who are you James Caldwell? You walk into my life like a lost James Bond and then just like that," I snapped my fingers for effect, "you're gone. Godammit people just don't do that to me!"

It was suddenly very quiet on his side of the phone. Finally he spoke.

"Look," he started, but I interrupted him quickly, with the anger now vented and my brain simply hyper like usual.

"Explain this East Coast thing to me. I thought you said you're going to L.A."

"Well yes, but on the way back, I am flying through New York City. I will be there for a day and a night."

I leaned against the bookshelf and almost knocked it over.

New York? Hmm...

"Only a day? But you won't see much of New York in just one day." _Wait, why am I even saying this? Last time I checked I wasn't a New Yorker._

"Trust me I would love to stay longer. It's just I need to get back to England, take care of the parents and decorate the house and all that."

How cute was that? _Oh crap, unplanned melting in effect._

"I'm sure they'll be happy to see you. So what's your plan for a day in New York?" I asked, suddenly wishing that I lived in New Jersey or Connecticut, if not in an apartment on the Upper West Side... _god, why can I never be mad at this guy? Well not for long anyway._

"Actually I don't really have a plan. Except perhaps potter about, doing some Christmas shopping or similar."

Just then a book called "Export to Ecstasy" caught my eye. The woman on the cover was bursting with boobs, but the faded-out background indicated an airport.

"Hey James..." I said, with the wheels in my brain turning fast. "What if I flew to New York for the day?"

I had no idea what I was doing, except for following James's rule of taking charge of my life, which in this case simply meant living free within the phone call. Reality was gone, and I was blissful in this pleasant hallucination. _I must have Malaria._

His end of the line was silent for longer than I'd hoped, which made my heart gurgle up 'til it was stuck in my throat. _What if he doesn't want to meet you? You presumptuous dumbass!_

"Sure, why not? If you can spare the time...can you spare the time?"

Are you kidding? Just tell me when to stop the clock!

"Of course I can! I mean it's only a day right?"

Yes, it's easy and normal so I'm not being too enthusiastic.

"And your parents?"

"I'm living in the moment okay?" I laughed, now comfortably back in my delirium. "Let me figure that out once this phone call is over."

"Good, you do that. I need to head out for dinner."

For once his departure was more than fine. I had some thinking to do.

I put my coat back on and slipped my phone into the pocket, pausing to take the biggest breath of my life.

So what am I doing exactly?

My grip on reality was still far away, which was likely the reason for what I did next. It all happened fast in one fluid motion, and before I knew it I was standing in the bookstore queue, with a copy of "Export to Ecstasy" in hand. On any other day I wouldn't have dared make a purchase like that. But on this very different day, I felt fully relaxed when I placed the steamy novel on the counter.

I hadn't figured out what I would do with it, but I knew that if I wound up in New York, this book was in some way responsible. _And if I can't thank the author in person, I might as well give her a sale._

On the walk back to work I was barely aware of the snowflakes blinding my view. Instead I was consumed by flight schedules, my parents, a Christmas gala, and that guy named Arjun...

Chapter Twenty-Four

I screeched into the café parking lot, finding a spot in the furthest corner. It was mine and Laura's café, and it was time for an emergency "life session."

I'd told my parents I'd be staying late at work for a meeting, but even so I'd specified an eight p.m. arrival time. _Tick tock._

The snowfall from earlier in the day had given way to a clear night sky. As usual, clear night skies meant the temperature had dropped almost ten degrees. I was reminded of this as I jogged to the entrance with the wind whipping hard at my face.

I finally slowed my pace as I took a good look inside.

The place was packed to the brim...how long would it take for a table to open up?

Screw this.

I ordered something extra non-fat for Laura, some triple-caramel action for myself ( _stressed out, need sugar_ ), and scurried back over to my car.

Before I could open my door, Laura's blueberry-coloured jeep pulled into the parking lot, so I ran right up to her passenger side.

She reached over and opened the door with surprise, as I handed her the drinks and hopped into the seat.

"It's way too noisy to talk in there. And also I love how your jeep smells. Okay?"

"Okay! And thank you!" She smiled at her latte and passed me mine.

"So," she began. "Your e-mail and voicemail were very detailed, and I've had some time to think it over."

I took a long whiff of my caramel latte. "I just hope you can give me the sane perspective. All my ideas equal what I want but sound insane."

"Let's review the most important one first," she said, with a face more serious than anything I'd ever seen.

"Yeah?"

"You're not going to a big scary city to meet an Internet acquaintance by yourself. There's NO WAY I'm letting you do that."

I slumped my shoulders and turned away. _I knew this was crazy._

"Unless I come along to watch your back."

I gasped. "But how?"

"What do you mean? I buy a ticket, hop on a plane, share a room with you...just like that." She smiled.

"But I can't just leave you alone while I'm out having fun with James! I mean assuming we have fun and all that." I suddenly felt sweaty in my big winter coat.

"Are you kidding Romes? I go to New York whenever I can! I've spent lots of days exploring on my own...and come on, the amazing Christmas shopping?" She grinned and took a sip of her drink.

Well that was easy. At least for her it was anyway, but what about me?

"I'd need a good excuse..." I mused. "To make it sound legit."

"Dude, how bad is your memory? You've been to New York twice for legitimate work trips. I remember because HELLO, I was there! So why don't you make one up this time?"

I rubbed my left temple but the stress seemed to grow. "Laura, I've never lied that much before. Not even close."

"You think they'll figure it out?"

I placed my drink in the cup-holder and sighed. "It's not even about that really. I actually don't like lying to them, as hard as that is to believe. Every time I do it the guilt weighs me down a little, but what's the alternative?"

"The truth, and the risk of them disowning you?"

I laughed. "I'm saving the disownment for when I tell them I'm engaged to a guy who isn't Indian."

She smiled.

"So Romes...does this mean you're taking the plunge?"

I nodded and my smile grew wider. "What choice do I have?"

"And maybe it's the perfect time in a way," said Laura. "Your parents are obsessed with engagement party plans, they might not even care if you go."

One can only hope.

My stress-turned-excitement switched back to stress, when I thought of a certain someone.

"Oh crap," I said.

"What is it?"

"Arjun! What am I supposed to do about him? And the Christmas gala? I'll be hanging out with James all day on the Friday, then I'm supposed to head back to Toronto by Saturday night and be a date for Arjun?" I shook my head. "This is not good."

"Well it depends," she said. "Do you like Arjun?"

"Ask me on the flight home from New York." I started laughing. Nervously.

"So in other words, you're NOT taking Arjun to the gala?" Laura was looking at me sternly now.

I sighed. "That's right, but how do I toss him without being bitchy?" I suddenly thought of Eleanor, who'd put in quite the effort to orchestrate the set-up.

Laura smiled. "You stay in New York until Sunday. As if I couldn't use an extra day of shopping?"

It was the perfect solution, though it did little to ease my conscience. "But how should I explain this to Eleanor? She's going to kill me for ditching her friend. She's going to kill me for chasing this pipe dream!"

Laura looked straight into my eyes. "Just be honest, how bad could it be? I mean it's not like you promised to marry him."

She was right, we hadn't even been on a date! I put it out of my mind and allowed my excitement to build.

"Laura, I need to hug you right now. You're the best friend a psycho-girl could ever ask for."

I squeezed her tight until she begged for release. "Stop! You're pulling my hair!"

"Sorry! This is why I avoid all affection with friends."

She laughed. "It's fine. I'll book the flight and hotel with my corporate discount, so expect all the details tomorrow. In the mean time, go home and practice telling your parents!"

Right, just the tiny little detail of a big-ass lie...

***

The next day I sat staring at Eleanor with my best pair of innocent eyes.

"Is this the dumbest idea ever?" I asked. I'd explained it all, from the lifetime of regret that would follow if I never went, to the fact that I'd be ditching her dear friend Arjun.

"It's not a dumb idea," she said. "It's actually kind of cute. A little naïve perhaps, but sweet." She paused. "Too bad you're screwing over my friend."

To my surprise, my eyes started glistening with tears. I guess I was feeling guiltier than I'd thought.

"I'm kidding jackass!"

"What?"

"I mean yes I set you guys up, TWICE...but nothing's really happened with you two. It's not like I provided his family with a dowry. And besides, how amazing do you think you are? You think he's desperately in love with you, after only a week or so of texting?"

I finally laughed, as it felt pretty good to have my ego put in check.

Once that was settled, Eleanor and I got to talking about the trip. Up to and including all the subtle little hints to enhance the physical encounter. "Wear a skirt," she said. "And make sure your sweater is soft in case you cuddle. Oh, and wash your hair with a salon-grade conditioner the night before. For extra shine."

Okay, I could remember that.

When it was time to deal with Arjun, I did so the only way I could, considering we hadn't even spoken on the phone. And so a text message blow-off it was: "Bad news, going to NYC unexpectedly next week. So I won't be here for the Xmas gala :-( Sorry!"

With the ditch-and-switch accomplished I was almost there.

Only one thing left to do...

***

The trip was fully booked and James was in the loop, so now it was time for some dinner conversation with my parents. Or more importantly some "dinner theatre."

I waited until they entrenched themselves in wedding or engagement conversation. Then I quickly threw it in. "I'm going on a work trip next week." I paused for their reaction, while my brain tried reviewing all the details (especially the fake ones) in my head.

"Where?" asked my father in the middle of a mouthful of rice.

"Oh just New York. Trade show. For next year's patio furniture showcase."

It was so boring it had to be true!

My brother and sister looked at me suspiciously but I wasn't deterred. _No way you assholes, don't even try to mess this up!_

"For how long?" asked my mother. She seemed to lose interest halfway through the question. "Neema! Look how dark your elbows are! And why are they so rough? I know a special cream that will lighten them and make them smoother."

Elbow lightening cream? Does anyone even know I'm here?

"I leave after work next Thursday," I said. "And I'll be back on Sunday afternoon."

My dad grunted.

Was that really it?

"Wait a minute," he said.

Oh god, the inquisition. JUST BE COOL.

"Yeah?"

"Do you need me to pick you up at the airport?"

"No, my co-worker will drive me home. But you need to drop me off at the train station when I leave."

"How early do I have to wake up?"

"Umm...six-thirty?"

He sighed in a tortured poet kind of way.

The conversation quickly shifted to whether or not my sister had found a photographer. And a difference of opinion over how much it should cost.

I cleared the dishes, cleaned the table and went upstairs to my room.

Holy crap. I actually did it.

With everything covered it was finally official. _New York City, James Caldwell, here I come!_

Chapter Twenty-Five

Laura gazed out the window and smiled.

"We're officially crossing the bridge now," she said. "New York baby!"

The lights of the city poured into the cab and straight into my eyes, making me forget it was snowing.

"According to James's schedule, he'll be here by the time I go to sleep," I said. "Yeah as if I'll be able to sleep."

I pulled out his e-mail from my bag, and reviewed it for maybe the twentieth time.

\----------------------------------

Hello Romi,

My flight lands late on Thursday night, and I'll be staying at the Hudson Hotel.

I have some errands to run Friday morning, then I'm free to meet you at two-thirty.

I'll be waiting at the Musings Café that's next to your hotel.

Don't be late.

James

\----------------------------------

Every time I read the e-mail, my heart jumped up and down like I had just won the jackpot. I'd never been more excited in my entire life. Still, it would've been cooler to have our meet-up somewhere epic, like the top of the Empire State Building perhaps. _But a place that's almost next to my hotel? Works for me!_

"He'll probably be sleeping in his room by two a.m.," I said, with fantasies running wild in my head. "Maybe I can find out his hotel room number..."

"Would you stop it you freak!" Laura tried to seem annoyed but she was smiling. "I mean you're finally getting the chance to meet. You can't wait another night?"

"I can't wait another second." I sighed and leaned back, as the inside of our cab turned all different colours.

Broadway...coming right up to Times Square.

"Lots of New Yorkers hate Times Square you know," I suddenly said. "Too damn touristy."

"Well touristy or not, I'm pretty sure I got us a deal by staying here. And do you know how many stores I'll be able to hit? I can use our room as a pit stop for my bags. I'm so excited!"

"Hmm..." I was studying a new piece of paper now. "According to the list of restaurant reviews for Times Square, us tourists can still find a good place to eat!"

"So what's your pick?" she asked. "Because wherever we're going, we're walking."

I smirked. "I know, I know, less cab fare equals more money for shopping. We're going to this place described as a 'hip and sexy Pan-Asian dining experience, with a multi-decked palace and a bold visual essence.'" I paused to consider what it meant. "We should change into something sexy before we go."

"Marriott Marquis," the cabbie announced, in his monotone Indian accent that felt like home.

"Holy shit," was all I could say. My mouth hung open as I stared at the big hotel.

As Laura and I wheeled our luggage inside, I realized I should've delayed my reaction for a moment.

There were certainly nicer hotels in New York City, but whenever I'd been here for training, we'd always get assigned to average hotels with tiny lobbies.

This was not a tiny lobby.

I could barely take in the image end-to-end. Reception desks way over here, elevators way over there, escalators, high ceilings, nice lighting, it was fabulous. And then in the center, a flower-lined perimeter, with comfy leather benches too.

My smile stayed plastered on my face for the entire elevator ride, and once we opened the door to our room on the fifteenth floor, I dropped my bags and headed straight to the window.

"We actually got a view of Times Square?" I felt like I was staring at a Times Square snow globe, with the flurries gently falling on the taxicabs below.

"It's all about the corporate discounts," said Laura, who was now busy judging the closet size.

I looked at my watch and escaped from my Times Square trance. "It's almost nine-thirty, we should get a move on. What should I wear though?" I unzipped my suitcase and started to rummage past my layer of "work clothes," clothes I'd conveniently planted on top, in case my mother or father ever ventured a look inside.

"Forget what you're wearing tonight, first things first, take out your outfit for tomorrow, and hang it in the closet to air it out."

"Right." I carefully pulled out a brand new short wool skirt, dark purple with the tiniest hint of a checkered print. And my new black sweater was the softest sweater ever made. Perfect for cuddling ( _thanks Eleanor_ ), and thin enough to roll up the sleeves so I could showcase my girly forearms. _That's right, keep him focused on the skinniest part of your body_. It was definitely not a "cleavage" kind of sweater, but clingy enough to highlight a bra-enhanced silhouette.

"That is seriously the cutest outfit ever," she said. "But where are the boots I've been hearing about EVERY DAY?"

"Oh right." I smiled. "Hold on a sec." From the bottom of my suitcase I pulled out the faux suede boots. Jet black and tight, they would hug my legs all the way up to the bottom of my knees. _Hot._ But they didn't have heels and were complete with treaded soles for winter walkability. _Functional._

Laura came over to my bed and grabbed them. "Oh my god they're so nice! And they'll look so hot with your black tights!" She caressed the material. "Do you think they'll hold up in the weather though? Like if it snows tomorrow?"

"It's supposed to be clear and sunny. But just in case, I've been spraying them with this!" I pulled out a can of protective weather-guard and smiled.

"Maybe they need one last coat," she suggested.

I nodded and opened the can, holding one boot in the air, and spraying front and back for at least five seconds. By the time I was done with the second boot, my corner of the room was covered in a heavy mist.

"Shit!" Laura squinted her eyes and coughed. "That stuff smells strong!"

She waved the mist away with her flailing arms and scurried back over to her bed. Seconds later, she pulled something out of her suitcase. "I'm wearing this to the restaurant. Royal blue looks good on me, right?" She held the small blue sweater against her body.

I nodded. "Looks great with the blond, trust me."

"What about you?" she asked.

I finally found the tight slinky shirt I had buried at the bottom of my suitcase. "Green. Emerald green."

"Sexy! Ten minutes then we're out the door," she instructed. "Pan-Asian goodness up next!"

***

The review of the restaurant was accurate enough. The whole interior was rich with colour and Asian artifacts. It did indeed feel kind of sexy, especially with the shadowy effects created by the lanterns. Some of the tables in the middle of the restaurant were located on a pedestal. It was only a two-step climb, but the end result was the sense that you were on display. Laura and I were seated at a table like this. Right in the middle of the action.

I only hoped that it would be a good distraction, from the nerves that were beginning to surface...

***

Not more than a minute from the time we started eating, I groaned and made a face.

"What is it?" asked Laura, through a mouthful of Asian peanut salad.

"These mashed potatoes don't even taste like mashed potatoes. And they're green!" I held up a spoonful to my face and scrunched my nose.

"What did you expect when you ordered WASABI mashed potatoes?"

"I thought it was mostly for 'naming' purposes. Or maybe they'd give me some wasabi on the side." I sighed. "Oh well, at least the chicken is good." I pushed the pile of green to the side of my plate, then suddenly I gasped. "Oh no! What if he takes me to a sushi bar?"

Laura looked utterly confused. "Huh?"

"Well I'm just saying, the Mediterranean diet includes a lot of fish. Especially when you're in Spain."

"Uhh dude, sushi doesn't come from Spain."

"I know! But what if it translates? Like he loves fish which means he loves sushi, which means he takes me to a sushi restaurant, which means I puke just from being there..." I pushed my plate of chicken to the edge of the table and frowned.

Laura put down her fork and cleared her throat. "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You're being an 'alarmist.' Like why did you come here? Because you thought it would go horribly wrong? Whatever happens, it'll be good, even if some of it's awkward."

"You think it's going to be awkward?" I could feel myself sweating in my slinky green top. _I hope it doesn't show._

She sighed and took a sip of her cocktail. "Romes, I mean like 'cute' awkward. You know, learning how the other behaves face-to-face. Mannerisms."

"So you think he's going to hate me in person?" I crossed my arms.

"No! Okay forget it. I'm making an executive decision now: shut your trap. Oh, and we're ordering another round of cocktails."

She grabbed the waiter's attention while I eyed her suspiciously.

Is he gonna hate me in the three-dimensional world?

***

An hour and another strong New York City cocktail later, I was fully distracted as we made our way through samplers of delectable cake.

"Did you try the one with the swirl on top? You can die once you eat it," I said. "Let me feed it to you." I brought the fork to her mouth, since feeding my friend was the obvious thing to do with a buzz on.

_Two cocktails and a million different kinds of cake._ _Now this is more like it._

"Mmm..." she said. "The swirly one is awesome!"

There were five more pieces of mini-cake remaining. _I'll kick her ass if I don't get three._ "So Laura," I began, trying to distract her from the cake, "what are you getting lover-boy for Christmas?"

Laura smiled and suddenly resembled a school-girl. "I don't know! What are you supposed to get for a first Christmas?"

"Well it depends, what do you think he's getting for you? Jewelry?"

"Jewelry on a first Christmas? No way! More like something small but thoughtful."

"Why don't you get him a book?" I suggested. "About a topic he really likes?"

"A book? What am I his grandmother? Why don't I just get him some socks?"

"SORRY." _Am I the only one who loves getting books as presents?_ "I'm sure you'll find something. It's the shopping capital of the world, after all."

"I hope so! So hey, do you still wanna go to the gym tomorrow morning?"

During our flight, I'd begged Laura to join me for a Friday morning work-out, my one last chance to burn off any fat before the big face-to-face. I'd also begged her to do my hair and make-up. My one and only shot to look perfect for James.

"You bet your ass I wanna go. So gym at nine a.m., then breakfast, then back to the hotel to get ready."

"In that case we better get rolling," she said. "It's almost midnight!"

We paid our bill and trekked along Broadway once again, with the snow falling faster now. As I pulled my wool mittens out of my pockets, I noticed something very disturbing. My hands were incredibly dry. But hadn't I moisturized just before we left the hotel?

"NOOO!" I wailed.

Laura slipped and almost fell as she turned around. "What is it?"

"I'm screwed! You know what I brought with me on the trip? My favourite vanilla hand cream!"

"Yeah, I know. That stuff smells awesome."

"Well this is the first time I'm using it in winter, and it doesn't hold up at all in the winter air!" I raised my hands. "Feel them!" She approached me and I rubbed them against her face.

"Stop it, your hands are freezing!" She jerked her face away.

"Yeah, and they feel like a wrinkled mass! Especially the left one which was already more weathered to begin with." I sighed. "I'm serious, if he grabs my hand and it feels like a leathery claw, then I might as well go home right now!" Perhaps it was the influence of alcohol, but I had tears in my eyes. This seemed like the worst news ever.

In panic, my eyes darted around for a solution, but all I could see was a billboard for "Victoria's Secret," a gift-shop for ugly overpriced New York City trinkets (that was sure to be owned by a stern Middle-Eastern man), and the Hershey's chocolate store. Which was well past closing time. _Goddammit.._

"Relax," said Laura, as she pushed me back in the direction of our hotel. "We'll go to a drugstore tomorrow. Okay?"

I continued to look defeated, like a sad little penguin trapped in a snow globe. "But Laura, you know how it'll end up being tomorrow. I'll be nervous, I'll have freak-outs, and we just won't have time for the drug store." I studied my wrinkled hands in detail by the nearest streetlight, disgusted by the cracks and ridges. _You late-twenties bitch._

"Then we'll wake up an hour early!"

"You mean eight a.m.?"

She smiled. "Eight a.m. dammit."

I couldn't believe she would actually ruin sleep for me. "Alright then. Well thank you for supporting my cause." I looked at my watch to see that it was five past midnight. "And it looks like we're going to need a wake-up call."

***

The sound of the telephone broke through the morning silence.

It was the wake-up call and I immediately answered. My eyes had been open for the last two hours.

I rose from bed and headed to the bathroom, with that familiar pit in my stomach. It was the one that preceded all of my desired male encounters. Only this time it was heavier, and at least ten times more sickening.

Laura and I said little on our way to the colossal gym, and even less as we mounted the high-tech treadmills, which were perfectly positioned for a view of Times Square.

I survived the laboured workout only because it distracted my volatile stomach. By ten o' clock we were showered, dressed and sitting in a nearby diner.

"Why aren't you eating?" asked Laura. "These eggs are awesome."

"I don't have an appetite." I stared at the bacon, eggs, and shredded potatoes that on any other day would have raced to my stomach in less than ten minutes. It looked revolting.

"If you don't eat, you'll puke when it's time to get ready. I promise you that."

The idea of meeting James with even a trace of vomit-breath was horrifying. I took a small bite of eggs.

"So...do you think he's going to kiss you?" Laura smiled slyly as she swirled her eggs around in some ketchup.

"Oh my god...I never even thought of that!" I pushed my plate away and felt like I was hyper-ventilating.

Laura grabbed my arm and looked at me with alarm. "What the hell, dude?"

I closed my eyes and massaged my forehead. "What if I meet him and there's nothing there?"

"You mean chemistry?"

I opened my eyes and nodded. "Yes! I've imagined this visit a thousand times, and I always assumed there would be chemistry. But that's a big assumption..."

"What makes you think you wouldn't have it?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "I mean our 'brain sex' relating to writing is incredible. But what if he shakes my hand and feels nothing? Or what if it's me who feels nothing? It happens all the time...it's the 'friend zone.'"

She sighed. "Listen Romes, I'm not gonna lie...it's a possibility."

_WHAT?!_ My eyes popped out of their head and rolled across the table.

"But I really don't think that's going to happen!" she quickly added. "I mean think about it, why wouldn't you be attracted? And vice versa?"

From escaping eyeballs to a strange realization, now I couldn't help but laugh. _James Caldwell, the guy who sees beach babes every day, attracted to ME?_

"Oh and one more thing," she continued. "The second you meet him, and for every destination after, you have to send me a text message. That way I'll know where you are at all times." She nodded to herself and took a sip of orange juice. "By the way, what time is the 'date of your dreams' set to end?"

The word "end" almost clouded my entire mood, but I managed to shake it off. _Just live in the moment._ "I promise I'll text you. And he's supposed to be on a red-eye flight at some crazy time of night, so I guess I'll be with him for the day. That is if he doesn't get bored with me."

"Well I'll be waiting." Laura grinned and then finished up the last of her orange juice.

I sat there smiling and staring at the nicest human being in the world. "So listen," I said, suddenly remembering the schedule. "When's our next stop?"

Laura looked at her watch. "Fifteen minutes, so hurry up and eat!"

My appetite was still a little shaky, but by the end I'd eaten one slice of bacon, a third of my potatoes, and half a glass of orange juice.

Not bad.

We cabbed our way to the nearest drugstore by eleven a.m., a giant location only eight blocks south of our hotel. _Maybe we could've walked._ Once in the skincare aisle, I looked past the "age defying" hand cream claims, trying instead to find the one that could stand up to weather.

"I found it!" Laura ran towards me with a small white tube, marked in the center by Norway's flag. "I've seen this one in commercials. It's always being used by fishermen."

I curiously studied the tube. "Fishermen?"

"Yeah! Think about it. Fishing in Norway? COLD. Hands from a day outside? DRY. They would totally need stuff like this!"

"Yeah, okay." We headed towards the line-up to pay, but before I could even turn the corner my heart started racing. "Laura you're wrong. The real answer's here." I pointed to the bottom row.

"Dude, that's foot cream."

"I know it is! But put on your science hat for a minute." I grabbed the nearest tube and started reading the back. "If a foot cream promises to 'restore the softness of your dry, rough, and cracked feet,' what do you think it'll do for my hands?"

"What?" Laura was obviously confused.

"Exactly!" I said. "It'll turn them into silk!" I grabbed a tester bottle to try it out, but stopped as soon as I opened the cap.

"Ugh, we just have to find one that doesn't stink."

And that was Laura and I for the next two minutes, opening and whiffing every single tube of foot cream in the skincare aisle.

I let out a squeal when I found the one. "It's neutral! Just a hint of oatmeal essence, but other than that it smells like nothing. Which means I can mix it with my scented vanilla!"

"Awesome! Let's get the hell out of here though. All this foot-cream sniffing is making me nauseous."

As we left the store a mild winter wind danced its way across my face. "You know what that feels like Laura? That feels like zero wind-chill!"

"And the sun is shining too. Your perfect day is here!"

My stomach began to grumble and I smiled. "I think my appetite's here as well."

Maybe my days of being crazy-nervous are over...

***

Two p.m.

Thirty minutes left until the face-to-face.

"There. I think that's enough curl. But let me run my fingers through it a bit. You want it to look natural."

I nodded, still clutching a granola bar wrapper in my hand.

"And then we'll use the hair balm and some spray to hold the wave."

I trusted Laura completely with my hair, and once she was finished I rose to take a look in the mirror.

The hair was bouncy with a good amount of sheen. Paired with a hint of smoky eye-shadow, my favourite mascara, all blemishes expertly covered and subtle lip-gloss for the finish, it seemed like a pretty good look.

"Do you like it?" Laura stood behind me, though fully obscured as I stood five inches taller.

"I love it, thank you!" I turned and gave her a hug. "So tell me again, what happens now?"

Suddenly things became strange. My breath was feeling shorter, like it kept getting caught in my throat. And was it me, or was the room a lot hotter than before?

"We're actually half an hour ahead of schedule! But you're not going to meet him early. No, he should be there first to receive you. So we'll chill, double check your bag to make sure you remembered everything, and then that's it!"

"Right."

"This is it Romes. Seven months, and thousands of miles of distance." She sounded like a TV host, complete with the accompanying hand gestures. "But now he's just a two-minute walk away! A coffee with your Internet dude...AREN'T YOU EXCITED?!"

"Coffee?" I whispered. "Hot milk?...Syrup?" It was happening, the fear I'd had in the back of my mind, ever since the day I first imagined meeting him ( _"When I meet him, I am SO gonna puke from being nervous."_ )

"Are you okay?"

I nodded. _I can walk it off. No, I CANNOT walk it off._

I sprinted to the bathroom. "Hold my hair back!" I cried. "HOLD MY HAIR BACK!"

Laura carefully held back my "natural-looking waves," whilst I hurled into the hotel's white porcelain.

Once I was finished, I leaned against the wall and felt completely relaxed.

Why must I always go through that to get to this?

I closed my eyes and felt a teardrop falling down my cheek.

Oh no, the post-vomit tears!

I looked at Laura before I could face the mirror. "Is my makeup ruined?"

"It's actually not so bad. We can totally fix it!"

"Fix it? Fix WHAT?"

I hopped back up and faced the mirror. _Ugh._ My once picture-perfect face looked sweaty and flush. Lucky for me I never wore mascara on my bottom lashes, but there were still some tiny streaks of black that needed wiping.

Laura sighed. "Okay, let's fix this."

***

My teeth were brushed (twice), my face was fixed and there was no time left to waste. I slid on my boots first, then put on my waist-length black wool coat, which became very fitted once buttoned (the days of unattractive boxy outerwear were over). Once that was done I let out my hair from underneath my pink scarf, allowing it the chance to bounce freely. My matching mittens I wouldn't need for now, so I dropped them in my bag, and well...that was it.

Laura gave me one last look of assurance. "Let's go."

The nervousness was creeping back, but I made it to the elevators without any major disaster. We were truly on our way, but when I reached for the elevator button and caught a close glimpse of my hand, I gasped.

"What is it?" said Laura.

"My creams! The foot cream and my hand cream! We forgot to put them on!"

I was racing back to the room now, with Laura close behind.

Every time I'd imagined meeting James, I'd reminded myself to never show up late. "The first impression is the last impression," they say, and I didn't want this guy to peg me as one of "those" girls, always ten minutes late and only ten-percent sorry.

Still, we were talking about the softness of my hands for goodness sake. _There is no way in hell I'm gonna let my hands turn "granny" from the weather._

We were back in our room now, with the last-minute effort underway. "Okay. First, the foot cream!" I instructed. She squeezed a small amount in my hand. "Now, vanilla!" She squeezed on double the amount, and for the next ten seconds I mixed and mashed and massaged it all in.

I put the creams in my bag should some excessive hand washing arise, forcing me to re-apply. "Alright let's go!"

We ran back to the elevators, hurried through the lobby, and power-walked our way down West Forty-Sixth Street.

And then...we were there. Just a few feet away from Musings Café's entrance, with one minute left to spare.

I leaned against the brick wall, as a wave of constant people hurried past.

"Well I can't just walk right in there!" I pulled down my scarf like it was choking me. _Why does it always get so hard to breathe?_

"Romes, it's okay. I'm sure he's inside and expecting you. So go in there and smile. You can text me if he ends up being crazy but believe me that's not going to happen. Just remember to text me at every location. Okay?" Laura smiled with earnest encouragement.

I believed her enough to take a few steps forward, but I was deathly afraid to walk past the storefront window. If he was in there, he'd be able to scope me out and I wouldn't even know it.

That is way too intimidating!

I took a deep breath and with one more step, Laura literally pushed me ahead. Before I could stop I was walking past the storefront window. If he was facing the window, he was definitely watching me now.

Which meant the time for looking nervous was over.

And so, with whatever ounce of courage I had left, I opened the door, stepped inside and with a look of made-up confidence, stared right into the eyes of the man staring back.

The blue-eyed Internet guy...

Chapter Twenty-Six

I could feel my body walking towards him. _Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot._

Thank goodness for my legs, the intelligent attachments that kept me from stumbling, falling over, or hiding under someone else's table.

When I arrived at his table I could only watch in awe as his face produced the warmest smile in New York City. "Hello Roms," he said.

Wow, did his face just talk and smile all at once? And how does his voice sound even better in person? Suck it, Jude Law!

I was already experiencing sensory overload, so when he rose from his chair and my nostrils caught a wave of his intoxicating scent, it was all just a bit too much. I immediately decided I should find out what cologne he was wearing, so I could buy it for myself and douse it on my pillows back home.

"Hello James." I was clearly running on autopilot now, because how I managed to greet him and smile was not by personal skill. I was too busy sizing him up, quite literally in fact. And now, as we stood here face-to-face with my flat boots on, and my eyes only meeting the middle of his nose, he was every inch the picture I had mentally printed out and pinned on my wall.

I started to wonder what was next. Was it time for a hug? Was he standing to be a gentleman? Maybe he was waiting for a handshake? I offered my right hand, but instead of shaking it he slowly leaned in towards me.

What the hell? We're already gonna kiss?!

The first peck on my cheek sent a shiver through my body, and the second one on my other cheek practically made me faint. _Like those are his LIPS on my face! I love Europeans!_

"Are you alright?" he asked.

I composed myself long enough to answer. "Yes, I'm fine! It's just...where I come from, we don't usually kiss each other's faces as a greeting. North Americans have an obsession with personal space, or something."

"Sorry, force of habit."

I smiled. "Don't be sorry, it was nice."

His expression suddenly changed. "Let me help you with your coat." I was perfectly capable of taking off my coat, but what a gentlemanly thing to do.

Chivalry isn't dead!

I unbuttoned and he helped me pull it off, revealing the sweatered girl in the short purple skirt. It was a very intimidating angle, him standing right behind me like that. Especially because I looked my thinnest from the side, but so much goddamn bigger from the back. _Oh well._

"Have a seat and I'll get us something to drink. What would you like?"

I sat down and crossed my legs. _Damn this skirt is short._ "Maybe just a black tea? But no milk please." I smiled.

"I thought you were fond of milky lattes," he said.

Yeah, but not when I'm fresh off a vomiting-spree.

"I am! But really, tea is fine for now."

He smiled at me and wandered off.

He's buying me tea. Does that mean I have to put out?

As he stood in line I had a really good view of his side, and as long as I pretended to look at the desserts, he couldn't really notice me staring.

So I began my evaluation.

His faded jeans fit him to the tee, falling loosely overall, but just a bit tighter in all the right places ( _like the butt and crotch areas, ahem_ ). I also loved the little detail in how he wore his shirt. On any other guy, it was simply a collared black shirt. But on him, the sleeves were casually rolled up, stopping just before his elbows, revealing his heavenly, tanned, and strong-looking forearms.

He's feeding my forearm fetish and he doesn't even know!

As for his age...well I didn't really have a good frame of reference.

What was a thirty-eight-year-old man supposed to look like?

There were a couple of men that age at my office, but they were dads. And they looked like dads.

This guy was channeling Brad Pitt, in a Daniel Craig kind of way.

Hallelujah!

By the time he returned with the drinks, I took a deep breath and promised myself to keep my hormones in check. I mean to think it was only ten minutes in, and I'd practically fainted already?

What am I an animal?

He set down the cups, and as he did I stole a look at his hands. Powerful-looking hands, but not so big and clunky that you'd think you were being groped by a bear. _Phew._

He settled in his seat across from me and smiled. "I hope you'll like your tea."

I smiled and looked straight into his eyes. Any excuse to stare into those perfect blue eyes. "I'm sure I will, and thank you."

"No problem."

After that, well...after that we were a couple of people who had only just met, with a couple of drinks that were too hot to sip for the moment.

So I stared.

And he stared back.

Then smiled.

What should I say? How should I play this cool?

"So how was L.A.?" I asked.

I listened attentively as he detailed his trip and elaborated on the script, nodding where I thought I was supposed to nod and trying not to spill my tea, the cup now perched in my hands. The conversation petered out.

Sip.

Stare.

Sip.

Smile.

Sip.

In our phone conversations we were able to talk non-stop.

So why was it impossible now?

Suddenly the light bulb went off, right around the time when he asked me how my flight had been.

"No," I replied. "No, no, no."

"I'm sorry, 'no' to what?" He looked confused, yet another new expression I was seeing on his face. I made mental notes to remember them all.

I sighed. "It's just that, we've done all this already."

"I'm afraid you've lost me."

"I'm referring to the 'filtered' conversation, that most people go through when they're getting to know one another. You and I already passed the early filters."

"True..."

I leaned in closer, my enthusiasm starting to build. "The way I see it, we've only got a single day, right?"

He nodded.

"Well that's a small amount of time, so we shouldn't repeat all the steps in our conversation history. Which means I'm going to make a decision right now."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

I nodded. "From now on, we're going to say exactly what comes to mind." I smiled. "So you can decide where we're going today, but I make all the rules on the conversation. And the number one rule? There are no rules." I nodded and for once felt in charge of him.

"If that's the case...I find it hard to imagine what you'll possibly say next." He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

Ooh, nice vein distribution in those forearms.

"Alright." All my nervousness had disappeared, as I was now in my comfortable "psycho zone." I checked the old wooden clock on the wall. "We've been here for what...twenty minutes? And I will honestly confess that I've been checking you out the whole time." His eyes opened wider as I said it. "I'm not even sure how I carried on a conversation. I've been too busy staring. But that's normal right?" I laughed but when he didn't say anything back, I wondered if I'd made a stupid move.

Like you don't have to keep reminding him you're crazy!

I had a feeling that he sensed my inner battle, because he sat there silent with a curious expression, waiting for me to continue.

So I tried to clear it up. "I mean it has to be normal in this circumstance, right? Because the body has five senses, and uh, uhh...we were only using one for so many months!" _Sure, keep going, that makes sense._ "Which leaves sight, smell..." I was counting them off with my fingers now, "touch, and taste! So I've been staring because...my other four senses are catching up!"

I smiled and crossed my arms. _Nice recovery._

"Are you always this mad?" he asked calmly.

"Always!" I said firmly, and immediately blushed even worse than the first time my mother found a black lace push-up bra in my drawer. That bra had been way too slutty to be considered a simple undergarment ( _"But Mom, it was on sale"_ ).

I took a sip of tea and tried my best to avoid his stare.

"You are not all that different from the person on the phone." He paused. "And I'm glad."

The cloud of shame suddenly lifted off my shoulders. "Well thanks, and you pass the test too. I mean I figure I at least owe you that, considering how long I've been staring."

We both started laughing and it felt great. I loved hearing his laugh, and though he hadn't admitted that he found me attractive too, today I didn't care about his words. _Just show me._ As for my blunder it seemed to break the ice, because from there our conversation flowed like Niagara Falls.

All along though, in its secretly evil fashion, the wooden clock on the wall kept ticking...

***

"Have we really been here for an hour?" I asked, fiddling with my cup which had now been empty for a while.

James looked at his watch. "Actually we need to get going. It's time for our next destination."

Next destination? As in your hotel room?

He helped me with my coat again, and made sure to hold the door open for me.

I could get used to this.

When we stepped outside a black Lincoln Town Car sat waiting.

What the hell?

"Who are you, James Bond or Richard Branson?"

He simply smiled as the driver opened the door for us.

Okay James, whatever you say. Or don't say.

James held his hand out to help me into the car, and as I grabbed it I felt electric, like a current racing through me end-to-end.

Screw the Internet. Touchy-feely is where it's at.

The leather seats were slippery (especially in my tights) so I slid all the way to the left of the seat. James wouldn't have that problem in his sturdy jeans, but still he found his way to my side, stopping when our thighs lightly touched.

Damn.

I wasn't sure how long the drive was going to be, so I felt it too risky to get all snuggly on his arm. _Maybe I'll save that for after sunset._

I was smart not to put on the moves, since less than ten minutes later the driver pulled over at the corner of Fifty-Ninth and Fifth.

"Are you up for a little walk?" said James.

"Oh my God." I beamed. "I love Central Park!"

"I know, you mentioned it in your e-mail."

I gasped. "I can't believe you remembered!"

"Well, it's Central Park, not a back-alley restaurant in Chinatown. So it wasn't terribly hard to remember."

We clambered out of the car but I wasn't done talking.

"Fine, it's a normal occurrence to remember Central Park, and you're NOT amazing. Now hold on for a sec, I just need to text my friend so she knows where I am."

He tried to look over my shoulder and read the text. "Ah, the friend who's here with you? To make sure I'm not an unsavoury individual?"

I turned around and scowled. "Stop trying to spy on my texts!"

He laughed. "My apologies, please continue."

I turned around and started up again, but I could see his shadow in the snow and it was coming up close. This time I turned around and pushed him but he barely moved an inch. _So you're strong, I like it._

"Okay," I started, in the calmest tone possible. "I'm going to stand over there by that tree." I pointed to my left. "When the message is sent I'll come back. Okay?"

He held up his hands in surrender. "Fair enough."

I stood against the tree and finished the text: "At Central Park. He's not a psycho but he's fucking hot. More later! xo"

I tossed the phone in my bag and our late-day stroll officially began.

We didn't have to make it far to see the beauty of the place. A thick layer of last night's snowfall, trees with icy branches, slivers of sun peaking through, it was lovely.

We walked around, kicked snow, and talked about anything and everything. To my surprise we hadn't started any writing discussion yet, considering how often it used to come up before.

But it's fine, let's just go with the flow.

When we reached a stretch of beautiful trees with Belvedere Castle beyond, it suddenly hit me.

Picture!

"Picture," I said out loud.

"Picture?" he said, looking slightly confused.

Yes, actual photographic evidence, yay!

I took out my camera and clicked away like a tourist. Most of the time I took pictures of trees to pretend I didn't care about him, but eventually the time for joint photos was upon us. And I loved it. He was taller so he snapped all of those, and without even thinking, I would wrap my arms around his waist and smile. Of course, beyond that smile was a feeling of intimidation. And how could I not be intimidated? I could feel his rock hard stomach even through his coat.

I need to get a personal trainer.

As we continued along the trail with James leading the way, I looked over my shoulder at Belvedere Castle. How romantic it might've been to go to the highest balcony and soak in the view.

Maybe next time.

The darkness started creeping its way into the park, and the air was getting colder all the time.

I took my mittens from my bag and put them on, silently thrilled that the vanilla/foot cream mixer had preserved my wretched hands for this long.

James turned and watched, still walking but walking backwards now. _He even looks cool when he walks backwards._

"What?" I said, glancing up at him with a smile. Silently I hoped he would trip and fall on a squirrel just to wipe away his coolness.

"Nothing." He looked amused.

"Well I'm glad you find my mittens to be funny, but it's purely functional. I mean it's cold you know." I kicked some snow in his direction, even though he'd wandered further away.

"Are you going to wait for me?" I yelled. "Or just leave me here in the dark with a bunch of rabid squirrels?"

I started walking fast, still fiddling with my mittens and not really looking where I was going.

"I am waiting for you." His voice was much closer now.

"And by the way," I yelled, before realizing he was right in front of me.

"Yes?"

"Oh," I said, now staring up into his eyes. _Did he just get taller or am I shrinking?_ "I wanted to ask, how are you so warm when you don't even have gloves?"

"Pockets," he said softly. "Wonderful things." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and smiled.

"Well I would love to put my hands in my pockets too, but whoever made this jacket decided grown-up women have midget hands. Like seriously, look! I can only fit half my fingers in!"

I showed him and shook my head.

"What? Let me see that." He walked right over and tried to stuff his hands in my pockets.

Uhh...excuse me?

He didn't make it very far, which wasn't exactly a surprise. His man-plates were on a way bigger scale than mine. Not that he'd noticed it of course. Unfortunately the pockets were directly over my stomach. _Uh-oh!_ I sucked in and held my breath as he continued to struggle. Did he notice? He might if I didn't start breathing again soon.

"Small," he said, staring right into my eyes.

"Huhmm?" I mumbled, trying not to let any air out.

Calm yourself woman!

"Your pockets are very small," he repeated, before smiling and pulling away.

I exhaled as quietly as I could. This was getting to be hard work.

"Wow, look at that, it's already dark," I observed. _Not my most intelligent of statements._

James glanced at his watch. "It's five o' clock. Let's go."

"Go? Where to?" I was starting to feel like a child on a kindergarten excursion. Which meant he should probably hold my hand.

"You will have to wait and see," he said.

"Okay," I said grinning. _Grinning? Too eager, stop grinning._

I suddenly remembered Laura, and fumbled through my bag for my cell phone.

"Your roommate?" he said, looking at the phone in my hand.

"Yes, her. She'll be needing the latest location."

The car was still waiting for us where we'd left it, and I was so looking forward to the warmth it would offer. As I tried to get ready for my latest text to Laura, my phone screen flickered pathetically, eventually fading out. _What?_ I shook it hard and then banged it in my hand, much to James's amusement.

"Oh that will surely help," he said.

He was right, nothing worked. The phone was dead.

"Could I ask a big favour?" I said, looking at James as he stood by the opened car door. "My cell phone just died, but if we go past my hotel I can let Laura know I'm okay."

Smooth! I should have thought of this one earlier. "Here's my hotel room, James. And here's the bed..."

"Sure we can, we're heading across there anyway."

"Great, then let's go!"

James took my hand and I stepped into the car before he followed. I could tell that I was getting used to this.

Best day ever.

***

At first, James insisted he stay in the car when we arrived outside the hotel, but there was no way that was going to happen. He had to meet Laura, so I could score some major points and trade gossip on the plane ride home. Would she even be in the room? Maybe she was lounging around naked and James would dump me for her. Would that happen? Of course it wouldn't. Was I actually having an argument with myself?!

"So which floor?" he said, as we stood in the elevator.

"Oh umm...fifteen." He pressed the button as I firmly held the key card in my hand.

It suddenly occurred to me that if Laura wasn't there, James and I would have the room to ourselves. _Me, him, and a bed._

Before I had a chance to overanalyze too much we were standing in front of my room.

I unlocked the door and then instinctively knocked. "Laura?" I called out.

I opened the door to find a dark and empty room.

When I hit the light switch I immediately regretted it.

The place was an absolute mess. I'd completely forgotten how I'd tossed out the entire contents of my suitcase that morning, while desperately searching for my silver earrings.

Oh my god, is that my PADDED bra on the floor?

Laura meanwhile had all her belongings neatly tucked away in her suitcase.

Hmm...

James followed me in and I watched his reaction as he took in the mess. I definitely saw a flicker of something in his eyes.

"God! Laura is such a spaz!" I quickly said. "I can't believe she dumped her whole suitcase like that!" I sighed and shrugged my shoulders.

He seemed to buy the story, so I scrambled for a pen and paper to write Laura a note. I needed to tell her I was still alive, but really I was hoping that James would just push me onto the bed. _Oh the bed!_ I turned around and couldn't help but notice how cozy my bed really looked. It's not like I believed anything would happen, but that didn't stop the movie from playing a loop in my head. In this case the reel was the one where he stared at me hard, then threw me to the bed with one easy swoop. And things would get a little more intense after that.

"Everything okay?" It was James. I was dreaming not writing. _Laura!_

"Oh yes sorry, all good. Just figuring out what to write."

"I see." He looked at me oddly and I wondered what he was thinking. Meanwhile all I wanted was the movie in my head to resume.

But could I ever really say that my life was a movie? When my day started out with vomit, and covering my hands in foot cream?

This ain't no lovey-dovey movie.

"If you need something to write, how about: 'Hi Laura I'm fine, my phone died and I'll talk to you later'?"

"That's just what I was going to write!" I scribbled the words out, folded the note into a little paper tent and left it propped next to the television.

"Alright," he said. "On to the next stop."

***

By the force of some weird voodoo curse, the evil clock had shifted forward to half past eight.

But what did I even know about the clock? I was too busy having the time of my life.

James had taken me to a lovely restaurant in Little Italy. _No sushi bar, thank God._ It felt so rustic and the ambience so romantic, that I'd forgotten we were even in New York. As for my belly it forgot all about my mother's cooking, thanks to the freshest fettuccine and silkiest four-cheese sauce I'd ever tasted.

In terms of close contact I could only thank the wine, as halfway through the bottle our bodies had gotten closer. I wouldn't call it anything crazy on the physical level, but it was nice to know I had a shoulder to lean on, when the wine got to be a bit much.

Despite all the wine, we were knee-deep into our mutually favourite topic: writing. I was amazed at how he could carry the discussion, and I never felt bored for a second. We talked about some of our favourite authors, the first book we remembered from our childhood, and the one book we had read the most number of times. Mine was "Jane Eyre" and his was "The Thirty Nine Steps."

I liked it better this way. I felt like I was getting to know him, and I didn't feel pressure to explain my goals or how and when I would accomplish them. _Goals are too scary, and could this night just never end please? Thank you._

I changed the subject by pointing to our empty table. "So what's for dessert?" _Does that make me sound like a pig?_

He shook his head. "No dessert here I'm afraid. How about we go somewhere else?"

"Somewhere else? You really have this day all planned out," I said smiling.

I love this guy!

"There's too much New York to stay seated in one place." He signaled to the waiter for the check.

Okay James Caldwell, you lead the way...

***

I looked all around me and smiled.

"How do you find these adorable places? First, that amazing restaurant, and now we're in the cutest little French café. I don't even know what it's called!"

Well actually the sign out front was a good indication. We were sitting in the Café D'or on Lexington Avenue, and the entire room had a warm yellow glow. The large Christmas tree in the back made it seem even cozier.

"These places aren't hard to find," he said. He smiled as he fed me another bite of cake.

It is December 19th, and James and I are feeding each other cake in New York City. I am officially in heaven!

We continued to talk and make each other laugh. Often when I'd laugh a lock of my hair would fall across my face, and somewhere along the way, James had taken it upon himself to tuck those errant strands behind my ear. It was one of those tiny moments I'd never ever get from an e-mail or the phone, so I tried my damndest to savour each one.

"Do you see that waiter over there?" I whispered, pointing to the back of the room.

"The one with the really large forehead?" he whispered back, his face only inches from mine.

I nodded. "He looks like Jack Nicholson. But a less angry version."

"Jack Nicholson wasn't always angry," he said. "He has that huge smile, remember?"

I shook my head. "No, you're thinking of the Jack Nicholson who played 'The Joker.' I'm thinking of the angry Jack Nicholson from 'The Shining'. Have you ever seen that movie?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"That movie freaked me the hell out."

"You mean the scene when the blood rushed down the corridor?" He shuddered.

I smirked. "Forget the blood, it was those little twin girls, the dead ones that kept showing up as ghosts. I'll never trust twin girls after that." I helped myself to more of the cake while he stared at me dumbfounded. _Should I be limiting my cake intake or go with the flow?_

"Well it's not the girls' fault," he said. "They were murdered in the hotel!"

"That doesn't mean they should go around haunting people! And seriously, how 'bout pay more attention next time, so you don't get murdered in a hotel? And they were twins for God's sake, not even one could survive?"

He laughed. "Right. How about I never write a horror film, and if I do you have my word there will be no twins in it?"

I suddenly realized I'd been ranting.

"Thank you!" I said, stretching and dropping my hand onto his in one quick motion. How was that for a smooth move? Did he notice? _Well it's just sitting there lonely on the table..._

He glanced at his watch. "It's nearly eleven. We will have to wrap things up now."

He pulled his hand away from underneath mine. I thought about hanging onto it and dragging him across the table. _We haven't even begun!_ But that's all it was – a thought.

James paid and once again we found ourselves outside at the foot of the curb, the car's humming engine inviting us in for some warmth.

"James," I said, suddenly grabbing his hand and bringing us to a stop before we reached the car door. He turned and looked at me.

"Yes?"

I looked at him for a second then decided against it. "Nothing, it doesn't matter."

I stepped past him and into the waiting car.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The ride to my hotel was quiet. I had no idea what was going through his head, and he kept it to himself so I did the same. Couldn't we just stay here forever? Perfect days like this came around maybe once in a blue moon, and well...hadn't I earned the right to turn it into a lifetime? Couldn't I just get on the plane with him and go to England, meet Mum and Dad, eat crumpets and sip tea? I could even learn to understand soccer, it was just two teams right? How hard could it be? What was his favorite team again - Chelsea? And music – yes music, I could listen to Robbie Williams all day...but did he even like Robbie Williams? Or we could share dusty old books by DH Lawrence, before heading back to the sun and blue seas of Barcelona. _But if he ever comes near me with those green olive things we are going to have a problem._

"We're here sir." The driver looked back for instruction.

NOOO!

"Thank you Martin. Do you mind waiting here for a bit?"

"No problem."

We climbed out of the car and into the hotel lobby.

Why had the day slipped by so incredibly fast?

"Come up and meet Laura?" I asked, as we stood on the shiny marble.

James pointed at a big leather couch near the elevators.

"Do you mind if we sit here for a moment?"

I shrugged my shoulders and we sat. The lobby was empty, except for the night concierge and a cleaner at the other end.

"I wanted to give you a little something," he said. "It's a Christmas present."

He pulled a small rectangular-shaped object wrapped in green paper from the inside of his coat.

I was in shock. "You actually got me a present?"

He smiled. "It's nothing lavish or anything. But open it."

I studied the package. "How did you even fit this inside your coat?"

"Well Roms, men's coats aren't made with tiny pockets."

I burst into laughter. My laughs echoed all through the lobby, and it felt so good that I almost forgot he was leaving. And then a second later I remembered. _Dammit._

"By the way my name is Romes, not Roms." I rolled my eyes at him, before ripping open the package then stopping in my tracks. I froze. It was a book entitled "Writing a Novel," written by Nigel Watts.

"It's nothing big or flashy," he quickly said." "But it remains one of the simplest and easiest-to-understand guides to writing a novel. The fundamentals should you ever get stuck."

I shook my head in amazement. "You really think I'm going to do this don't you..."

"And you don't think you are?" He rested his hand on my shoulder. "Roms, it's not my expectation that you write a novel. That can only come from you. Just don't forget there's a story inside you kicking and screaming to get out."

It was too late to be a tough girl now. The pathetic little tears started dripping, but now they were falling for a totally different reason.

James put his face close to mine and I could feel his concern. "Hey, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," I managed to say. "I'm just happy."

"Happy? This is you when you're feeling happy?" He couldn't help but laugh.

I smiled through the tears. "You know what I mean! But anyway thank you." I stared at the book for a little while longer, then turned to place it safely in my bag. And that's when I remembered.

"Oh damn," I said, wiping away the tears.

He looked at me with surprise. "What's the matter?"

I was staring into my bag and feeling like a total idiot. "It's just I got you a present too, and now it's going to seem ridiculous."

He smiled. "You didn't have to get me anything. And whatever it is I'll love it."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," I said, as I pulled a small rectangular package from my bag. It looked a lot like his, except mine was wrapped in red.

I handed it to him and winced. "Here you go."

He ripped it open with a look of excitement in his eyes. And then he froze. "'Export to Ecstasy'? Is there a punch line here that I'm missing?" He was smiling, though clearly bemused.

I looked up at the ceiling and wanted to burst right through it. Maybe fly away to a land with bigger losers than me. I dropped my eyes and sighed. "I can't explain it, and I swear I haven't read it. But all I can say is, I saw it on the shelf when you told me about New York, and the next thing I knew I was asking you if I should visit."

He stared at the cover again, and suddenly appeared less confused. "Ah, I see it now. Girl with large bosom hops on a plane and embarks on a journey of ecstasy. So you're like this girl then, yes?"

"Minus the inflatable boobs. And the ecstasy." I blushed. "I was going to put a little message inside, but I don't want my name to be associated with that title."

He laughed. "Yet I'm supposed to put this in my bag, and embarrass myself at airport security?"

I made my most serious face. "If you toss it in the trash, I will never speak to you again."

He raised his eyebrow. "But you'll never know."

"But my soul will know..." _What the hell am I going on about? Change of subject quick!_

"You didn't meet Laura yet – come on!" I stood up and grabbed his hand, pulling him up from the couch.

***

On the fifteenth floor I paused outside my room and pressed my ear against the door. "I think the TV's on," I whispered. "She's probably still awake."

I opened the door and there she was, wearing her pajamas and surrounded by untouched room service. Cake, cookies, pie and two full glasses of milk.

WOW...best friend ever.

James followed cautiously behind me.

"Laura, I'd like you to meet James." She rose from her bed and shook his hand, as I ripped off my coat and scarf. Why was it so hot in here? I was getting all sticky but why? It's not like any action was in the cards for this evening...no matter how much I may have tried.

"What a surprise to meet you James! And here I am in my PJ's." Laura turned to me and scowled. _Oops._

"Pleasure to meet you Laura. And I'd just like to thank you for accompanying Romi to New York. You must be a great friend." He smiled.

"Are you kidding? I came for the Christmas shopping!" She pointed to the back of the room, which was now lined with shopping bags.

"Well Laura," he began, "I'm sorry to just say 'hello' and run, but I do have a flight to catch."

"No worries at all, it was great to meet you!" She smiled and waved as he moved ever closer to the door.

"I'll walk you out." I closed the door behind us, the pit in my stomach now punching me over and over.

He turned right instead of left as I stood there puzzled.

"Uh, James, the elevator's THAT way." I pointed to the elevators far down the hall.

"I know that. Come here for a second."

I followed him to the other end of the corridor, where a little windowed alcove offered up a lovely view.

We both looked down at New York City laid out before us, the lights in true dazzling form.

"I just wanted to look at the city as it falls asleep," he said softly, standing behind me with his hands resting on my shoulders.

It was happening again, the hurried wave of tears building up. Why was it impossible to stop it? Were all girls like this or only me? Maybe it was me, as growing up I'd weep just from losing at a game of checkers.

I wiped my eyes and tried to act normal.

We continued to stare out the window for a while, then I suddenly broke the silence. "But it doesn't sleep."

"What's that?" he said, grabbing my hand, and turning me towards him.

"You said you wanted to watch the city fall asleep, but New York is the city that never sleeps...so you'll be standing here for a while." I managed to smile.

"In that case I'll probably miss my flight." We were both smiling now, and I only wished this moment wouldn't end.

"I had a great time today Roms. Maybe next time we will do it in Barcelona or London or wherever."

I nodded with my eyes to the ground, not wanting to say something stupid.

"Hey, look at me."

Shit! Can't you just let me look at the ground?

I didn't comply, so he lifted my chin instead. "Don't be upset."

"I'm not. This is how I act when I'm happy, remember?"

We both laughed. It made things a little easier. "No you're right though," I said, as his hands rested comfortably on my lower back, while mine began to play with the buttons on his shirt. "There's nothing to be upset about."

"There isn't." He smiled.

"I know. I just said that. Stop repeating me." We laughed again. "No but really, if my brain actually starts to function again, I can see there is nothing sad about this moment." I was actually starting to believe it now. "Getting to meet you was a pretty damn amazing Christmas present."

"For me as well. Much better than a copy of 'Export to Ecstasy.'" He tried not to laugh, but was failing pretty terribly.

"Shut up! I put a lot of thought into that you know."

"I'm only teasing. It was actually very nice. Though odd." He dropped his forehead 'till it landed on mine. I never thought his eyes staring straight into mine would make me lose all sense of his hands on my back, but they did. His stare was more powerful.

Even though our eyes were as close as they could possibly get, I felt like they were somehow getting closer. I felt like I might stumble into those bright blue pools and I must've, because a second later everything went dark as his lips brushed mine. Somewhere in the distance fireworks went off in my head and I melted like a tub of Ben & Jerry's in his arms. _Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop!_

I LOVE NEW YORK!

When he finally pulled away, I was left hanging somewhere in the air between New York City and London.

If that's how long a simple kiss lasts with him, what could it possibly be like to---

I didn't let myself even finish the thought. I would've melted in a puddle if I had. _And nobody needs to find that in a hotel corridor._

He smiled as I tried to catch my breath, his face still inches from mine.

"See?" I said, my voice a little breathless. "We caught up on all the senses. Even taste."

"I guess we did," he said softly, his smile now warming my face.

"Why does this moment have to end though? Can't it just stay like this forever?"

"On the fifteenth floor of a hotel in New York you mean?"

I laughed out loud and pushed him playfully. He stood there smiling.

"You know what I mean."

He looked at his watch again.

"Time is not ours anymore, I had better go. Sorry."

"Do you want me to walk you to the elevator?" I asked, as we made our way back to my room.

"If you walk me to the elevator, I'll have to walk you back to your room. Because I'm not going to leave until I walk you to your room. And then we'll play this game all night." He kissed my forehead.

"But I like this game. It's the game where you never leave." I smiled and shrugged my shoulders innocently.

"Goodbye Roms," he said, his blue eyes working their magic.

"It's Romes," I said smiling.

"I know." He returned the smile.

"Bye James."

He kissed me lightly on the cheek and walked up the hallway towards the elevators, before turning one last time for a smile.

"Barcelona is just a flight away!" he called out.

I could only stand and stare, happy for how far we'd come today, but my heart being crushed by the sight of him leaving.

I died a little as one of the elevators opened. He waved and mouthed the words "See you soon!"

And then he was gone.

I knocked on the door and Laura opened it to find me sobbing.

Well that was inevitable.

She led me inside and sat me on my bed.

"You can be sad if you want," she said. "But what I really want to know is...did he kiss you?"

Laura: my friend, my kindred spirit, the girl who always knows just the right thing to say...

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I groaned and turned to face the clock.

Noon.

And I was still exhausted.

Laura and I had stayed up 'till three a.m. talking. And eating of course. My stomach grumbled in displeasure.

I remembered drifting off last night, entirely convinced that my dreams would be consumed by James. It was the only response to having spent so much time with him.

Instead I had a dream that I was captured by a three-eyed demon, and hung from a tree until feasting time. It was something out of "Lord of the Rings", but at least I woke up before being devoured limb by limb.

Romantic.

"Good morning sunshine." Laura smiled and stared at me from her bed.

I yawned. "Good morning back."

"So how are you feeling?"

"Well, James is not on the continent anymore so my life is basically screwed. I feel great!" I laughed.

"But it's our last full day in New York. What do you wanna do?"

Intelligent Laura, always knowing when to change the subject.

I'd forgotten I still had a whole entire day in New York City. Maybe it was just what I needed. "How about this," I said. "Sleep for another couple hours, go out to eat, go shopping, a nice big dinner..."

"And a fancy dessert with whipped cream?" she asked.

"Sure, why not? After last night my diet's shot anyway."

She laughed. "Great! So let's get ourselves that sleep then." She yawned. "Good night."

"Good night my friend. I'm gonna buy you a car, you know. 'Cause you're awesome." I mumbled something else that was inaudible, and drifted right back to sleep...

***

"But you said I could have the window seat!" The child started screaming and wouldn't stop, not until his mother made his older sister switch. The girl was only seven or eight, but her face looked like a wrinkled old man when it contorted into screaming position, missing teeth and all.

I felt a little bad for the mother, but I also wanted to smack her little brats in the teeth. _Will I ever grow maternal instincts?_

"Don't worry," whispered Laura. "The flight is only an hour and a half."

Thank god.

I put on my seatbelt as we readied for take-off, and before too long my gaze settled out the window to a view of the tarmac.

"Huh," I said.

Laura followed my gaze. "What is it?"

"I was thinking about how Manhattan's so close but I can't even see it anymore. And it made me realize...I can't see what I can't see."

Laura scrunched her eyebrows. "Have you been reading proverbs behind my back?"

I laughed. "No I've just been thinking how all I could ever focus on were the things I couldn't see; twelve months from now...or two months from now if I'd still be talking to James...or obsessing over a future October if James was going to visit...the things I was blind to were the only things I cared about."

"So what do you care about now?"

I smiled. "Eating the leftover cookies from the minibar." I pulled two saran-wrapped cookies out of my purse. "Want one?"

"Well technically we're still on vacation." She put out her hand.

We munched on the cookies in a sucrose bliss, as I thought about how good food and true friends were the solid base, while captivating foreign men were just the icing on the cake...

The End

(until book 2 ...)

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading "Year of the Chick," I hope you enjoyed it and had some laughs. This book was inspired by a blog of the same name I wrote in 2008. It's a fictional tale, but it's amazing how the elements of reality can trickle their way into fiction (especially the embarrassing ones).

I would normally take this time to tell you what I'm working on next, but that "next project" is already available now, in the form of a "Year of the Chick" sequel entitled "Last-Minute Love"!

I wrote the sequel two years after writing book one, and I would definitely say there's more romance in book number two (but I still tried to keep my style of humor!). And so, whether you loved "Year of the Chick" or were barely lukewarm towards the story, I hope you'll give the sequel a try.

To help begin your journey with the sequel, I've included Chapter One of "Last-Minute Love" below (followed by the "Acknowledgements" section).

Overall, thank you for downloading and reading this book. Exposure always helps us authors, and I really do appreciate it!

Romi

Ways to connect:

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**-Email:** romimoondiwriter@gmail.com

**-Subscribe to my free monthly newsletter**  Click here!

" **Last-Minute Love:"** in book two the saga of "awkward moments mixed with romance" continues. Here you'll find more culture clash and adventure than ever before. There's a big fat Indian wedding, a lingering long-distance flame, and an unexpected mystery man who could set a new course in motion. Chapter One is available below, and you can find the full book at any e-book retailer!

Chapter One of "Last-Minute Love"

A woman in a studded collar, leather bikini, and fishnet stockings stared at me from behind the glass.

Luckily she was only a mannequin, dressed in the finest gear this Toronto sex shop had to offer.

I turned my attention back to avoiding puddles, as I hurried my way up Yonge Street. This seemingly never-ending street began at Lake Ontario and ended a few towns later, but the twenty-minute patch between the touristy Dundas Square and swanky Bloor Street was something you'd describe as...eclectic. At least that's what a tourist magazine might call it. I'd call it borderline insane.

It's not that I was too uptight to be seen around a sex shop ( _yeah right...I'll go with sweet tender "lovemaking" with the lights OFF, thank you very much_ ), it's that it wasn't consistently-themed as a "sex neighbourhood." It was an "everything neighbourhood."

Intimidating Scientology center.

Tattoo parlour.

Hole-in-the-wall nail salon.

Jewellery store.

Sex shop.

Dollar Bonanza.

Pretentious book store that only carries leather-bound titles.

McDonald's.

It was Toronto with multiple-personality disorder, and it definitely made our city...unique. The people were a perfect match, as even now at eleven a.m., there was a little bit of everything here. From precious old ladies in cute wool hats, to sullen teenage girls who'd traded high school for the cautionary life (short denim skirts and last night's eyeliner were the dead giveaways). As for me, the casually-dressed Indian girl with long hair hanging freely, I didn't really belong to this late-morning crowd. With jeans, tall boots, a flowing scarf and layered tops, you would instantly mistake me for a wannabe writer. As a matter of fact that's exactly what I was, but on a full-time basis I belonged to the cubicle tribe, where all its members were hard at work making millions for "the man." I'd be back to that soon enough, but today was my chance to escape.

Today was my twenty-ninth birthday.

A grey April morning wasn't really helping me celebrate, but at least the rain had stopped, leaving a cool damp air in its wake.

And puddles.

I skipped over this latest one and continued on, as the normalized world of over-priced shopping and expensive eateries slowly came into view. I was a mere two blocks from Bloor Street now, with Toronto's trendy Yorkville up ahead. There was something about being around rich people who didn't have jobs that inspired my writing. I never even ended up writing about them in detail, but somehow they were word-count triggers. Maybe the expensive perfume was a hallucinogen.

Before I could start envisioning a steaming latte and the perfect window seat, I realized I'd let my guard down for a moment too long. The attractive young man with the clipboard now had me in his sights, and idiot that I was, I hadn't even bothered to grab my phone to pretend I was busy.

"Nice boots," he said, with the slightest air of seduction. It was just enough to make me blush thereby acknowledging his existence. _Dammit._

I nodded and hurried past him. But of course it wasn't over.

He quickened his pace and caught up in seconds. "I've got a question for you: do you think panda bears are cute?"

This was a classic trick question of the clipboard-wielding solicitor. If I said "no" he would accuse me of hating all endangered species, and if I said "yes" he'd have me signing donation forms in the middle of the street within seconds.

"I'm sorry but I'm really busy," I said, gazing at the ground to avoid any chance of eye-contact (the last thing I needed was to humanize the volunteer).

An elderly couple coming from the opposite direction were suddenly in his way. It was an anti-charity gift from above, and I gave my thanks by speed-walking the hell away. It's not that I didn't respect the hard work of volunteers, but what about the freedom of choice? I contributed to charities now and then, but I did so after hearing about them in related conversation, or from searches I'd done online. Then I'd do my little background checks to find out where the money really went. _Like buying an actual fruit tree for an African village? It's a tree and it's going in the ground, I support this!_

Lost in my troubled thoughts about charitable entrapment, I heard the distinct sound of footsteps hitting the pavement in a sprint.

The next thing I knew the cute volunteer (now looking a bit sweaty) was staring me in the face.

My jaw dropped, and then quickly re-formed into a scowl. "Excuse me, but you can't just chase people in the street when they have places to be. Like you're CHASING me!" A few people turned to listen.

"I CAN chase you," he smugly said. "And I am."

With teeth fully-clenched I spoke. "Get...the hell...away from me." I knew he understood, as he rolled his eyes, put on a fake smile, and set to work approaching somebody else.

I shook my head at the state of our current world. Yes, we had eluded telemarketers by putting ourselves on "do not call" lists, but now we had to run through the streets to protect our freedom? This was just the sort of thing to put off people from being charitable. Which would probably result in the eventual extinction of pandas.

Life in the big city...

***

Safe inside the café and free of all solicitors, I finally took out some cash to pay the latte girl. When I gave her the money my hand grazed her perfectly-moisturized palm. The feeling made me smile, not because I was leaning towards lesbianism these days, but because I, who in the past had been known to mash up hand lotions and foot creams to achieve the perfect softness, could certainly appreciate the effort.

I found a table right by the window, the perfect observational perch. As my laptop hummed to life, I took the first sip of non-fat toffee-nut heaven. At that exact moment, I heard two eager halves of a mouth snap shut on a ginger molasses cookie. My acute hearing alerted me to some licking of the lips as well. I didn't even have to turn to see the ecstasy-filled expression on the person's face. _I know the feeling._ A year and a half ago that person was me, chomping on cookies to fill the void, and obsessing over love long lost. So much had changed since then.

But had it?

My laptop greeted me with an always stirring desktop photo. One side of the picture was a handsome man with sandy brown hair, bright blue eyes, and the smile of a distinguished gentleman _._ Right next to him, snuggled up to his cheek and feeling oh-so-proud to have scored such a catch...was me. My long strands of hair from that windy day were slightly obscuring the backdrop, but the scene of Central Park wrapped in a blanket of fresh snow was unmistakeable.

This man, the ever-charming and screenwriting Brit James Caldwell, was living proof that accidental encounters on the Internet didn't always lead to the dreaded kidnap/murder scenario. _At least not yet...some killers take time_.

And what about James, anyway? _The man of "Jude Law wishes and Daniel Craig dreams_." He'd put New York City right on my map, and left me with an imprint slightly more elegant than an "I Love New York" tramp-stamp, but equally as permanent.

And yet...he'd been back in Barcelona for months, a place that could've been the frickin' moon if stone-cold reality had anything to say. As I looked around the café, I spotted a young couple with interlocked fingers, which somehow made me think of my parents. _Weird._ They were planning my sister's wedding, and would make sure I stayed on my leash until they planned out mine (with an Internet-ordered groom...free shipping!).

Score one for stone-cold reality, score zero for Romi Narindra.

But I wasn't a victim anymore, oh no! I shook my head firmly like a psycho at a table full of imaginary friends. First of all, I had learned to deflect Indian suitors discovered by my father via meddling matchmakers (quick-fix solution: faking illness and vomiting-on-demand), and secondly...I had a book! I pulled the stack of pages from my bag, this manuscript getting more and more creased (and latte-stained) by the day. My barely legible notes were the result of James's instrumental feedback. Because of all that scrawled-out advice, I'd gone from inconsequential blogger to someone with a story to tell. And all I'd needed was a gin-and-tonic-drinking, green-olive-popping, foreign-language-speaking debonair artist on my side.

But was he even on my side anymore?

He definitely wasn't on my literal side, made perfectly clear by the vacant seat at the table, but I wondered where he'd be once my book was out in the world. Cheering me on from across the sea? Like an invisible sailor on a "Pirates of the Caribbean" ghost ship? That surely wouldn't be enough, nor would anything in the realm of love, if I couldn't reach out and touch it.

New rule: no more dates that require airplanes!

The conversation in my head ended quickly, when I noticed the nearby couple massaging each other's wrists in a face-to-face soul-mate moment.

"What if a lonely widower saw this display?" I wanted to say. "Show some consideration!" All caught up in this inner outrage, my elbow slid off the table, and all my precious pages scattered to the floor. As I crouched down to gather them up (with the love-struck couple looking down at me from their pedestal of supremacy), a card popped out of the stack.

The birthday card from James.

My manuscript suddenly turned into a pile of junk mail, as I flipped open the card to read the message I'd already memorized.

Four lines later I was done, once again amazed at how something so simple could be a bonus scene from "Gone with the Wind."

My gaze switched quickly from the pages of my book to the card. Then to the totally obnoxious couple. Then back to the card. Imagining myself as a huge bestseller who would one day own a jet to visit all her lovers, I gathered up the pages and tossed the card into the bag. _For bag's eyes only._

Settled back in my seat now, I chugged my latte like a hockey player chugs a bottle of water in-between shifts ( _minus the part where I spray it all over my face_ ). Next I returned my attention to the laptop, and opened up the document that awaited all the edits. This story, a quest to find love and avoid arranged marriage, was somewhat auto-biographical...and entirely embarrassing. The worst parts to recount were the pressures of arranged-marriage doom, since for me those were the facts of real life.

One day I'll look back and laugh.

I gazed out the window for a moment, this ritzy stretch of Bloor Street lined with Prada and Chanel displayed before me. Fashionably-dressed women in their forties walked by, popping out like gemstones on a cloudy day.

"Must be nice," I muttered, suddenly feeling inspired. _What IS IT about rich people?_

I stretched my arms and began the final re-write of my very first book, the novel called "Year of the Chick"...

***

When I opened the big glass door to the Royal Ontario Museum, street sounds were replaced with the excited chatter of museum revelers. After several hours spent writing and now this, there was no nerdier way I could've spent my birthday (barring a game of chess against myself). The lobby was packed with school children wrapping up their field trips, and tourists just now piling in. I pushed past all of them, heading straight to the VIP queue.

A middle-aged woman with a long-forgotten grown-out perm ( _she's obviously not getting bi-annual perms from her daughter like my mom gets from me)_ , an oversized navy museum blazer, and a thin-lipped smile waited patiently, as I fumbled through my bulging wallet. Having a bulging wallet always made me feel important, like a pimp who couldn't keep his stack of cash in a tidy bank roll, since his ho's had been working so much overtime. Unlike a pimp's commission though, my wallet was empty on cash and full of useless "points cards," ones that would earn me a trip to Paris in approximately eighty years. I eventually filtered through the plastic, finding my membership card and handing it to the blazer-wearing lady.

"Most of our year-round members are seniors," she mused, as her gaze switched from my photo to my not-so-senior face.

She handed back the card and nodded in approval.

Or pity.

It was unclear.

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled as I took in the possibilities. _Dinosaurs to my left, South East Asia to my right, and my personal favourites up above (Ancient Rome, Ancient Greece and Ancient Egypt)._

I decided to skip the elevator, opting for a curvy stone staircase next to a totem pole. I stared at each face on the totem pole as I climbed the steps, with the full curiosity of the book-reading nerd I used to be. At home I had a bookcase stacked with everything from a giant book on Van Gogh, to about twenty different books on Ancient Egypt. Meanwhile I'd completely forgotten they existed for the whole of last year, so obsessed I'd become with finding a man. Now that the quest for love was on hold ( _or up in the air...or on hiatus...or hopeless?_ ), I was finally getting back to my roots. Which apparently made me the only Torontonian under seventy with a museum membership.

I made it to the third floor and entered the hall of Ancient History. Everything smelled a bit dead, but it wasn't the kind of "dead smell" that would emanate from the home of a lonely person missing in action. Instead it was a "dusty mummy linens" and "disintegrating ancient bones" kind of dead. It was basically my aphrodisiac, right up there with a medium-ripe mango.

Usually I would stop to admire the Roman busts of Trajan and the like, but this time I zipped down the massive corridor to the dimly lit area beyond...Ancient Egypt.

Part of me was disappointed by how this exhibit hadn't been updated since I was in high school ( _I expect more from you, Canadian government!_ ), but the other part of me thought it was convenient to know exactly where everything was.

My power-walk slowed down when I spotted her several feet ahead.

Cleopatra.

I'd always preferred the Ancient Egyptian depiction of this icon, and even though most of the paint had caked away from this ancient bust, she appeared resplendent.

"We meet again."

I didn't find it odd that I was speaking to a bust, as I'd already come to see her three times since I activated my membership. _We're on speaking terms now._ Besides, if there were ever a statue to talk to yourself in front of, it had to be the legendary Cleopatra. It was the little-known things about Cleopatra that impressed me the most, like how when she and her brother Ptolemy ruled as teenagers, she had his name removed off all important documents and coins so she could rule alone. I could definitely admire a badass move like that, and I would totally do the same to my lazy brother if we found ourselves ruling Toronto.

On a larger scale, I was more than impressed by Cleopatra's way with men. "Did you really roll yourself into a rug and get delivered to Caesar?" I asked. "Alexandria to Rome seems far. Toronto to Barcelona is farther. Should I move?"

She wouldn't say.

"Seriously that's a damn grand gesture." I sighed. "Why can't I be that bold? And is that what it takes to get noticed? The rug 'n roll?"

Cleopatra wasn't very good at giving advice.

I knew I was being a little crazy, but in my defense, I was fitting in just fine with the senile demographic of the average museum member.

"Do men even buy rugs these days? Like what if I roll myself in a rug, but the guy's all like 'No, you must have the wrong person. I just got my hardwood floors put in.'" I shook my head. "See? You had it easy."

I scowled at Cleopatra for a moment, but quickly remembered she was on my side.

With a smile now, I stroked her stony tresses of hair when no one was looking, and then I made a secret birthday wish: _In the next year, please help me find the courage to make a Cleopatra-worthy grand gesture..._

(If you liked what you read, the full-length version of "Last-Minute Love" is available at any e-book retailer!)

And now for some thank yous...

Acknowledgments

Even though this isn't the first book I ever published, it's the first book I ever wrote to completion. Therefore, attention must be paid:

**To Ms. Fioravanti:** as my eleventh grade English teacher, you threatened me with detention if I didn't write articles for the high school newspaper. Thank you for setting off my favourite thing to do in life.

**To Juveria Collins:** who sat me down in 2007 and told me I should write a blog, even though I was offended and disturbed by the suggestion. Given that this book was inspired by one of my blogs...you were obviously right. Thanks.

**To Laura Guida:** thanks for being an amazingly encouraging friend, the best shoulder to lean on, and the best person to talk to about the craziness of everyday life. Everybody needs a Laura.

**To Emily Robertson and Laura Tashjian:** for adventures, wins, disappointments, dance parties, liquid courage and moments of "random" over the years, thank goodness for you two!

**To the great reviewers at "The Next Big Writer" workshop site:** if not for the peer-to-peer reviewing and constant feedback which helped me post a chapter a week, I never would have finished a full-length novel. **In particular, thanks to: Bisi Adjapon, Tirzah Goodwin, K. L. Brady, Rachel Hamm, David Hunter and Marc Kovacs.**

**To David Levine:** thanks for burning your eyes with the task of proofreading my book, and for being the best blog-dad ever!

**To DC:** thanks for standing beside me as the boat rocked back and forth on the Hudson River, to tell me I should never give up on writing. You were more than right.

**And last but not least, to Paul DH Baylay:** there's a million reasons why this story would have never been written without you, and only you and I know them all. For the amazing help with the re-write, for the ideas, for the encouragement, for the "telling me what I didn't want to hear when I needed to hear it," I'll never forget any of it. Thank you.

