5. Julia
CHAPTER 5
Julia
My head is spinning from that kiss. I’m mentally kicking myself for not getting his number. Or maybe he didn’t want mine. What was it that he said in my ear before he left? Un’altra vita, forse.
What does that even mean?
The twinkling lights of my Christmas décor greet me. I pat a fat dancing Santa on the head as it starts singing “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” while shaking its ass, getting set off by the motion sensor. I smile, thinking of all the times my mom and I would sing along and dance just like it. Butts out and arms swinging.
God, I miss her.
The holidays are always hard, but without her presence I’m barely holding it together.
A pile of past-due bills is spread out on the small TV tray that doubles as my kitchen table. The apartment I rent out is tiny, even by New York standards. But it’s the only home I have, and I try to make the cramped space as happy as I can manage.
My lips still tingle with the phantom of his kiss as I kick off my shoes and sink into my bed. I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like that. It was as if every neuron had a celebration of fireworks inside my body the moment his lips met mine.
The entire evening was so unexpected. I’d planned to veg out and watch some Netflix on my laptop, but this was infinitely better.
I take my phone out and text my friend, Tasha. She’d been mercilessly teasing me for crushing on the stranger when I told her.
Girl. Guess what?
I see three dots appear immediately, and with a Cheshire grin-like smile, I type out the details of the date. Wait, was it a date?
He paid, and he kissed me goodnight.
But still, I don’t have his number, and he didn’t ask for mine.
Worrying my bottom lip, I begin to overanalyze every detail, like the way he grabbed me so possessively at the laser tag place and used his body as a shield. Talk about a swoon-worthy moment.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes, and an incoming FaceTime request blares at me.
“Bitch, spill,” Tasha says, walking around with her hair hidden by a towel. It’s clear she’s just popped out of the shower and is about to do her nightly skin care. Tasha has that kind of glazed donut-looking skin that people pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to obtain.
“Okay, so remember that guy?”
“Mr. Face Mask?” She asks while globbing on a dollop of moisturizer.
“That’s the one.” My friends are always quick to nickname anyone I’m remotely interested in. There’s been the fish guy who only wanted to order fish for every date, even breakfast, for me and him. Then there was Mr. Buttcrack, who had the unfortunate displeasure of showing his ass every time he bent over. And we can’t forget about my personal favorite, Baby Knees. A guy who always wore jeans until he took me to the beach, where I saw two very distinct-looking knees staring at me. I covertly took a picture that day and sent it to Tasha, asking her if I was crazy or if his knees looked like two very angry baby faces glaring at me. The verdict? I was not, in fact, crazy.
“He came back to Deja Brew?” She asks.
“He did, and I took him to laser tag.” I let that information settle, and Tasha clearly understands the gravity of what I had just said. She’s staring at me open-mouthed with shock.
“You haven’t even taken me there.”
“I know!”
She stares at me like she’s piecing together a puzzle. “Wow, so what did Mr. Facemask do to earn such an outing?”
“Well, his name is Max.”
“We’re real naming this guy? This is serious. Hold on, I have to sit down.”
She sits and gives me her full attention.
I regale her with the details, catching her up, and she is rapt.
“But then he didn’t ask for my number.”
“He could have been nervous.” She offers, and it does little to calm my anxiety over it.
“True,” I say warily.
“But he knows where you work. With a night like that, I’m sure he’ll be back in soon.”
After chatting for a few more minutes, we hang up, and her words linger. I hate to admit how desperately I want that to be true.
Before I go to sleep after getting ready for bed, I search for the words he spoke to me. After misspelling it several times, I try speaking it into my phone. Immediately, a host of results pop up and I zero in on the first translation I see. “In another life, maybe.”
Any hope I had of seeing him again turns to dust, and my heart shatters. He doesn’t think we’ll work out. Tears sting at the corner of my eyes, and I scold myself for getting so emotionally attached to a guy I’ve just met, taking him to my sacred space. What was I thinking?
Frustration follows me, and I know no matter how much I try to boost my self-confidence, telling myself I’m better off, there’s still a voice wondering why he thinks I’m not good enough for this life.