Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
THE LAST ROMANTICS
PAST
“ I tried to tell you,” Miley reminds me, her sage wisdom interrupted by a drunk giggle. Because drinking on a Sunday night before the start of the summer semester is probably what I should’ve been doing instead of standing outside of the movie theater, talking to my tipsy best friend on the phone.
I just had to say yes to one of these little assholes.
That’s what wanting to get laid will get you—stood up.
I kick out my foot, watching as my scuffed white Converse peeks up at me. A cool breeze picks up, flirting with the ends of my floral skirt. It brushes against the tops of my calves, and I turn, taking one last glance up the street.
“Yeah, well. I’m gonna stay anyway.” I turn on my heel and adjust the strap of my brown leather bag as I walk inside, determined to enjoy myself. I’m already here.
“If you want some dick, there’s plenty here,” she announces, and I hear a few male whoops in the background.
“If I wanted any old dick, I’d fuck the homeless guy on the corner,” I hiss, peering around to make sure no one’s listening as I step up to the building to purchase a ticket.
“Suit yourself,” she says, giggling before she ends the call.
I’ve never been able to sleep with just anyone. It’s a curse.
I have to get to know someone before I can decide if I’m attracted to them or not. Therein lies the reason for my unsolicited celibacy. I’m perpetually surrounded by young men who don’t want to be known. They don’t want to put in any work at all. No, they want you to fawn over them and salivate at the thought of touching their mediocre penises. And that will never be me.
I huff when I realize no one’s come to operate the ticket booth before I notice a worker inside, wiping down the concession counter. When I yank the door open, I’m startled by someone coming up behind me.
“You’re fucking late—” I start as I turn to give my “date” a piece of my mind, only for my mind to go blank. Because who the fuck is this?
He’s smiling as he reaches out to hold the door open behind me, his arm now over my head.
“I wasn’t aware anyone was waiting on me,” he says, and my brain detects an accent. I can’t quite place it, but I blink once before I step over the threshold.
“I thought you were someone else,” I respond, my heart pounding from complete embarrassment, my outward expression remaining stoic.
His grin is surrounded by a thick dark beard and his hair looks damp, like he may’ve just gotten out of a shower. He stands almost half a foot taller than me, which is impressive because I’m not short.
“A shame.” He glances past me, and I turn to look at the man standing at the concession stand, his stare only punctuated by the quick rise of one of his brows.
Oh, like you have anything better to do, I think to myself as I walk over to him .
“I’ll take one ticket to Roman Holiday ,” I start as I open my small pocketbook, reaching for my wallet.
“Excuse me.” The man from the door steps beside me, “Make that two.” He hands the man behind the counter a credit card before I can utter a word.
“Oh…” I don’t really know what to say. Thank you? Who the hell are you?
“You’re welcome,” he supplies as he’s handed back his card.
He glances at me through his thick, dark lashes as he pushes his card back into his wallet and his wallet into the pocket of his dark slim khaki pants that fit around his ass like they were tailor-made for him. I’m so sick of these fresh-out-of-their-teens guys who wear ill-fitting clothes and learned to fuck from poorly made porn videos.
This man…he reeks of grown motherfucker from his pants that actually fit him to the way he bought my movie ticket with no prompting.
“I’m not an asshole,” I offer, looking back up at his face and stepping away from him so I find it easier to keep my cool.
“Of course you aren’t.” He smiles like he knows a secret that I’m dying to find out.
“I’m not,” I insist as I walk toward the doors of the theater we’re meant to enter.
“I am,” he tells me with a shrug. “More people should be.”
“What makes you say that?” At this point, I want him to keep speaking, just to try to pinpoint his accent for certain. He’s all soft s’s and rolls over his r’s, a lyrical rhythm to his words. Growing up with my Greek family members exposed me to the life of a polyglot.
“Well, if you were, you wouldn’t be here waiting on someone who is very clearly an asshole.” This time, when he smiles, I can see the lines around his eyes, and I wonder how many years it took for them to get there.
But I smirk, finding his logic flawed. I just wanted to get laid and make sure the person attached to the penis wasn’t a complete moron. He doesn’t need to know that , I think to myself, finding this exchange entertaining.
“Did you want popcorn? Candy?” He flirts momentarily with each word, speaking rapidly like he doesn’t have time to taste each syllable.
“I…wasn’t aware we were watching the movie together.” I peer around the empty theater.
“If you have a better idea, let me know,” he tells me, leaning toward me so a few tendrils of his dark hair brush against his forehead.
“Italian?” I think out loud, the lack of an H in his pronunciation giving him away.
“The movie? Sure, yes.”
“No, you,” I clarify, watching his lack of reaction.
“Once upon a time.” He steps back down the aisle. “Pick a seat. I’ll be back.”
He’s walking back through the door, in spite of the way I start to object, my hands lifted. They fall to my sides as I watch the door to the theater swing shut.
It’s eerily silent in here, only the slight sound of machinery humming from somewhere in the building.
I give the door one last glance before I shrug, hoping he picks something good before I head toward the middle of the theater seats. Because everyone knows the middle is the perfect place to sit.
My eyes flit to the screen as credits start and music swells, filling the empty space.
Maybe homeboy hadn’t shown because classic movies aren’t his thing. Maybe he’s more of a Michael Bay fan; an uber douche who sprays his junk with Axe body spray and thinks common courtesy is for “pussies.” I ought to thank him for potentially sparing my pH balance.
Either way, I type out a fuck you and send it before blocking his number. The smirk on my face is interrupted by the strange once-Italian man coming down the aisle. He makes his way to the open seat next to me and I catch sight of the peanut M to become someone else while simultaneously hiding myself amongst hundreds of others trying to do the same thing.
After being in my mother’s haphazard care before she became sober, my sister and I entered young adulthood with our skin marked by the shrapnel of our volatile childhood.
And once I could, I left. I damn near ran, leaving my little sister to fend for herself. Guilt claws at the base of my throat but I swallow it down, choosing to chase it away with another piece of candy.
For the next hour, in spite of the glances I steal, we remain silent as the movie plays. The once upon an Italian snorts at certain parts, his eyes crinkled with mirth. And I want to know how he can smile like that, sitting next to a stranger.
Not everyone is as scared as you are, I try to reason with myself as he looks at me, his smile still firmly in place.
“How can you not be a romantic when movies like this exist?” he asks, his hands gesturing in front of him.
I shrug, wanting to confess that I’m not a romantic at all. Just hiding in the dark, horny and afraid of what some college-aged asshole might do to my heart, given the opportunity.
“Are you very romantic?” I ask, wondering if he believes in red roses and love letters.
“I haven’t been in quite a long time,” he answers me, facing the screen again. He’s sitting easily, his elbows resting on the armrests, so close I can smell the scent of his soap. Perhaps his shampoo ?
A clean, manly scent that probably has some sort of nonsensical name. Midnight Dream. No, Forest Musk.
“Must be lonely,” I say from personal experience, pulling myself from my thoughts.
He shakes his head, still staring at the screen.
“You don’t need romance for sex,” he clarifies, and my focus is jerked back to the screen as I try to digest his response.
The words are a straight shot to my libido and the desire to find out what his brand of sex is like is immediate. Does he take his time? Is his tongue as clever with foreplay as it is with pronunciation?
Before I can sink so far into my seat that I disappear into the floor, the credits roll, and the theater lights come on.
“Well,” he starts, standing to face me. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
Before I can answer, he holds his hand out to help me up.
Without a second thought, I take it.
His palm is soft, his hand warm as it closes around mine. Once I’m upright, I pull my fingers from his grip, wiping my hand against my skirt. He watches me with a small smile, and I realize I never answered his question.
“I did. Thank you,” I tell him, and he gives me a small nod before starting to head out.
Do I follow him?
Fuck it. I shrug and walk toward the exit, figuring we’ll either say goodnight or continue to have a good night with one another. Whichever way it goes, I won’t overthink it.
He holds the door open for me and we stroll wordlessly out of the theater and then out of the building. The night is warm and when I turn to him, he’s staring at my chest.
Um…
“I like your shirt,” he tells me, and I want to suggest that he only noticed it because he was looking at my breasts. But that line feels better uncrossed. For now.
“Thank you,” I say as I glance down at the white T-shirt that I’d tucked into my skirt. Across the chest in the small print, it reads Dump Him .
My clothes are thrifted, and I’ve had these shoes since my junior year of high school.
But I guess that’s the thing about this city: no one gives a shit.
Which is how I ended up here with this strange once-Italian man.
“What made you decide to do this to yourself?” he asks, reaching out to touch a short lock of bright red hair. It slips between his fingers as I pull back from him, uncomfortable with the feeling of having his complete focus.
I’ve never been self-conscious about my decision to chop my hair short and color it a shade that rivaled The Little Mermaid’s. At least, not until someone asked me why I did it.
It’s a loaded answer that I can’t quite give to a stranger.
“I wanted change,” I offer, a small portion of a very large truth.
“It makes me want to look at you.”
He says the words like they’re a simple truth of his own and I envy his ability to be so open. No games. No need to hide. His hand is still up, the whisper of his touch on my hair making me wonder if he’s going to reach out for me again. Instead, he rests his hand on his chest before letting it drop to his side.
“Do you like when I look at you?” he asks, beckoning me out into the light with him. “I won’t think differently of you if you do. Beautiful women should be appreciated.”
“And you’re walking around the city, taking on the back-breaking labor of it?” I tease, fighting my grin.
“Someone must,” he answers with a shrug as we turn to step in time.
I don’t know where we’re walking but I do know it’s the direction of the apartment I share with Miley. Would I invite him back there ?
You don’t even know his name, a small part of me thinks. But what’s a name when this man looks like he stepped out of my dreams?
No, more like my fantasies. The kind where I end up naked. Satisfied, for once.
“What’s your name?” I finally ask him, deciding I should at least know that before I think about getting naked with him. But he shakes his head, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I believe I asked you a question first,” he reminds me, tilting his head toward me. I grin, even though I warm at the honest answer I thought I’d successfully evaded having to share.
“What woman doesn’t like being looked at by an attractive man?” I ask the sky, my face turned toward the stars as I answer.
He shakes his head with his own secret smile just as I hear the chime of a ringtone.
When I glance down at my cell, I see Miley’s name on my screen. I let it go to voicemail and just as I’m about to speak again, her name pops up again.
With my brows furrowed and my lips parted, I’m torn between what I should do and what I want to do.
“It seems important,” he starts as he begins to step away from me. One foot behind the other, he makes it impossible to think rationally. “Answer it.”
“Uh…” I stare at my phone and then back at him. “Give me just a second.”
I swipe the screen, answering the call. Miley is babbling in the background, and I hear someone saying my name.
“Miley?” I ask into the phone, trying to simultaneously keep my eye on the man currently escaping. “Don’t you want my name? My number or something?” I ask him as I pull the phone from my ear.
“Come on. We’re the last romantics in this fucking city,” he shouts as he keeps walking, his arms outstretched. “We’re either destined or doomed to meet again.”
The person on the other end of the phone tells me to come pick up my drunk best friend, and I watch my stranger walk away, wondering how I still managed to evade getting laid tonight.