Page 35 of Texting My Valentine

TORI

“That’s great that you’ve been texting,” Lily says on speaker the following afternoon as I get ready for work.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” I say.

“See?” Cleo pipes into the call, sounding giddy. “She’s taken my advice, sweet Lily flower. She’s turned into a stone-cold bitch.”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” I mutter.

I try to join in on the fun, but it’s difficult when I’ve got this paranoid voice in the back of my head. Just when things were going to get steamy, Elliot had a nightmare.

I did something unhealthy after I received the text. I looked, again, online for any sign of this so-called nephew. Mom’s teary face has been living rent-free in my head. She’s right, I guess, though it pains me to admit it.

I probably wouldn’t be thinking about this if it weren’t for her terrible example.

“Let us know when he sends the coveted dick pic,” Cleo says.

“Eww.” Lily laughs.

“I agree, Lils. Eww, is right.”

As I brew my afternoon coffee, I look at my cell phone. I haven’t texted back since we came close to dirty texting. Lying in bed, my body was heating up like crazy, the tingles shivering over my thighs and my sex.

Then, the excuse, the nightmare.

Was he with another woman, or am I just projecting?

Saying goodbye to my friends, I walk the short distance to the bar. The day is bright, but I’m paying more attention to my phone than the surroundings. He hasn’t texted me again. Does that mean he’s not interested?

Honestly, if I viewed my behavior objectively, I’d cut the cord here. I’d accept that I’m going too far and I need to relax big time. I’ve known him for less than a day. He’s a bit of Valentine’s fun, that’s all.

In the end, I text him back. I don’t want to be, as Cleo put it, a stone-cold bitch.

Tori:Aw, that’s awful. I hope everything’s okay with the little man. I’m heading into work now, so I won’t be able to text. I’ll talk to you later, maybe.

I add that ‘maybe’ like it’s going to make a difference, like there’s a chance we won’t talk, when it’s all I want to do. At least we’re not seeing each other in person. That makes handling all this easier, just a tiny bit.

The bar begins to grow busy around eight. I rush up and down the bar, serving drinks, making small talk, remembering the regulars, and hopefully, lighting up their days with a little human interaction.

Whenever I get a chance, I scribble in my notebook, dancing around the topic of love.

“Tori?”

I look up with a customer-service smile, which quickly turns into something else when I see Alex looming over the bar. He’s wearing a shirt but no jacket, his firm body on full display, and the temptation is stronger than on the first night.

Now, I know how those muscles feel under his shirt. He’s got a smirk on his face. It looks, to me, relaxed, cool, chill. But what if it’s the sleazy smirk of a man who thinks he’s taking advantage of a younger and, in his view, naïve woman?

“I’m not stalking you,” he says, laughing.

I laugh with him. It feels so easy, so right somehow. “You’re not exactly designed for sneaking around, are you?”

“I had a meeting in the neighborhood, thought I’d swing by… and give you this.”

He hands me a small parcel across the bar. Our fingers brush, and electricity dances up my arm, making my heart beat quicker. “What is it?” I ask, curious.

“A gift,” he replies.

“Yeah, duh, but what?”

---