Chapter Two
I have a message from Maxime.
He has never sent me a message.
My heart is in my throat as I dare to click it open:
Skye, I promised myself if I ever thought you needed me, I would not make the same mistake I made in Brussels. I won’t sit by and merely watch. So here I am. I saw the pictures in that online tabloid after the game tonight, and after so long of not seeing them cover you, I wanted to make sure you were okay. I know you’re not sad—your eyes tell me that—but invasive photos like that must be upsetting. Are you okay?
Maxime is reaching out to me. He wants to make sure I’m okay.
I read his sweet words over and over, thinking no man has ever done anything so wonderful for me. It shows genuine concern.
I study it, transfixed by his words. Maxime seems haunted by our missed connection in Brussels. He remembers my despair in the café that night; he saw the look of sadness in my eyes. Something about these photos with their false headline compelled him to action.
This is how a real man acts.
I begin to type a response:
Maxime, nice to hear from you. I
Wait, does that sound like a business reply? I delete it and start over:
Maxime, thank you for reaching out. I
Thank you for reaching out? Is that how I reply to an interesting, sexy, mysterious, European man that I wish I had the opportunity to know better?
I bite my lip. Do I want to know him better? After all, my judgment doesn’t have a stellar record. I thought Tom was wonderful. Bleurgh. He turned out to be a colossal wanker, as Sierra’s British boyfriend, Jude, would say. I type what I really need to ask Maxime:
Maxime, you aren’t a wanker, are you? Because I really don’t think my self-esteem could take it if I was wrong again regarding men.
I laugh as I type. Now that would be an interesting reply. I’m about to hit delete when I go on autopilot and hit a different button instead.
The send button.
GAH! SHIT! I JUST HIT SEND BY MISTAKE! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
In a panic, I think of how to fix this, but what can I say? I typed out the answer as a joke to myself?
I shouldn’t be allowed to have a phone.
Ding!
A new message from Maxime drops in:
I can assure you I’m not a wanker.
My face is raging like an inferno, and I want to throw up. How on earth do I recover from this? What do I say? I was joking? I was hacked?
Maxime will never talk to me again.
I toss the phone aside and pull my blanket over my head like the child I apparently am.
I must reply.
HOW DO I REPLY?
I throw the covers off and pick up the phone, dying inside as I read Maxime’s reply.
I stare down at the message.
What must Maxime be thinking? I asked him if he was a wanker.
I cringe.
I don’t want to know what he’s thinking.
Okay. I need to be an adult and respond and wish Maxime the best in life because I’ll never see him again.
Wait. We live in the same town. I could see him all the time. Like at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s or on Pearl Street.
I need to apply for a new job.
Preferably in Tokyo.
I force down the nausea rising in my throat and begin to type, which is hard to do with such shaky hands. Before I know it, the words are flowing from my fingertips:
I feel better now that you have confirmed you’re not a wanker. I felt like I needed to hear that even though I know there’s NO WAY you could be a wanker. Your sweet message tells me you’re not. And you’re right. I went to get some confetti donuts and coffee. For the record, I bought two. That’s not a binge. Who can eat just one donut, anyway? There’s something fundamentally wrong with that. But I should have skipped the latte; my coffee at home was better than that water they tried to pass off as coffee. I also ended up adopting two terrified kittens, and I dropped cat food in the pet store, and a bag of kibble exploded in my face. This does not mean I’m mourning Tom, because trust me, he is a FOR REAL wanker and I’m beyond over him. As in that was an infinity ago. It’s hard to go out with people constantly labeling each experience of my life. I know I went on the show. I know I “should have known” this would happen, but that’s like saying you “should have known” you could fall off a bike before getting on it. Does that mean you never ride a bike? NO. I took a chance going on the show, but I didn’t think, this many months later, people would still be obsessed with everything I do and attribute my actions to feelings that I don’t have. By the way, I’m posting this at the end of a long day, so I’m sorry I just verbally threw up on you and wrote you a message the size of War and Peace. Don’t feel like you have to message me back because I’m obviously crazy.
I hit send, deciding to let reality happen. I told him exactly what I’m thinking. This is my reality, not blurred. I addressed everything and gracefully gave Maxime an out, which he will no doubt take me up on because he is a normal man who doesn’t want a bag full of crazy in his life. I lay back against my pillows.
Ding!
Maxime has replied.
I click it open, my heart pounding as I wait for his message to pop up. As soon as it does, I read it:
What kind of coffee do you drink at home?
I gasp in shock. He’s not fazed by my message! I feel a smile spread across my face, and I message him back:
Café de Cuba Nespresso. Dark roast and very tasty. Do you drink coffee?
I hit send and wait.
Maxime is typing …
Nespresso is good. I can’t stand American coffee. It’s horrible. What did you think of the coffee in Brussels?
Now I’m grinning like an idiot. I reply:
Brussels had AMAZING coffee. I couldn’t get enough of it.
I hit send, eager to see how this conversation develops.
I don’t have to wait long for Maxime to continue:
Have you ever had ‘t Molentje?
I text him back:
Will you hold it against me if I’ve never even heard of it?
He replies:
You’re from California, so no, I won’t. That wouldn’t be fair. That’s something a wanker would do, and we both agree I’m not a wanker.
Oh, I like this cute side of him. It’s the first glimpse I’ve seen of it. I grin and message him back:
That’s very generous of you. I promise the next time I’m in Belgium, I will look for it.
Maxime Laurent is typing …
Well, because I’m so generous, and not a wanker, I should fix this for you.
Oh! I hold my breath as I wait for his response:
Maxime Laurent is typing …
I have ‘t Molentje in my kitchen. I import it.
I swear I can’t breathe as he continues to type. I’m dying as I wait for his next response to drop in, and finally, it does:
If you are inclined, you could come over and have a cup of Belgian coffee with a Belgian.
I think my heart is going to burst inside my chest. I type back:
When are you thinking this cup of Belgian coffee with a Belgian should happen?
His reply is instant:
Tomorrow.