The Fake Selfie: When one pretends to be taking a picture of oneself, but is instead actually taking a picture of a person in the background. This method differs from the “Creeper Selfie” in that none of the photographer’s face or expression is present in the picture.

Best for: Situations where taking a selfie wouldn’t be unusual/draw attention, e.g. while alone at a tourist attraction or during a sporting event/concert.

Do not use: In restaurants or near mirrors.

 

 

*Annie*

It was a banner week for me, a real doozy, a landmark of atypical Annie-isms.

First, I’d opened up to Ronan about my past, and, as much as I was able, I’d admitted to having feelings for him. I trusted him, or at least I was starting to.

Then I flirted with him via email; granted, it was as The Socialmedialite, and the lewd references all involved my fictional mermaid tattoo.

Of course, I couldn’t neglect to mention the sexting—or as close as I’d ever come to sexting—on Friday that got me so hot I’d had to go to the bathroom and run cool water over my wrists and place a wet paper towel on my neck.

Oh, yeah, and then there was introducing him as my boyfriend to my bossy and persistent neighbor; ambiguously giving in to Ronan’s demands about how I spent my time and with whom; the caveman dry-humping against the wall in my apartment; the orgasm in the dance club; and the make-out marathon in the taxi, in the elevator, in the hallway, and against the door of his apartment.

Ah, yes, and how could I forget meeting his mother and his sister immediately afterward? Or how I’d practically sprinted out of the apartment after introductions were made?

Lovely. Just lovely.

At least I hadn’t spat tea in anyone’s face…yet. Just my boyfriend’s.

Ronan…my boyfriend.

He was my boyfriend. We were a we, an us. I was part of a couple; I was more than just a one. I tried to ignore the way my heart thundered whenever I thought about it, how excited just the thought of seeing Ronan made me, of belonging with him.

As well I tried to suppress thoughts of our future, asking myself whether we would live in Ireland or in New York—I hoped Ireland. I wondered whether Joan would mind if I telecommuted from overseas, whether Ronan already had an apartment in Dublin or we’d pick one out together. I didn’t honestly care. Of course, getting shots of celebrities in Dublin might be an issue. But that didn’t really matter. I would give up the blog in a heartbeat if it meant being with Ronan….

I was completely mad, made insane by physical human connection.

WriteALoveSong had even commented on “Annie and Ronan’s connection.” I received a message from her early this morning with a fuzzy picture of Ronan and me at the bar last night.

 

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: I know you’ve got a little crush on this rugby guy, so prepare yourself. He’s dating some hottie with a body and an epically pretty face. It looks very serious. One of my club contacts sent me the picture…If you need a shoulder to cry on, I can send you a blow-up doll. Just pretend it’s me.

 

I’d looked at the picture entirely too much, liking how we looked together entirely too much. It was genuine and serious and happening entirely too fast, but I didn’t care.

I was in desperate like with a real person. I couldn’t remember ever liking someone as much as I did Ronan. I liked him so goddamn much; I thought about him all the freaking time. It was more than just how epically sexy he was. He was fucking charming as hell, and funny, and smart, and sweet, and brave, and determined, and honorable….

“Debbie downer does Dallas, dammit,” I muttered under my breath, pushing these thoughts away before they started running away from me. I kept my eyes on the gravel path. How much I liked Ronan flustered and worried me, but I liked him more than giving into the temptation to worry. I wanted him. I wanted him so much it hurt.

And now, on this sunny and unusually warm Saturday morning in March, I was wearing makeup for the second time in two days, on my way to properly meet and spend time with my boyfriend’s family. I was twenty-three, but last night was the first time in my life I’d ever met the family of someone I was dating; and I was sure I’d made a terrible impression.

Well, I reasoned, at least I can’t sink any lower in their estimation. I have nowhere to go but up.

As well, I was wearing the necklace Ronan had given me. It felt warm against my skin, a gentle touch that made me think of him.

They were all there when I arrived even though I was five minutes early. My eyes were immediately drawn to Ronan, and my ability to hone in on his location even in a crowded restaurant was disconcerting. I took a moment to survey them from my spot by the front door.

Ronan’s sister, Lucy, had rainbow hair, meaning she’d dyed her hair in sections. The front was red and then came orange, yellow, and green. Blue, indigo, and violet merged to form an amorphous bluish-purple at the back. Currently, she wore it in a long and loose French braid down her back.

She was sitting in profile and shared Ronan’s attractive bone structure, but her features were exceedingly refined, elegant, and delicate. It was like his face but softer and feminine. Also, I remembered last night being startled by her eyes because they were cornflower blue.

Really, she was beautiful. But more than that, she had a friendly, carefree, spirited energy about her. During our very short introduction, she’d struck me as joyful, and I could see it now as she spoke to her brother. Her hands were animated as she talked, and her smile was enormous.

I shifted on my feet, allowing myself to lurk for a moment longer as I brought my attention to his mother. She was…well, she was beautiful. But hard. Even from this distance, I recognized in her a sort of kinship, a woman who’d had a difficult life, had been dealt an unfair hand.

She had the same blue eyes as her daughter, but—other than their coloring—Lucy and Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked nothing alike. Where Lucy was delicate, Ronan’s mother was exotic, her features sharp. Her hair was blonde; her lips were cushioned and full; her cheekbones high, leaving a hollow above her jaw. She was stunning.

But hard.

She held herself away from her children even as she sat at the table with them. She wore a smile like people wear a coat or a scarf. It looked foreign and bulky on her features.

I wondered briefly if I looked like that. I wondered if a smile and joy and happiness looked like transitory visitors on my face rather than like they belonged there.

…or was I like Lucy?

No, I thought sadly. I am not like Lucy.

A cold sensation slithered over my skin, a blanket of sorrow, an inkling that maybe Ronan deserved someone less messy, less reticent—because he still had joy. Yes, at times his eyes were sad, but he still had a brightness in him, one he couldn’t contain or hide. It was a part of him, and I loved it.

“Can I help you, miss?”

I started, turning my attention to the hostess who stood at my elbow. She was young, likely in her first or second year of college, and exceedingly pretty. Her eyes moved over me with solicitous curiosity.

“Oh, yes. I—uh, I see my party. They’re right there.” I pointed to the table where Ronan sat with his mother and sister.

The hostess’s gaze followed where I’d indicated, and I heard her murmur under her breath, “Lucky you….”

I should have smiled at this and chuckled. A normal person likely would have agreed, Lucky me. Instead, I felt cagey and irritated. This was how it would be with Ronan. Other women looking, liking, coveting. I didn’t have any desire to be waging a constant war against taller, sexier, slimmer, prettier girls. I felt a bit lost, in over my head. I didn’t know what I was thinking, what I was doing here.

Who did I think I was? That I would have a chance with this guy? I was living in a fantasy, one that would leave me abandoned—again—and heartbroken.

These were my cheerful thoughts as the hostess unnecessarily guided me to the table. Her steps were hasty, leaving me several feet behind. I noted how she touched Ronan’s shoulder and bent near him, whispered in his ear, how close she stood, how she lingered.

His eyes lifted as she spoke and fell on mine. Then he smiled.

And it was like the clouds parting.

I saw his joy, witnessed the happiness in his features shining like a beacon. He stood abruptly and must’ve not realized the hostess was still there because his chair hit her in the legs, and she stumbled back. He turned briefly to offer a hasty apology and then darted around the table to meet me.

He was…eager, excited, even. His excitement was palpable, contagious, and I found myself smiling broadly as he approached.

I opened my mouth to say hi, but he stopped me with a quick kiss, his hands sliding into my open coat and squeezing my bottom. I was glad the coat was long and hid his handsy liberties.

“I like your necklace.” His eyes were warm, told me that he was pleased. Then he added against my mouth, “I missed you.”

“It’s only been ten hours.” I smiled up at him, tilting my head back so I could see his face.

“It’s been ten lonely, painful hours.” He lowered his face to my neck. “I needed you last night. I had to be content with remembering how wet and soft your pussy felt when you came on my fingers.” Ronan’s voice was low as he whispered in my ear.

I shivered, my eyes half closing. I caught my lip between my teeth, unable to speak. I was panting and abruptly primed for anything he wanted to do to me.

“Ronan, don’t be rude.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s voice cut through my arousal like a bucket of ice water. And lilting though it was, it held a granite edge.

He pulled back, a devilish grin curving his mouth as he examined the effect his naughty words had on my composure. His roguish brown eyes lit, fiercely ablaze. He looked like a mischievous boy who was quite pleased with himself for getting caught, looking forward to receiving punishment for plotted misdeeds.

I narrowed my eyes at him and endeavored to bring my body under control. Meanwhile, he winked at me and then turned back to his mother and sister, lacing his fingers through mine and pulling me after him.

“Sorry, Ma.” He didn’t sound sorry.

Ronan led me to the vacant chair next to his and his sister, Lucy’s; his mother was directly across from me. I smiled at both Mrs. Fitzpatrick and Lucy in greeting, noted that Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked more assessing than welcoming, and allowed Ronan to help me out of my coat. He pulled out the seat, made sure I was settled, then claimed his spot again.

“Good morning,” I said to the table. I was fighting with myself; I wanted to make eye contact but couldn’t manage more than quick glances at either woman. “I hope I’m not late.”

“Nah, we’re early. I was starving. My stomach thinks it’s dinner time.” Lucy grinned, angling toward me, giving me all her attention. “I’m so glad you came.”

I met her eyes directly and returned her friendly overtures with a broad smile. “Me, too. Thank you for inviting me.”

Lucy’s stare moved over my face, and she breathed out, “Goodness, you’re gorgeous.”

My attention dropped back to the table, and a surprised flush crawled up my neck. “Oh, thank you. That’s…you’re very kind.”

“Don’t embarrass her, Lucy,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, though to my ears it sounded more like, Don’t embarrass me, Lucy.

Lucy, ignoring her mother, addressed her next statement to her brother. “You said nothing, you tart. We’ve talked on the phone every day for the last month, and here you’ve lured the most beautiful woman in New York up to your lair.” She tsked, and I saw her shake her head. “My brother is a sneaky and saucy wench.”

“Can’t blame me for wanting her to myself, can you?” I heard the warmth in his voice, the affection for his sister. He leaned forward and placed a hand on my thigh, sliding it under the hem of my skirt but no higher.

I swallowed thickly and reached for my water because my mouth was dry.

“I knew once I told you about Annie you’d be over here in a flash, wanting to braid her hair and dye it chartreuse or some such nonsense.”

Lucy giggled. “I wonder, Annie. Have you ever thought about going blonde?”

“Don’t you dare.” His eyes widened with warning, though he looked like he was trying to keep from laughing. “Don’t change a thing about her. My Annie is perfect just as she is.”

This compliment quadrupled my blush, and I closed my eyes briefly. I was bad with compliments that weren’t specifically about my work quality. I wasn’t used to them, not real ones. Not compliments that came from a place of sincerity and fondness.

Yes, I’d been complimented on my looks before—but always with heat, never with warmth.

“Look, you’re embarrassing her!” Lucy admonished him then covered my hand, capturing my gaze with hers. “My dearest Annie, stick with me. I’ll make him stop torturing you.”

“She likes my torture,” Ronan muttered, squeezing my thigh, and reaching for his water glass.

Lucy made a face at him then glanced back to me. “He’s rough around the edges, and he thinks of himself a bit too highly; but inside he’s all mush. Did you know he likes show tunes?”

Ronan choked on the water he’d just sipped.

Lucy took advantage of his inability to speak to list all of the plays he’d taken her to and how they sometimes sang along to the soundtrack from The Phantom of the Opera while in his car back home. By the time he’d recovered from his coughing fit, the two siblings were sparring back and forth, seeing who could one-up the other with embarrassing details.

I watched their interaction with fascinated delight. They were so open. There was so much love, respect, and history between them. I was drawn to it and relaxed as I witnessed their banter. This went on for quite some time and was often paused when the three of us lost ourselves in a fit of laughter.

It was during these times—when Lucy, Ronan, and I laughed—that I was most cognizant of Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She didn’t laugh; though her smiles were appropriate, both in size and duration, they never seemed to reach her eyes.

Breakfast came. We ate. Lucy skillfully tricked me into talking a few times about myself. She was charming. Ronan’s hand remained on my leg but traveled no higher. I realized it was meant to show support, and when he stood and excused himself to the restroom, I found I missed his touch.

Lucy smiled at me once Ronan was out of earshot and then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Now then, quick before he gets back. How did you meet? Was it love at first sight? When are you coming to Ireland? Will you come out with me? What kind of music do you like?”

I grinned at her question assault, knowing with certainty that not loving Lucy was impossible.

“Yes. Let’s hear the story,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick drawled, her tone flat.

I glanced at her, found her examining me, her fingers steepled in front of her, her eyes anything but friendly.

“Oh, well….” I cleared my throat and fiddled with the rim of my half-eaten plate of eggs benedict. “We met at my office—”

“No, dear.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick shook her head, her mouth both smiling and frowning. “I want the real story. This must be like hitting the jackpot for you.” Her eyes flickered over me, holding disapproval and contempt. “How long did you plot all this before making your move?”

“Mother!”

“Shut it, Lucy. You don’t get to have an opinion about this. Ronan isn’t your son.”

“He’s my brother, and—”

“Yes.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s glittering eyes slid to her daughter. “And who has put a roof over your head and food in your mouth? I have. Your brother has. And you are a talentless burden to both of us. I know what’s best.”

Lucy winced, seemed to shrink in her seat and fold in on herself. I thought I saw a flicker of regret pass over Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s gaze, but it was quickly stifled, replaced with a diamond-like sharpness as she refocused on me.

“You think you’ve got him? You think you matter to him? You are so wrong. Ronan is like his father—even when trapped, married with children, he wanted his freedom. I understood that. Brona didn’t. That’s why he never married her. They were together for years, and it never once occurred to him to settle down. Ronan won’t settle down, and that’s why she’s gone off her rocker now. He’s a shameless flirt. He’s a philanderer. He uses people. It’s who he is. It’s in his blood. If you think you’re anything but a dalliance, then you’re living in a fantasy.”

I tried, but I couldn’t look away. Her uncanny ability to touch on the heart of my fears held me entranced. Mrs. Fitzpatrick leaned forward slowly, her movements measured and lithe, like a cat. When she spoke next, her voice was soft, gentle, beseeching, like she felt sorry for me and was trying to let me down easy.

“Who are you? Nobody. Nothing. Ronan is a Fitzpatrick. As such, he might enjoy what you offer him for a time, but…dear, you won’t hold his interest for long. I know my son. He isn’t perfect, but I love him. And I am telling you this because you seem like a nice person….”

She stared at me for a beat, holding me in suspense; even so, I wasn’t prepared for her final words, smoothly and elegantly spoken.

“Ronan likes playing with his toys….” Her eyes lowered to the chain around my neck and the Celtic pendant as she added, “But he never notices when they break.”

Nothing, no words, no sentiment could have been more effective. I sucked in a sharp breath. My eyes stung with unshed tears. Dumbly, I stood from the table and stared at it. My heart beat a steady rhythm in my chest, seemed to chant, get out get out get out get out between my ears.

I was so stupid. I knew better. I knew better.

I reached for my coat and bag with shaking hands, muttering, “Thank you for the lovely breakfast. But I have…I need to be someplace.”

Lucy reached for my hand. I flinched away from her and didn’t miss the reproachful glare administered by her mother. “No! Don’t lis—”

“Let her go, Lucy. She has a lot to think about.”

I didn’t waste time pulling on my coat. I tucked it over my arm and made a beeline for the exit, stumbling a little in my haste, the need to escape choking me. Unfortunately, I had the worst timing in the world because Ronan was just leaving the hall leading to the bathrooms, and our gazes tangled as I made it to the hostess stand.

I winced, tore my eyes away, and swiftly bolted through the doors.

“Annie!”

My shoulders bunched at the sound of my name. He was behind me; he was coming after me, and he would catch me. There was no point in trying to outrun him. I stopped, grinding my teeth, my eyes closing as I put my feelings to the side, readied myself for what would come next.

He reached me in about five seconds, tugging on my arm and turning me to face him. I met his gaze briefly then yanked my arm out of his grip, pretended to be absorbed in putting my coat on.

“Where are you going?”

“I have someplace to be.”

“Where?”

I lifted my eyes then and glared at him. “None of your business.”

“None of my business?” I could see he thought I was joking at first. When he realized I was not, his features darkened, and a severe frown pulled his eyebrows into a sharp “V.” “Everything about you is my business.”

“No. It’s not.”

“I thought you understood how things are. We’re together now, and there are rules—”

“We’re not together,” I whispered, my eyes stinging again. I firmed my lips, willing myself not to cry.

“Like hell we’re not.” He reached for me, and I stepped to the side, evading him.

“Don’t touch me.”

He moved like he was going to reach for me again, and I stiffened, adding more force to my voice. “Don’t touch me; I mean it.”

That seemed to do the trick because he reeled back like I’d struck him, and he looked equal parts surprised and hurt.

“What happened?” His eyes searched me as though he were looking for a sign, an injury.

He wouldn’t find the injury because I’d never let him see it.

“I have to go.”

“Dammit, Annie. What the fuck is going on?”

“I promised Kurt we’d spend the day together.” It was such a low blow that even I flinched as I said the words. “I don’t want to keep him waiting. He doesn’t like that.”

Ronan winced, his eyes half blinking. Then he stared at me. He reminded me of a gathering storm, imminently threatening. He was so strong, so big, so powerful. But it wasn’t his body that was dangerous. His words, his looks and touches, his laughs and smiles…his lies.

And he looked hurt. His face told me that I’d hurt him. I felt myself soften toward him; my chin wobbled, but I quickly caught the instinct to soothe and comfort before I gave into it, into him and these feelings I had no right feeling because I knew better. I ripped my gaze from his and stuffed my hands in my coat pockets.

“I have to go,” I whispered.

“Go then.” His tone was flat, and he took a step back as though giving me a wide berth, showing me he wasn’t going to stand in my way.

I nodded, knowing with certainty that I was going to start crying in the next sixty seconds. I would cry all the way home. I was going to be that mad, insane crying woman, walking the streets of New York, sobbing like a fool.

Because there was nothing else to say, I left.

And I cried.