Been Searching for You

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

March

I was dreaming, but I couldn’t wake myself. The past came to life in flashes, snippets of long-repressed memories jumbled together. I was back in Rome, during my senior year of college, with my best friend, a lanky boy with gorgeous baby blues and James Dean looks.

One minute I’m kissing him passionately, intent on crossing the line between friends and lovers by giving him my virginity. Nick’s lips, the heat between us, is all I know.

Then there’s the soft rumble of his voice as he whispers, “All this time you were writing those letters, and I was right in front of you. You could have just told me.”

My stomach muscles seize up as I realize he’s wrong; those letters aren’t for him. The hard muscle of his chest as I push him away, babbling about him not being “the one.” The bruising pressure of his fingers as he tries to convince me to relax, to give in. The jolt of pain in my arm as he tries to pull me back when I finally wriggle free of his weight to hide in the bathroom.

Now I’m trembling, naked on the bathroom floor as he hurls through the door an alternating string of curses about me being a tease and apologies for hurting me. A hole punched in the hotel wall. Dust motes floating through a golden sunrise as I peek out, relieved he’s gone.

Nick’s final words to me when we meet in passing weeks later. “I can’t take this anymore. We’re done.”

I woke with a start, sitting upright, and looked around in wan light of my bedroom, dazed. What day was it? Sunday. Good, I could go back to sleep. I flopped back down on my pillow, images from my dream flashing in front of my eyes. Why, why had my mother mentioned Nick when we talked on the phone last night? If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have thought of him, wouldn’t have dreamed about him and had to relive our tumultuous past. It could have been much worse—he could have raped me—but his violent temper still traumatized me. No matter how much she wanted us to be together, I was not looking him up on f******k. Best to leave the past buried.

A loud noise made me jump, and I realized someone was banging on my front door. I ran a hand across my face and considered pulling the covers over my head until whoever it was went away. Bang, bang, bang—fist on wood like the firing of a line of cannons. With a grunt, I forced myself into my robe and slippers. Glancing out the window, I noted not quite a foot of snow accumulated on the balcony. All I wanted was to veg on the couch with my laptop and a cup of tea. Whoever was at the door had better make it quick.

As soon as I saw Mia and Miles grinning at me from the other side of the threshold, all hope of that happening evaporated. “Can I help you?”

“Looks like we’re snowed in. We thought we’d have a little quality time,” Miles said.

“Plus, I’m craving pancakes,” Mia added unhelpfully.

“So go to the diner down the street. My name is not Denny.” I moved to close the door, wondering if they were drunk or just delirious on that annoying kind of happiness only rekindled romance can give a person. “Just because you live upstairs,” I said to Mia, “does not mean you can drop by whenever you want.”

Miles stopped the door with his palm, and Mia spoke up. “Pleeeaase, Pookie? It’s not like you were going anywhere anyway. And besides, you make the best chocolate chip pancakes. Plus”—she reached into the bag Miles was holding and removed a bottle of champagne, probably from her seemingly endless supply—“I’m making mimosas.”

“I hope there’s OJ in there because I’m fresh out,” I said, stepping back to let them in.

Mia squeezed Miles’s shoulder. “He thinks of everything!”

I peered into the bag. A lonely jug of orange juice stared back.

“Except for the eggs, milk, mix, and chocolate it’ll take to make your pancakes,” I retorted, allowing bitterness to creep into my voice. To drive home my displeasure, I banged around a few pots and pans before bending down to find the only skillet large enough to feed three people. “I love you guys, but I just saw you yesterday. What gives?”

“Glad you asked.” Miles plopped down on the sofa. He pulled my laptop onto his knee and opened it. “We are here to offer our expert guidance in filling out your Heart+Soul account.”

I stood up so fast I nearly hit my head on the open cabinet door above me. “No. I take a lot from you guys, but I will not do the online dating thing. I meet enough crazies in real life. I don’t need help from the Internet. Besides”—I gestured at Mia with a wooden spoon—“it’s your account anyway, Miss Top Chicago Single.”

She snorted, nearly in time with the popping of the champagne cork. “Like I need it. It’s six months free, and I gave it to you, remember? You may as well try it. Consider it payment for the pancakes.”

“Did you or did you not vow to find your soul mate?” Miles pinned me with a level stare.

“Yes, but—”

“And what exactly have you done in the last month to make that happen?”

Uh-oh, I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly where this was headed. “Um, nothing, but…” But what? I didn’t have an excuse. I hadn’t done anything because deep down, I was a chicken s**t who was afraid of men. Was that what he wanted to hear?

“So what right do you have to say no?”

Crap. He had me trapped, and he knew it.

I let out a low whine even though part of me was curious. “If I do this, the two of you are never allowed to say another word about my dating or lack thereof. Got it? My vow, my problem.”

“Scout’s honor,” Mia said, holding up her middle finger.

Setting down my load of breakfast items, I raised her index and ring fingers for her. “It’s three fingers, genius.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh, I know.”

Miles sprang up and stepped between us in three long strides to hand out the drinks Mia was pouring. “All right, ladies, let’s call a truce before someone breaks a nail.”

I sipped mine gratefully before beginning to whisk the mix, eggs, and milk together. “Where do we start?”

Miles set down the laptop, angling it so I could partially see the screen. “Well, I know your name, birth date, and occupation, so we can skip that,” he said, keying in the information. “It starts by asking you to describe yourself. What’s your hair color?”

I pointed at my head. “You aren’t blind. Can’t you just fill that in for me?”

Miles held up a hand in self-defense. “Hey, hey, some people like to lie online. I was just giving you the chance. Brown it is.”

“Mousy is more accurate,” Mia said.

“I can still kick you out. Remember that.” I beat the batter with extra vigor to work out some of my irritation.

“Eyes?”

“Hazel.”

“Height?”

“Five foot six.”

“On a good day,” Mia chimed in. “And don’t forget to mention her freckles.”

“Not all of us are six-foot Amazons. Just for that, I’m burning your pancakes.”

“Girls,” Miles warned in his best dad-like tone, still clicking away. “Ah, now here, we’re finally getting to the good stuff. What’s the most important quality you look for in a mate?”

“I can only pick one thing?” I popped a chocolate chip in my mouth and thought as the first pancakes bubbled in the skillet, slowly releasing the scent of chocolate into the small apartment. “I have to be able to trust him, to know he won’t abandon me.”

I glanced at Mia. She gave me a pitying smile, knowing full well to what, and to whom, I was referring.

After a few seconds of tapping at the keys, Miles continued. “Got it. If you could build your ideal partner, what are three things his personality would have to include?” He pointed at Mia. “No comments from the peanut gallery.”

“He has to be romantic in an old-fashioned sort of a way—you know, treating me like a lady. He has to be smart because I have to have someone I can discuss all my weird thoughts with, and he has to be honest. I hate duplicity.”

“So basically, you want a guy who only exists in romance novels,” Mia concluded.

I stuck my tongue out at her as I set down three plates, ready to dig in.

After a few moments of chewing in silence, Miles pulled the computer toward him again. “Three qualities for his looks.”

“That’s easy. Tall, dark, and handsome,” Mia said before Miles could stop her.

“Actually, she’s right.” That came out more like “mapfully, she’s white” through my mouthful of food.

Miles washed down his with a full glass of alcohol-laden orange juice. “Top me off? Biggest fear.”

“Never falling in love.”

“She means dying alone,” Mia clarified.

“Same difference.”

Instead of typing, Miles looked at me quizzically. “Really? That’s worse than getting cancer or being buried alive?”

“Have you seen her box of letters? To her, it is.”

“Mia! No one’s supposed to know about that.”

Miles ignored us. “I’m skipping over your favorite TV shows, movies, et cetera. You can fill that in later. Describe your worst dating experience.”

“Which one?”

Mia laughed then coughed. “Um, I think mimosa just came out of my nose.”

“I’m serious. Should we tell them about the guy who proposed after one date, the one who skipped bail to flee to Mexico, or perhaps the creep who stood me up twice then brought his male best friend on our date, who he proceeded to dump me for two weeks later?”

Mia waved her arm to stop me from continuing. “Oh, you should so mention the ‘literary speed dating’ event we went to. Miles, it was so sad. All old women, us, and three middle-aged, balding guys. What did you call them again?”

“The recently divorced trio,” I answered.

“That’s it! They kept staring at me the whole time. It was creepy.”

“That’s because no one believed you could read, much less have an opinion about a book.”

She gave me a venomous look.

Miles tried unsuccessfully to cover a laugh, and Mia playfully hit him. “Moving on. What’s your ideal date?”

I stood and cleared the dishes, pretending to think. I didn’t want them to know I could answer that off the top of my head. I turned on the water and let one side of the sink fill with soap bubbles. “How do you pick just one?”

“Well, it gives some ideas here.” He read from the screen. “‘If money was no object, where would you want to go and what would you do for dinner that evening? Where do you want to be proposed to?’ Things like that. They seem to want you to think big.”

“Hmmm… well, if that’s the case…”

Mia poked me in the ribs. “Come on, out with it. I know you already know. Where would you want Alex to take you?” Leaning in so only I could hear, she added, “I’d forget the date and take him straight to bed, but that’s not your style.”

Heat rose up my neck, a flush I couldn’t really blame on the hot water lapping at my elbows. “He missed his chance. We’re talking about guys who actually want to go out with me. I do love the Signature Room in the Hancock Building. It’s got the best views of the city, the food is to die for, and the whole place has this art deco charm. I’ve only had dinner there once—my parents took me there on my first trip to Chicago when I graduated from college—but I kept waiting for Al Capone to step off the elevator. It’s his kind of joint.”

“You do love those gangsters, don’t you?” Mia bumped my hip playfully. “But seriously, hon, you really need to join the rest of us in the present. It’s the twenty-first century, not the nineteen-twenties. You’re going to scare men off with an answer like that.”

“You know, you could be helping dry the dishes instead of criticizing me,” I snapped, c*****g my head toward a dish towel hanging from the oven handle.

Mia opened her mouth to snark back, but Miles interrupted. “Just dinner or is there more?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t dated much lately. Aren’t you supposed to say something about a horse-drawn carriage ride?”

“Only in the movies. Guys don’t really go for that,” Miles advised. “How about this? ‘Then we’ll see where the night takes us.’ Leaves it to his imagination.”

“Fine with me.”

“The rest is pretty standard Q and A. Do you want children? How often do you drink? Do you have or want pets?”

“Yes, frequently since I’ve become friends with you two, and no. Are we done now?”

“I’ll let you pick your own photos, but there’s one more thing.”

“What?” I asked over the rushing water.

“An essay.”

I looked over my shoulder to see if I’d heard him correctly, and I caught Mia knocking him out of his seat to have a closer look.

“There’s a test? Seriously?” She was aghast.

“Yeah.”

I peered over Miles’s shoulder while drying my hands and read the company explanation at the top of the page. One of the things that sets Heart+Soul apart from other dating services is that we don’t rely on a profile and a few photos to help you find love. We let you set the tone. Here you have the chance to say anything. Use it to tell people why you’re here and who you’re looking for. This free space is meant to give you a chance to convey what’s important to you and give potential matches a sense of your personality. Use it as you will and have fun!

I had never been at a loss for words at the keyboard, but the thought of writing about myself, something so intimate that would be read by anyone matched with me, was terrifying. As much as I loved Mia and Miles, I couldn’t do this in front of them.

“Okay, you wanted pancakes, you got pancakes. Show’s over.” I removed Mia’s glass from her hand. “Time to go home, M&M.” I hadn’t used my nickname for them in a while and was hoping it would get their attention.

“But you aren’t done yet,” Mia whined. “And I wasn’t done with that.” She swiped at the glass like a cat batting at a strand of yarn.

“Nope. My apartment, my rules. You got me to fill out the profile, and I fed you. Mission accomplished. Now I have to finish it on my own.”

Miles stood and wrapped me in a bear hug. “We’d better not overstay our welcome. Thank you, Annabeth. It was a lovely visit.” He took two steps back so as to better look me in the eyes. “Don’t forget to hit submit when you’re done with that thing. I’m expecting daily progress reports.” He pointed a thick finger at me. “And don’t think you can skip out either. I know where you work.”

“Ha-ha,” I said, ushering them to the door. “Your warning is duly noted.”

I watched them wait for the elevator. On or off, they were cute together. Despite my irritation with them, I felt a tiny pang of jealousy as Mia hooked a finger into one of the loops on Miles’s jeans, a small gesture not meant for the world—unlike ninety-five percent of what she did—but an intimate expression of possession. You’re mine, and I’m glad, it said. I wanted that.

Eschewing the orange juice, I poured another glass of bubbly and stared at the glowing screen of my laptop. What I really wanted to write was way too brutally honest, but I had to start somewhere. What was it my English professor had said? Get the words down; you can cut and polish later. She was right. Taking a deep breath, I started typing.

They say everyone has a secret that will rip out your heart. Here’s mine—I’ve never been in love. I thought I was once, but looking back on it, I see it for what it was—infatuation and the need for security. I’ve never had that head-over-heels, heart-melting kind of love. You know, the stuff people die for. And it’s what I’m looking for.

To all of you who look at my age and wonder how what I say is possibly true, I’ll only say one thing—not everyone’s life fits society’s timeline. Some people are lucky enough to fall in love in high school or college and stay together for the rest of their lives. And that’s great. I’m happy for them. But that’s not the way things worked out for me. I’ve got a great life with a burgeoning career, a loving family, and loyal friends, but I don’t have anyone to share it with. That’s why I’m here. I know that person is out there, but I haven’t found him.

So what are you getting with me? I’ve been called many things: old-fashioned, naïve, and quirky. But I prefer to think of myself as unusual. If you need proof, just take a look at the photos I’ve chosen. You’ll see one with a kissing couple in a park on the left. That’s my sister and her husband. The one on the right is me. Yes, you’re seeing that correctly—I am kissing a tree. It started out as a joke since I didn’t have anyone to pose with at their engagement shoot, but it ended up being emblematic of who I am. I’m that goofy girl willing to make fun of her situation if only to avoid crying over it. (I’m also the girl who danced with a mop at her senior prom, but that’s a different story.)

I always wanted to be the kind of woman who could perch herself anywhere and look sexy, like the models in those ads who manage to be alluring on top of the kitchen stove. In reality, I’d probably fall off.

In the end, here’s everything you need to know: I am who I am. I’m outspoken and honest, fun-loving and strong. I’m a romantic who, in some ways, will never grow up. I’m not one for a quick fling. I’m in it for the long haul or not at all.

Rereading what I’d written, I realized it didn’t sound so bad. Honest? Yes, but that was me. If they didn’t like it, they didn’t have to contact me. Why should I pretend to be something I’m not just to get the attention of some guy I’d never actually met?

Mia would have a fit when she saw this. She believed in telling men what they wanted to hear—“alluring them rather than repelling them,” as she’d explained once. She had tried time and time again to teach me her particular method of charm, but every time I tried, I felt wrong, as though I was misrepresenting myself—ironic since I worked in PR.

Oh well, it was my life, not hers, and I was going to live it on my own terms—online and off. I selected a few more photos—my most recent headshot, taken by a photographer who had let me play stand-in while he measured the light and waited for Mia to get into wardrobe; a few from last summer’s vacation to Paris; and yes, the one with me kissing the tree—filled in the missing favorites section, and squeezed my eyes shut as I clicked “submit.”

My love life was in the hands of the online gods. Maybe I’d have better luck with them than with Venus and Eros.