Erik spoiled me. I spent six months getting used to living on my own, but now that I’ve lived with him, I suddenly find it hard to breathe when I think about being in this city all by myself.
I can’t let that defeat me though.
The Escape Room + Pub Night Fun Season event was supposed to happen last week, but it was postponed because Lars got sick. I texted Erik about the new date, and he said he would see if he could make it.
Maybe he won’t.
So what if he doesn’t, right? That could be my chance to show Lars—and myself—that I’m good enough on my own.
“Are you okay, Sol?” Chiara asks me when she sees me staring at my coffee absentmindedly.
“Yes.” I look up quickly and flash a smile in her direction, perhaps with a bit too much effort. “All good.”
She might have asked more, but my forced joy dismisses her.
I’ve opened up to my cousins, my mom, and the women at her salon, at least. I had no choice. That day in Tivoli, when I posted those selfies with Erik, they started bombarding me with messages and comments. I asked Larissa to tell them it was staged, and she answered, “I already did, and they’re freaking out anyway.”
I had a video call with them the day after to tell the whole story. Edna was almost weeping when I finished. My cousins were shouting that I had to tell him how I felt. Flor was speechless, and my mom put her nose on the screen to tell me up close that one does not simply let a man like that go.
Not that she said it with those words, but her speech became a meme in the private group I have with my cousins. All because I sent them a screenshot of my mom’s zoomed-in face and Mariana Photoshopped it on top of a picture of Boromir from The Lord of the Rings. When Luana showed her the photomontage, Mom simply shrugged and mumbled something about our hopeless generation who totally misses the point of wise words spoken by elders.
I stare down at my keyboard, wondering what task to tackle next, when my phone vibrates. I retrieve it at the speed of light, even though I know it’s probably not Erik.
It’s from Cinder.
From Thomas Hansen, a too-good-looking-to-be-real guy I chatted with on Cinder months ago yet haven’t seen in person because he never asked me out.
My heart skips a beat. I haven’t thought of this dude for a long time. Since Erik came into my life, to be precise.
Thomas: Hey, Sol. How are you doing? Sorry for disappearing. Things have been a little chaotic.
Me: Hey, Thomas! Nice to hear from you again. What have you been up to?
Thomas: I got this new job, and it’s been hard to adapt, but I’m enjoying it. I’m also learning to play guitar. What about you?
Me: I’m pretty bored, actually...haha... Work, home. Home, work.
He knows I’m a game designer, but not where I work. I’m careful with people I don’t know. I only reveal details of my life once I meet the guy in person and decide I want to keep seeing him. Not that it’s particularly hard to find information about people nowadays, but still.
Thomas is a bit of a ghost though. No other social media profiles. Nothing I could stalk. So I won’t be showing my cards until he shows his.
What is happening, Sol? Are you actually considering dating this guy? What about Erik? Larissa’s voice says in my head. I could text her and get her real thoughts. But I want to keep this one to myself. For now, at least.
It’s been twenty days. Maybe it’s time I stop dreaming about a future with Erik.
We had a perfect evening. I had the best kiss of my life.
And he did feel it too, I know it.
But he chose to be a coward.
I don’t need a coward. I need a Prince Charming on a white steed, sword in hand, ready to fight for his love.
We have only been pretending. We are nothing to each other, and as he made clear the day we met, we never will be.
It’s easier to accept this truth when I have a plan B.
That’s why I keep chitchatting with Thomas, and when he asks if I want to go out for a coffee tomorrow after work, I don’t hesitate.
I say yes.
He is late.
I write Thomas my third message: Where are you? I can’t call him. I don’t have his number, just his stupid Cinder chat contact.
When five more minutes pass, I start to feel angry. He might have been run over by a car, or he dropped his phone in the toilet, or he got stuck in traffic. But most likely, what I had suspected from the start is true.
He is a fake.
I get up, my coffee finished, my apple pie eaten. It was a mistake to come here.
And then Thomas Hansen is there, in flesh and bone.
“Undskyld!” he says, which means “sorry” in Danish. He has curly brown hair, blue eyes, and looks like an angel. “I’m so sorry for my lateness, Sol. I got stuck at work, my boss needed something urgent, and my phone died.”
“It’s okay,” I say with a forgiving smile, even though I wanted to punch him just a minute ago.
I sit back down and wait until he orders a coffee—I say “No thanks, I already had one”—and soon he is ready to start the date I had given up on.
