I watch the steam float up to the ceiling in puffs. It’s hot, cloudy, and I’m wet with perspiration. I’m in my hotel sauna, wrapped in a white towel and lying flat on my back, staring at the ceiling as I assess my life.
I moved to Italy to change myself.
But did I really think a new job and a new country would change my old habits? Because it hasn’t so far.
I’ve been in Milan for nearly a week. I’ve been working hard and am looking so forward to the career challenge, but I haven’t gone out at night once. Not that I’ve been asked, I guess. That old saying comes back to me.
If you always do what you’ve always done, you will always be where you always were. Something needs to change in my life. I need to change. I’m on the other side of the world and living the same way I was at home… alone.
Deep down, I know what the answer is, but it all seems so desperate.
Who am I kidding? I am desperate.
I’m twenty-fucking-nine and I haven’t had sex since that asshole in Rome. He turned me off men for life. Either that or his dick was so good that it satisfied me until now. It was definitely a dicking that I need to forget. I exhale heavily, annoyed with myself for being like this.
Fuck it.
I sit up in a rush and leave the sauna.
I’m going to do it. I’m going to do what everyone else does to meet people in this day and age.
I’m going to join Tinder.
If nothing else comes from it but great sex, that’s a whole lot of sex more than I’m getting now. Even average sex is better than no sex.
Screw these damn high ideals I have. Where have they got me so far?
Lonely and miserable.
I search through my bag, find my phone, and before I have time to think about it,
I download the app. I watch the dial click around as it downloads. Operation Meet People is underway.
Holy shit, here we go.
* * *
I sip my coffee and smile at my phone. I have to admit that this Tinder app is kind of fun and great for the ego. I’m getting lots of swipes, although that could totally be because men swipe anything with a pulse. I have a picture of myself from behind, and I put my name as Olly Reynard. That way, I’m not too out there. I’ve been speaking to this guy for a week. His photo is kind of hot, and he seems nice, albeit a bit pushy. He wants to meet on Saturday night in a bar, but it just seems so weird.
Could I really make myself turn up to a restaurant to meet a stranger? What the heck do you talk about? Talking to someone in texts is so different to sitting and having dinner with them. His message comes through. This is the tenth time he has asked.
So, are we meeting this weekend?
I close my eyes.
If you always do what you’ve always done, you will always be where you always were.
This is it. Either step up and be brave or get off this fucking app. I can’t talk to someone and never have the courage to meet them. Maybe if we meet at a restaurant and take it slow…
I open my eyes and I text back.
Yes, okay. Can we meet at a restaurant?
I hit send. A reply bounces back.
I’ll organize the restaurant and
get back to you.
My stomach flips. I already regret this. Shit, shit, shit, shit. I text back.
Okay.
xo
* * *
“Hi, there.” I smirk.
“Oh my God, what are you wearing on your date?” Natalie asks down the phone.
I close my eyes. “Oh, please don’t talk about it.” I sigh. “I’m five minutes from calling the whole thing off.”
“You’ll be fine. I go on a Tinder date every week,” she scoffs. “Why are you being a baby?”
“Men on Tinder only want sex,” I whisper.
“And your point is?”
“I don’t want just sex.”
“Oh, fuck off, you need to get laid… stat. Your vagina is closing up by the hour.”
I giggle. “This is true.”
“You don’t have to sleep with him, just meet him. Talk and see if you feel any chemistry. If not, text me, and I’ll call you with an emergency exit plan.”
“Yes.” My eyes widen. “That’s a great idea. Emergency exit plan.” I frown as I go over the concept in my head. “Wait, do you have an emergency exit plan?”
“No, I just tell them I’m not feeling it and I go home. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t owe them anything.”
Nat is the most honest person I know. “God, I would hate to date you.”
“Me, too. Now, wear something sexy and have a few glasses of wine before you go to loosen yourself up.”
“What if I get too drunk and wake up in his bed with him and his flat mate?”
“Then I’m coming over to high five you. About fucking time you let it all hang out.”
I burst out laughing. “Will you be serious?”
“I am.”
I begin to pace back and forth. My nerves are dancing just thinking about going on this date. “Okay, have your phone on you for my emergency exit plan.”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t like him, I’m just texting you.”
“Yes.”
“What else do I need to do?”
“Have you got condoms?”
I frown. “No. Should I?”
“Yes, you can’t trust men’s condoms. What if they’ve put a hole in it?”
“Why would they do that?” I ask, horrified.
“I don’t know. In case he’s purposely trying to spread his sexually transmitted diseases or some shit.”
“People do that?” I shriek.
“I’m not finding out. Get your own condoms to be safe.”
I put my hand over my eyes. “Honestly, Nat, I can’t do this.”
“Just shut up and stop acting all innocent. You’ve done it before.”
Him.
I feel anger bubble at the mere mention of Rico’s existence, and I roll my eyes. “He was different.”
“He was a complete asshole, that’s what he was. What are you going to do? Sit over there in Italy and twiddle your thumbs?”
I get a vision of myself still doing the same pathetic things when I’m seventy. “Yes, you’re right.” I inhale deeply as I try to pump myself up. “Okay, I’m doing this.”
“Good, get to the pharmacy.”
* * *
The good thing about being brave is… nothing. It completely sucks.
I want to run hard and fast across the water and go back to Australia to escape this Tinder date from Hell.
It’s Saturday night and I’m in the restaurant, but when my date wasn’t here when I arrived, I came into the ladies’ bathroom to hide. I can’t sit at the table and wait like some desperado. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is set in big curls. I’m wearing a black fitted dress with a low back and spaghetti straps. I have my smoky makeup on with my red lipstick. I look good. I know I look good.
Tinder fuck-on-first-date kind of good.
I peer around the door and I see him sitting down at our table. He has dark hair, and he seems okay. He actually looks like his profile picture. He isn’t hideous, at least. That’s something, I suppose.
I exhale heavily and take one last look in the mirror to give myself a pep talk.
“Right, go out there and pretend that you like him. You never know, maybe you will?”
Oh God, this is a disaster already.
I walk out and weave through the tables. He smiles and waves as he sees me. He seems impressed when he stands. “Olly.”
“Hi,” I push out. “You must be Franco?”
“Lovely to meet you.” He kisses my cheek, and I fall nervously into my seat. The waiter arrives. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Please.” Jeez, I need fucking tequila to get me through this. I pick up the drinks menu and glance up, and then I stop dead still. I feel the blood drain from my face.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
Chiseled jaw, dark eyes, and curly hair? I would know that face anywhere.
Enrico Ferrara is sitting at a table in the back.