Page 21 of Side Piece

An empirically stunning man approaches me. I recognize Carlos Gardenia from his award-winning book jacket. He’s holding a very colorful and overly garnished drink in a hurricane glass.

He kisses my hand. “You’re the lovely and captivating Tess McGuire, no?”

“Are you referring to me or my horrendous cocktail?”

“Who do they think you are?”

“Fireball infused with thyme, apples, blueberries, mixed with lavender honey, and I’m getting a hint of dill pickle.” I shiver, his smile curls wide, but he doesn’t laugh at my pretty funny joke.

“What should you be?” He’s a bit smoldering. It’s off-putting only because I don’t think I can return the intensity.

“An American unoaked Chardonnay. Or bourbon neat. And the Carlos Gardenia?”

“It’s substandard fraternity punch with a fruit salad and bits of celery. But it should be a simple glass of tequila. I don’t know how they screwed it up. My book is called, In the Time of Agave.”

I laugh. “Shots?”

“You’re as wise a woman as you are stunning.”

“Thank you.” I do look good. It doesn’t always work, the elusive perfect outfit and hair plan, but tonight it did. My black, floral wrap dress is drifting and exposing more of my chest than I intended. It hugs my body in the exact way I like, and the soft ruffle at the bottom makes me feel girly.

This substantial man orders our tequila. It doesn’t come with lime or salt, so I guess I should probably do some research about this liquor. We sip, not shoot.

It’s amber in color and rich looking, like his skin. He’s talking about his childhood home in Mexico. His voice sounds what I imagine candy bar footage of two swirling chocolates would sound like. He’s an author; I write. I feel the term author has more weight than what I write. I have lots of readers and wonderful reviews, but nobody’s putting our books on the same lists. I don’t mind; I love what I do and what I write, but I’m a writer, not an author. I feel it’s the difference between a pianist and a piano player. Classical versus jazz.

My book hovers on lists like Elle magazine ‘Galantine’s Solutions,’ or People magazine’s ‘Hot Beach Reads,’ not the shortlist for the Man Booker Prize. Although we did share the NYT bestseller list for a bit. I’m able to speak with this brilliant man because mine’s still there, low, but it’s still there.

The evening is a series of tiny conversations where I say something inane, and people call me witty. Carlos circles me like a shark. The flirting and eye contact are direct and pointed. He’s an interesting idea. He’s insanely gorgeous with soulful dark eyes and a bright mind. A band starts, and everyone moves to the dance floor sufficiently lubed up from our heinous namesake cocktails.

I feel Carlos behind me. I lean into him. He places his hands lightly on my hips and begins to sway. His hips are as smooth as his voice. I also detect a certain part of him being rather entranced by me. I feel it in my lower back. His hands run down my arms, then lift mine over my head. He spins me and leans into my ear. “Dance with me, Irish temptress?”

He’s fucking slick. He takes hold of me and spins me around again. He’s a poetic dancer. I’ll bet he can cook incredibly intricate things and knows the exact pepper to bring enough heat to your tongue without burning. He’s the I can do anything guy. And he’s sexy as hell. The room is watching him, as they have been all night. He’s magnetic.

The music swells and drops to a slower beat, and we’re closer. He’s suave and sophisticated. We’re floating. The feel of his arms is tight but caring. He smiles like the cat who ate the canary and lowers his head to mine. His lips are full and rich-looking. I feel his fingers splay on my lower back, urging me closer. Then he kisses me on the dance floor in front of everyone. It’s as fiery and passionate as I think it should be from a man like him. His hands are grazing me, and the music speeds up again, and our involved kiss ends. He brushes my cheek, and it’s romantic and steamy. But I squeeze his hand and head off the dance floor in search of a drink and composure.

He leans on the bar next to me. It might be a thrill if I felt the adrenaline boost, but I don’t. I thought he’d have enough electricity and heat for both of us. But he doesn’t have enough to make me forget what real chemistry feels like. Carlos smiles widely, but I only wish his smile were a little more crooked and less perfect. And he was a little more Alex. I’m screwed. I glance at my phone for the millionth time, and my spirit drops a little more.

I say my goodbyes even as Carlos constructs a convincingly lyrical Pulitzer prize-worthy argument for me to stay with him. Instead of joining the genius author in an enchanting evening, I return to my half-bottle of tepid Chardonnay. My iPad cued up to a Colbert rerun and his second guests of the night, five men who run a simple podcast about politics. I’m hopeless. Our plan to be apart so we focus on work is a failure. I’ve yet to get anything done. I check my phone one more time before I shove it in a drawer in the other room. Lots of messages that don’t give me adrenaline surges. Fuck. This man is an earworm that keeps burrowing deeper with his silence. I know I asked for the silence too, but I can’t get him off my mind.

After I watch the segment twice, I grab my headphones and do what he asked me not to, I listen. I fall asleep, pretending he actually wants me.

* * *

The smell of this bookstore is rich roasting coffee beans and elegant words. People are lined up, and I’m always blown away. They’re here to see me. I don’t take a second of it for granted. I’m happy for the diversion. I didn’t turn my phone on this morning. I didn’t want to face it.

The owners attack me with their phones when I arrive. It’s a tweet of me kissing Carlos. It’s been retweeted and posted by all kinds of bookstagrammers and LitTwits. I pray Alex doesn’t follow me, although we did say it was ok to date. Fuck that, it’s not like he cares.

Alex was simply a possibility. I’ve GOT to get a grip. I already followed the podcast on Twitter, but I explored his Instagram under a lurker account today. He dates a lot of blondes. I assume he’s too busy doing that right now to text.

I woke up with him in my head, and I can’t shake him. I refuse to figure out how to contact him because he’s doing his job. As I should be. He’s ok. He’s not texted, dm’d, or tweeted, or called. But we agreed not to. He’s got his shit together, and now I need to as well. Fuck.

Ok. Books. Writer. Signing. I’m back, focused. That is it. I probably should have slept with Carlos to get Alex off my mind. His damn crooked smile and the way he kissed me ruined me for other hot men. Someday, I’ll tell him about how I felt so pulled to him I gave up sleeping with arguably most of the most gorgeous and intelligent men in the world. If our paths ever cross. That’s what I wrote to him. Someday will never exist, and I can certainly drink enough wine tonight to be ok with that. Five fucking days without a word. Got it. I mean it this time.

I sit on a solid oak table, so I feel as if I’m sharing instead of lecturing. I read from my favorite chapter. It’s the one where they discover random things about each other that connects them more deeply. Afterward, there’s a brief Q&A with people who aren’t staying for the event.

The questions are usually the same. What’s my process? Where do I write? How do I think of my characters? My pat answers get a laugh or an aww. Something feels different today. Maybe I’m different today. I engage a little more. I discuss how private my process is. I tell them about my purple Flair pen. Which I produce from my pocket. I launch into a rather vulnerable monologue.

“Harold and the Purple Crayon was my favorite book as a kid. His crayon could do anything, and I like to think so can my pen. Purple was my mother’s favorite color, so it’s like she’s with me all the time. I always have one on me.” I flip the pen through my fingers as I speak.