Beginner's Guide to Catfishing: Chapter 4 (beta)

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***

A Beginner’s Guide to Gentlemanly Conduct

Kyle

I remember thinking, ‘this is going a little off-script’ as she fell asleep in my arms, cuddling my chest. But I was so damn tired, I didn’t object. I let it happen, and I let myself drift off too. 

The ramifications of that decision didn’t become apparent to me until I woke up the next day, and she was still there, sleeping on top of me. Her head was placed delicately between my shoulder and my neck, her left hand firmly grasping my right pectoral, her right foot wedged between my own two. The gentle warmth of her breath filtered out her nose and tickled my skin, and my heartbeat sounded against her tiny, delicate palm. 

I thought, ‘Am I going too far?’

I guess it depended on what her game here was. She was definitely playing at something… I think. If she was, though, why would she have listened to me spilling my heart out last night. I hadn’t even meant to do that. I almost never talked about my old man anymore. He was a wound always threatening to burst open again, scabbed over but never scarred. But she’d asked, something most of the girls I’d been with didn’t do, and she’d listened, which was something I wasn’t used to. People didn’t really listen to me when I talked, in my experience. They looked, but never listened. It started when I was a kid, always tall and lanky and awkward, trying to fit into spaces built for someone a more normal size. They didn’t wanna hear what I had to say, they just wanted to point and laugh at the tall freak who kept tripping over his own two feet. Sports had helped with that. I became more proportional, evened out, bulked up. But then they looked for different reasons. They saw someone to gawk over, fawn over, not to talk to. Even when I got to college, got into Harvard fucking University, everyone acted like I was still just some dumb jock. Girls threw themselves at me, and I wasn’t exactly going to say no to that, but I never felt like I was on the same page with anyone. Nobody listened.

  Except her. She was receptive, and the expressions on her face were plainly those of curiosity and concern and empathy. She wanted to know. 

I thought back to the times we’d hung, watched sports or got a drink together. It didn’t happen often, but when we did, she’d listened even then. Honestly, she’d never talked that much. And now she was doing that even less than she had before, but for some reason, it felt like she was saying more despite keeping quiet.

Either way, my roommate had fallen asleep with her makeup still on, spooning me and breathing delicately. Everything about her was delicate. How had I never seen that? Maybe because she wouldn’t let me. Until now. 

I had to move at some point, but doing so risked waking her up. And waking her up meant the reality of last night would come crashing down on both of us, an unavoidable hailstorm of truth. 

One of us was gonna have to come clean after a certain point. I mean, she was either playing a truly bizarre game of seduction mixed with coming out, or she was catfishing me in an attempt to get me to clean. If it was the latter, I’d already given her what she wanted, and there was no reason for her to keep up the pretense. Well, except maybe ego. In which case, calling her on it would only piss her off, and we’d be right back to square one. And she was so much nicer like this, I REALLY didn’t want her to snap back. 

And if it was the former, then she was in a scared, vulnerable place right now at a crossroads in her life, and the last thing she needed to was to be cornered. 

Either way, it didn’t seem like a good idea to force the issue just yet. 

I suppressed a snort-laugh as an idea burst inside my mind like a firework, a way for me to have my cake and eat it too, such as it is. If she was sincere, then what she wanted was a gentleman who would be patient and kind with her while she sorted through the mess of her emotions. If she was playing a game with me, then I had no desire to let her win, and making it clear that I knew what was going on would be the same thing as letting her win. So I would make the same plays, run the same formations, and see what happened. 

Half of winning any game was planning. The other half was being able to react and re-plan accordingly when your opponent did something unexpected. And everything she’d done lately had been unexpected. 

Time to be a gentleman. That was another thing my old man had taught me all about. You have a beautiful woman on your arm, you busted your ass to make her happy so she’d stay there.

I wiggled my way out of her grasp as quietly and gently as I could, put a pillow on the couch so she could fall onto it. Sarah had left a packet of makeup wipes and a bottle of moisturizer here, so I fished it out of my bathroom cupboard and placed them on the coffee table. Then I walked into the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and started cooking chicken apple sausage on the skillet and frying onions in the pan with it. I added peppers and tomatoes, then cracked a few eggs and turned it all into an omelet. 

A low moan sounded from the couch, then a shocked gasp and an inquisitive sigh. 

Time to run a scramble. 

“Morning, beautiful,” I said, putting her omelet on a plate and bringing it over to her with a napkin and fork. “I know it’s not quite breakfast in bed, but I figure it’s a fair substitute.” 

She looked at me, then breakfast I’d just put on the table, then at makeup wipes and skincare products next to them. She gestured broadly at the items in front of her, and then pointed at herself and mouthed, ‘for me?’

“Yes indeedy,” I said. “Figured you’d wanna wash up.”

She nodded, then grabbed the packet and the bottle and hurried to the bathroom. When she came out, her face was scrubbed clean. She was a little easier to recognize with her face bare, but honestly, in that dress, with that hair, I’d be lying out my ass if I said she didn’t still look hot.

“How do you like your coffee?” I asked. 

‘Skim milk?’ she mouthed. 

I chuckled. She had to know I had that. There was no way she’d asked for that otherwise. Unless she was a fellow skim milk enjoyer. I suppose it was possible she was a woman of culture. Either way, I grabbed the jug out of the fridge and added a splash to her coffee mug, then brought it over to her as she gingerly (heh, puns are great) consumed her omelet. I flipped on the TV and put on some highlights from last night’s hockey game, our boys going up against San Jose. A fight had broken out on the ice at one point, and we got to see the whole thing in glorious detail. 

Rose threw up her hands into the air and mouthed ‘yes!’ She started shadow boxing, mirroring the fight while a vicious, enthusiastic expression took over her clean face. I started chuckling, and she turned to me and blushed as red as her hair as she mouthed, ‘what?’

“Nothing,” I laughed, “Just didn’t know this about you.”

She gave me a side-eye and a cute little pout as she went back to watching the brawl. 

Breakfast came to a close, and she gathered up her things and headed for the door. But I had one last play to make before she left. I grabbed her by the arm and spun her around again like I had the night before, caught her in my arms and then cupped her cheeks in my hands. I brushed a strand of hair out her face, then watched her eyes widen and her lips tremble as I slowly inched my mouth closer and closer to hers. 

When a scant quarter-inch separated our lips, I whispered, “You have a great day, alright? Last night was a ton of fun. I’d love to do this again. You free tonight?”

A tiny little squeal escaped her, but she shook her head. 

“Hm? Why, you got something else going on?” I asked, not moving my face at all, my forehead practically pressing against hers. 

She nodded. 

“Okay, fair enough,” I said, offering my best attempt at smoldering. “How about Sunday brunch, then?”

She hesitated, but finally, she nodded 

And then she gave me a kiss on the cheek before she turned around and bolted out of the room. 

That made me freeze again. I caught my breath inside my chest like an interception, and stood there while I was tackled by emotions I didn’t know how to process. Either she was catfishing me to a truly fucked up degree, or… 

Or…

I had to be sure. That was the only way I could proceed. I had to know, before I went and got my heart fucking ripped out again. 

That I still had an entire Saturday to kill only left me more time to mull all this over. I went for a run in the frigid air, letting the total dearth of warmth push me further and further and further, sprinting down the streets and bounding through crosswalks and weaving around pedestrians. I ended it at the gym, and checked myself in before walking out into the sea of heavy racks and dumbbells and other workout machines scattered about the massive, beige-carpeted room while college basketball played on every screen. I settled in front of a heavy bar and loaded weights onto it, only to be approached by a familiar face. 

“Yo, Duggan! What’s going on?” Myra Schroeder, a short, compact, utterly jacked woman said as she approached. Her hair was dyed orange and purple with shaved sides, while the burning heart tattoo with her wife’s name, Tina, showed on her bicep via her sleeveless Brandi Carlisle t-shirt. 

We exchanged a fist-bump, and I said, “Well I could use a spotter, for one thing.”

“I gotcha, big guy,” she said. 

I got onto the bench and began the Herculean endeavor. I could feel myself getting stronger the more I pushed myself. The pain was a baptism of fire that burned away the older, weaker me. 

The me that Sarah left. 

“So, how’d it go with Sarah?” Myra asked. 

“She dumped me,” I said/grunted. 

“Oh shit! I’m so sorry, man.”

“Thanks,” I said as the bar lowered towards my chest. 

“When was this, anyway?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“What? And I’m just hearing this now?”

“I’ve, uh, not been wicked eager to talk about it,” I said, raising the bar, pushing away the agony and holding it above me. 

“Eh, fair enough. How you holding up?”

“Not great, tbh,” I said. “But I think I’m turning it around. I mean… I was rushing things. Moving too quickly. It makes sense that I scared her off. I just… I dunno, I got caught up in a fantasy. I gotta stop doing that.”

“You really are a big softie, aren’t you?” Myra said. 

“You’re the one who wrote a folk song about her wife,” I pointed out.

“Heh. You got me.”

“Good news, though: I think I’m rebounding.”

“Ayy, good stuff, we love to hear it,” Myra said. “What’s her name?”

“Rose,” the image of her sleeping on top of me, taking as much of me as she possibly could in her dainty hands, exploding before my mind’s eye. God, those things looked soft. I could only imagine how they’d feel around my-

“How’d you meet her?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Technically speaking, she’s my roommate.”

 Above me, she paused, tilting her head as she let the heavy bar rest on my chest a second. 

“Uh, Myra?” I said, starting to panic. 

“Right! Sorry,” she said. “You’re at 12, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“But I’m gonna need you to elaborate on this.”

I breathed out, and I told her as much as I could while bench-pressing. By the time I was done, I’d gotten up to 35 reps. Myra, for her part, was staring at me with slack-jawed astonishment.

“Myra, please say something,” I said as I finished another rep, my arms beginning to register the sheer exhaustion of all this. 

“Thirty-six,” she said. 

“Myra.”

“Well, first of all, I had no idea you were a man of culture-”

“Myra!”

“Okay, okay, sorry, that was poor taste. Also, thirty-seven. Also also, I’m sorry, but what the fuck? Is she trans?”

“It seems like the most logical conclusion to come to, yeah,” I said. “Like, I’m not an expert, but-”

“But I am, given who I’m married to, and I can comfortably say that it is not a remotely cisgender thing for someone to do,” Myra said. “Thirty-eight.”

I lowered the bar, the magnitude of it pressing down against me, threatening to send me crashing down to the center of the earth. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“But there’s a chance she’s just playing some kinda game with you-”

“If she is, I’ll win it.”

“Kyle, that’s not the point. She shouldn’t be-”

“If it’s a game, I’ll win. I always do,” I said, lifting the bar and holding it above me, my arms fully extended as the sheer bulk of 250 pounds of iron was held aloft. “When have you ever known me to back down from a challenge?”

“Never, I just… Just be careful, okay?”

Slowly, gently, I lowered the bar. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I still think this is deeply weird. Also, thirty-nine.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” I admitted. “But even if it’s the worst-case scenario and this is all some kind of bizarre manipulation attempt on her part, I still have to live with her. May as well try to work with what I’m being given here.”

I heaved one last time, my arms threatening to finally give way, but I just barely managed it. “Forty,” Myra and I said together. 

I lowered it, and she helped me put the bar back on the rack. 

I lumbered onto my feet and grunted as I stretched out my arms. “Need me to spot you?”

“Nah, I already did mine.”

“Squats, then?”

“Speaking my language, big guy,” she said, punching my arm lightly. “So, if this is a game with you two, who’s winning so far?”

“I think at the moment we’re operating a draw,” I said as we headed over wall-mirrors and grabbed our weights. 

“When’s the next round, then?”

“Tomorrow. We’re getting brunch.”

“Bold. You gotta playbook written up yet?”

“I have a few ideas, but I’m open to suggestions. Know any good places to bring a girl for brunch?”

She smirked. “I may know a place. I may or may not have taken the wifey there on our third date.”

“Which tomorrow will technically be for Rose and I.”

“Then I know exactly the place. I’ve worked with a few of the people there. Lemme make a call.”

***

Parking the next day was a nightmare. Don’t know what I’d been expecting: even with a reservation, one Myra had had to call in a favor to get me in the first place (benefits of your best friend being a chef include her knowing what strings to pull). 

I managed to find a place a block away, and to my profound relief, Rose hadn’t arrived yet. I stepped inside to the warmed air, and blinked rapidly. Between the crystal chandelier, the classical music playing on the speakers, and the fancy vests and ties and cufflinks all the servers and bussers were clad in, it began to occur to me that I should have asked more questions before going along with Myra’s suggestions.  

“Hello, sir,” said a beautiful woman with short, spiky brown hair from behind a host’s podium. She wore the same dapper menswear as the rest of the staff- no wonder Myra loved this place. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes, uh, Duggan, party of two,” I said, my eyes bugging out as they darted around and scoped out the sheer ambience. What kind of restaurant had white carpets?!

“Very good, sir,” the hostess said. “Your table is ready. Would you like to wait for your companion here or there?”

“Oh, uh-”

That was when a delicate digit tapped me on the shoulder. I flinched, then spun around and had to stop myself from gawking. Rose stood before me in a fur coat that I very much hoped was a faux and little black dress, her hair braided and worn hanging down her back, her eyes popping from dark eyeshadow and her wide smile highlighted by red lipstick. I looked her up and down, and got stuck on her smooth, toned legs and wound up tracing them up and down over and over again. 

“Sir?” the hostess said. 

“Yeah, uh, I think we’re ready to be seated,” I said without turning around. Was she padding her hips? There was no way she just had hips like that. And her boobs-

“Right this way, please,” the hostess said, guiding us through a swarming sea of patrons sipping mimosas and eating lobster. Lobster. FUCKING LOBSTER. WHO THE FUCK EVEN EATS LOBSTER!? IT TASTES BLAND AS FUCK, YOU JUST DROWN IT IN BUTTER AND SLOWLY WATCH YOUR LIFE EXPECTANCY DROP FROM THE SHEER FAT AND CHOLESTEROL INTAKE JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!

Ahem.

We were sat a booth by the glass wall that revealed the cobblestone roads and wooden buildings that decorated the streets outside on the sunny winter day outside. The seats were smooth and red, probably real leather (I hoped not). I helped Rose out of her coat as she sat down, then settled in myself. I opened up the menu, and my heart immediately dropped into the acidic ocean of my intestines. Yeah. This place was expensive. Fuck fuck fuck FUCK. I worked in education, I couldn’t afford any of this. How was I supposed to win this game if I didn’t have the resources with which to do it?

Fuck. 

Rose looked at me with a tilted head and a crooked smile. ‘What’s wrong?’ she mouthed. 

“Oh, nothing,” I said. Okay, don’t let the fear show through. That’s the first step to the visiting team getting in your head, getting a leg up on you. Stay the course. You have savings. You can afford to splurge. Just as long as she doesn’t spend too much, we can make this work. 

A waitress, equally dapper as everyone else in the restaurant, came over, poured us two waters, and said, “Hello! Anything stronger to drink to start you off?”

I was about to say no, but Rose immediately held up her menu and pointed to their priciest mimosa. Shit, I thought, Now I have to order a drink. Need to save face, and make sure it doesn’t look like I’m some sketchy asshole trying to get her drunk! 

“Um, I’ll have the same,” I said sheepishly. 

I drummed my fingers on the menu I’d set on the table in front of me, nervously searching for the cheapest thing they had. Rose, meanwhile, was biting her lower lip and scanning for presumably the most expensive entree. Dammit, I should’ve expected this- she jetted around the world wining and dining rich idiots on her company’s dime for a living, of course she had expensive taste. Maybe if I just got something cheap, like a salad, or soup…

Naturally, my stomach rumbled. This was what I got for working out right before I got here; my stomach was completely empty! 

The mimosas were set before us, and Rose nonverbally ordered a plate of salmon in a garlic butter sauce on a plate of spinach and broccoli. I wound up going with a chicken sandwich, quite literally the cheapest entree on the menu, and then took a long sip of my mimosa. Damn, good stuff. 

 Rose held up her glass, clearly expecting me to clink it. Dammit. Stupid social niceties. I clinked it, then took another sip. On an empty stomach. Meaning the dizzying rush hit me within seconds. Oh boy, ohhhhhh boy, this was gonna be a challenge. 

She pointed at me, then gestured ‘ok’. ‘You okay?’ Yeah, that’s it. I nodded. 

‘Liar,’ she mouthed. 

I cleared my throat. “How was the rest of your Saturday?”

She pulled out her phone, then took a few minutes typing out a response before showing it to me. ‘Great! Spent time with my sister.’

“Which one?” I said, then gulped. Shit! 

She raised her eyebrow. I wasn’t supposed to know that, dammit. ‘What do you mean?’

“I, uh, thought you had multiple sisters,” I said lamely. “Did you not say that?”

She smirked. ‘Nope.’

“Huh,” I said, my voice hollow and shaking. “Weird. So how was it? What’s, uh, what’s your sister like?”

‘Which one?’ she mouthed, still smirking. 

Yes! This was an in. “So you do have multiple sisters?”

She nodded. Then held up five fingers.

“Huh,” I repeated, returning her smirk. “Small world.”

‘Oh?’

“Yeah. My roommate has five sisters.” Gotcha.

‘You have a roommate?’ she typed. 

Dammit. 

‘What’s he like?’

“I never said he was a guy.”

‘Is he?’

“... As far as I know.”

She flinched. I swear I heard a gulp. ‘What does that mean?’

“Oh, nothing. Just that people can surprise you sometimes.”

We stared at each other, both smirking, both unblinking, both silent. Then food arrived, and I blinked first. Rose quickly set about devouring her meal, and I did the same, mentally calculating how many weeks I’d have to spend on a protein shake diet to recoup costs for this. 

She showed me her phone again. ‘What’s wrong?’

“Nothing.’

‘You’re being awfully quiet.’

“Just, uh, thinking?”

‘About what?’ 

“About how beautiful and charming you are,” I said before hammering back the rest of my drink. Not exactly high-falutin behavior, but I needed something to take the edge off of it. 

She gave a little ‘hm’ sound, then typed, ‘Good boy.’

My eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that,” I growled. 

She balked, then her smug expression faded as she reached out and grabbed my hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mouthed. ‘I didn’t know-’

“No, it’s fine,” I said, “It’s just-”

“Omigawd, Kyle, is that you????” a shrill voice approached from off to the side. My insides shriveled up as I saw the familiar, tweed skirt-suit clad form of Cindy Reynolds approached our table. The girl I’d dated in grad school, the reason I’d struggled with commitment for so long, the classist bitch who used to drag me to places like this and then mock me for not knowing how to act. 

My hands, flat on the table, gathered into tightly-bunched fists. “Hello, Cindy.”

A look of recognition sparked on Rose’s face, and it rapidly shifted into a feral rage. Rose had only interacted with Cindy a handful of times, but certain words had been uttered during those meetings. Words like ‘new money loser’ and ‘nasty little ginger twink.’

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Cindy said. “And who’s this? Still cruising for townies, showing them the life they might have if they marry the humble, hardworking substitute teacher?”

Stay calm. Don’t make a scene. That’s the last thing you’re supposed to do in places like this. Don’t get angry, just do what I’ve always done when people decide to shame me, just sit here and take it until they get bored and walk away.

“This is Rose, my date,” I said. “She’s a model.”

“Lemme guess, OnlyFans?” Cindy said. 

“Cindy,” I said, the combination of alcohol, trauma, and sheer fucking rage proving a potent cocktail. “Rose and I were having a nice time. Could you please just leave us to it?”

“Why don’t you let your little tranny speak for herself?” this grown-ass, thirty year old woman in a perfectly tailored suit said. 

Rose just… Smiled. She held her glass in hand, swirling the contents around. Then she threw the liquid directly in Cindy’s face. 

“YOU BITCH!” Cindy screamed, her makeup running off her visage. She grabbed Rose by the lapel. Rose was still smirking. “Do you have any idea how much my makeup costs? More than your fake boobs do, that’s for damn sure!”

Two waiters pulled Cindy off of Rose and led her out of the restaurant within seconds. 

Evidently, that’s why you don’t make a scene at a place like this. The staff would come at you like white blood cells at an infection. The manager, a tired, portly man in a tuxedo, shuffled over to us and apologized profusely, offering to waive the fee entirely for our meal. 

When it was all said and done, Rose was eating a free slice of German chocolate cake. She slid her phone over to me. The message read. ‘Sorry about that. But I couldn’t let her talk to you like that. Or me like that. Plus, I know you were freaking out about paying for the meal- I was gonna offer to pay myself, make it up to you. But this works too, right?’

I blinked rapidly, looking from the phone to her to the phone and back again. She… She knew. Of course she knew. She knew how much money I made. But she’d just taken a huge risk to defend me when we could’ve easily been thrown out instead, all while getting us a free meal out of it. 

And I just… Laughed. All my plans had gone up in smoke, leaving me floundering and struggling to keep up the entire time. I’d embarrassed myself, made it increasingly obvious that I was onto her, and in general, lost today’s match. 

But still, looking at her eating that cake she’d scored, the entire staff waiting on us hand and foot after she’d gotten one of my exes thrown out of what was probably her favorite place… It was impossible to deny, everything she’d done today was incredibly sexy.

“Yeah,” I said, sticking my fork into her cake and taking off a chunk. “This works too.”