forked: a lighthearted utensil Romance

Chapter Two

Mercedes

Providence, Rhode Island

• 2024

A short time later, I place a dish of food in front of my roommate. It’s against my lease to have a pet, so on paper Mike is a twenty-five-year-old grad student at Brown University with good credit and great references. In reality, he’s an orange tabby of unknown age who followed me home shortly after I moved to Providence. With half of one ear missing and covered with fleas, I thought he’d be grateful for a bath and medical attention. Gratitude isn’t something Mike is big on.

I know I should make him eat on the floor, but since he is often the only one I speak to, he deserves a spot at the table. Tonight’s fare? A mix of high-end canned food and boneless, skinless chicken strips. He meows at me, and I ask myself for the hundredth time if I should invest in the communication buttons that I keep seeing on social media.

No. I’m a worst-case scenario contemplator. If I can’t handle how something could go wrong, I don’t do it.

What if those death glares he sometimes gives me are real? I prefer to let his criticisms of me only happen in my imagination.

According to my parents, I always hyper-analyzed everything. I crawled longer than the doctors thought I should have because falling looked painful. Toilet training was terrifying as soon as I imagined what would happen if my bare bottom touched the water and I was sucked away by an accidental flush. Don’t even get me started on how I could have turned twenty-four and still not have had sex with anyone.

Have you seen photos of what venereal diseases can do to a woman’s labia? If you haven’t, save yourself and don’t because it only leads down a rabbit hole of treatment options and photos that still haunt me years after viewing them.

Those images are part of why I’m still a virgin. But I have to put them behind me.

I mean, crawling hadn’t been a lifelong option.

I’ve conquered my fear of toilets.

How difficult could it be to fuck someone?

I’ve already chosen the man. Mr. Room 414.

Mike meows at me when I leave the table to retrieve my own dinner. He’s judging me. “I’m glad I can’t understand you,” I say. “I don’t want you to talk me out of this plan.”

On my way to the table I stop and retrieve my favorite fork from the dishrack beside the sink. I have an entire case of silverware and have never cared much about which utensil I use, but there’s something special about this fork. It’s old-fashioned and sterling silver. Perfectly weighted with solid tines that feel good in my mouth.

People don’t make quality like this anymore, which is why, when I came across the case of silverware at an estate sale, I bought it. Sure, a fancy setting for six wasn’t a practical investment for a woman who lives alone and never entertains, but circumstances can change.

I could drop something in the hallway and strike up a conversation with a group of five people who find me hilarious. They’ll invite me over for a meal and things will go so well that I’ll return the favor. Entertaining possible new best friends shouldn’t be done with plastic utensils.

I place my fork beside my plate of chicken and sit down. As I use the side of the fork to cut my food, I consider getting up to retrieve a knife, but I’ve become used to using only the fork. I stab a piece of meat and bring it to my mouth with anticipation. Prior to owning this set, I didn’t understand how different sterling silver would feel from stainless steel.

It’s heavier and warmer, somehow making the act of eating something as simple as plain chicken feel like an indulgence. I love the way it feels on my lips and how it slides over my tongue.

Holding the fork in one hand, I meet my cat’s gaze. “This is why I have to have sex with someone, Mike. I’m beginning to find inanimate objects sexy. I watched a video once about some guy who found his car attractive—really, really attractive. Clearly, he was mentally ill.” I chuckle, then sober and look at the fork. “I like this fork, but I don’t like this fork. Sure, it’s my favorite, but I could probably mix it up with the other forks and not know the difference. I like the feel of expensive cutlery, that’s all.”

I make the mistake of meeting Mike’s gaze again. He thinks he’s better than I am, but he’s not. “You lick what’s left of your balls on my pillow when you think I’m not looking so let’s be kinder when it comes to judging each other, okay?”

He flicks his tail dismissively.

“I’m going to have a normal life,” I say defensively. “I’m going to get out there, get to know people, maybe sleep around a little, and have friends who call me at all hours because they can’t wait until morning to share their news with me. I’m so close to having that life. I’m just working myself up to actually having conversations with people.”

I exchange another look with Mike. “So, I asked Greg out today. The guy from upstairs. And before you ask, it went badly.” I take another bite of chicken, savoring the fork more than the meat before saying, “But when life closes an elevator door it opens a mailbox.”

I snort laugh.

Mike swishes his tail in annoyance.

“Sorry, of course you don’t understand. He didn’t hear me because he was on a call. I didn’t notice. So, yeah, that was painful. But, I told him I have his mail so now if I can figure out how to get some, I’ll have an excuse to go upstairs to see him. And he was adorably grateful.” I sigh. “I wish I’d said I have something of his that would be easier to get. I could tell him I lost his mail.” I snap my fingers. “Or that you shredded it. No, wait, he can’t know about you until I’m sure I can trust him.”

I look down at the cat hair on my shirt and gasp. “What if he’s allergic to you?” I shake my head. “No. I’m not doing this. I refuse to overthink myself right into another year of virginity.”

The fork in my hand vibrates.

Or my reaction to the idea of another birthday coming and going alone is so strong that my hand won’t stop shaking.

No, it’s the fork moving.

I drop it to the table.

It stops moving. Of course it does, because forks don’t do anything on their own.

Until it starts moving again.

Oh, my God, this is an earthquake. I’ve never been in one.

But the floor isn’t moving.

And nothing else in the room is.

Just the fork.

Maybe earthquakes in New England are so subtle I don’t realize the whole building is shaking.

Mike whips the fork away from me and off the other side of the table. “Mike,” I say in reprimand then bend, hoping I can retrieve the fork from my side. If this is an earthquake, being under the table is supposed to be safer, isn’t it?

Maybe Mike was trying to save my life. Good kitty. He does love me.

I duck beneath the table for the fork but don’t see it. Damn. As I begin to back out from beneath the table I see a pair of well-polished leather shoes. I straighten in surprise. The sound of my head cracking against the table echoes through the room and I swear. Pain blurs my vision. Mike appears beside me and, as usual, is absolutely no help.

I don’t know anyone who wears shiny shoes. Not Greg. Not the maintenance men. Did I leave the door of my apartment open or did someone just break in?

Am I being robbed by someone in dress shoes? There’s no way the intruder doesn’t know I’m there. I look around for my fork. A knife would be better to stab someone with, but something is better than nothing.

The fork is nowhere to be seen.

So much for my luck changing.

I breathe and attempt to calm myself. The pants above the shiny shoes are neatly creased. What kind of criminal irons his pants? Even Mr. Room 414 doesn’t and he’s fancy.

Slowly, I shift so I can peer over the edge of the table. I must have hit my head harder than I thought because as my gaze rises, the chance of what I’m looking at being real decreases. Pressed khaki pants are topped by an olive, belted, uniform jacket with a large number of medals on it. I swallow hard. I’m hallucinating—a side effect from a concussion? How quickly does that happen?

The man has a broad chest, thick muscular neck, chiseled jaw, and the kind of piercing blue eyes that pull a person in and hold them captive. His hair is cut short and neat. My bruised brain has good taste.

His voice is several octaves deeper than the man upstairs when he says, “You’re not at all how I imagined you.”

I groan and lift myself to a standing position. “Really? Brain damage can produce a gorgeous man but not one who’s attracted to me?”

“Ma’am, are you hurt?”

Lord, his voice is sexy. Masculine and demanding. Everything about him is hard and seasoned. This is the kind of man other men would make way for if he walked through a crowd. Dangerous. Rough.

What’s with the outdated uniform? Is he into cos play? I could dig that.

I touch the now sensitive spot on the back of my head. “Am I dead? That makes sense. There really was an earthquake, but instead of saving me the table crushed me. And you’re my spirit guide to the other side.” I look around in panic. “Did Mike make it or is he dead too?”

The gorgeous military apparition frowns at me. “Who’s Mike?”

“My cat.”

He looks around. “This isn’t heaven. For a while there, I thought it might be, but this—this is definitely somewhere else.”

“You’re dead too?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“So, you’re not here to guide me to the light?”

“Correct.”

“Well, I’m not going in the other direction. I’m sure of that. I don’t sin. I mean, I don’t do enough of anything to warrant going anywhere but to the light. Okay, so I lied today. And I was plotting to steal. But in the scheme of things, how bad is that? And as far as purity. You don’t get purer than me. I haven’t so much as gone down on a man and some people don’t even consider that sex, but I always did. So absolute virgin here. That has to count for something.”

A corner of his mouth lifts as if he’s amused. “Duly noted, but not information that is currently productive. Who are you?”

“Wait, hold on. If I’m not dead, I’m unconscious. I can deal with that. I’m unconscious and under the table. All I have to do is wake myself up.” I slap my face lightly on one side and then the other. “Wake up, Mercedes. You have friends to make, a guy to fuck, and a cat to care for. Wake up.”

The man in the olive uniform looks around and then settles those amazing blue eyes back on me. “What year is it?”

“Time-traveling delusion. That’s where we’re taking this? Okay, brain, I see you’re struggling, but that’s better than a gorgeous stranger who doesn’t find me attractive. Is this like a puzzle I have to solve to wake up?”

“Sure. What year is it?”

“Twenty twenty-four.”

“And where are we?”

“In my apartment in Providence, Rhode Island.”

“Did we win against Japan?”

I shrug. “Win?”

“World War II.”

Not sure why I’m fantasizing about a soldier when I’ve never even stayed awake through an entire war movie, but I’m willing to play along to wake up. “We did. We dropped a bomb on Japan and that pretty much ended the war.”

“What kind of bomb?”

“An atomic one.”

He sways on his feet, then steadies himself by holding on to the back of a chair. “We were told that would never happen.”