Hot For His Girl

by Rachel Blaufeld

  It’s been a couple of days, and I’m unable to stop the ongoing obsession.

  I wonder where she lives. Maybe near me? Then I decide it’s unlikely.

  Don’t judge, men have feelings. In fact, we think about stuff too. We have a right to obsess whenever we want, and I like this woman. Like-like in a way I’ve never liked before.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve been spending too much time on the blog? Alone.

  I’ve never seen her before, and I’m always out in the neighborhood, running and grabbing coffee.

  On one hand, it’s a good thing my neighborhood’s such a small bedroom community. Not many of my neighbors know about my blog, other than a few—three or four, and mostly because I had to try out recipes on them. The flip side is everyone knows everyone who lives nearby, maybe not intimately or what they do in their spare time, but they take stock of who lives where.

  I make my way home from my office hours, my bag full of assignments to grade. Yeah, I have a teacher’s assistant, but these are midterms.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. Speaking of my TA . . .

  I swipe ACCEPT CALL and say, “Reid speaking.”

  “Hey, Reid, it’s Tim.”

  “I know. What’s up?”

  Tim’s a bit skittish, one of those traditional stat types. We’re usually too serious for our own good, or pocket-protector geeks, or both. He’s the latter, complete with a bit of leftover acne. Sadly, I was neither, and grossly mismatched with my life’s work.

  “You sure you don’t want any help with the midterms?”

  “No, it’s cool. Though, you should make sure to have your office hours packed next week with disgruntled students, looking for a bump before finals.”

  “I don’t have much going on. I can definitely grade some now.”

  I see my bus barreling down the hill, making its way to my stop, another complete mismatch for me. I love cars, fast ones, but in this stupid city I’ve come to like quite a bit, they don’t make sense. All the stopping and starting, the hills, the parallel parking, and door and fender dings that come with it. So I take the bus to and from work, and keep my car in the garage.

  “What’s going on, Tim? What’s your deal with wanting to help me on these midterms?”

  “Um, there’s a student, Missy Peters?”

  He states a fact I already know, his voice rising in question, and I decide to put the dude out of his misery.

  “Listen, Tim, I was a grad student once too. And while it’s a real dick charger to be on the receiving end of attention from a pretty undergrad, you’re her teacher. Go home, take a cold shower, and tell Missy you’ll see her when the semester’s over.”

  What I didn’t add? You’ll know then for sure if she really wants you or your influence over her grade.

  “Okay, well, thanks for the—”

  “Advice. ’Bye, Tim.”

  I end the call to prevent him any further embarrassment and climb on the bus.

  With a lonely night ahead of me, I hike my messenger bag higher on my shoulder, standing on the bus as I contemplate dinner. I had a big lunch with my department chair, and I’m not starving, so I decide to write a post about grooming on the blog. My mind rifles through which products recently came in, and I settle on a new chafing cream.

  Smiling, I think it’ll be fun. I’ll take a pic of me wearing my running gear, and then use a photo editor to scribble arrows on the picture, indicating where to apply the cream. I know I have quite a few female readers who send the posts to their men. That’s fine . . . if they like what they see, they’ll be sure to share with their dudes. That’s what the companies who pay me certainly hope for.

  After my run, I snap some photos for the blog and sit at my dining room, finishing up the post. Later, over a beer, I grade midterms and contemplate doing something else. Something very, very bad.

  It’s a bad idea. Wrong, but I can’t resist.

  I click the contact form and start spewing questions and compliments, pretending she’ll never see any of them among the hate mail. I can’t imagine she doesn’t get a ton of brash insults. Or maybe it’s a he, and I’ll look even more like a fool, but I can’t seem to halt my fingers. They’re typing like a scorned woman with an audience.

  There’s something about those little girls on Halloween—and their mom—that forces me to want more out of life. Tenure, a wife, a family, the blog. The only way to have it all is to go a new direction with the blog. Take what’s all me and make it about someone else.

  I’m sad about folding it up into some anonymous bundle or conglomerate, but fuck it. Sometimes life sucks.

  Sure, I could have meaningless sex with any number of women.

  I’m hot, I get it.

  The sexy professor, especially when I snap on my glasses.

  I’m built, I know that too.

  I’m smart and make money. I have old money.

  Check, check, check.

  But I’m fucking alone, and I don’t want that for myself.

  Not at all.

  I fall asleep, my face planted on my dining room table, my beer empty, drool lining the wood underneath my mouth, and my love professed to the UnAffectionate Blogger. I can’t put my finger—or dick—quite on it, but that site turns me on. It’s well done, and although it’s mysterious, it’s funny and genuine.

  Obviously, I need to get out more. Overtired and bored, I’m falling for a website, and I don’t mean a porn site.

  Today, I need to attend the fall assembly at Gabby’s school. I’m pretty sure it used to be called the Thanksgiving show, back when they put it on just before the actual holiday. But we can’t celebrate anything in public school anymore. It’s ridiculous . . . this is America and it’s Thanksgiving. For God’s sake, I’m half Jewish by birth, and I don’t even mind Christmas music.

  Anyway, now they hold the show at the beginning of November. It features a highly sanitized story about the Pilgrims and the Indians, minus any teepees or headdresses like we had growing up. Instead, there’s hay and leaves—thousands of them—and pumpkins and apples and cornstalks.

  Unable to unjumble my thoughts, I’m downright exhausted after staying up late, writing posts for today . . . and I’ll miss my afternoon run while I’m at the assembly. Worst of all, I had to shower, do my hair, and put on jeans. No way I’m going to play the part of dowdy medical records transcriptionist at this school. We live in a good district, a who’s who of anyone in this city lives in this area, and no freaking way will Gabby be embarrassed by me.

  I ignore my email and deal with setting up my daily snark before grabbing a quick shower, flat-ironing my hair (way back when, I did get the CHI for free from the vendor in exchange for a fun and sassy review).

  The show ends up being completely adorable. Gabby sings a solo in the final act, and I video the hell out of it on my iPhone for my personal Instagram account where I have two followers—Odelia and our distant aunt in Canada.

  After school, I drive Gabby home, set her up in front of the boob tube, and check into my other life online.

  Twenty-two Twitter notifications and seventy-five emails call to me.

  Most of the emails are crap solicitations and requests. There are a handful of “I hate yous” and one thank-you letter for a recent exposé on the shitty quality of no-name diapers (no matter what the bloggers say, they freaking suck).

  Then there’s this:

  To Whom it May Concern:

  I know you like to stay anonymous, and I respect that. Immensely. I’m an in-the-light blogger who may need to go dark. Unfortunately, I have a pretty decent following as the blog currently stands, but I need to make some changes.

  I’m a fan of your blog, its tone and demeanor. (Sorry if you’re a dude and I’m offending you. Nothing more than admiration here; I swear I’m straight. Also, if you’re a woman, I’m not some crazy wanna-be stalker, though I can’t prove that.) I admire what you have done, and I’d like to pick your brain.

  My name is Reid, and I run
Grill and Groom. I’m not ashamed of my blog—not saying you are—but for my outside career, I need to make it less me and more “I don’t really know what.”

  Would you be up for a call? Anonymous in nature, but one where I could ask you some questions? I’m happy to compensate you for your time.

  — Reid

  A long wheezing breath escapes my lungs. I didn’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath. Reid from Reidville, who I’ve been internet-stalking.

  The man James follows. The one-and-only who got my sister in a tizzy.

  The shirtless griller who I only just met and salivated over . . . has emailed me.

  Not really me, but UAB. He can’t know it’s me.

  Crap, how does an anonymous female blogger fall for a dude in her own neighborhood, who also blogs, and then the two connect IRL and anonymously without him knowing? I can’t even word it the right way, that’s how unlikely it is. Yet, it’s happening.

  I run longer than usual the next day and make it to the bus stop after the bus has already pulled away. Gabby is sitting on the corner, propped up on her backpack, her chin tucked into her hands, and staring into space.

  “Gabbs, I’m so sorry. Sh— Sugar with a cherry on top, I lost track of time, baby girl. Come here.”

  She snuggles into my side. “I waited like you always say. Wait five minutes, count to sixty, five times, and if you’re not there, walk to Leona’s. Except I counted to sixty, six times.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.”

  Of course I do. Reid happened. Reid emailed me.

  When he reached out to me, I got so giddy. Giddier than any single mom should ever be. Over a dude. A hot, sexy-as-fuck dude who surely didn’t find me—a single mom—remotely sexy.

  Which is exactly why I have no business freaking out over him emailing me. Because Reid doesn’t know it’s me.

  “S’okay, Mom.”

  I kiss the top of my girl’s head, and we walk home hand in hand.

  “Lizzie asked if I could sleep over this weekend. Please, please, please! I’ve never done one before.”

  I took a deep breath and counted backward from ten. “Gabbs, I’m not sure. You might get scared. Plus, I’ll be lonely at home by myself,” I say, the latter being more the truth than the former.

  “Please,” she says. “I’ve wanted to do one for sooo long.”

  My mind spins.

  Does Lizzie’s dad keep a gun? Is it locked?

  Does Lizzie’s mom keep the medications up high?

  Do they filter their water?

  I run through all the overprotective-mom questions in my head until we’re on the steps to our place.

  “Well?” Gabby tugs on my sleeve. “Can I? I’ll be so good, Mom. Please?”

  I count to five in my head and take a deep breath. “I’ll call Lizzie’s mom and make sure it’s okay with her, and then . . . yes.”

  Gabby refuses to wait and runs into the house, singing and dancing. “Yay! I’m having a sleepover.”

  A sadness washes over me. I’ve set up my life so it revolves around Gabby, and she’s flying the coop—already. What does that look like for me? Not a whole heck of a lot. It’s a pitfall of working online. Isolation. It’s made even worse by hiding what I do from basically everyone.

  With hardly any friends to speak of, and my family scattered, who am I left with?

  Me, myself, and I.

  Every noise, every creak, every silent beat, every breath haunts me Friday night. I pause when I hear the water drip in the kitchen every few seconds. I jolt when the neighbor’s screen door slaps shut every few minutes. Their kids must be home and running in and out into the cold night.

  When I can’t take it anymore, I stand and walk over to the window. Leaning forward, I watch our mostly quiet street as small snowflakes drift from the sky. Winter is coming, for sure. The neighbor kids couldn’t care less, zipping in and out, holding their tongues out to catch snowflakes, running back inside to report to their mom and dad.

  Gabby’s not here. I take a big gulp of my red wine and let the drape flutter closed. Walking back to the couch, I silently wish for a fireplace. Just as warm, yet steadier than a man.

  I fold my legs underneath me, warming my toes on my sweatpants, take another chug of wine, and pick up my laptop. When my phone rings, a chill runs the length of my spine until I see it’s Leona.

  “Hello . . .”

  “Don’t tell me you’re working, Andi. There’s only so many medical records one person can type,” she yells into the phone. I imagine her sitting in her velour track suit at her Formica kitchen table, cradling the phone in her neck, sipping a wine spritzer.

  “Working. Guilty.”

  “Why did you send Gabby on a sleepover and not make a hot date for yourself? I should come over and slap you silly.”

  “’Bye, Leona. See you tomorrow.”

  “Make another sleepover next weekend, and I’ll take care of the rest,” she squeezes in before I disconnect the call.

  Logging in to the back end of my blog, I check stats and filter spam comments before downloading a final report. Exciting Friday night, I know.

  Except when I open up my email, the message from Grill and Groom is looming, staring at me, begging me to answer.

  Quickly, I draft an email to my advertisers, insert the numbers reports, and blast off my invoices, trying to shut off my email as quickly as possible, but nope. Can’t do it.

  I click on the message from Reid and scan his words again, and before I know what I’m doing, I click REPLY.

  Reid,

  Happy to help—not sure if I can—but my schedule is a bit erratic.

  Let me know what you need exactly.

  — UAB

  As I debate signing my name, I contemplate writing more. But I do neither.

  My heart pounds, and for the first time in forever, feelings flow in my veins. I’m tingly at the promise of the email, despite it being anonymous. I try to tell myself not to hit SEND, but it feels too exciting. With the soft whoosh of the email leaving my laptop, my brain urges my hand to shut the lid and find a movie on TV. Instead, I roll my neck, bring my wine back to my lips, and watch the screen for a response.

  As if I willed it to happen, my email dings.

  With a reply from him.

  An instant reply.

  UAB,

  Is that what they call you? Is there something else I can call you?

  Truthfully, I’d love to meet face-to-face.

  By the way, where are you? Can you say? I’m in Pittsburgh, PA.

  I’d sign an NDA. If not, can you explain to me how you keep everything confidential, from beginning to end. The whole shebang.

  We could speak over the phone?

  I know it’s asking a lot, and I’m blowing you up with questions.

  While I’m at it, if you have any ideas for how I could make the transition, that’d be great!

  I’m still happy to pay you.

  — Reid

  Yeah, I’d love to meet face-to-face too, but Reid is holding nothing more than professional admiration for me. He doesn’t know me IRL.

  I know him, and that makes it all the worse . . . especially with the way my blood is racing in and out of my heart so fast, I fear I’m going to faint.

  “Christ!” I yell, gripping my hand as I rush to the sink.

  I’m nervous as shit, and I should bail on trying to make a video, but my site needs an updated post. One second I’m making sea bass on the grill, and the next, I’m charring my thumb.

  With my hand under cold water, I look out the window and see my video camera on the patio. “Shit.”

  More mumbling to no one as I realize I probably need to replace the damn thing after my stupid anxiety attack. Who the hell freaks out after emailing an anonymous blogger? It’s not even a sexual thing—it’s this damn blog. I like it more than I’m willing to admit.

  I dry my thumb, coat it with Neosporin, and wrap it in a Band-Aid before he
ading back outside. My fish is black and dry, my camera toast, and my grill smells like ass . . . and it’s only noon on Sunday.

  I actually crave heading in to work tomorrow and teaching statistics. It’s predictable, unlike my current state of affairs.

  I waited all day Saturday to receive a reply from the UnAffectionate Blogger. Like a fool, I mentioned getting together. Face-to-face. I don’t know her name or where she lives. Was I going to up and fly to see some unknown woman?

  She’s an anonymous blogger, for Christ’s sake. Her site isn’t Match.com. This isn’t Lovers Anonymous or some ploy to make a play.

  Slamming my grill closed, I remind myself, she may not even be a female.

  The next morning, she sends a simple reply.

  Reid,

  I’d agree to a phone call. Does that suit you? I have a child, so it needs to be during school hours.

  If it works, email me back and we will schedule a time.

  No NDA necessary for a call.

  — UAB

  I settle on bacon cheeseburgers, unoriginal and done a million times before, but who cares? I swap gouda for cheddar, add some vine-ripened tomatoes to the mix, and grill peppers on the side. After what happened with my video camera, I decide against bringing out my DSLR camera and instead take stills with my phone.

  When my post is uploaded and set to go live, I email UAB. I agree to her barren offering. A call on Tuesday at noon, over my lunch and while her “child” is at school.

  Briefly, I consider she may be lying about being a single mom in her bio. Maybe that’s fake too? I guess you really never know what’s real and what’s made-up with these online people.

  I go for a run, sweating away insane thoughts and notions.

  By the time noon arrives on Tuesday, I’ve gone full circle—tossing aside crazy thoughts about a woman I don’t know and then returning to them with a vengeance.

  Her post this morning on bullshit maxi pads has me laughing, grabbing my stomach, and wanting more for her life and mine. I wonder how many others feel the same as me. Millions, if I have to guess.