My phone rings with an unknown blocked number.
“Hello?”
“Reid?” Her voice is throaty, sultry. One word, and I’m cooked.
Clearing the frog from my throat, I choke out, “Hi, it’s me.”
“Great. Do you want to just get right into it?”
I picture her hair mussed, a tank strap falling off her shoulder. I don’t even know what she looks like. Blond, curvy, tall—I allow myself to believe.
By the way, is it too soon to say, yes, I do want to get right into it?
Striking all lewd thoughts from my mind, I quickly deduce I need to start dating. I’m strung way too tight if I’m getting hard from a phone call and a sexy voice. Attached to a person I don’t know.
“Um, sure. Do you have a name? It’ll stay between you and me.”
“Sure . . . Andrea.”
I don’t know if she’s being straight with me, but I go with it.
“Well, Andrea.” I lean back in my office chair and collect my breath and thoughts. “I’m a teacher, of sorts, and I don’t know if you checked out the site, but it began on a dare.”
“I did,” she breathes back.
Put a fork in me . . . she’s been on my site. I wonder for how long, and did she like what she saw? I mean, read?
“At first, it was a small, rinky-dink kind of thing. I’d cook up some sausages and crack open a beer, and it sort of took off.”
“Maybe it has something to do with you doing all of that . . . with your shirt off? Pardon my bluntness.”
I chuckle. “I do have a large gay-male following.”
“And women, I’m sure.”
“Yes,” I reluctantly admit. “Most of the time, they drag their men over to my site, but there are a few memes made with me.”
I feel myself blushing. Gathering myself, I decide this isn’t the time to act like a schoolboy.
“It doesn’t really matter who reads it or who is a fan. The numbers are there, and they’re always growing. I know taking myself out of the picture will hurt the site. It won’t be the same, and I don’t know if I can do it. I keep going through the options, and can only come up with two. I can start over anonymously, build a new brand and promote it from Grill and Groom, pretending it’s not me. But that just . . . that feels disingenuous. Otherwise, I can say fuck it and stay the course.”
It feels good to say these things aloud. To a complete stranger, no less.
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
I don’t know why I nod while saying, “Yes.”
“Do you love your blog as much as you seem to? Do you consider yourself an influencer?”
“I really do. My blog is an extension of me. God, I sound like a real freak of the week. I promise you, I’m normal. Semi-normal.” When she stays silent, listening to me, waiting for me to go on, I add, “As for being an influencer, I don’t know. I guess.”
She clears her throat, and I hear her take a drink of something. “Is it profitable? We have to discuss this. At the end of the day, if you’re running your blog as a business, the bottom line matters.”
“It is, and it could be way more.”
“Then you can’t risk making it into something else, pretending to be someone else, touting your own shit, pretending it’s someone else when it’s you. It’s got to be honest.”
“I hear you.” I let out a breath. For the first time since the bet, my blog feels real, important, hard-earned. No one else has made me feel this way.
Again, I’m leaning on a complete stranger.
“Your teaching,” she asks. “What is it? High school?”
“College, tenure track.”
“So, what’s the conflict? Your students are all over eighteen. They’re old enough to separate your online persona from your classroom, right? Excuse me for being bold.”
Eyeing the bottle of Scotch on my bookshelf, I suddenly want a cocktail. “The university isn’t sure about all that. Especially the shirtless part.”
She doesn’t laugh. She’s all business, zero frills. “I’m not a lawyer, so I really can’t advise you, but I will say this. You have a blog audience, a profitable one, so I guess the only viable option is to sell your site to someone who wants to take it over, if it can’t be you.”
The drink is looking more and more likely.
“Tell me about you, Andrea.” I need to take a step back. Grill and Groom is my baby. Fuck statistics and my fancy PhD—I love blogging, or influencing, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, more than I care to admit.
“Not much to say. Single mom. My original blog wasn’t profitable. I wasn’t fancy enough, chic enough, topless enough, whatever you want to say. I had to change gears. I had to make money, and fast. So I traded my site for something sarcastic and anonymous. It’s a lot of work, but these days, it’s all that I’m qualified for—”
Leaning forward, I interrupt her. “Seems to me you’re qualified to advise me. I wonder how many others need help, direction, in navigating the internet.”
A beat of silence passes.
Then another.
“Well, good thing we didn’t set out to talk about me,” she says. “I hope this was helpful to you, but that’s about all I can offer. I have to cut it short now.”
Strike out.
“Okay . . . well, thanks. A lot. Really.”
“’Bye.” She disconnects before I can say the same.
“What was that?” I mumble to myself, swiping my shaky finger across the phone.
In the span of five breaths, I talk myself out of thinking he knows who I am, really am. But the way he spoke, it’s like he knew me.
All of me.
Reid’s deep voice, humming over the line, mentioning the unmentionable. It felt like he wanted more for me, the type of more I only dream about, fantasize from time to time about being a reality.
Standing up, I wring my hands and shake out my fingers.
“I cannot do that again. Ever,” I warn myself. It’s like I’m eighteen all over again, my heart pitter-pattering and hands clammy.
I pace my small living area, stopping at the window and flicking open the blind. It’s sunny, a bit of Indian summer in November. I decide to run, forgo writing a new afternoon post. I set up an older post—“Stupid Activities Only Moms with Cleaning Staff Allow Their Kids to Do”—to run on repeat, and lace up my shoes.
Noticing a plethora of young people out doing their thing, I’m reminded I live near three universities. They’re smiling, willing away winter, enjoying the afternoon warmth, running or walking in pairs or trios. College feels like a lifetime ago to me.
I take a new path, down through the neighboring park and across a university quad, extending my run longer than usual. I wonder what the young’uns think of me. Am I attractive? Old? Flabby?
Relatively speaking, I’m still young. Thirty-one may be ancient to these tadpoles, but I’m not a wrinkled toad yet. I consider dating and think, should I? Could I? The same thoughts and concerns cross my mind that always do when I think about making a life with a man, a new one, one who won’t flee.
I’m deep in self-deprecation, my mind racing through options—Botox, a new vibrator, at what point do women need absorbent underwear?—when I smack into a pole. Literally, I collide with something hard.
“You okay?”
Except, poles don’t talk or ask you if you’re okay.
I will myself to look up and find myself face-to-face with none other than Reid, Mr. G and G, but he doesn’t know who I am other than a disheveled mom. At the very least, that’s what I tell myself in my head.
He’s in a pair of straight-leg khakis, oh-so-tight in all the best places, a navy button-down loose at the collar, and a leather jacket. To top it off, he’s sporting aviator shades à la Tom Cruise in Top Gun. It’s a good look.
A very, very good look.
If I believed in Hollywood romance and rom-coms, this would be my meet-cute. My second one including our meet-and-greet on Halloween.
Sadly, this isn’t Hollywood, and my life doesn’t include serendipitous meet-cutes. Instead, my life is full of unlucky coincidences.
“Sorry. I was in a haze.”
“That’s pretty dangerous when running, wouldn’t you say? Under the influence and running,” he deadpans.
“No, that’s not what I meant . . . by haze,” I say, and my voice croaks. I try to hide how flustered I am, but I swear my heart is pounding so hard, you can see it through my thin pink shirt.
Broad smile, white teeth, a single dimple, tiny crinkles around his eyes, glasses on top of his dark hair . . . he’s the whole package.
“I was joking. You sure you’re okay . . . it’s Andi, right? Or Wonder Woman? We met . . . with your girls. I offered them apples.”
“Girl. One girl. And her friend. And definitely no superpowers here, as you can see from my haphazard running.”
I realize I’m holding one finger up in the air like a dork, and quickly shove my hands behind my back. Stupid, stupid move. Now my cleavage is jutting out in his face like a wanton thirty-something slut in a meet-cute.
“Right, now I remember. One girl. You feel okay? You want to sit? I’m a pretty hard surface . . . I don’t mean to brag.” He motions to a bench, and I side-eye him. “Kidding, again. This is me raising the white flag. No more bad jokes.”
“I’m cool.” I bring my hands to my sides and try to look casual. “I have to remind myself not to think so hard when running, though.” I fidget with the zippered pockets on the side of my pants, then reach up to tighten my ponytail.
“You run around here a lot?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you said no more bad jokes? I see that didn’t mean silly pickup lines too.”
“No, I mean . . . I’m a runner, and I’ve never seen you running here. Do you teach here? Or go to school?”
“Reid, right?” I toss back his same nonchalant recognition, and he nods. “I don’t know what you want, but I have to get back for the school bus. I ran a little farther than usual today, so if you don’t mind . . .”
“Yeah, it’s cool. I was in some kind of weird mood anyhow. Seriously, have a good one.”
He lets me off the hook, just like that, and all of a sudden I’m pissed.
No way I show it, though. I say thanks and pick up speed.
“Hey, wait,” he calls out when I’m halfway down the sidewalk.
I stop and turn, half begrudgingly, half hopeful. For one more moment, I’m not anonymous or a single mother, but a young coed, sexual attraction crackling around me.
“You dropped this. Here.” He extends his hand toward me, and in his palm is my hamsa bracelet.
“Wow, thanks. My hand . . . I would’ve been under a dark cloud, or even more of a darker sky without it.” I bend and brace my arm into my belly so I can clip it closed around my wrist.
“Let me,” he offers.
After I raise my sweaty forearm and shove up my sleeve, he fastens the bracelet on. His fingers graze my wrist, and my knees nearly buckle at his touch. Of course, I pretend not to feel attracted to this man—this sexy, maybe younger-than-me man. Probably younger-than-me man. No, I don’t feel a thing.
Except, my pulse is sprinting and I’m standing still.
“See? I saved the day. I’m a regular hero.”
“A cocky one at that,” I tease. Me, teasing. I feel like I should take my temperature. I may have a fever. “Thanks, really.”
“Hey,” he says, “let me buy you a drink sometime. A friendly thing, no strings, a get-to-know-you. We’ve run into each other twice. It’s practically destiny, don’t you think?”
I swing my head left and right. “Are you punking me?”
People don’t ask me out, mostly because of the situation we don’t discuss. Which I’m not bringing up now in its entirety. I’m only referencing there was a situation, and it stayed with me.
His laugh is loud. “That show’s old. No, I’m not punking you. Let’s get a drink.”
“I have a kid.”
This is the only deterrent I can come up with. Not you and I spoke earlier today. I’m Andrea. And not I’m a crazy, bitchy anonymous blogger.
“So? I like kids. I was a kid a long time ago. Plus, even if I didn’t like kids, I wasn’t inviting your kid to have a drink. But to clarify, I do like kids.”
“Okay,” I say, agreeing with one word.
“Why don’t you give me your number.” He pulls out his phone.
All of a sudden, I’m sweating. I’m pretty sure I blocked my number earlier when I called him, but still. “Why don’t you give me yours?” I slide my armband down and pull out my phone.
“How do I know you’ll call?”
“I’ll call when I get a babysitter. Are you free most nights?” I can’t believe the words spewing out of my traitorous mouth.
“I teach on Wednesday nights.”
“Got it, but I really have to hustle now.”
“’Bye, Andi.”
I’m an out-of-breath, sweaty mess by the time I make it home.
“Hellooo.”
My screen door slaps shut and I hear Leona hollering through my house on Friday.
“In here, Ms. Leona,” Gabby yells back from the kitchen.
I continue to hide in my bedroom, backing up my laptop.
“What are you doing, pretty lady?”
“Having a snack, waiting for Mom. We’re going to get some new shoes. Mom said I could get sparkly ones.”
“Is that so?” Leona says in that tone I know so well. She’s prepping to meddle. “Sounds like a fun way for your mom to spend a Friday night. But I was coming over to see if you wanted to watch a movie with me.”
“Oh, I’d love to, but then Mommy will be alone . . .” The last part trails off on a whisper.
I finally making an appearance. “And Gabby’s running shoes don’t fit, so we have to solve that before next week when she has indoor soccer in gym.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize it was so urgent,” Leona shoots back, smug and snug in velour.
Gabby pulls on Leona’s sleeve. “You should come! We’re getting sandwiches too.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, at the place with the counter seats where you can watch them grill the sandwiches, you know what I mean?” Gabby transforms into a Mexican jumping bean, flipping, flopping, narrowly missing falling on the floor.
“We are, you want to join?”
“I’d love to.” Leona claps her hands. “Let me get my purse.”
That’s how I end up sitting at My Brother’s Hero, Leona on one side, Gabby on the other, the sandwich grill hot in front of us.
Gabby kicks her silver-and-gold running shoes around the bottom of her stool as she waits for her grilled cheese and fries, and doesn’t stop rambling for a second. “. . . and Billy said Lizzie was a dog. I told him that wasn’t nice, and he stuck his tongue out at me . . .”
“Order up!” The guy behind the grill clangs the bell and yells for a food runner.
Basically, every single mom’s dream Friday night.
I sip my Diet Coke, listening to Gabby, and wait for the food, semi-counting the minutes until bedtime.
“Hey, look who the cat dragged in. Burn your dinner, chef guy?” The cook manning the grill steps away from his post and lifts his hand in the air to fist-bump someone standing behind me.
“Took the night off, tough guy.” His voice rumbles in my ear, his breath ruffling my hair.
This isn’t happening.
“You’re the guy from Halloween . . . with the apples.” Gabby fully turns on her stool, having been distracted by the commotion behind her.
All of a sudden, I miss her endless rambling. Not her. She’s all smiles.
“Yes, I am.” Reid smiles back at my daughter as if she’s the apple of his eye. Ironic, in so many ways.
“Hi, I’m Leona.” She shoves her bosom and hand in his face.
“Reid.” He extends his hand, his gaze firmly on her face.
Reid clears his throat. “Um, we don’t really. We met once . . . twice. I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”
My cheeks pink up. Mentally, I blame the grill.
“Reid, the usual?” the cook calls while plating our food, then slides it on the counter.
“Gabby, your food’s here,” I say, trying to divert her attention from Reid.
No such luck.
“I live next door to Gabby, here, and Andi,” Leona says, as if chaos isn’t roiling around her.
“Andi.” He twists, I turn, and our eyes meet.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey there. How are you?”
“Good. I’m doing well, thanks.”
He leans close and whispers, “I’ve been waiting for you to call.”
I brush off his advance with a wave of my hand, but my body tingles and fizzles. He’s been waiting for me.
And when he turns and talks to Gabby, I’m mush.
“Where’s your friend?”
“Oh. Lizzie.” Gabby frowns. “She has a big family thing every Friday.”
“Well, looks like you’re having a pretty good Friday.” He winks at Gabby and when she glows, I duck my head, sure I’m glowing just as much. “This is one of my favorite joints.”
I take all of him in. Worn-in jeans, hole in the knee, thermal shirt, puffy vest, his hair a mess. He certainly doesn’t look like any teacher I know.
I quickly wipe any knowledge I’m not supposed to have of him out of my brain and plaster a fake smile on my face. “Good seeing you again, Reid, but your food’s going to get cold, Gabbs.”
“Yeah, don’t let it get cold.” He ruffles the top of her hair.
She turns like a good girl and takes a huge bite of her sandwich. Unfortunately, Leona is still sitting with her tongue on the floor and the wheels turning in her head.
“Were you going to stay and eat?” Leona asks.
“I was going to get some takeout.” Reid jerks his thumb toward the door in a universal sign for carryout.
Hot For His Girl Page 5
