Hot For His Girl

by Rachel Blaufeld

  And you’re so lonely, your blogging community is your only family when your husband works more than anything else. Let me clue you in: SOMEONE has to pay for your lifestyle.

  What about a single mom who has to work to put food on the table and pay for benefits, and has a small sliver of a life?

  Yeah, I didn’t think you thought about that in your 1% of the 1% blog with blinders securely fastened to your face.

  You should.

  So stop complaining.

  K?

  UnAffectionately yours,

  The UnAffectionate Blogger

  Folks, if you’re looking to help out women trying to get back into the workforce, consider a donation to Dress for Success, a nonprofit that provides interview clothing.

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  Feelings twist in my gut when I read this. Andrea’s example hit close to home, and despite her brushing me off, I want to email her and tell her she’s right.

  Instead of sleeping, that’s what I do.

  Andrea,

  Hi, it’s been a while. I know you’re busy, but I wanted to say you’re dead accurate in your post to Wall Street Wife. Her perspective is obviously skewed, and your example of the single mom hit close to home for me. I’m full-on dating one now, and I promise you, it’s a delicate balance.

  Anyway, as for me, I’m going to spend a year doing the blog big-time, plus I’m creating a discussion board with chat rooms for men to talk about cooking, grilling, and beard maintenance. Lucky for me, I know a lot of tech peeps at work, and we’re working on the interface now. I’m going to really give this a go. Thanks to your advice.

  Talk soon,

  Reid

  “Mommy, look!” That’s basically all I’ve heard all weekend.

  “I see, baby girl,” I tell Gabby, spying the giant balloons shaped like Spider-Man.

  “Can I go look?”

  “Of course,” I tell her, which is basically all I’ve said for three days. “Of course! Yes!”

  It’s been my entire Universal Studios talk track.

  Look, we’re on vacation for free. Not free-free because, after all, I’m working, but free without hitting our bottom line. But that’s not what I’ve told Gabby. She thinks I won this trip from my medical transcription department, because she’s a gullible kid. I don’t expect her to lie for me, nor do I expect her to understand the truth.

  I’ve made my own bed when it comes to lying. It doesn’t matter whether others understand or not . . . I have to support my daughter. Period.

  Adjusting my crossbody bag full of camera equipment and raincoats, I shove any leftover Reid-related anxiety out of my mind. In reality, this has been a pretty sweet gig—capturing photos, observing, and making notes—while giving me some precious time with my daughter.

  Like now, Gabby is eyeing the balloons with puppy-dog eyes.

  “Gabbs, we’re going home in the morning. We can’t take it on the plane.”

  “Awww.” She’s pouting and I feel myself relenting, but I can’t today. We’re back to reality tomorrow.

  My blogging plan is to highlight the fun stuff, the many adventures and ways to have a good time at Universal, using reverse psychology. My dad says he hates being upside down, so I took him on x,y,z ride where he didn’t know we went upside down. He didn’t even realize . . . so I guess he’s wrong.

  My pitch was easy enough in selling the idea, and I think I need to do more of this kind of shtick.

  Gabby’s shirt is already sticky with lemonade, so I suggest ice cream instead of the balloon. Why not? She’s already cranky and sugared up. After all, we’re all gluttons. Gabby for sugar; me for Reid.

  And just like that, I’m back in Reidville.

  Argh, I managed to go an entire ten minutes without thinking of him.

  His email to Andrea and his texts to me, both so sincere. He’s been sending me selfies from around the corner at the Magic Kingdom, and I’ve been lying. All’s good. Having fun with Gabby. That’s what I’ve been saying. So, it’s not really lying, but sort of. Lying by omission is still lying.

  Yeah, lying.

  I have seven hundred plans for the blog, and zero for telling Reid the truth.

  So, what do I do? I eat ice cream and pretend my problems away. After all, we’re at Universal Studios.

  Tuesday morning, Gabby is a walking zombie in the airport. Despite her being upright on her feet, I’m practically dragging her by the arm.

  I take a quick look around, thinking Child Services is going to pop out any second and take her from me. I’m not doing anything wrong—she’s wiped out from too much fun and even more junk food at Universal. We had an amazing time, despite my anxiety over Reid practically being next door with the big mouse.

  Coming out of security, Gabby whines, “I’m thirsty.”

  “We’ll get a drink. Just a sec, Gabbs.”

  “Mom, now, please. I’m so thirsty,” she whines, dragging her sparkly tennis shoes.

  Gabby’s a good kid, better than I ever could have imagined, especially under the circumstances. But right this second, I could trade her in for a different make and model. One with no vocal cords.

  Is that mean? I don’t care. I’m tired too.

  We head down the corridor, her hand in mine, walking toward gate 32B, my mind a million miles away. After a long weekend of work, I still find another solid five or ten minutes to obsess over Reid’s last email. Not to me, but to Andrea. I never responded. I hoped the “On Assignment” post I stuck to the front page of the blog was enough of an explanation.

  I don’t even think twice about all the rude comments wondering where my sarcastic ass is, and am I finally going to reveal my identity. Worry over Reid trumps everything else.

  Jesus, I’m pathetic.

  “Mommm.” Gabby shakes me from my reverie, pointing at a bar-type restaurant.

  “Okay, let’s sit here,” I say, since we still have an hour until we board our flight.

  Gabby plops into a booth, her backpack narrowly making the bench seat next to her. She’s destroyed, and I wonder how she’ll be able to go to school tomorrow.

  “Can I have a lemonade?” she asks, and I nod. After all, I’m going to down a Bloody Mary faster than you can say, “Bad mom.”

  The server swings by, and I place our order.

  “I guess it’s a Bloody Mary kind of morning,” she says and walks away.

  Finally, I take a look around, noticing we’re in one of those after-work-bar-type places, and think, This place is crap. Before I can change my mind, the bartender starts singing some chant from behind the bar.

  It’s a little ditty about Bloody Marys being the official drink of Orlando.

  Where the kids come to play

  and the adults hate to stay.

  Oh yeah, yeah.

  Drink, poor mommies and daddies,

  who wish they went to Vegas

  on an adult getaway.

  I can’t say he’s wrong, but this trip paid for itself and then some. And yet I can’t help but wonder about people who pay to do this.

  The bartender flipping a bottle of tomato juice in the air distracts me, and I watch like a kid at the circus. It’s like a live version of the movie Cocktail, except he doesn’t look like Tom Cruise.

  That’s when I notice the back of some guy sitting at the bar. Scruffy hair, broad shoulders, downing a Bloody Mary himself. He’s kind of cute from behind . . . and then the bartender finishes and yells to our server, “Melanie, drink’s up for the lovely lady at table forty-two.”

  Mr. Cute watches Melanie pick up the drinks, and it’s not with lust or anything. He’s obviously taking note of his surroundings. That is, until his gaze lands on me.

  Familiar green eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses find me, and I no longer need a Bloody Mary. I need a dozen Bloody Marys followed by a shot of tequila—because there I am, sitting in the Orlando airport
with Reid sitting across from me. Mind you, I’m supposed to be home, busy with Gabby. Granted, Gabby’s here, but neither of us are supposed to be here.

  I wave (like an absolute idiot . . . an I carried a watermelon moment straight out of Dirty Dancing) and Reid scowls.

  I’ve never seen him look mad. Disappointment and confusion cloud his features, and I want to shrink and die. But then Gabby whispers, “Mom, there’s Reid. Lookie—can I go say hi?” Of course, she’s no longer whining or complaining.

  I want to say no, worrying for just a second that Reid might take out his anger on her. But this is Reid, and he may be livid with me, but he knows this sham isn’t on Gabby.

  “Sure,” I say, noticing Reid isn’t making an effort to come to us. He’s sitting there, staring, the drink in his hand never meeting his lips.

  “Reid!” Gabby runs toward him, and he smiles huge at my little girl. She’s jumping and hopping on one foot when she gets to his bar stool, and he leans down and ruffles her hair. His words are quiet, not meant to be shared with me. Gabby’s nodding and not facing me, so I can’t see what she’s saying either.

  I want to know, need to know like I need air to breathe. I suck in some oxygen, trying to calm myself. It’s not working.

  The two are sharing a moment. It’s a happy one, and becomes too painful for me to watch. I turn my back and down my Bloody Mary. My throat burns, and I’m not sure if it’s the tabasco or tears, probably both.

  Chalking up my swell of emotion to a drink that’s meant to be sipped, not chugged, I swallow my pride and turn back toward the pair. Gabby’s sitting next to Reid now, and I’m a lover scorned. She’s in an animated fit, probably discussing every adventure we had this weekend.

  “Mom got it as a gift for working hard,” I hear her say, and Reid flicks his gaze to me. “Want to come sit with us?”

  Reid nods and takes her hand on the way. My hands are cold, my fingers barren, and I suspect they will be—forever.

  “Hey.” I try to be cheerful when he arrives at our table.

  “Fancy meeting you here.” His words are light for Gabby’s sake, but his meaning is ripe with anger for me.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Oh, I’m sure nothing more than you winning medical transcriptionist of the month.”

  I’m sweating through my white T-shirt and gray cardigan, and have to resist the urge to sniff my armpits. I try to think about my morning shower and how much deodorant I applied, but at this point, who cares?

  “I need to explain, but later?”

  “It’s okay. I get it. There are secrets, and I’m not worthy of knowing.” He leans close and whispers this only for me, sparing Gabby, who is currently digging through her lemonade for a maraschino cherry.

  Kissing my cheek, he says out loud, “Good seeing you. I guess we’re on the same flight. I skipped today’s wrap-up session and moved my flight a day early to surprise you at home. Joke’s on me.”

  Gabby’s watching, her gaze flicking back and forth between us, a small line of worry between her eyes. “Can I sit with Reid on the plane?”

  “We’ll see later, Gabbs. Let him go to the gate.”

  “Oh,” she huffs.

  “I need to settle the bill,” I tell her, like it all should make sense.

  “Hey, Melanie,” Reid calls, remembering the name of our server. “Can you grab their check and add it to mine?”

  “That’s not necessary,” I say, my voice hushed. I don’t want a fight. I want peace for my daughter first and secondly for me . . . although, I’m certain I don’t deserve it.

  I brought this on myself. I say it in my mind but don’t want to believe it.

  “It’s not a big deal. Then we can see about Gabby sitting near me.”

  He’s too good.

  Reid pays, and he doesn’t ask when he picks up my carry-on duffel.

  “If you liked Universal,” Reid says to Gabby, not me, “you’ll love Disney. I thought of you when I was riding the Snow White and Seven Dwarfs coaster.”

  “Do you have a picture of it?” Gabby asks.

  That’s pretty much how we walk down the concourse, the two of them engrossed in conversation, and me with my tail tucked between my legs.

  At the gate, Reid approaches the ticket counter, motioning toward me and presumably asking about a seat change.

  “What’s your seat numbers?” he calls to me, and if his voice weren’t so flat, I’d feel hopeful.

  “14B and C.” I walk over while saying it, and then for only the two of us, I whisper, “This isn’t necessary. She’ll be fine.”

  “Anything near there?” Reid asks the gate agent, ignoring my plea.

  As the agent bangs away on her computer, the sound of the keys clicking grates on my nerves and ratchets my anxiety more than I care for.

  “I thought you were the one who didn’t want Gabby to get hurt,” Reid leans in and says to me.

  “Reid, I—”

  “No, you were right,” he says, cutting me off. “I should’ve never gotten close to her. To Gabby, that is. Because, news flash . . . I like her. I’ve come to care for her, and in my mind, I never thought you’d be the one to destroy that.”

  Each syllable is a knife through my gut.

  “Sir,” the agent says, interrupting. “I have three seats in row nine?”

  “Good.” Reid takes the boarding passes I’m holding and gives them to the agent with his.

  My feet are glued to the floor. I need to move, but I can’t. I’m staring at Reid’s back and the gate agent’s front, but I don’t see anything. I try to focus . . .

  “All set,” she says to Reid, smiling, flirting, even though he’s switching his seat to sit near me. Well, my daughter, but she doesn’t know that.

  “We board in about ten minutes.” Reid takes a seat and resumes his conversation with Gabby, and I’m long forgotten.

  I fiddle with my phone and pretend to have shit to do.

  We board the plane without Reid having said anything more to me. He even takes the middle seat, giving Gabby the window and me the aisle.

  Reid pretends to be fascinated with our ascent, humoring Gabby and keeping in time with her oohing and aahing.

  I want him to put a hand on my knee. Fat chance.

  “We saw these Spider-Man balloons, but I couldn’t take one on the plane,” I hear Gabby telling Reid.

  “Oh, I forgot, I got you this.” He pulls a plush Goofy out of his bag. “He’s from Italy in Epcot. I know how much you like pizza,” he says to Gabby, and when she hugs the stuffed animal like it’s a million bucks, I feel like less than a penny.

  Eventually, Gabby dozes off mid-conversation, clutching Goofy and still holding Reid’s attention.

  “Must be the motion. This is only her second flight,” I tell Reid.

  He turns to face me. “Sounds like she had a great time.”

  I nod. “It was a unique opportunity.”

  My palms are dripping, and my yoga pants do little to soak up the clamminess as I run my hands up and down my thighs.

  “I bet. Want to elaborate?” He’s quiet, keeping the conversation between the two of us.

  Reid looks like a knockout with his khaki shorts, white polo, and scruffy face. I’d rather kiss him, but that tactic hasn’t worked. I should have told him a long time ago.

  “I do, but it’s complicated. And more than likely going to make you very mad.”

  “More mad?”

  “Probably.”

  Our voices are hushed, our heads close. To anyone walking by, we look like a couple in love, whispering sweet nothings and promises.

  I decide to rip off the Band-Aid. Go big or go home, that kind of thing. “I’m the UAB.”

  “What?” Reid looks at me like I’m an alien with seven eyes. “What did you say?”

  “I write The UnAffectionate Blogger. That’s me. That’s how I make a living.”

  Reid doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move, not even a twitch.

&n
bsp; “The blogger you’ve been corresponding with is me. Andrea, but I’m really Andonia, which is the truth. I knew who you were when the girls trick-or-treated at your house. I wasn’t stalking you . . . what I mean is, I didn’t come to your house on purpose. James was reading your blog, and my sister was concerned he was having an affair, and since I’m a blogger, she asked me to read your blog. Then the girls ended up at your house by chance, and I was in shock. It was you, and we lived in the same city.”

  “You are a blogger, not was a failed mom blogger,” Reid says slowly, interrupting my verbal diarrhea.

  “Yes and no. I’m a blogger, but also my original mom blog failed.”

  He doesn’t say anything in return. I have to hand it to him . . . his expression is schooled, giving away nothing.

  “I was invited on this trip as part of the blog. I’m going to promo Universal in my own snarky way, which I’ve been reconsidering lately, but then I also have to pay the bills. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I wanted to tell you, but I knew it would end us, and I think I just wanted to hold on as long as possible.”

  My chest tightens as I wait for him to say something. Anything. My mind silently begs him to talk.

  He looks at me, saying nothing, though.

  “Everything else was the truth.” It’s a lame excuse or explanation or whatever you want to call it. I lied, and it’s going to mark the end of the small slice of happiness I’ve enjoyed these last three months.

  Reid pulls in a deep breath and takes my hand in his. It gives me pause, and I let out a sigh of relief. He’s touching me, igniting a warmth I haven’t felt in days.

  “Andi, Andonia, Andrea, whoever you are.” He stares at me, his eyes icy and cold. “The only thing I believe is that you didn’t want me to hurt your daughter, and out of respect to her, not you, when we get off the plane, we’re going to say good-bye, see you soon, and all of that made-up crap. I’ll smile at Gabby and she’ll walk off with her Goofy doll, and then you can come up with whatever excuse you want, because we will never see one another again. Hear me? I guess, after all, the Spencers of the world win. I was a pawn in another game.”