by Roya Carmen
He’s hungry for it. And so am I. I reach for his t-shirt and tear into it to feel the hot skin of his stomach. I love to run my fingers along the light smattering of hair over his navel. He inhales a deep breath when I touch him. “It’s been too long, Gabbie,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.
I straddle him as we deepen the kiss, and press my hand against his hardness. He’s wearing lounge pants and I’m just about ready to tear them off.
His voice is rough when he murmurs, “You drive me crazy, Gabbie,” Then, he goes into typical ‘John mode’ — he likes sex a certain way, always has, and I’m certainly not complaining because I like it that way too. He likes to dominate and take charge.
He flips me around. My hands land on the edge of his desk. My ass is right in his face. He doesn’t waste a second. He tears off the garter and the stockings in one fell swoop, down to my ankles. He runs his mouth along my leg and the curve of my rear. I push the papers and laptop to the side and throw myself on the desk, my face pressed against the cool wood.
He pulls at my hair and kisses the back of my neck softly. “I love you,” he says, and then he enters me. I’m ready for him — no more foreplay needed. He starts slowly but I beg him to go harder. I grasp the edge of the desk as he pounds into me. I love every second of it.
He trails his hand around to touch me — my husband is very generous that way — he always makes sure I get off too. I whimper loudly as he takes me closer. There’s no one here but us.
“I’m taking you there, gorgeous,” he whispers between labored breaths.
I close my eyes, and I see Eli. I don’t push the image away. I don’t need to. That’s all it is — an image. Just a photo of a man who doesn’t exist. A photo of a beautiful man, taken who knows where, by who knows whom.
A fantasy.
Chapter Eight
“HOLY SHIT,” Corrie says.
“He has really nice eyes.” Maeve chimes in.
“I know, right?” I stare at the photo, not quite knowing what to think. Is he real, or not? I wish I knew.
“You should make that photo your phone wallpaper,” Kayla jokes.
Maeve laughs. “I don’t think John would like that too much,” she points out.
I smile and don’t tell them about the painting of the boats I now see every day when I turn on my phone. With a few taps, I replace the photo with one of the kids. Enough with this guy, already.
Corrie cocks a brow. “You should be careful with this guy,” she warns me, yet again.
“C’mon,” Kayla says. “It’s harmless. He’s just a guy on the other side of the world. He lives in Denmark, right?”
I nod. “Corrie’s right,” I concede. “I’m done with this guy. I’ve been kind of acting like a silly teenager.”
Kayla grins. “Don’t beat yourself up, Gabbie. Just because you’re a wife and a mother, doesn’t mean you’re not a person. You want to have fun, get excited, feel special… it’s normal. Maybe this guy is an escape for you. As long as you realize that, you’re fine.”
That’s so typical of Kayla — she always has words of wisdom to offer. She’s the most grounded one out of the four of us. I always say that she should have been a therapist, and she says that she kind of is when she listens to her massage clients yap about everything and anything as she kneads their bodies. And she always ends her yoga classes with five or ten minutes of meditation.
“Let’s Google him,” Corrie pipes up, a Cheshire cat grin stretched across her face. “What’s his name?”
I shake my head. “Eli Kelly,” I tell her. I don’t admit that I’ve already creeped him, and found nothing.
She taps away on her phone. She bites her lip as she peruses the results. Maeve and Kayla watch her intently, awaiting eagerly.
She shakes her head. “I’m not finding anything. A few results but they don’t seem to be him. This guy is a ghost… I think I was right. He doesn’t exist.”
I let out a long sigh, and try not to get angry at Corrie. She’s just being a friend, and trying to help.
“Here you go,” Rachel says cheerfully as she sets down our slices of pie. We usually only take coffee or tea, the occasional cookie, but today we’re going all out — it’s Corrie’s thirty-fifth birthday, and we’re celebrating.
“Thank you,” I say to Rachel. “The pie looks delicious.”
I turn to my friends. “Seriously, Enough about me. It’s Corrie’s day.”
It’s been over a week since I’ve had any contact with Eli. I haven’t seen any posts, haven’t stalked him, and to my dismay, there were no likes or comments from him on my stuff. I mentally pat myself on the shoulder — I’ve done good. I’m normal again.
I’m grocery shopping at Walmart, standing in the middle of the toilet paper isle, checking to see which brands are on sale. I throw a pack of Charmin in the cart with all my other stuff. I think I have everything I need. I dig into my purse for my shopping list, and check my phone while I’m at it.
My heart does a flip when I see a message from him. Curiosity gets the best of me and I instantly check it.
I thought I’d show you what I do.
There’s a link to a video below. I watch it, of course — grocery shopping can wait.
I’m completely engrossed. The video is hot!!! In more ways than one. He’s wearing faded jeans and a dirty white t-shirt, and wields a long steel pole. He’s also wearing these heavy duty protective glasses, and a tuque. I study the shape of his body — he’s tall, and all lean muscle. I can’t help but stare at the curves of his shoulders and arms as he works the pole.
He pulls it out of a huge oven. There’s an orange ball at the end of his stick — it looks like a flaming sun. It looks dangerous. I wonder how hot that ball of glass is. He handles it delicately and efficiently, like he’s done this a thousand times. He probably has, he obviously knows what he’s doing.
He’s in a very industrial-looking room, surrounded by tools. He dips the ball into what looks like a big plate of candy, and swirls it around, and sticks it back in the oven. He pulls it out again and dips it in a cauldron, spinning the pole like a magician in a circus show. It’s true artistry, almost like a dance. I’m mesmerized.
He blows into the pole, and then swirls it around on the candy plate. And back in the oven it goes. He repeats the whole process. He spins the stick quickly as he manipulates it with giant pliers and a paddle.
The fireball is transforming into a work of art right before my eyes, but I still don’t know what it is. I watch intently, eager to find out.
He blows again, and spins, shapes it. It slowly opens up, like a flower blooming. Is it going to be a bowl? A vase? And back in the oven it goes. Obviously, if he makes the tiniest mistake, the whole thing is ruined. He is precise, and methodical. He shapes it again, pulls at the rim. A sprout forms. Oh, it’s a pitcher, I think, excited.
There’s a young guy who’s helping him. He tips a pole with what looks like a piece of stretched orange taffy onto the pitcher, and Eli manipulates it with a tool, spinning it around. He swirls it around efficiently, and turns it into a beautiful handle. And he shoves it back in the oven.
He makes a few more adjustments and the glass pitcher is complete. It’s absolutely gorgeous — swirls of striking color. It’s the kind of glasswork you see in the fancy art galleries and gift shops. I’ve always admired glasswork but never stopped to think about how it is made. It’s typically very expensive, and now I understand why.
When the video is finally done, I let out a long sigh. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” I blurt out loud.
An old man cocks a brow and studies me curiously. I hadn’t realized I had an audience.
I let out a little laugh. “Uh, how are you? Buying some toilet paper?”
He nods and turns away, like I’m some kind of weirdo.
I love it, I write back. It’s absolutely beautiful. Thank you for sharing. :)
As soon as I get home, I store away the groce
ries, and check my phone. There’s another message.
It’s yours if you want it. :)
My heart leaps. He can’t be serious.
A little tricky to ship, don’t you think?!
—
Come over here and get it.
Oh no, he didn’t. He’s flirting with me.
Only 3,642 miles between us :(, he writes.
—
How do you know this? I ask.
—
I Googled it.
Oh damn, this is getting serious.
3,642 miles.
I gotta go.
I can’t do this right now. I need to get the kids, and make dinner for my husband. My husband.
I try to be a good girl and stay away, I really do. But unfortunately the urge is stronger than my morals. It’s pretty innocent, really. I just send him a video. I figure that if he shared his process, I should share mine too. It’s a short time-lapsed video I took a while back, of me painting — you see the image come to life right before your eyes, and it’s fun to see my hands moving a mile a minute. I’ve shared this video with countless people already. As a fellow artist, I know he’ll appreciate it even more than my friends did.
Amazing. I love your process. You are very talented, Gabriella.
No one calls me Gabriella. I’m Gabbie. I’m Mommy. Seeing my name spelled out in its entirety makes me feel special… sexy. I love it. Gabriella is the woman I really am inside, the one nobody sees because I’m always too busy being a mom, wife, and friend.
Thank you.
—
I’m glad we met, he replies.
—
Me too. It’s always nice to meet a fellow artist.
I watch the little circles dance, they pop up and disappear. Again and again. He’s writing something. It goes on and on. Whatever he’s writing, it’s long. What is it? The suspense is driving me insane.
What is he writing?!
Finally, his message appears, and it completely takes me for a loop. My heart races, and I feel a little nauseous at the sight of it. It’s not what I had expected at all.
We should video chat sometime. It might be easier. I’d love to meet you, hear your voice. :)
Oh damn, what do I do now?
When I don’t reply, he sends another message.
I’m not hitting on you. I know you are married with children. I have no intentions. I just think it would be nice to meet and chat. :)
I know exactly what I should say. I should write No, thank you. Chatting like this is just fine. But, hell no! Curiosity killed the cat, as they say. This is my chance to confirm he’s not catfishing me. I absolutely need to meet him.
Just one quick chat. That’s all, I reply.
—
Great! Looking forward to it.
—
Me too.
—
Let’s video chat on Facebook. I’ll friend you.
Wait… what now? How does he know I’m on Facebook? Do I have a stalker on my hands? Well, he is gorgeous. There are worse things in life than a beautiful stalker.
Uh… sure. You know how to find me?
—
Yes.
And that’s the exact moment I turn down that forbidden road, the one with all the warning signs I refuse to pay attention to. I’m speeding along, to god knows where.
Chapter Nine
JOHN TYPICALLY MAKES DINNER on Friday nights; simple stuff; homemade pizza, burgers, tacos. But tonight, I’m on my own because he’s at another book signing. This one is in Biloxi, Mississippi, of all places. Back in the day, he didn’t do too many of these. But lately, he’s all over the place. Since his books are not selling like they used to, he needs to work harder to promote himself, so he says. It seems like he works a lot more than he ever did.
I’ve heated chicken fingers from a box, and fries, and made a quick salad. I’m pretty much mailing it in tonight, but the kids are happy. I check my Facebook, and my heart goes into overdrive when I see the friend request from Eli. Eli Anderson. There’s also a message request.
Hi, it’s me. Eli.
I accept right away, and proceed to instantly stalk him. No shame whatsoever.
I love his feed. There’s so much more there than on Instagram. Photos of him and friends, his dog, his art. Silly memes and even the occasional link to his favorite music videos. Turns out, we both like Ed Sheeran.
I forget to eat.
I want to message him, but I’m not quite sure what to say. And also, it’s about midnight where he is.
After dinner, I give the kids their baths and we watch Finding Nemo (for the millionth time). I put them to bed, and kiss their little cheeks, all the while thinking about Eli. I try to read, but I can’t focus. Bored to bits with my book, I turn out the lights, but sleep eludes me.
I toss and turn. I know I shouldn’t have accepted his request, but what else was I going to do? I know that I shouldn’t be video chatting with him. But just one time, I tell myself. The man lives across the ocean, and knows I’m married. Nothing is going to happen.
I’m up early on Saturday, and the first thing I do after whipping up some pancakes for the kids, is message Eli.
Hi there. I hope you’re having a good day. Why is your name different on Facebook?
I wait nervously for his reply, pacing around the kitchen, absentmindedly loading the dishwasher, and wiping counters. Less than five minutes later, I hear the ding of my Messenger app.
I’m having a great day. How are you?
—
Eli Kelly is my artist name. Kelly was my mother’s name. I like to be a bit anonymous on the web.
—
Oh, I see. Well, I only have one name. Lol! I reply.
—
And it is a pretty one.
I blush a little.
Thank you.
—
Are you up for video chatting?
—
Right now?! I write.
—
Yes. :)
—
Sure.
I scramble to find my purse, and dash to the washroom to dab on some lipstick. He calls me right away, and I check my reflection quickly before I accept his call.
I’m a trollop.
God, he’s gorgeous. And real! This is no stock photo. He shoots me a shy smile. “Hi,” he says.
My stomach goes all topsy-turvy. “Hi,” I reply shyly, and smile back. I glance at my image on the tiny screen in the corner — I don’t look too bad, but nowhere as good as him.
“Where are you?” I ask.
He tilts his head, looking behind him. “I’m in my studio.” he replies. He has an American accent, like I do.
“Show me,” I ask. I really want to see — I’m fascinated.
He waves his phone around the space. I’d seen it before in the video he sent me, but now I get to see it all — wide industrial space, large oven, steel table, tools everywhere, and shelving of various glassware, swirls of color, reflecting the light from a window nearby.
His face reappears, and his smile catches me off guard — it’s so genuine and sweet. He has a crooked eye tooth, but a gorgeous smile all the same. “Where are you?” he asks.
“I’m in my living room.” I turn my phone around and scan the room; designer sofa, shag area rug, rustic coffee table, and pops of color artfully displayed.
“Is that your artwork on the walls?” he asks.
I smile. “Yes.”
He stares at me. A hint of a smile traces his lips. A long beat. Silence. It’s just a few seconds, three tops, but it feels like an eternity. It is definitely what one would call ‘a moment’.
Big fat trollop, that’s me.
“So, uh… what are you doing today?” I ask in an attempt to end the awkward pause. What the hell was that, anyway?
He smiles. “Just working in my studio. How about you?”
I’m speechless for a second or two. Do I tell him? I debate it for a second, but I’m kind of on t
he spot. Something about him urges me to be completely open and honest — he has that quality about him, like Kayla. He’d make a good therapist.
“I… I’m going to the park with my kids,” I tell him. I’m about to end it there, but I want to talk about her. “And then, we’re going to see my mother at the cemetery. Today would have been her birthday. I always go visit on her birthday.” Normally, John comes with us, but this year, he’s away, and I would be lying if I said this didn’t bother me.
Eli’s face falls. “I’m so sorry about your mother,” he says, and then after a beat, he’s cheerful again. “Do you bring her flowers?”
I smile. “Of course. Tulips. Her favorite. They’re my favorite too, actually. I’ve got myself some too.” I stand and bounce over to the kitchen where I show him my vase of flowers sitting on the table.
“Nice,” he says.
Another moment of awkward silence.
“My mother is gone too,” he says quietly.
“Yes, you mentioned… I’m so sorry,” I want to know more about her. What happened exactly? Why wasn’t he there for her? “How long ago?” I ask. “Three years, you said.”
He scratches the stubble lining his jaw and draws a breath. “It’s been a while now… but I still miss her so much.”
“My mother died just two years ago,” I tell him. “I think I told you that already. It was sudden. Car wreck.” It hurts just to say the words out loud.
He shakes his head and winces. He doesn’t seem to know what to say. I don’t know what to say either.
There’s nothing much to say. She’s gone.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “The worst part is I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” I tell him. “We were in the middle of a fight.”
