That’s why I’m sharing this story with her, though I meant to keep it light and easy. But this? It’s important, it’s where I came from, and I think she knows that too and wants every tidbit she can get from me the same way I’d love to know how she became who she is. What makes someone grow into an adult and still have this exuberant spirit that finds so much joy in life like Rachel does? I want to know, and so I continue my story.
M: The boy saw a brown paper bag lying in the grass. It was crumpled up like someone had thrown their empty lunch sack away, but it was stuck on the fence. Something about the way it didn’t move made the boy think there was something inside. He never told anyone this, but in that moment, he hoped it was food. He was hungry. He was getting older and hungrier all the time, but he would never take food from his mother’s mouth. Desperate as he was, he told himself that if there was a sandwich inside that bag . . . if it didn’t look too bad, he’d eat it and never tell a soul.
R:
M: But there wasn’t a sandwich in the bag.
I pause, knowing she’s awake because she just sent me the emoji message but wanting to get this next part right. It was the moment that everything changed. Everything. Not in an instant, there was still hard work to be done, but it’d taken the edge off my family’s situation.
R: Mark?
The name, not mine but of this other man I’ve become, is what gives me the strength to tell the rest.
M: I’m here. Just making up the next part of the story.
R: Okay, take your time.
I’m not making up anything. I think she knows that too but is giving me the time and space to decide what I want to divulge.
M: So the boy slowly reaches out and picks up the bag, hugging it to his chest. He can tell right away that there’s not a sandwich inside. It’s too light for that. But he looks inside and can’t believe his eyes. It’s a roll of bills wrapped up in a rubber band. Money. More money than he’d ever seen in his life.
R: What did he do?
M: He jumped out of his hiding spot and ran for his mom, yelling the whole way. His mom thought something was wrong at first, checking him over for injury, but when he showed her the roll of green money, her eyes opened wide in hope for a split second before they crinkled with a frown. She asked where the boy got it, and he showed her, asking if they could keep it. But the mom said no, it wasn’t theirs, and someone would be very sad that they’d lost their money because it might be their life savings. The boy didn’t understand and argued, ‘finders keepers’, but the mom reminded him of the second part of that cliché, ‘losers weepers’, and said she wouldn’t want to be the reason someone less fortunate was crying. You there?
R:
M: The mom took the boy and the money to the police department. The boy didn’t understand it all, but if no one claimed it, after a time, it would be his. At first, the boy asked every day if someone had claimed the money, and he planned what he would spend it on. Toys, candy, a coat for his mom. Silly things and things they needed. It was months later, so long that the boy had stopped asking about the money. He’d given up all hope when the phone rang. It was the police. No one had claimed the money and it was his. The mom took the boy to the police department, and he signed his name carefully to the form, and the man behind the desk handed him an envelope. Inside, the money was laid out flat, wrapped in a band, and was still more money than he’d ever seen. The mom told him that having a lot of money was a gift and a responsibility, asking him what he wanted to spend it on. What do you think he bought?
R: Toys? Please tell me he bought his mom a coat!
I remember back to that moment, holding that thick stack of green paper in my hands. I had no concept of amounts or what anything cost, but it’d felt like a wish come true.
M: The boy bought his mom and sister dinner that night at their favorite restaurant, the diner on the corner. They only ate there occasionally and always shared two meals between the three of them, the mom only picking at a pancake to make sure the kids got enough to eat. But that night, they all had their own plates of pancakes and bacon. The mom called it a splurge, and it’d felt like one, his belly full as he went to bed for the first time in a long time. He lay there for a while before getting out of bed to talk to his mom. “How can I make this money change things so that we have enough to eat every night and never have to worry about money again?” he asked. The mom cried at first, but then they talked it over. There were many different ways they could use the money.
R: That’s so smart and brave of the boy!
M: Eventually, the boy gave the money to the mom to go to school herself. It didn’t make things easier at first. In fact, it got even tougher. She couldn’t play hide and seek anymore because she was doing homework. But she reminded her kids every night that she was going to change things for them with the gift the boy had given her. And she did. It took six months, but the mom got a certificate and started working a better job. And then all three of them had enough for dinner every night, the mom had a coat, and they never worried about the rent. The boy learned that education, working hard from the ground up, and never forgetting where you came from is the key to doing better and being better. He learned that from his mom, a better lesson than magically-appearing money could’ve ever taught.
R: That’s so beautiful. Such a touching story. That boy is a perfect example of love, giving everything to someone who’d given everything for him. Can I ask . . . are you the boy?
I stare at the question for a long time, wanting to tell the truth and wanting to lie in equal measure. I feel splayed open in a way I never have before. I started the story thinking it’d be a quick and silly story about the time I found a bunch of money and ate so many pancakes that I made myself sick, but it’d taken a very different tone as I remembered. I not only haven’t shared that story with anyone else, but I also don’t think I’ve ever thought of it the way I did tonight. The vulnerability is uncomfortable, making my chest itchy and achy. If I’d had to speak those words, I wouldn’t have been able to, but typing them seemed less difficult. Until now. Until Rachel wants me to claim them as something so utterly personal.
M: No, just a bedtime story to get you sleepy. Are you ready to go to bed now?
Yeah, I’m pussing out, which pisses me off too. But being angry at myself for sharing too much is easier than proclaiming myself some pitiful loser who was willing to eat a filthy sandwich from someone else’s trash.
R: Oh. Well, it’s still a beautiful story. I am tired. I think I’ll go to sleep now. I’ll talk to you in the morning?
M: Absolutely. Sweet dreams, think of me.
R: I definitely will. My fingers will probably be typing in their sleep. LOL
I’m glad Rachel didn’t seem disappointed when I said the story wasn’t mine. Or maybe she didn’t believe me? Either way, I hope things aren’t awkward now.
I drift off to sleep, dreaming of a blonde beauty curled around her phone, typing out messages to me with a sweet smile on her face. It’s still a blur, but it’s starting to feel clearer.
* * *
M: Good morning, gorgeous!
R: Good morning! Not feeling too gorgeous this morning, I’m afraid. My hair is a mess, like I might have actual rats nesting in these tangles, and my breath could kill a rhino.
I laugh at the picture she paints, but before I can respond, she sends another message.
R: Oopsie! I meant . . . Good morning, handsome! Hopefully, that didn’t send you running for the hills. I promise I own a hairbrush and toothbrush and I’m not afraid to use them.
M: A toothbrush? What’s that?
I’m joking. Teasing her. Who am I? Telling deep, dark secret stories, smiling at my phone like a maniac, and telling silly jokes. River wouldn’t believe it. Hell, I don’t believe it, but here I am. And I’m relie
ved that things aren’t weird or awkward after last night’s story time. Rachel’s picking up our messaging today the same way we have the last several days, casual and flirty and fun.
R: Oh, no! Please tell me you’re kidding and have all your teeth! Is that why you’re on BlindDate? Because you’re a toothless, fire-breathing rhino-killer?
M: Maybe. Maybe not. Sounds like you’re not ready to know for sure yet.
Fuck, we’re dancing closer to the edge of making this real. A few days ago, I would’ve said no way. But now, I think I do want to meet Rachel. It’s risky, a huge risk if I’m honest, because I’m enjoying our conversations and there’s always the chance that meeting in person might ruin all this. Especially when I explain my name and my reason for being on the app in the first place. She might ghost me, and I can’t say I won’t deserve it. But fuck, I really want to know what she looks like, see if the vision in my mind is accurate. I want to trace her lips and taste her smile, feel her laughter wash over my skin. I bet it feels like a bubble bath.
R: I might be. If you promise to brush your teeth.
M: Tough negotiator. I could do that. Once. For you.
R: Aww, such a softie.
M: I’m really not. Most people think I’m an asshole. They’re right.
R: I doubt that. You’re too funny and sweet to be an a$$hole.
I bark out laughing at her censoring the word asshole. I haven’t cursed too much in our back-and-forths, but now that I see it this clearly, I realize that she hasn’t cursed at all. Something about that seems so adorable.
M: You’ll see. I’ve got to run so I’m not late for work. Talk soon?
R: Yeppers! Go be a big, bad a$$hole to the people at work. LOL
* * *
I work all day, alternately scowling at statistics and smiling at my phone as Rachel and I message back and forth. I stay away from the coffee pot, not wanting to hear any more gossip about my odd smile. Rachel doesn’t think it’s weird. She thinks I’m funny and sweet. She’s wrong, but it still feels good that she thinks that.
By Wednesday evening, we’re messaging in between dinner and home routines again. I’m not telling her a bedtime story tonight. That’s for sure.
R: What’s on the agenda this evening?
M: I’ve got a pre-cooked dinner to heat up. Exciting stuff, right? What about you?
R: I need to choose a dress for a work thing I’m doing later this month. Pick a color—blue or gray?
I still don’t know what she does, same as I haven’t told her what I do, so I’m careful not to ask questions I don’t want to answer myself.
M: Blue. It’ll look good with your blonde hair.
R: Thanks!
M: What are you wearing now? Already in your pajamas?
R: No. Still in loungewear. Best part of being your own boss is setting the dress code. LOL What’re you wearing?
M: Sweats and a T-shirt. Nothing exciting over here either.
R: Would those by chance be gray sweatpants?
M: Are you spying on me? How’d you know?
R: Men always wear gray sweats because they know the ladies like them.
M: Is that so? Why are gray sweatpants such a beloved item?
R:
I nearly choke on my tongue. This is definitely new territory that we’ve explored, and I’m suddenly desperate to see where this leads. My cock thickens in my sweats, unleashed from underwear since I’m home alone.
I try to decide how to respond. Rachel doesn’t seem the type to jump right into sexting, and I don’t know how well I’d do with it either, but I’m damn willing to try.
M: And now my shirt’s off and my sweats are feeling a bit tighter.
R:
I groan as I picture that.
M: Will you take your shirt off for me?
I’m playing with fire. Hot, dangerous, molten fire that might ignite everything I’ve been building with Rachel and decimate it into ash with a few keystrokes. Or . . . It might take us to a whole new level.
R: I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I did it. Is your shirt really off?
M: Yes. I wish you were here so I could kiss you, cup your breasts in my hands, and feel you against my skin.
R: That sounds good.
I breathe deep and slow, my hand clenched in a tight fist just to keep from jerking myself off. It still takes me two tries to type without any spelling errors.
M: Pretend your hands are mine. Trace them over your skin.
M: Squeeze your breasts, pluck your nipples.
M: Are you doing it?
M: Rachel?
Fuck, did I read this all wrong? She’s not responding.
R: I’m here. I’m . . . doing what you said. It feels good, but I wish it were you.
M: Fuck, R. Touch yourself for me. Slide your hand into your panties and touch yourself. Imagine it’s my fingers and touch yourself.
R: Are you doing it too? Touching yourself.
I am now. I shove my pants down in the front, leaning back on the couch to stroke my length. I have to squeeze just below the head to keep myself from coming too soon because I’m on edge just thinking of Rachel touching herself to my words.
M: Fuck, yes. I’m imagining how gorgeous you look as I stroke myself. I’m already close just from picturing you.
R: Me too. Keep . . . going.
I’m not sure if she means my words or stroking myself or both. Though I have to type one-handed with my left hand, I make it work.
M: Are you wet? Rub that wetness onto your clit. Do you like circles or tapping?
R: Uh . . . circles.
M: Do it then. Circle your clit, dip down into yourself and then rub your clit some more.
M: Tell me when you’re close. I want to come with you.
R: Are you close?
M: I’m holding onto the edge. Waiting on you, baby.
I thrust into my fist, my toes curling against the rug as I fight off the impending orgasm, trying to wait for her.
R: I’m . . . jskdjfoihoiwhehpw.
I take that as her fingers clenching against her phone as the orgasm washes through her, and I jack myself fast and hard, letting go of the tight rein on myself. Cum spurts out of my cock, covering my hand as my abs clench tight.
M: Baby? You good?
M: Still there?
R: I am. Did you?
M: Yeah, I did. I figured the gibberish was your way of saying you were coming.
R: LOL It was. Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I did that!
M: It’s okay. I’ve never done that either. I’m glad we did, though. You?
R: Uhm . . . yeah. Except now I’m sitting here messy. I guess you are too? Meet you back in five after a quick clean-up?
I laugh, shaking my head. She’s so real. Even after saying that she’s never done anything like that, she’s boldly honest that she needs to wipe her hand and thinks nothing of it that I need to as well.
M: I’m counting the minutes.
Fewer than five minutes later, I’m sitting on my couch with freshly washed hands and a clean dick back in my sweats. Testing the waters, I type . . .
M: Second thoughts?
R: No. But that was pushing the line for me. I . . . I like our chats.
M: That was nowhere near my line. Actually, I’d like to push the line a little bit more myself.
R: How so?
M: I like talking to you. A lot.
R: Ditto here. I’ll tell you . . . you’ve made the past few days good ones.
M: So I was thinking, would you like to meet? I mean, face to face?
The message sits on the screen for a long time, and I stare at it, cursing myself for ruining a good thing. There are so many reasons meeting in person is a bad idea. An awful idea! But then I think of the conversations I’ve had with Rachel, the way the last few days have felt brighter, and th
e almost-giddy feeling in my stomach when I see her messages. I think about what we just did and imagine things getting even better if we meet in person.
Or they could go totally awry. Here, in messages, I can control what I say, what impression Rachel has of me. She thinks I’m sweet, for fuck’s sake! If we meet in person, she’ll know the truth. That I lied about my name and motives, that I’m a workaholic who buries himself in statistics and dollars because I refuse to go back to where I came from, and mostly, that I’m an asshole to everyone but her.
I can’t take it anymore.
M: Too soon?
I’m torn between wanting her to say yes, it’s too soon so we can continue the way we are and no, it’s not too soon so I can find out more about this woman who’s filling my thoughts every day and night.
R: Yes. No. I mean . . . yes, I want to meet and no, it’s not too soon.
Holy shit! I was worried for a second there! Immediately, that thought is followed by, Oh, shit, she wants to meet. What if I don’t like her? What if she doesn’t like me?
Deep breath, Noah. I’m sure after this past week, even if there’s no romantic spark, we can have a nice time and remain friends. I have to trust the AI on this one.
M: I haven’t been this nervous since my first date in high school.
R: Me too! This whole blind date thing is really a trip. But you’re unlike anyone I’ve met before.
M: You don’t even know what I look like yet. I could look like Jabba the Hutt for all you know.
R: I seriously doubt you do, but even Jabba must have had some positive qualities. If anything, he had wicked taste in bikinis.
M: You’re evil for that one.
R: Have any specific place in mind?
I think furiously. I was so nervous about just asking her that I didn’t even think about where and when and how.
M: How about tomorrow afternoon at the Alex Lighthouse bookstore? That way, you’ve got a big public space for safety.
The Blind Date Page 7
