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.
