As I debate signing my name, I contemplate writing more. But I do neither.
My heart pounds, and for the first time in forever, feelings flow in my veins. I’m tingly at the promise of the email, despite it being anonymous. I try to tell myself not to hitSEND, but it feels too exciting. With the soft whoosh of the email leaving my laptop, my brain urges my hand to shut the lid and find a movie on TV. Instead, I roll my neck, bring my wine back to my lips, and watch the screen for a response.
As if I willed it to happen, my email dings.
With a reply from him.
An instant reply.
UAB,
Is that what they call you? Is there something else I can call you?
Truthfully, I’d love to meet face-to-face.
By the way, where are you? Can you say? I’m in Pittsburgh, PA.
I’d sign an NDA. If not, can you explain to me how you keep everything confidential, from beginning to end. The whole shebang.
We could speak over the phone?
I know it’s asking a lot, and I’m blowing you up with questions.
While I’m at it, if you have any ideas for how I could make the transition, that’d be great!
I’m still happy to pay you.
— Reid
Yeah, I’d love to meet face-to-face too, but Reid is holding nothing more than professional admiration for me. He doesn’t know me IRL.
I know him, and that makes it all the worse ... especially with the way my blood is racing in and out of my heart so fast, I fear I’m going to faint.
“Christ!” I yell, gripping my hand as I rush to the sink.
I’m nervous as shit, and I should bail on trying to make a video, but my site needs an updated post. One second I’m making sea bass on the grill, and the next, I’m charring my thumb.
With my hand under cold water, I look out the window and see my video camera on the patio. “Shit.”
More mumbling to no one as I realize I probably need to replace the damn thing after my stupid anxiety attack. Who the hell freaks out after emailing an anonymous blogger? It’s not even a sexual thing—it’s this damn blog. I like it more than I’m willing to admit.
I dry my thumb, coat it with Neosporin, and wrap it in a Band-Aid before heading back outside. My fish is black and dry, my camera toast, and my grill smells like ass ... and it’s only noon on Sunday.
I actually crave heading in to work tomorrow and teaching statistics. It’s predictable, unlike my current state of affairs.
I waited all day Saturday to receive a reply from theUnAffectionate Blogger. Like a fool, I mentioned getting together. Face-to-face. I don’t know her name or where she lives. Was I going to up and fly to see some unknown woman?
She’s an anonymous blogger, for Christ’s sake. Her site isn’tMatch.com. This isn’tLovers Anonymousor some ploy to make a play.
Slamming my grill closed, I remind myself,she may not even be a female.
The next morning, she sends a simple reply.
Reid,
I’d agree to a phone call. Does that suit you? I have a child, so it needs to be during school hours.
If it works, email me back and we will schedule a time.
