“Can I ask you a few questions?”
I don’t know why I nod while saying, “Yes.”
“Do you love your blog as much as you seem to? Do you consider yourself an influencer?”
“I really do. My blog is an extension of me. God, I sound like a real freak of the week. I promise you, I’m normal. Semi-normal.” When she stays silent, listening to me, waiting for me to go on, I add, “As for being an influencer, I don’t know. I guess.”
She clears her throat, and I hear her take a drink of something. “Is it profitable? We have to discuss this. At the end of the day, if you’re running your blog as a business, the bottom line matters.”
“It is, and it could be way more.”
“Then you can’t risk making it into something else, pretending to be someone else, touting your own shit, pretending it’s someone else when it’s you. It’s got to be honest.”
“I hear you.” I let out a breath. For the first time since the bet, my blog feels real, important, hard-earned. No one else has made me feel this way.
Again, I’m leaning on a complete stranger.
“Your teaching,” she asks. “What is it? High school?”
“College, tenure track.”
“So, what’s the conflict? Your students are all over eighteen. They’re old enough to separate your online persona from your classroom, right? Excuse me for being bold.”
Eyeing the bottle of Scotch on my bookshelf, I suddenly want a cocktail. “The university isn’t sure about all that. Especially the shirtless part.”
She doesn’t laugh. She’s all business, zero frills. “I’m not a lawyer, so I really can’t advise you, but I will say this. You have a blog audience, a profitable one, so I guess the only viable option is to sell your site to someone who wants to take it over, if it can’t be you.”
The drink is looking more and more likely.
“Tell me about you,Andrea.” I need to take a step back.Grill and Groomis my baby. Fuck statistics and my fancy PhD—I love blogging, or influencing, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, more than I care to admit.
“Not much to say. Single mom. My original blog wasn’t profitable. I wasn’t fancy enough, chic enough, topless enough, whatever you want to say. I had to change gears. Ihadto make money, and fast. So I traded my site for something sarcastic and anonymous. It’s a lot of work, but these days, it’s all that I’m qualified for—”
Leaning forward, I interrupt her. “Seems to me you’re qualified to advise me. I wonder how many others need help, direction, in navigating the internet.”
A beat of silence passes.
Then another.
“Well, good thing we didn’t set out to talk about me,” she says. “I hope this was helpful to you, but that’s about all I can offer. I have to cut it short now.”
Strike out.
“Okay ... well, thanks. A lot. Really.”
“’Bye.” She disconnects before I can say the same.
“What was that?” I mumble to myself, swiping my shaky finger across the phone.
In the span of five breaths, I talk myself out of thinkinghe knows who I am,really am. But the way he spoke, it’s like he knew me.
All of me.
Reid’s deep voice, humming over the line, mentioning the unmentionable. It felt like he wanted more for me, the type ofmoreI only dream about, fantasize from time to time about being a reality.
Standing up, I wring my hands and shake out my fingers.
“Icannotdo that again. Ever,” I warn myself. It’s like I’m eighteen all over again, my heart pitter-pattering and hands clammy.
