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The man has faced adversity and he has grit and social awareness to boot. I love it.
Stranger7721: Really? How did you deal?
Stranger88: Head down, eyes on the prize. Is there any other way?
Stranger7721: Of course not. Where’d you go to school?
Stranger88: I’ll tell you as long as you promise not to make assumptions about it.
Stranger7721: Pinky swear.
Stranger88: Harvard.
My jaw hangs open. Not because that’s damn impressive, but because he’s so matter of fact about it. Earlier today Brooks told me he went to Harvard. Small world.
Stranger7721: So that’s why you felt out of place there? Because you were a scholarship kid in a sea of kids whose parents were footing the bill?
Stranger88: Mostly, yeah. I was a poor kid, child of a single mother. My father was a drunk, died when I was young. Like I said, I wasn’t one of ‘them.'
Stranger7721: I love that. Cheers to the underdogs of the world.
Stranger88: Where did you go to college? Or did you? I don’t mean to assume. When you said you wear nylons, I immediately pictured a CEO or something.
I sniff a laugh.
Stranger7721: I went to a public university here in Maine.
Stranger88: Respectable.
Stranger7721: We have a lot in common, you know. When my father left, my mom had nothing. We were homeless for a time. But she was determined to get us out of that situation. She was able to get her paralegal license, put herself through law school… everything. She’s my hero.
As we head into the small, quiet hours of the night, we continue our conversation, telling each other everything. I tell him things I’ve never told anyone before. Before long, there are birds singing outside the window and the sky is turning from the deepest darkest navy to a dreamy shade of cerulean blue.
It’s morning. And I haven’t slept a single wink.
Thank goodness it’s Saturday.
After my meeting with Courtney, I’ll rush home and catch some sleep.
And yet, I can’t help grinning as I stare at the message that pops up from my stranger. Forget the meeting. I feel like I can talk to him forever.
Stranger88: I should sign off… loved talking with you tonight. Even if you’re actually 88 in real life.
Stranger7721: Thanks, cubicle pervert. That really means a lot.
I can’t wait until next time. But when I look up from the screen, my eyes bleary and unfocused, the real world starts to intercede, and I remember that our online interaction, as sweet and wonderful as it was, really means very little.
I don’t know what he looks like.
I don’t know if everything he told me was true.
I don’t even know his name.
Even though we just spent hours pouring out our hearts to each other, it’s nothing more than a fantasy, a frivolous escape. I can’t get too wrapped up in this, even if it feels amazing in the moment.
10
Saturday morning I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
At five, just as the sun is starting to make its appearance, I burrow under the covers, hoping to catch a little shut eye before I have to get ready for the meeting with the soon-to-be ex Mrs. Perry.
I’m almost asleep a few minutes later, when Jace bursts in with his toy airplane, making zooming noises. He launches himself on my bed and burrows in with me, wiggling like a worm.
“Little dude, let me sleep,” I mumble into my pillow.
After about ten minutes of trying and failing to ignore him, I finally pull the covers off us. He’s so cute. I really do need to assemble that air hockey table for him.
“I’m hungry and Mom is still sleeping,” he says.
I can’t fault Ellie—it’s five AM. Everyone should be sleeping.
“Let me guess. You want pancakes.”
“Duh! It’s Saturday!” He’s nodding, his freckled face full of excitement. Pancakes on Saturday is a tradition around here.
“I have to go into work, but okay…”
“Work? Ew!” He makes a face that makes me feel like the world’s worst uncle.
“After I make pancakes of course.” I pick him up in a football-hold and carry him downstairs. “You get the syrup and butter and I’ll do the rest.”
We spend the next thirty minutes in relative harmony, making and eating breakfast. Jace helps, to the best of his ability, and then we sit down and talk, man-to-man. He tells me about a stained-glass project he’s doing in art class and how he’s thinking about asking the blonde who sits next to him to be his girlfriend.
“You have time,” I tell him. “Play it cool. Don’t come on too strong. Girls don’t like that.”
“She’s nice though. She might like it,” he says, raking his fork through the syrup.
“It’s almost summer break. Did you ask her what her plans are? You think she’ll be in first grade with you?”
His brow knits. “I haven’t really talked to her yet.”
“That could be a problem,” I acknowledge, as Ellie scuffs in, wearing her robe and pink fuzzy slippers. She looks like hell. When I got home shortly after eleven last night, she was dressed and ready to go out. I could tell she was pissed, just waiting for her babysitter—that would be me— to come home so she could start her night.
