I sign off before he can reply. I’m so unbelievable angry, i’m shaking. Apart from it being a gross, big-brother type invasion of privacy, there is another important reason I don’t want him to know who I am.

Hale Heart thinks I’m a woman.

I wouldn’t say we’ve been flirting exactly. Just that we’ve become friends really quickly. In the kind of way that, if this was a gay guy and we were actually meeting in person, we would have been on a couple of dates by now and probably kissed. The way you just click with some people and it feels good when you’re around them, you know?

And he thinks I’m a woman. I know he does. He doesn’t have to say it. It’s like him asking what I look like. I know he’s expecting to see a lady. If he actually sees me, shit will hit the fan. Big time. Shit flying everywhere. You hear me?

He’s hinted before. But I can’t tell him anything. Because if I tell him one thing, I’ll have to tell him everything. Hi, I’m twenty-seven, average height, average looks, short brown hair, and tidy fingernails and oh I’m a guy.

I mean, even if he were gay, he’s so far out of my league it’s not even conceivable. He’s literally a fantasy.

So no, I can’t tell him who I am.

Maybe it’s better like this. Cutting it off here. Avoid all that shit.

My coffee’s gone cold again. Feeling far more morose than I have any right to be, I dump it down the drain and go check that Ada is still alive.

I don’t know if other parents do this. But when she was little, like really little, I used to check on her obsessively. I’d read up about cot death and I freaked out. So every two hours I’d wake up and hold a tissue over her nose to see it puff out and know she was breathing. She’s almost six now. But I still do it sometimes. I sit on her bed and just watch the tiny rise and fall of her chest, and feel relieved.

She’s alive. I didn’t kill her. I’m doing ok at this parenting thing.

Maybe not so great at other things

-8-

Hale Heart, gorgeous musician extraordinaire, has not forgotten my number.

Figuratively of course. He doesn’t have my number.

But every time I open my chat, he’s left messages. A lot of apologies. A lot.

I want to say that I don’t care that he cares, but I’m flattered. And I shouldn’t be.

After four days, though, I get exasperated and finally type back.

O: alright. Apology accepted. But I think maybe we should just back off anyway. Things got a bit too close, and I want to keep my business and private life separate. I made a mistake letting us become more than that.

Of course, he doesn’t agree

Bw07: look I made a dumb mistake. Can we stay friends, please?

O: rolling my eyes here. Why do you care so much?

I’m being kind of bitchy, hoping to put him off.

Bw07: because you’re my friend.

0: I’m sure you have loads of friends.

…….

Bw07: I don’t. you know that.

I feel bad now. I do know it. I mean, everyone’s got friends, but he’s like me. He can count real friends on one hand.

O: sorry. Low blow.

O: I just…look that was shitty.

Bw07: I know

O: I know you know. It really freaked me out though. It’s about invasion of privacy. And I’m a parent, I’m not just looking out for me. I know I don’t really have to tell you what that’s like, but I need to say it.

Bw07: I would offer to send you a bunch of flowers in apology but as I don’t know anything about you, and THAT’S TOTALLY OK, I won’t.

Bw07: here’s a virtual bunch.

He sends a little gif of a set of flowers opening. My lips quirk despite myself.

O: cheesy.

Bw07: am I forgiven?

I sigh, because I know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to.

O: yeah ok. Sorry for freaking out on you.

Bw07: I deserved it. Can we move on?

O: please.

Bw07: :)

…….

Bw07: I meant it though. You’re one of the very few people I know I can just talk to. It means a lot to me.

O: it’s easier to be this way online

Bw07: well, I don’t know about that. Personally, I think we would get along just as well in person. But the point is, I’m grateful. Thank you.

I’m a little flustered now, because I do agree with him. And, because he said ‘thank you’. I get a lot people asking advice. They hardly ever thank me.

O: you don’t say thank you for friendship, dork.

Bw07: I guess not. But I’m saying it.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. I cannot even.

O: this is against my better judgement, but…. I have brown hair.

………………

Bw07: seriously?

O: and I had a wart on my foot once, but got it removed.

BW07: oh my god

O: yeah. Now you can try to find me among the millions of wartless brunettes around the city.

Bw07: that’s harsh

O: throwing you a bone here.

I really really shouldn’t have though. But I can’t take it back now.

-8-

Hale has been bothering me for a video call. It doesn’t escape him that this would be a huge thing for me, but he has no idea that it can never happen.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been giving him more hints about my appearance. I feel guilty because I’m outright perving over pictures of him online. Damn, even in candid shots, the guy is gorgeous. He has that soft, muscular look. Not overly defined, but still soft enough to look boyish. And those eyes…I can’t. He always looks like a kid asking for a treat he’s not allowed to have. All winsome and sexy and….damn. He doesn’t even have to try.

Comparatively, I’m dull as muck. Duller. I’m wallpaper dull. Brown hair, brown eyes. I’m not fat, not thin, not built. I usually have some stubble somewhere. Any partners I’ve had in the past have all said I have a great personality, which is another way of saying I’m pretty plain in the looks department. I mean, I’ve a good sense of humour, but as for my face…meh. You’d forget me in a crowd.

So no. I’ve been firm on any video or voice calls. Not gonna happen.

I shouldn’t be flirting. I really shouldn’t. It’s dangerous and unfair to me and him, when he so obviously thinks I’m a woman. Rationally, I can’t explain it. And I am grateful Roanne isn’t here to see me do something so horribly stupid. But I can’t help myself when he leaves funny emails in my inbox, or sends me one liners about his day.

I won't go into it but snakeskin should not come in purple.

Did you know certain publicity agents get really territorial about donuts before 10 AM? I didn't. But I do now.

Someone needs to put out a PSA that leaving your USED underwear in someone's trailer does not romance make.

And he asks too. About me. Like, about my day, about teaching, about Ada. And since, like any doting parent, I can’t get enough of talking about her, I gush daily. And he loves it. He checks up on how she’s doing, laughs at her weird quirky ways. It’s nice. Too nice.

I’m an idiot. We’ve covered this, yes?

So, as the universe is wont to do, it’s completely screws me over in the most innocent of ways possible.

It's Friday and Ada has the day off from school because of a camp out most of the rest of the school is having. So Ada and I, we are having A Day To Ourselves.

Sinatra is warbling his loudest about rain and last goodbyes while I’m making pancakes in the kitchen,  singing along at top volume and swaying my hips still wearing PJ's. It’s a scene, but it’s me and Ada’s thing. We pump up the volume as loud as we can without neighbors complaining, and dance like crazy people.

Growing up with me means she likes the classics; Louis Primo, Armstrong, Sinatra, Billie. I can’t get enough of saxophone and smooth chocolate tones. The music is also just my taste of hopelessly sappy romance. If you haven’t guessed it, this is why I don’t get pop culture references. At least in terms of music.

I’m so into the moment that it takes a minute for Ada to get my attention, but pulling hard on my shirt. I start and put down the spatula I’m using to reach for the remote and turn the volume down. Then I turn to her.

“Sorry, honey. Too loud?”

“Not for me. But you have a call.” She says, blinking wide green eyes at me.

“A call?” I glance at my phone next to me on the counter top. Its blank, “I don’t-“

“Not there.” She says, tugging my shirt again, then pointing to my laptop, which I’ve left open on the kitchen table. “There.”

It was already facing my way, since I had been working on it between pancakes and before the dancing took over. My eyes drag to it, all confusion for a moment. Then someone dumps a bucket of cold water over me.

There, in an open video chat window, is Hale Heart. And he is staring at me, mouth open and eyes wide.

I stare back, frozen for way too long. Then I lunge forward across the small space and slam the screen shut. I stand there, heart pounding.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit…” I’m muttering

“You’re not supposed to say that word.” Ada says and she sounds worried. I look at her then and I can see her little fuzzy eyebrows wrinkling. “Did I do something wrong?”

I can explain later to her that it’s not ok to answer calls on my laptop for me, even though she is welcome to pick up my phone if I’m in the bath or the toilet. But for now, my baby is feeling bad about something she doesn’t understand, and I’m a parent first.

“No honey.” I say, gesturing for her to come closer. She does and I give her a hug. “No, it as just…a surprise. I wasn’t expecting a call.”

“Ok.” I can hear she is not totally convinced, but she will let it go. “Can we put Frankie on again?”

“Absolutely.” I nod vehemently. I need the distraction.

Though nothing can really distract me from the mess I just made.

Shit shit fuckity shit.