“HOLY SHIT,” Corrie says.

“He has really nice eyes.” Maeve chimes in.

“I know, right?” I stare at the photo, not quite knowing what to think. Is he real, or not? I wish I knew.

“You should make that photo your phone wallpaper,” Kayla jokes.

Maeve laughs. “I don’t think John would like that too much,” she points out.

I smile and don’t tell them about the painting of the boats I now see every day when I turn on my phone. With a few taps, I replace the photo with one of the kids. Enough with this guy, already.

Corrie cocks a brow. “You should be careful with this guy,” she warns me, yet again.

“C’mon,” Kayla says. “It’s harmless. He’s just a guy on the other side of the world. He lives in Denmark, right?”

I nod. “Corrie’s right,” I concede. “I’m done with this guy. I’ve been kind of acting like a silly teenager.”

Kayla grins. “Don’t beat yourself up, Gabbie. Just because you’re a wife and a mother, doesn’t mean you’re not a person. You want to have fun, get excited, feel special… it’s normal. Maybe this guy is an escape for you. As long as you realize that, you’re fine.”

That’s so typical of Kayla — she always has words of wisdom to offer. She’s the most grounded one out of the four of us. I always say that she should have been a therapist, and she says that she kind of is when she listens to her massage clients yap about everything and anything as she kneads their bodies. And she always ends her yoga classes with five or ten minutes of meditation.

“Let’s Google him,” Corrie pipes up, a Cheshire cat grin stretched across her face. “What’s his name?”

I shake my head. “Eli Kelly,” I tell her. I don’t admit that I’ve already creeped him, and found nothing.

She taps away on her phone. She bites her lip as she peruses the results. Maeve and Kayla watch her intently, awaiting eagerly.

She shakes her head. “I’m not finding anything. A few results but they don’t seem to be him. This guy is a ghost… I think I was right. He doesn’t exist.”

I let out a long sigh, and try not to get angry at Corrie. She’s just being a friend, and trying to help.

“Here you go,” Rachel says cheerfully as she sets down our slices of pie. We usually only take coffee or tea, the occasional cookie, but today we’re going all out — it’s Corrie’s thirty-fifth birthday, and we’re celebrating.

“Thank you,” I say to Rachel. “The pie looks delicious.”

I turn to my friends. “Seriously, Enough about me. It’s Corrie’s day.”

It’s been over a week since I’ve had any contact with Eli. I haven’t seen any posts, haven’t stalked him, and to my dismay, there were no likes or comments from him on my stuff. I mentally pat myself on the shoulder — I’ve done good. I’m normal again.

I’m grocery shopping at Walmart, standing in the middle of the toilet paper isle, checking to see which brands are on sale. I throw a pack of Charmin in the cart with all my other stuff. I think I have everything I need. I dig into my purse for my shopping list, and check my phone while I’m at it.

My heart does a flip when I see a message from him. Curiosity gets the best of me and I instantly check it.

There’s a link to a video below. I watch it, of course — grocery shopping can wait.

I’m completely engrossed. The video is hot!!! In more ways than one. He’s wearing faded jeans and a dirty white t-shirt, and wields a long steel pole. He’s also wearing these heavy duty protective glasses, and a tuque. I study the shape of his body — he’s tall, and all lean muscle. I can’t help but stare at the curves of his shoulders and arms as he works the pole.

He pulls it out of a huge oven. There’s an orange ball at the end of his stick — it looks like a flaming sun. It looks dangerous. I wonder how hot that ball of glass is. He handles it delicately and efficiently, like he’s done this a thousand times. He probably has, he obviously knows what he’s doing.

He’s in a very industrial-looking room, surrounded by tools. He dips the ball into what looks like a big plate of candy, and swirls it around, and sticks it back in the oven. He pulls it out again and dips it in a cauldron, spinning the pole like a magician in a circus show. It’s true artistry, almost like a dance. I’m mesmerized.

He blows into the pole, and then swirls it around on the candy plate. And back in the oven it goes. He repeats the whole process. He spins the stick quickly as he manipulates it with giant pliers and a paddle.

The fireball is transforming into a work of art right before my eyes, but I still don’t know what it is. I watch intently, eager to find out.

He blows again, and spins, shapes it. It slowly opens up, like a flower blooming. Is it going to be a bowl? A vase? And back in the oven it goes. Obviously, if he makes the tiniest mistake, the whole thing is ruined. He is precise, and methodical. He shapes it again, pulls at the rim. A sprout forms. Oh, it’s a pitcher, I think, excited.

There’s a young guy who’s helping him. He tips a pole with what looks like a piece of stretched orange taffy onto the pitcher, and Eli manipulates it with a tool, spinning it around. He swirls it around efficiently, and turns it into a beautiful handle. And he shoves it back in the oven.

He makes a few more adjustments and the glass pitcher is complete. It’s absolutely gorgeous — swirls of striking color. It’s the kind of glasswork you see in the fancy art galleries and gift shops. I’ve always admired glasswork but never stopped to think about how it is made. It’s typically very expensive, and now I understand why.

When the video is finally done, I let out a long sigh. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” I blurt out loud.

An old man cocks a brow and studies me curiously. I hadn’t realized I had an audience.

I let out a little laugh. “Uh, how are you? Buying some toilet paper?”

He nods and turns away, like I’m some kind of weirdo.

As soon as I get home, I store away the groceries, and check my phone. There’s another message.

My heart leaps. He can’t be serious.

Oh no, he didn’t. He’s flirting with me.

Oh damn, this is getting serious.

3,642 miles.

I can’t do this right now. I need to get the kids, and make dinner for my husband. My husband.

I try to be a good girl and stay away, I really do. But unfortunately the urge is stronger than my morals. It’s pretty innocent, really. I just send him a video. I figure that if he shared his process, I should share mine too. It’s a short time-lapsed video I took a while back, of me painting — you see the image come to life right before your eyes, and it’s fun to see my hands moving a mile a minute. I’ve shared this video with countless people already. As a fellow artist, I know he’ll appreciate it even more than my friends did.

No one calls me Gabriella. I’m Gabbie. I’m Mommy. Seeing my name spelled out in its entirety makes me feel special… sexy. I love it. Gabriella is the woman I really am inside, the one nobody sees because I’m always too busy being a mom, wife, and friend.

I watch the little circles dance, they pop up and disappear. Again and again. He’s writing something. It goes on and on. Whatever he’s writing, it’s long. What is it? The suspense is driving me insane.

What is he writing?!

Finally, his message appears, and it completely takes me for a loop. My heart races, and I feel a little nauseous at the sight of it. It’s not what I had expected at all.

Oh damn, what do I do now?

When I don’t reply, he sends another message.

I know exactly what I should say. I should write No, thank you. Chatting like this is just fine. But, hell no! Curiosity killed the cat, as they say. This is my chance to confirm he’s not catfishing me. I absolutely need to meet him.

Wait… what now? How does he know I’m on Facebook? Do I have a stalker on my hands? Well, he is gorgeous. There are worse things in life than a beautiful stalker.

And that’s the exact moment I turn down that forbidden road, the one with all the warning signs I refuse to pay attention to. I’m speeding along, to god knows where.