JOHN TYPICALLY MAKES DINNER on Friday nights; simple stuff; homemade pizza, burgers, tacos. But tonight, I’m on my own because he’s at another book signing. This one is in Biloxi, Mississippi, of all places. Back in the day, he didn’t do too many of these. But lately, he’s all over the place. Since his books are not selling like they used to, he needs to work harder to promote himself, so he says. It seems like he works a lot more than he ever did.

I’ve heated chicken fingers from a box, and fries, and made a quick salad. I’m pretty much mailing it in tonight, but the kids are happy. I check my Facebook, and my heart goes into overdrive when I see the friend request from Eli. Eli Anderson. There’s also a message request.

I accept right away, and proceed to instantly stalk him. No shame whatsoever.

I love his feed. There’s so much more there than on Instagram. Photos of him and friends, his dog, his art. Silly memes and even the occasional link to his favorite music videos. Turns out, we both like Ed Sheeran.

I forget to eat.

I want to message him, but I’m not quite sure what to say. And also, it’s about midnight where he is.

After dinner, I give the kids their baths and we watch Finding Nemo (for the millionth time). I put them to bed, and kiss their little cheeks, all the while thinking about Eli. I try to read, but I can’t focus. Bored to bits with my book, I turn out the lights, but sleep eludes me.

I toss and turn. I know I shouldn’t have accepted his request, but what else was I going to do? I know that I shouldn’t be video chatting with him. But just one time, I tell myself. The man lives across the ocean, and knows I’m married. Nothing is going to happen.

I’m up early on Saturday, and the first thing I do after whipping up some pancakes for the kids, is message Eli.

I wait nervously for his reply, pacing around the kitchen, absentmindedly loading the dishwasher, and wiping counters. Less than five minutes later, I hear the ding of my Messenger app.

I blush a little.

I scramble to find my purse, and dash to the washroom to dab on some lipstick. He calls me right away, and I check my reflection quickly before I accept his call.

I’m a trollop.

God, he’s gorgeous. And real! This is no stock photo. He shoots me a shy smile. “Hi,” he says.

My stomach goes all topsy-turvy. “Hi,” I reply shyly, and smile back. I glance at my image on the tiny screen in the corner — I don’t look too bad, but nowhere as good as him.

“Where are you?” I ask.

He tilts his head, looking behind him. “I’m in my studio.” he replies. He has an American accent, like I do.

“Show me,” I ask. I really want to see — I’m fascinated.

He waves his phone around the space. I’d seen it before in the video he sent me, but now I get to see it all — wide industrial space, large oven, steel table, tools everywhere, and shelving of various glassware, swirls of color, reflecting the light from a window nearby.

His face reappears, and his smile catches me off guard — it’s so genuine and sweet. He has a crooked eye tooth, but a gorgeous smile all the same. “Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m in my living room.” I turn my phone around and scan the room; designer sofa, shag area rug, rustic coffee table, and pops of color artfully displayed.

“Is that your artwork on the walls?” he asks.

I smile. “Yes.”

He stares at me. A hint of a smile traces his lips. A long beat. Silence. It’s just a few seconds, three tops, but it feels like an eternity. It is definitely what one would call ‘a moment’.

Big fat trollop, that’s me.

“So, uh… what are you doing today?” I ask in an attempt to end the awkward pause. What the hell was that, anyway?

He smiles. “Just working in my studio. How about you?”

I’m speechless for a second or two. Do I tell him? I debate it for a second, but I’m kind of on the spot. Something about him urges me to be completely open and honest — he has that quality about him, like Kayla. He’d make a good therapist.

“I… I’m going to the park with my kids,” I tell him. I’m about to end it there, but I want to talk about her. “And then, we’re going to see my mother at the cemetery. Today would have been her birthday. I always go visit on her birthday.” Normally, John comes with us, but this year, he’s away, and I would be lying if I said this didn’t bother me.

Eli’s face falls. “I’m so sorry about your mother,” he says, and then after a beat, he’s cheerful again. “Do you bring her flowers?”

I smile. “Of course. Tulips. Her favorite. They’re my favorite too, actually. I’ve got myself some too.” I stand and bounce over to the kitchen where I show him my vase of flowers sitting on the table.

“Nice,” he says.

Another moment of awkward silence.

“My mother is gone too,” he says quietly.

“Yes, you mentioned… I’m so sorry,” I want to know more about her. What happened exactly? Why wasn’t he there for her? “How long ago?” I ask. “Three years, you said.”

He scratches the stubble lining his jaw and draws a breath. “It’s been a while now… but I still miss her so much.”

“My mother died just two years ago,” I tell him. “I think I told you that already. It was sudden. Car wreck.” It hurts just to say the words out loud.

He shakes his head and winces. He doesn’t seem to know what to say. I don’t know what to say either.

There’s nothing much to say. She’s gone.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “The worst part is I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” I tell him. “We were in the middle of a fight.”

He bites his bottom lip. “I’m so sorry.”

I want to cry but I know I’m not going to, not in front of him. “The last thing I said to her was ‘Leave us the hell alone. I just want you out of our lives right now.’”

“Fuck…” is all he says.

“I know…”

“What happened?” He asks. “What were you fighting about?” He’s being nosy, but I don’t mind at all. I’m tired of people tip-toeing around me. Ever since she died, no one ever mentions her. They ask about the kids, about John, about life, but they never talk about her. They’re just too afraid to go there, I guess. Even John — he’s the worst offender. And here I am, talking to a complete stranger about her. I feel like I could tell him anything.

“She never liked my husband,” I tell him. I’ve never admitted this to anyone. No one ever knew about the tension between John and my mother. “She thought he was too controlling. The fight was about me quitting my job. I loved my job, and she thought I should have kept it. But we didn’t need the money, and I wanted to be with the kids… they’re only small for so long.”

He nods. “You’re a good mother” he says. “It sounds like she was just looking out for you.”

I swallow hard. “I know she was. She was just looking out for me, and I basically just told her to fuck off.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Gabriella. You didn’t know…” he trails off.

I love the sound of my name on his lips. No one ever calls me Gabriella. My mother was the only one who did occasionally, and I miss it. “Thank you… I know, but it’s hard. I feel so bad.”

“It was a horrible tragedy,” he says. “And it happened at a bad time in your relationship. She knew you loved her, I’m sure.”

I nod. My eyes are wet, and I’m just about to lose it. “I’m so sorry. I’m such a downer.”

He smiles. “You’re not a downer.”

He truly is beautiful, and it’s not just his model-looks — there’s something breathtaking about his soul too.

“I can’t imagine what that would be like,” he goes on, not ready to abandon the subject, not willing to leave me there on a limb with my sorrows, not taking the easy way out. “To lose someone so abruptly. With my mom, I knew she was going. I had two years to come to terms with the fact that she would no longer be here.”

“You got to say goodbye… you’re lucky.”

“Well…” he starts. “Yes and no. When she was first diagnosed, I was already in Europe. I was broke, and madly in love—”

“With your wife… your ex-wife?”

He smirks. “Anyway, I wanted to be with her… Clara, I mean, not my mom. I was so stupid. I thought my mom would pull through. Women survive breast cancer all the time, I told myself.”

“You weren’t stupid… you were young,” I offer.

“If I could do it again, I would have moved back and been there for her, the whole way.”

The pain in his expression pulls at me. I can see how torn up he is about this, just as wrecked as I am. “I understand… if I could go back, I’d tell my mother I love her.”

He smiles sweetly. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could go back in time?”

“It would be,” I agree.

He shakes his head. “Anyway, thankfully, my sister was there for her, the whole way. She took real good care of her.”

“That’s good,” I add cheerfully.

“I did get to say goodbye,” he tells me. “When she really went downhill, my sister called me, and I rushed over. I had a day with her. I told her I loved her, but I’m not sure if she heard me.”

“I’m sure she heard you,” I tell him. “You were lucky to have that day.”

“I was,” he agrees, and he smiles again, and just looks at me, like before.

Silence. Another beat. And another. God, this is intense.

Damn.

I smirk. “Well, uh, it looks like your new Facebook friend is a real downer.”

He laughs. “Yours too.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure I’ll keep him,” I joke.

“Oh, you better,” he says. “Wait...” He looks down at his phone, and next thing you know, there’s a digital cat sitting on his head — it looks ridiculous.

I laugh out loud. “You’re… pretty... silly,” I struggle to say. “Those video chat graphics are hilarious.”

“What?! You like cats, don’t you?!”

I smile. He remembered. “I do. I’m sure you’ve seen my cat, Elsie, on my feed.”

“What do you think of this one?”

I study the tabby cat sleeping cozily on his head. “He’s cute. He’s pretty chill.”

I scroll and tap, and turn myself into a pirate. “Aye, mate,” I cheer.

He chuckles. I love his laugh.

“You make quite the sexy pirate,” he says.

I giggle like a schoolgirl. “I don’t. I look hideous.”

We fall into silence again, but this isn’t a sad and awkward silence, it’s just funny — he still has a cat on his head, and I’m still a pirate, and we’re both grinning like idiots.

“I’m glad I met you, Gabriella,” he finally says.

“Me too,” I say. “Eli…”

Another beat.

“So… where are your kids, your husband?”

Yes, back to reality. Husband. Kids. “My husband is away for work,” I tell him. “And the kids are in the playroom… at least, I hope,” I joke. “I should go check on them.”

He smiles. “Yes, you go do that.”

“Bye,” I say. “It was nice chatting.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “We should do it again soon.”

I nod. “Yeah, we should.” No, we should not. I’m happily married.

“Bye,” I say one last time, and my finger shakes as I tap on the red icon to end the call.

What the fuck am I doing?

He is real. And I am in so much trouble. Loads of it.

And he might just ruin my life if I’m not careful.