R: <crying emoji> Yes. That’s beautiful and must’ve been so difficult for the mom and the boy.
M: The mom took the boy and the money to the police department. The boy didn’t understand it all, but if no one claimed it, after a time, it would be his. At first, the boy asked every day if someone had claimed the money, and he planned what he would spend it on. Toys, candy, a coat for his mom. Silly things and things they needed. It was months later, so long that the boy had stopped asking about the money. He’d given up all hope when the phone rang. It was the police. No one had claimed the money and it was his. The mom took the boy to the police department, and he signed his name carefully to the form, and the man behind the desk handed him an envelope. Inside, the money was laid out flat, wrapped in a band, and was still more money than he’d ever seen. The mom told him that having a lot of money was a gift and a responsibility, asking him what he wanted to spend it on. What do you think he bought?
R: Toys? Please tell me he bought his mom a coat!
I remember back to that moment, holding that thick stack of green paper in my hands. I had no concept of amounts or what anything cost, but it’d felt like a wish come true.
M: The boy bought his mom and sister dinner that night at their favorite restaurant, the diner on the corner. They only ate there occasionally and always shared two meals between the three of them, the mom only picking at a pancake to make sure the kids got enough to eat. But that night, they all had their own plates of pancakes and bacon. The mom called it a splurge, and it’d felt like one, his belly full as he went to bed for the first time in a long time. He lay there for a while before getting out of bed to talk to his mom. “How can I make this money change things so that we have enough to eat every night and never have to worry about money again?” he asked. The mom cried at first, but then they talked it over. There were many different ways they could use the money.
R: That’s so smart and brave of the boy! <crying emoji, smile emoji>
M: Eventually, the boy gave the money to the mom to go to school herself. It didn’t make things easier at first. In fact, it got even tougher. She couldn’t play hide and seek anymore because she was doing homework. But she reminded her kids every night that she was going to change things for them with the gift the boy had given her. And she did. It took six months, but the mom got a certificate and started working a better job. And then all three of them had enough for dinner every night, the mom had a coat, and they never worried about the rent. The boy learned that education, working hard from the ground up, and never forgetting where you came from is the key to doing better and being better. He learned that from his mom, a better lesson than magically-appearing money could’ve ever taught.
R: That’s so beautiful. Such a touching story. That boy is a perfect example of love, giving everything to someone who’d given everything for him. Can I ask . . . are you the boy?
I stare at the question for a long time, wanting to tell the truth and wanting to lie in equal measure. I feel splayed open in a way I never have before. I started the story thinking it’d be a quick and silly story about the time I found a bunch of money and ate so many pancakes that I made myself sick, but it’d taken a very different tone as I remembered. I not only haven’t shared that story with anyone else, but I also don’t think I’ve ever thought of it the way I did tonight. The vulnerability is uncomfortable, making my chest itchy and achy. If I’d had to speak those words, I wouldn’t have been able to, but typing them seemed less difficult. Until now. Until Rachel wants me to claim them as something so utterly personal.
M: No, just a bedtime story to get you sleepy. Are you ready to go to bed now?
Yeah, I’m pussing out, which pisses me off too. But being angry at myself for sharing too much is easier than proclaiming myself some pitiful loser who was willing to eat a filthy sandwich from someone else’s trash.
R: Oh. Well, it’s still a beautiful story. I am tired. I think I’ll go to sleep now. I’ll talk to you in the morning?
M: Absolutely. Sweet dreams, think of me.
R: I definitely will. My fingers will probably be typing in their sleep. LOL
I’m glad Rachel didn’t seem disappointed when I said the story wasn’t mine. Or maybe she didn’t believe me? Either way, I hope things aren’t awkward now.
I drift off to sleep, dreaming of a blonde beauty curled around her phone, typing out messages to me with a sweet smile on her face. It’s still a blur, but it’s starting to feel clearer.
M: Good morning, gorgeous!
R: Good morning! Not feeling too gorgeous this morning, I’m afraid. My hair is a mess, like I might have actual rats nesting in these tangles, and my breath could kill a rhino.
I laugh at the picture she paints, but before I can respond, she sends another message.
R: Oopsie! I meant . . . Good morning, handsome! Hopefully, that didn’t send you running for the hills. I promise I own a hairbrush and toothbrush and I’m not afraid to use them.
M: A toothbrush? What’s that?
I’m joking. Teasing her. Who am I? Telling deep, dark secret stories, smiling at my phone like a maniac, and telling silly jokes. River wouldn’t believe it. Hell, I don’t believe it, but here I am. And I’m relieved that things aren’t weird or awkward after last night’s story time. Rachel’s picking up our messaging today the same way we have the last several days, casual and flirty and fun.
R: Oh, no! Please tell me you’re kidding and have all your teeth! Is that why you’re on BlindDate? Because you’re a toothless, fire-breathing rhino-killer? <fingers crossed emoji>
M: Maybe. Maybe not. Sounds like you’re not ready to know for sure yet.
Fuck, we’re dancing closer to the edge of making this real. A few days ago, I would’ve said no way. But now, I think I do want to meet Rachel. It’s risky, a huge risk if I’m honest, because I’m enjoying our conversations and there’s always the chance that meeting in person might ruin all this. Especially when I explain my name and my reason for being on the app in the first place. She might ghost me, and I can’t say I won’t deserve it. But fuck, I really want to know what she looks like, see if the vision in my mind is accurate. I want to trace her lips and taste her smile, feel her laughter wash over my skin. I bet it feels like a bubble bath.
R: I might be. If you promise to brush your teeth.
M: Tough negotiator. I could do that. Once. For you.
R: Aww, such a softie.
M: I’m really not. Most people think I’m an asshole. They’re right.
R: I doubt that. You’re too funny and sweet to be an a$$hole.
I bark out laughing at her censoring the word asshole. I haven’t cursed too much in our back-and-forths, but now that I see it this clearly, I realize that she hasn’t cursed at all. Something about that seems so adorable.
M: You’ll see. I’ve got to run so I’m not late for work. Talk soon?
R: Yeppers! Go be a big, bad a$$hole to the people at work. LOL
I work all day, alternately scowling at statistics and smiling at my phone as Rachel and I message back and forth. I stay away from the coffee pot, not wanting to hear any more gossip about my odd smile. Rachel doesn’t think it’s weird. She thinks I’m funny and sweet. She’s wrong, but it still feels good that she thinks that.