Confessions on the 7:45(48)

Whoever she was, she settled in before the crackling fireplace as darkness fell outside. She had her laptop open, a steaming cup of tea on the table beside the couch. Outside, the temperature had dropped, and the wind howled.

She lifted the computer onto her lap, started scrolling through her emails. Since she arrived home, she’d closed down a couple of the games she was running—deleted email accounts, ditched burner phones, erased a fake Facebook profile.

Pop wasn’t a fan of multitasking. And truly, as she got older, she was starting to see why. It was draining to keep track of so many different lies, so many selves, so many people wanting. She needed to focus.

Now that she was done with Hugh and Kate, she only had two things going. One that wasn’t progressing as planned. One that was humming along nicely.

People didn’t fall in love with other people. They fell in love with how other people made them feel about themselves. And so, it was easy to get someone to love you—if you knew how they wanted to feel.

Take Ben, for example, a childless fifty-five-year-old widower in Ottawa. Bespectacled, roundish, but sweet-faced, not unattractive. A pediatrician. He fostered rescued greyhounds until he could find them good homes. He wanted, she knew almost right away from his dating profile, to come in for the rescue. He wanted to be a hero. He had a soft spot for the creature in need.

After a blazing online romance, she and Ben were supposed to meet for the first time this weekend—a romantic Montreal rendezvous. But then Anne (who was known to Ben as Gywneth—he had a preference according to his profile for willowy blondes so no point in being subtle) became so worried about her bipolar sister. A strange late-night phone call was her first warning that something was amiss. Then, her sister didn’t turn up for work. All sure signs that sis was off her meds, devolving. Gwyneth might not be able to make their getaway. How could she take a romantic vacation? When her sister might need her?

She logged on to her messages and saw that he’d texted a while ago: Thinking about you. Here to help if you need me.

I’m so sorry, Ben. I have no choice, she typed. I’m going to have to cancel. There’s still no word. I have to go see if she’s all right.

She waited. Would he become angry in his disappointment? If so, she’d have to cut him loose. Then his reply:

I’ll meet you.
Of course, he’d meet her and help both Gwen and her fictional sister. The nicest, kindest people made the best marks because they believed that everyone was as goodhearted as they were. Sad, really.

No. She wouldn’t be able to handle a stranger in the mix. I’ll call you when I get there.
Again, she waited, the little reply dots pulsing. No response. She dashed off another sentence.

She’s all I have. I’m so sorry, Ben.
Then:

Don’t be silly. I understand. She’s lucky to have a sister like you.
I’m so worried.
When’s your flight?
Early tomorrow.
Can you talk?
Maybe later.
Okay. Don’t worry too much. I can be there if you need me.
Poor Gwyneth; she was down on her luck, too. Just lost her job, but no, she wouldn’t accept an airline ticket from Ben. She always made her own way. She’d made that clear to Ben. Since their parents died in a car crash, she and her sister Esme had taken care of each other. They’d never accepted any help. She was eighteen at the time of the accident, Esme sixteen. She took care of her sister, made sure she graduated from high school. Gwen worked as a waitress to put herself through community college. They had some money, though, a small inheritance. It had helped them survive, evened out some of the rough patches.

Things just seem so much easier since I met you, she typed. Thank you for being you.

That’s what friends are for.
Friends...
You know what I mean.
I do, she typed. I know exactly what you mean. And I can’t wait to hold you in my arms and show you how much your friendship means.

She could almost feel his passion pumping in those little pulsing dots.

I never thought I’d care about anyone again.
Neither did I. We’re so lucky to have found each other.
He hadn’t said the L word. But he was close. Very close. They’d talked on the phone. He’d demurred from FaceTime—which probably meant he was a lot heavier than his profile photo. And it was fine, because it was better if they never saw her face. Not just because they wouldn’t be able to identify her. They wouldn’t; she looked different all the time. It was just better if they created a fantasy woman, someone who perfectly matched their deepest inner desires. She kept her texts simple, even avoided emojis. That way they could imbue her words with any imagined tone they needed or wanted.

His response took longer than usual.

I’ll call you tomorrow.
She used to wonder about those silences when they first started chatting. But after talking to him, she realized that he was the kind of guy who got jammed up by emotion, fell silent in conversation, even virtual conversation.

The dots pulsed. Was he going to say it? No. He was waiting until they saw each other, she suspected. Until they made love—in the flesh. Which was never going to happen. Of course, she was never going to meet him in Montreal or anywhere. But no doubt he had run the fantasy a thousand times. He wasn’t one to sext, send photos, or talk dirty. He was a nice man, looking for someone to care for, someone to love. Poor orphan Gwen, beautiful and brave, was his dream girl.

I’ll be thinking about you.