He was married and probably bald and fat and gassy, too—and none of that mattered because we weren’t in the real world. I told him how I really felt about everything, how I wanted to move to New York more than anything but that sometimes I was scared, because I didn’t have a plan or know anybody and I couldn’t tell anyone that. He said anything worth doing should scare you a little, and that some of the greatest stories began with a journey. Then I started posting Journey lyrics and pretty soon we were both rocking out to “Don’t Stop Believing.” I started imagining LitGeek when I was in bed at night, feeling my skin and my heartbeat under the sheets, my head bursting with everything I was going to see and do, and I pretended my hands were his as they skimmed up my thighs, that he was exploring me, that he wanted me, too.
LitGeek: You know today is our month anniversary of PMing?
HollyG: Aren’t you the chick this evening?
LitGeek: I guess that makes you the man in our relationship.
HollyG: I don’t know if you can call a couple of messages a relationship. And a month? God, I don’t think anniversaries start until a year.
LitGeek: Of course it’s a relationship. Everything is. You can have a relationship with a chicken, for God’s sake.
HollyG: Only a country girl could read that and not take it the wrong way.
LitGeek: So you admit it at last, Lula Mae.
HollyG: I admit nothing. That was only a general statement. For all you know, I took it completely the wrong way.
LitGeek: Oh really? :P
HollyG: <Imagining> Come here, pretty hens. LitGeek won’t hurt you . . . much.
LitGeek: rotfl
HollyG:
LitGeek: How little you know me. I wouldn’t lure them like that. I’m much more subtle.
HollyG: So what would your approach be?
LitGeek: Hmmm . . . I never thought about seducing a chicken.
I held my breath as his last reply lingered on the monitor. I typed slowly, deliberately, feeling the anticipation bubble in my chest.
HollyG: Pretend I’m a chicken. Give it your best shot.
He didn’t answer for a full minute.
LitGeek: Are you sure?
And that’s when I fell, when I knew I was in love with this ghost of a man. He didn’t try to make it funny or play it off. His reply told me that he was tempted, but he wouldn’t do it unless I was absolutely certain. My heart started racing as I typed.
HollyG: Yes.
LitGeek: Well . . .
My eyes were glued to the screen.
LitGeek: First . . .
He was never this slow a typer. I could practically hear him thinking, see his eyes scan my body as he decided on the first caress.
LitGeek: I would brush my fingertips up your back, starting at your hips and tracing all the way up to your neck, to the hollows beneath your ears where you said you were ticklish. But this won’t tickle . . .
That was the first night we had sex.
I sat in English class one day in the middle of October, trying to concentrate on the lecture because Mr. Lund would call on anyone without warning, yet also daydreaming about last night’s chat with LitGeek. I’d cracked him up after he randomly mentioned Jane Eyre and I replied that it would have been a much better book if the wife had burned Mr. Rochester in his bed, pinned it on Jane, and then taken London by storm. He said that would blow the morality tale completely, then I pointed out the only one who wouldn’t get exactly what they deserved was Jane, and she should have caught on to the whole setup by then anyway. Stupidity probably sent a lot of people to the gallows. Why should Jane be an exception? That’s when he told me I would make a good dictator and we both laughed.
I startled out of my daydream though, when the stacks of our next book were passed around the class.
It was Jane Eyre.
“I know it’s not the most thrilling read for the guys, but trust me when I say any Brontë is better than Jane Austen.”
“Why can’t we read something from this century?” someone asked.
“This century’s only a few years old. It would be a lot slimmer pickings and all the books are still in first-run prints, so they’re pricier. The school district’s not going to pay for that, although you did not hear it from me.”
“Isn’t this the one where the wife’s bonkers and locked in the attic?” Jenny Adkins asked while reading the back cover. She was a total anglophile, watched any British movie ever made, and was completely in love with Hugh Grant. I tried to tell her once what a horrible actor he was, but she just sighed and said, “He’s not an actor. He’s a star.”
“No spoilers, Jenny. Come on.” The class laughed as Mr. Lund leaned on the edge of his desk the way he always did when he settled into a lecture. “Actually, someone just told me the other day that this book would be a lot better if the wife burned the hero in his bed, pinned it on the heroine, and then blew all his money in London.”
I barely heard the class’s laughter. Oh my God. OH MY GOD. His face blurred in and out of focus. His face, LitGeek’s face, the face I’d been dreaming about for weeks. The face I’d been dreading to see and dying to touch was right here in the same room with me. I froze, and my heart started pounding so loud I thought for sure Portia would hear it. Oh my God.
“Hattie?”
I jumped, snapping out of the shock. “What?”
“Welcome back.” He grinned, and I swallowed hard. “I said I assumed you’ve read this already.”
“Yes, I have.” It had become kind of a joke between teacher and teacher’s pet. I’d read everything in the syllabus except for some book about Vietnam that wasn’t assigned until Thanksgiving.