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.
Oh, I know you will, Ben, she thought but didn’t type.
Good night.
“The con,” Pop always said. “Isn’t violence. Isn’t a smash and grab. It’s a dance. It’s a seduction. You always have to give something first. And then they’ll give you everything.”
She’d taken her time with Ben. They had a relationship, nearly three months of texts and long emails, phone calls where she kept her voice breathy and low. She told him about her scars from the car wreck. One on her leg, one across her chest, how self-conscious she was, how she didn’t like to bare her skin.
He didn’t talk about his wife much, far less than most men talked about their ex-wives, or girlfriends who had left them. Those guys couldn’t wait to rattle off their list of complaints and criticisms, catalog the many wrongs they’d suffered, painting unflattering portraits of the unfaithful, the controlling, the addicted women in their pasts. But Ben mentioned her only a couple times, briefly, warm memories, or funny anecdotes. He never talked about her illness or death. She didn’t pry; she really didn’t want to know. In fact, she liked him a bit more than was smart.
She closed the lid on the laptop, stared at the flames in the fireplace.
“Are you going soft on me?”
Pop sat in the chair, just a shadow tonight. She was never sure what form he was going to take. Sometimes she could hear his voice, clear and strong. Sometimes it was just an echo on the wind. He was a reflection in a mirror, a creak on the stairs. She turned away from his dark shape; she didn’t want to see him. But he was always with her.
“Of course not.”
When she looked back at him, he was gone.
The closed laptop. The silence of the house. The howling wind. She tried to sit with it, to go blank. Sometimes she tried to go back and back and back to the girl she was before, her true self. What was that girl like? What was her favorite food, color, flower? What had she wanted to be once upon a time? She loved animals. She remembered that about herself, how easy it was to be with a cat or a dog; how present they were. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of herself, like a shade slipping into darkness.