Thanks for your messages.
I’m the one who needs to apologize. I was an out-of-control asshole on the phone. I am a “tool” and a “psycho” according to customers who should know. And they want their money back. (I’m laughing.) Can you guess what happened here? Yes, I decided to read the Night Owl reviews. Just the one-star reviews. Fuck me. I wigged out and called you. You know the rest.
Of course you forgive me because I’m charismatic and winning.
—M
P.S. You should still remove the book before my brother sues your ass.
P.P.S. I broke my phone. I’ll send you my new number soon.
Mel’s reply was waiting in my forum in-box the following morning.
She forgave me, of course, and iterated that I was “an out-of-control asshole on the phone (and probably off it, too).” I laughed as I read.
“The book is off Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords,” she wrote. “I like my ass and don’t want it sued.” She said she understood my anger. She said she was “waiting for it, actually.”
My grin faded as I read the last line of Mel’s message: So, Night Owl is no more. What now?
I pondered the question: What now?
I had to admit, I liked this Melanie chick. She had guts and wit. And she was straight-up insane, so we had something in common.
Plus, it was nice to have someone to chat with occasionally. No man is a fucking island.
I typed, “I told you, I’ll give you my new phone number soon. I pulverized my phone after you called fifty times and activated man mode.”
I sent the reply and logged out of the forum.
I couldn’t write worth a damn that morning, couldn’t focus on anything but Hannah and her upcoming visit. So I made a list.
SEX ALL WEEKEND
Hannah, in the flesh (and nothing else)
Candles/atmosphere/flowers?
Nice meal (how?)
Lube … or something
Nonsexual gifts (books?)
Clean the cabin
Do your fucking laundry
Xmas tree/lights etc.
I prowled through the cabin collecting laundry and rereading my list. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. Finally. Friday would be Valentine’s Day. It would be our Christmas. I would make it romantic and special—unforgettable—and maybe, just maybe, she would stay with me.
I checked the food situation in the cellar. I had a lot of food—canned food, frozen food, untouched bags of pasta and rice—but nothing that would cohere into a “nice meal.”
My thoughts strayed helplessly back to Hannah.
God, I wanted her sprawled by the fire on a pile of shearling blankets. Naked. The firelight playing on her curves …
Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the couch with a heap of laundry at my feet and the hard-on of the century. I had to laugh.
If this wasn’t the epitome of my life without Hannah, then nothing was.
*
“Do you want me to wrap these, hon?” said the cashier. She lifted one of the twenty votive candleholders on the belt. “I don’t have paper, but I can wrap bags around them.”
Twenty scented candles followed the holders.
Also: a new TracFone, two boxes of chocolates, two fresh flower arrangements, three books, warming lube, massage oil, wrapping paper and ribbon, two cards, a plush rabbit holding a heart, a bottle of white wine, and two bags of frozen shrimp and penne dinner. “Ready in 10 minutes,” the bag claimed. “Just heat and serve!”
Hell, I could heat and serve.
“Yeah, please,” I said, “if it’s not too much trouble. I have a long way to go with them.”
I slid off my hat and ruffled my black hair. I watched the cashier from behind my shades. I expected her to do a double take, to hesitate and then say I looked familiar, but she only nodded and began swathing the glass with plastic bags.
“Is it too much?” I gestured to my purchases. “I have a date. For Valentine’s.”
“Oh, it’s never too much.” The cashier smiled so hard that the apples of her cheeks reddened. “Some lucky girl.”