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"Sidestep" by writingwildly

Doesn't everyone wonder about the one that got away?

Category: Short Story

Tags: Contemporary, chicklit

You can do an inline review of this work in the review tab.

Sidestep

I joined Facebook partly because my husband is on it, and partly because I'm tired of being behind on everything technological. What I like best is its ability to track people. You can find people who were so quiet in university, who now won't shut up over the semi-safe medium of Wall-To-Wall chats. I've seen cheerleaders who I only knew from afar, now looking amazingly like me in their domesticity. I collect “Friends” like trading cards and either spy on them, message them or simply forget they're there. It's the beauty of cyber society. Facebook hands out free spy goggles!


I go to Facebook when I can't rouse myself to do anything more constructive, like laundry. With three sons and an energetic husband, I do a lot of laundry. When I first got married I could barely fold a shirt. Now I can do three loads in no time: folded, sorted and filed in the appropriate bedroom. I carry a badge of honour that nobody sees, but I'm proud of it. Before I was a mom, I could make a mean Kraft Dinner. Now I whip up omelets and casseroles like a seasoned professional. I can mend socks. I can iron stiff seams. I can clean throw-up and bloody knees without even blinking.


I married three years after high school graduation, to a cute guy from a different town, different history. Life skipped merrily along, bringing us pregnancy after pregnancy and resulting in three screaming, red-faced little boys with black curls like their daddy's and deep blue eyes that either twinkled or burned. They are beautiful. Perfect in every way. Especially now that they've reached the ripe old ages of 10, 8 and 6 and are in full time school.


My husband Joe is smart, and has a good job. I am probably just as smart, but have chosen to limit my brainwork to stay-at-home mommyhood. We considered daycare and nannies, but it didn't work financially. So I stayed home. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Wander down in my pjs, sip on coffee, watch Regis or Ellen while the babies nap.


I admit, when we decided that would be my role, I tried hard to appear disappointed. That kind of life sounded sinfully perfect.


Reality has a way of messing with delusions. My life is not perfect, but I am content. I love all four of my boys, including my husband. I love dressing them up and welcoming them home, filthy, dripping and grinning through mud-streaked cheeks. I love watching them over dinner, knowing they're eating the dinner I prepared, no matter what it is.


I love my life. I love the ups and downs of my role of housewife and mom. I enjoy the challenge of getting everything done so I can find a couple of hours just for me.


But part of me wonders. What if I'd done something differently? What if I'd gone to a bar with girlfriends instead of meeting Joe that night in the freezer aisle? What would life be like if I'd turned left instead of right, gone into business instead of staying at home? What would I be doing if I wasn't filling out permission forms and planning lunches without peanuts? … What would it be like to kiss another man?


With Facebook I can become someone else, trying to be the someone other than the someone I used to be. I can peek in on people I barely knew then and don't know now. Sometimes I search names I barely remember, including past boyfriends and crushes. Sneaky, yet cool. Friendly, yet remote. Technology is very clean. No laundry required.


That's when Phil showed up on someone's Friends List. His picture wasn't there and he hadn't posted any information. I knew it was him, though, based on who else was on the List. After a moment of debating the intelligence of doing such a thing, I wrote to him.


“Hi. Remember me?”


When I was in grade 10, Phil was my favourite subject. I studied him constantly from the bleachers. He hung out with the football jocks. My girlfriends and I sat between the druggies and the geeks, never quite fitting in with either of them.


Phil knew I had a crush on him. He used to give me a smug, half smile as he passed in the hallways, dark suggestion in his black Irish eyes. We didn't have classes together but I loitered by the lockers, just wanting to hear him. One time he left a ballcap on the field. I hid it under my shirt. Inside the girls' washroom I inhaled its musky scent and ignored the fact that it had never been washed. Then I hid it in my bedroom closet.


A week later I logged in. There it was. His reply.


Joe didn't hear me gasp. He was settled in, watching football. It gave me a chance to get over my shock. Phil Donovan: dark, alluring and presumably unaltered by time. On my page.


“Hey Sue.

Sure I do.”


It's difficult to type when my fingers are sweaty. It takes a few tries.


“Hey Phil!”


I like that salutation. Just like his.


“How are you? Are you married with children?”


Delete.


Pause. Pause. Fingers poised, awaiting inspiration. What will entice him to open up, help him declare how he has dreamed of me for the past twenty-three and a half years?


“I'm a stay-at-home mom of three little boys. They like football, just like you did.”


then I add,


“My husband does,too.”


Maybe it's too obvious if I leave Joe out. Coming on too strong. Maybe a little mystery ...


That thought slows my fingers. Hmm. Cyber secrecy. The temptation to allude to things I'd never really say. To flirt with Phil Donovan. Who knows? Maybe I'm what he dreams of, bored with his nagging wife and sniveling brats. I start again.


“Hey Phil!”


Still good.


“Good to hear from you.”


Keep cool, I remind myself. Elusive. Enticing.


“Your email brings back so many memories...”


What?! Delete. Try again.


“What's up?

Sue”


Send. I stare at the screen. The knot in my stomach has tightened. I feel sick. Have I said too much?


“Honey?”


I jump. Joe. On the couch. Watching football, yawning obliviously.


“Yes?”


Pause.


I roll my eyes. I hate this. He tends to get distracted and forget he's called me. I wait.


“Yes?”


He remembers and the glaze fades from his eyes.


“Did you hear from Bob?”


“Nope.”


“Okay. Got ice cream?” That's Joe. Back to the subject at hand.


“You know where it is.” I refuse to get sucked back into the abyss that is my kitchen.


I sink into my chair and fantasize while Joe decides if it's worth going to the freezer. Phil's face appears in my mind, his eyes smouldering blackly. I can almost smell his leather jacket. I imagine touching it.


It's not cheating. I haven't kissed another man in eighteen years, besides the occasional peck on the cheek. It's just fantasizing. Not cheating.


But twenty-three and a half years ago at 3:10am in someone's living room, I stole a kiss from a very drunken Phil at the post-grad party. He probably doesn't remember. At least not like I do. What would it feel like, after all that time, if he was to -


“MOM!”


Poof!


“Yes?”


“Jim took my DS!” David stood in front of me, arms crossed, brow dark with ten year old fury.


“He won't let me watch my show!” his littlest brother retorted.


“I was there first!”


“That's not fair!” Jimmy wailed.


“I'm older. I get to -”


“David, let your brother use your DS," I reply, robotic in the solution."You wrecked his and you still owe him for that.”


“But Mommmm -”


“Or you'll lose it,” I add. Really. They knew I would say that.


“I hate you, Jim.”


“I hate you, too,” David assures him.


“Know what happened today?”


“I don't care about stupid grade ones.”


“You know that guy, Steve?”


“Ya, so?”


They disappear into the basement. Eight year old Geoffrey comes toward me, the penguins on his pajamas bathed in wet brown/blue/grey. Geoffrey is my messiest.


“What's that, Geoff?”


“Chocolate milk.”


“Did you show Dad?”


“Yup. He said to show you.”


Of course he did. I force myself not to glare at Joe, cheerfully oblivious on the couch.


“Did you clean the floor?” I ask.


“Yup.”


“Okay. Let's see.”


We wrestle him out of the slimy penguins and he goes to find a cleaner set. The discarded ones sink into my hands, cold and gross. Another job I never imagined when I accepted this position. I pass the scene of the crime, layered with wads of soggy brown paper towel. I dump the pajamas in the washer, then go to clean the floor.


“You couldn't have handled this?” I grumble.


Joe is smiling at me, blinking through sleepy eyes, stretching his arms over his head. Half time.


“Handle what? Oh. Sorry, honey.”


His black curls might be flecked with silver, his waistline might be a bit looser, but his smile is that of a much younger man, oblivious to aging. I adore him. Doesn't really matter how much he aggravates me. He can still make my heart flip.


Still. He can't pawn everything off on me.


“Could you please help Geoff find some pjs?”


“Sure.”


He pushes from the couch and stretches again. I hear bones pop in his back. He grins at me and I feel heat swirl in my stomach. It still amazes me that he's mine. The hint of grey over his ears makes me sad; a reminder of how years fly by. It also reminds me to make an appointment to cover my own grey. I add that to my to-do list.


He folds me into his chest, his arms like a warm life jacket. Everything is calm. He rests his chin on my head and sighs. I know he's smiling, just like me. It's impossible to be annoyed when my nose is buried in his chest. His shirt smells like detergent, but underneath his scent is pure Joe. Tired Joe. Satisfied Joe.


Unsuspecting Joe.


I pull away guiltily. What if he finds out?


“MOM!”


“Yes?” I murmur. Only Joe hears. He chuckles.


“I'll help Geoff,” he says, giving me another squeeze.


“I'll stop the basement battle.”


Outside of Joe's protective circle I feel the familiar annoyance returning. I'm prepared, though. Paper towel and bandaids are always handy. I hide emergency DVD's to ease WWIII, if only for awhile.


Mornings are quick. I wave goodbye after ensuring their backpacks are filled with everything they need. I open my laptop and see Phil's new message.


“Things are good. Running dad's place now. He died last year. How are you?

Phil”


He cares. No mention of a significant other. And he's probably been aching to find me. I manage a deep breath.


“Things are good. Sorry to hear about your dad.

Sue”


Send.


My heart is pounding and that knot of heat has returned to my stomach. I turn to leave the room and spin back when the email pings.


It's him. Already.


“Coffee next week?


I close my eyes. All my teenage life I fantasized about him. I sniffed the air as he passed me in the hall. I called his house dozens of times and hung up when he (or anyone else) answered. We never spoke a word to each other. When beer, wine, rum and whatever else gave me the nerve to kiss him that night, I dreamed he would never look at another girl. Funny what alcohol makes you think, isn't it?


Now he wants coffee.


“Okay. Wednesday?”


Send.


“Sure. 9:30, Second Cup on St.Clair?”


And so begins my four and a half days of panic. I start doing sit-ups every morning. Joe encourages me, assuming I am doing it for his benefit. I try to find a top without a stain and jeans that don't give me that special kind of overfilled cupcake effect. I feel a flash of resentment. When did I last shop for myself? The boys are completely outfitted. They always look good. I, on the other hand, I ... I sigh, losing steam. I hate shopping for myself, so I rarely do.


The autumn weekend is cool but sunny. We go no farther than our leaf-covered yard. Full tackle football with Joe and the boys is my favourite sport. I love watching Joe become a boy and my boys reach toward manhood. Sometimes I stand at the window, watching. Sometimes I join in. Those are the best times. They always end up with Joe pinning me while the boys hop on top and we tickle each other until we're all crying with laughter.


Not this weekend, though. I busy myself, cleaning and folding, cooking and serving. Monday comes and I have left so many things off my grocery list I have to make a repeat trip. Tuesday I iron a hole in Joe's shirt. I mix the boys' clean laundry so that they yell that the wrong one is wearing the wrong shirt. I add a black sock to the whites and everything comes out grey.


Wednesday arrives. Yes, I do it. Heartbeat racing, palms sweaty on the steering wheel, I take the minivan downtown. Adrenaline pumps through me, then nausea. What am I thinking? Joe's face, his blue, blue eyes, his crooked smile flashes through my mind, just like in those trashy novels I thumb through when I'm not wiping up spilled milk or picking gum out of someone's hair. Am I brave enough to do this? Am I stupid enough?


I am. I walk in and glance around, feigning calm. No Phil. I sit with my nonfat latte and look like I'm reading the paper. After twenty minutes I get another latte, full fat. I am not going to leave. Not until I see him.


Then the door opens, the cool autumn wind whirls in, and there stands Phil.


He walks towards me, wearing a sharp black suit and eyes to match. I think I might throw up. He nods toward the girl at the counter, then turns his attention to me. His smile is easy. I try to copy him.


“Hey,” he says and sits.


The girl appears at our side. She has brought him an espresso. They never do that.


“Thanks, Julie,” he says in a honeyed voice.


She's maybe twenty years younger than he is and is staring at him is if he is a freshly baked, fully frosted brownie. And she's starved.


“Haven't seen you in awhile,” she says, fluttering.


“My mistake,” he replies smoothly.


She turns a sweet shade of pink and backs away. I try frantically to force the same colour back down my neck before he turns toward me. Too late. Those brown eyes are on me, direct and unblinking.


“You look good,” he says, and sips.


“You too,” I say brilliantly.


Pause. I search for something intelligent to say and come up empty.


“Isn't Facebook great?” I exclaim.


“Yup.”


He takes another sip. He's watching me, a smile playing with one side of his mouth. What's he thinking?


Pause.


So I say “I'm sorry to hear about your dad. How's your mom?”


“Don't know. They're divorced. She's in the States. Remarried.”


“Oh. Your brothers?”


“We don't see each other much.”


I nod, keeping my eyes round and trying not to look desperate. He's not helping this conversation at all. I gulp.


“Are you seeing anyone?”


“Nope. You?”


At last! A question I can answer. Or can I? Should I tell all about my living happily ever after? Should I be cool and evasive? Should I lie?


“I'm good.” I go with evasive. “How's business?”


“Dead,” he says, then grins, waiting for me to laugh.


I force a giggle. If he'd told me any kind of joke twenty years ago, I'd have eaten it up. Now I wonder how old that one is.


“I guess that's good,” I say.


Phil has black hair like Joe, but Phil's is straight. He gels it back. He always has. In high school I'd wondered what the gel felt like. I knew how it smelled. His hair is exactly the same length as it was twenty-three and a half years ago. There's not a hint of grey.


Phil has “sleepy eyes”: dark and half covered. Under their lids they're hypnotic, like the burning eyes of a hunting cat. In the past I'd felt an occasional blast of that heat as he walked past. It had left me dazed. Now he launches it directly at me and its force is tangible. Wow.


Except it doesn't turn my heart over like I expected it would. Kind of my stomach, actually. Because, much to my shock, Phil is leering at me. I haven't been leered at in a long time, except by construction workers when I pushed a stroller over a bad patch of sidewalk. Has this expression always been a leer and I'd just been too far away to notice? Or has it only grown into one?


“You look good,” he purrs again. “Haven't changed much.”


Does that mean I looked “good” in high school? He never leered at me then. What does he see now that he hadn't seen then?


He reaches across the table and touches my hand, which is hanging onto that latte for dear life. He curls his fingers over mine, loosening my fingers from my drink. The mug is hot, his fingers are hot and my body is frozen. I think my chest might combust.


What do I have now that I didn't have then?


“Thank you,” I manage. “You have. Changed.”


He raises his eyebrows and his lips curl into a confident smile. He has full lips, shaped like a Cupid's bow. How many teenage nights had I spent fantasizing about them? If I touch his cheek will it feel like Joe's: soft under his bristles? He had missed a few hairs under his chin when he shaved. Still gorgeous, though. Just a little less, what? There used to be an exciting promise of risk burning in those eyes. Like a dare. Now he's more sleek. Still dangerous, but more … contrived.


What do I want? The pressure of his fingers tells me the next move is mine.


Twenty-three years of wondering versus fourteen years of cooking, picking up dirty underwear, parking that ***** minivan, staying up with fevers, changing diapers, racing after schoolbuses …


… wiping away tears, snuggling, learning to read, school plays, holding sticky hands, falling into cool sheets and warming myself against Joe's long body. Knowing he picked me for better or worse ...


Unrequited Lust versus Reciprocated Love. Sizzle versus Simmer.


“I've thought about you, Sue.”


“Really?” What? “I mean I -”


That sounds pathetic. Back to casual. My lips tingle.


“That's nice.”


I turn my hand and squeeze his fingers. I'm holding Phil's hand. His fingers are strong and warm, like I'd always imagined. I used to dream of this, used to write my name and his on the inside covers of all my duotangs. Sue Donovan. MRS Sue Donovan.


I let go.


“Isn't Facebook great?” I say again, back in control of my lips. “Finding old friends and seeing what's become of them? You look successful.”


“I am,” he says, leaning back in his chair and giving me a quizzical look. I haven't seen that expression before. Uncertainty. Actually, it looks good on him. “You?”


“Oh, yes,” I say. I begin to gush. “Being a mom's a lot of work, but I have good kids. Joe and I have our fifteenth wedding anniversary coming up. We're going to go somewhere hot. I need beachtime! His mom has offered to watch our three boys while we're gone.”


I stop to sip my latte.


“Three boys?” he asks. His eyebrows lift again. He takes a long pull on his espresso. “Good for you. That's good. I never got married. Never worked out.” His lids drop lower and his voice as well, into a warm, inviting cappuccino. “But I did think about you, after high school. Wondered where you were, what you were doing. Sometimes I wondered why we never got together back then.”


“What?!” I blurt.


Oops. I had meant for that to be my inside voice. I clear my throat and am mortified to see a smile creeping across his lips. *****. I was so close to being in control. But … he'd wondered? Really? Maybe he only wondered because here I am, now, showing him how I'd wondered.


I admit it's great to hear him say that. But what a relief. Not to wonder anymore. My shoulders feel lighter. If I ever really had any questions, they had all been answered.


I know what I want. What I have always wanted. Of course I do. And I don't feel guilty sitting here because maybe what I needed was to step briefly in a different direction and realize that I already had it all on my regular route. I know what keeps my days full and exhausting and wonderful. They will be sitting or running around the house in a few hours, screaming, hungry, wanting their brother's stuff, wanting me. He will pour me a glass of wine and tell me about his day, with minute, bewildering details that make my eyes gloss over. Mine will be the last face they see before they fall asleep. All four of them.


Unlike Phil, they rarely consciously think of me. I am always there, part of the landscape. I am their rock. And I actually like being that rock. One hardly notices rocks, but without them the world would collapse. And the way they look at me, well, sometimes I feel like a diamond.


“I don't know why we didn't,” I admit. “You know I had a huge crush on you.”


I let myself give him a real, honest smile. He winks at me, sure of himself now. He looks like Joe does when he grabs the football – just before the rest of us tackle him to the ground. He opens his mouth to speak but I interrupt.


“But things sure ended up perfect, didn't they?”


That stops him. He sips.


“I can't stay long,” he says.


“Of course,” I say. “But thanks for coming. I'm glad I got to see you.”


“Yeah,” he says, nodding slowly. “Me too.”


For a moment he doesn't look like the object of my frustrated teenage lust, nor does he resemble the smirking hunter he has become. He's open-windowed. Someone I can finally see. And he doesn't look so confident through the glass. Then the blinds close and he's back, smooth and cool and someone I don't know.


“Maybe I'll see you on Facebook.”


He stands, smiles and leaves. There's no reason to stay.


I won't look for him on Facebook again, but it's cool to think that maybe, once in awhile, he might spy on me.


I stand, smile and leave. I stop at the grocery store, wondering what the boys would like for dinner.




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Category Name: My Thoughts

I did not enjoy this story. I am not even sure what problem the protagonist faced. This story was okay. The story would have been better if the author had introduced the problem differently and made it feel more pressing. I really enjoyed this story. The author did a good job pulling me into the story by introducing an immediate and important problem for the protagonist.

This section is for overall comments and general ideas. The score should reflect how much you enjoyed the story.

Category Name: Character Development

The characters were not dynamic, credible, interesting, memorable or unique. I don’t care about or understand the characters because they were poorly developed. The characters were somewhat dynamic, credible, interesting, memorable and unique. I partially understood the thoughts, feelings, and actions of the characters. I somewhat connected with and care about the characters. The characters were very dynamic, credible, interesting, memorable and unique. I thoroughly understood their thoughts, feelings and actions. I felt connected with and cared about the characters.

This is act of bringing a character to life on the page. It is a combination of the author’s description of the character and the character’s dialog, action, and thoughts. Though all characters should be believable, the protagonist and antagonist are usually the most developed characters.

Category Name: Plot

I finished reading the story so the plot must have unfolded, but I am not sure what the plot was. The characters did not achieve or grow by solving the problems they faced in this story. There were definite wrinkles in the way the plot unfolded leading to the final conflict. The plot was loosely tied to the achievement and growth of the characters. The way the protagonist overcame some of the problems flowed unnaturally with the story. I could see the plot unfolding through a series of escalating problems that lead to the final conflict. The plot helped me understand the achievements and growth of the characters. The way the protagonist overcame the problems flowed naturally with the st

In fiction a plot is all the events in a story, particularly rendered towards the achievement of some particular artistic or emotional effect. In other words it's what mostly happened in the story. The plot draws the reader into the character's lives and helps the reader understand the choices that the characters make.

Category Name: Dialog

The dialog seemed like cold words on paper. I had a hard time following it. I didn’t learn very much about the characters through the dialog. Through the dialog I could sometimes see the characters learn and grow while occasionally discovering new facets of their personalities. The dialog was generally consistent with the character. Through the dialog I could see the characters learn and grow while simultaneously discovering new facets of their personalities. The dialog was true to the character and it helped me understand the characters emotions.

Category Name: Setting

The setting created a haze in my mind that detracted from the story. I am lost in time and space because I don’t know when or where this story takes place. The setting was described adequately, but not well enough to bring it to life in my mind. The setting did not add to or detract from the story. I am pretty sure I know when and where the story takes place. The author engaged all of my senses while vividly describing the setting. The setting helped me better understand the setting and plot. I know when and where this story takes place.

The setting is where a story takes place. The choice of setting and its description helps the story come alive in the mind of the reader. Appropriate setting contributes to the plot and mood of the story.

Category Name: Mechanics

The story contained so many mechanical errors that it was hard to follow the plot or understand certain sentences or paragraphs. Occasional mechanical errors were distracting, but these errors did not inhibit me from being able to understand the plot or connect with characters in the story. I rarely if ever noticed mechanical errors. As far as I could tell, the writing was clear and correct.

Mechanics includes sentence structure, verb agreement, grammar, spelling, voice, punctuation and aspects of basic style.

Note: The purpose of ReviewFuse reviews is NOT to provide comprehensive copy editing, but rather to "ignite creativity." Reviewers should not feel obliged to point out every grammar or spelling error (though they certainly can if they wish), but should focus on this area only to the degree that errors make a story hard to follow or understand.

Inline comments are the most helpful and important aspects of your review.

Click on a paragraph or highlight text from the paragraph to provide inline comments. While detailed grammar correction is welcome, the purpose of inline commenting is to spark the author's creativity. This is best done by expressing feelings, questions, and concerns you have about the story while you are reading.

1. Sidestep

2. I joined Facebook partly because my husband is on it, and partly because I'm tired of being behind on everything technological. What I like best is its ability to track people. You can find people who were so quiet in university, who now won't shut up over the semi-safe medium of Wall-To-Wall chats. I've seen cheerleaders who I only knew from afar, now looking amazingly like me in their domesticity. I collect “Friends” like trading cards and either spy on them, message them or simply forget they're there. It's the beauty of cyber society. Facebook hands out free spy goggles!

3.

4. I go to Facebook when I can't rouse myself to do anything more constructive, like laundry. With three sons and an energetic husband, I do a lot of laundry. When I first got married I could barely fold a shirt. Now I can do three loads in no time: folded, sorted and filed in the appropriate bedroom. I carry a badge of honour that nobody sees, but I'm proud of it. Before I was a mom, I could make a mean Kraft Dinner. Now I whip up omelets and casseroles like a seasoned professional. I can mend socks. I can iron stiff seams. I can clean throw-up and bloody knees without even blinking.

5.

6. I married three years after high school graduation, to a cute guy from a different town, different history. Life skipped merrily along, bringing us pregnancy after pregnancy and resulting in three screaming, red-faced little boys with black curls like their daddy's and deep blue eyes that either twinkled or burned. They are beautiful. Perfect in every way. Especially now that they've reached the ripe old ages of 10, 8 and 6 and are in full time school.

7.

8. My husband Joe is smart, and has a good job. I am probably just as smart, but have chosen to limit my brainwork to stay-at-home mommyhood. We considered daycare and nannies, but it didn't work financially. So I stayed home. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Wander down in my pjs, sip on coffee, watch Regis or Ellen while the babies nap.

9.

10. I admit, when we decided that would be my role, I tried hard to appear disappointed. That kind of life sounded sinfully perfect.

11.

12. Reality has a way of messing with delusions. My life is not perfect, but I am content. I love all four of my boys, including my husband. I love dressing them up and welcoming them home, filthy, dripping and grinning through mud-streaked cheeks. I love watching them over dinner, knowing they're eating the dinner I prepared, no matter what it is.

13.

14. I love my life. I love the ups and downs of my role of housewife and mom. I enjoy the challenge of getting everything done so I can find a couple of hours just for me.

15.

16. But part of me wonders. What if I'd done something differently? What if I'd gone to a bar with girlfriends instead of meeting Joe that night in the freezer aisle? What would life be like if I'd turned left instead of right, gone into business instead of staying at home? What would I be doing if I wasn't filling out permission forms and planning lunches without peanuts? … What would it be like to kiss another man?

17.

18. With Facebook I can become someone else, trying to be the someone other than the someone I used to be. I can peek in on people I barely knew then and don't know now. Sometimes I search names I barely remember, including past boyfriends and crushes. Sneaky, yet cool. Friendly, yet remote. Technology is very clean. No laundry required.

19.

20. That's when Phil showed up on someone's Friends List. His picture wasn't there and he hadn't posted any information. I knew it was him, though, based on who else was on the List. After a moment of debating the intelligence of doing such a thing, I wrote to him.

21.

22. “Hi. Remember me?”

23.

24. When I was in grade 10, Phil was my favourite subject. I studied him constantly from the bleachers. He hung out with the football jocks. My girlfriends and I sat between the druggies and the geeks, never quite fitting in with either of them.

25.

26. Phil knew I had a crush on him. He used to give me a smug, half smile as he passed in the hallways, dark suggestion in his black Irish eyes. We didn't have classes together but I loitered by the lockers, just wanting to hear him. One time he left a ballcap on the field. I hid it under my shirt. Inside the girls' washroom I inhaled its musky scent and ignored the fact that it had never been washed. Then I hid it in my bedroom closet.

27.

28. A week later I logged in. There it was. His reply.

29.

30. Joe didn't hear me gasp. He was settled in, watching football. It gave me a chance to get over my shock. Phil Donovan: dark, alluring and presumably unaltered by time. On my page.

31.

32. “Hey Sue.

33. Sure I do.”

34.

35. It's difficult to type when my fingers are sweaty. It takes a few tries.

36.

37. “Hey Phil!”

38.

39. I like that salutation. Just like his.

40.

41. “How are you? Are you married with children?”

42.

43. Delete.

44.

45. Pause. Pause. Fingers poised, awaiting inspiration. What will entice him to open up, help him declare how he has dreamed of me for the past twenty-three and a half years?

46.

47. “I'm a stay-at-home mom of three little boys. They like football, just like you did.”

48.

49. then I add,

50.

51. “My husband does,too.”

52.

53. Maybe it's too obvious if I leave Joe out. Coming on too strong. Maybe a little mystery ...

54.

55. That thought slows my fingers. Hmm. Cyber secrecy. The temptation to allude to things I'd never really say. To flirt with Phil Donovan. Who knows? Maybe I'm what he dreams of, bored with his nagging wife and sniveling brats. I start again.

56.

57. “Hey Phil!”

58.

59. Still good.

60.

61. “Good to hear from you.”

62.

63. Keep cool, I remind myself. Elusive. Enticing.

64.

65. “Your email brings back so many memories...”

66.

67. What?! Delete. Try again.

68.

69. “What's up?

70. Sue”

71.

72. Send. I stare at the screen. The knot in my stomach has tightened. I feel sick. Have I said too much?

73.

74. “Honey?”

75.

76. I jump. Joe. On the couch. Watching football, yawning obliviously.

77.

78. “Yes?”

79.

80. Pause.

81.

82. I roll my eyes. I hate this. He tends to get distracted and forget he's called me. I wait.

83.

84. “Yes?”

85.

86. He remembers and the glaze fades from his eyes.

87.

88. “Did you hear from Bob?”

89.

90. “Nope.”

91.

92. “Okay. Got ice cream?” That's Joe. Back to the subject at hand.

93.

94. “You know where it is.” I refuse to get sucked back into the abyss that is my kitchen.

95.

96. I sink into my chair and fantasize while Joe decides if it's worth going to the freezer. Phil's face appears in my mind, his eyes smouldering blackly. I can almost smell his leather jacket. I imagine touching it.

97.

98. It's not cheating. I haven't kissed another man in eighteen years, besides the occasional peck on the cheek. It's just fantasizing. Not cheating.

99.

100. But twenty-three and a half years ago at 3:10am in someone's living room, I stole a kiss from a very drunken Phil at the post-grad party. He probably doesn't remember. At least not like I do. What would it feel like, after all that time, if he was to -

101.

102. “MOM!”

103.

104. Poof!

105.

106. “Yes?”

107.

108. “Jim took my DS!” David stood in front of me, arms crossed, brow dark with ten year old fury.

109.

110. “He won't let me watch my show!” his littlest brother retorted.

111.

112. “I was there first!”

113.

114. “That's not fair!” Jimmy wailed.

115.

116. “I'm older. I get to -”

117.

118. “David, let your brother use your DS," I reply, robotic in the solution."You wrecked his and you still owe him for that.”

119.

120. “But Mommmm -”

121.

122. “Or you'll lose it,” I add. Really. They knew I would say that.

123.

124. “I hate you, Jim.”

125.

126. “I hate you, too,” David assures him.

127.

128. “Know what happened today?”

129.

130. “I don't care about stupid grade ones.”

131.

132. “You know that guy, Steve?”

133.

134. “Ya, so?”

135.

136. They disappear into the basement. Eight year old Geoffrey comes toward me, the penguins on his pajamas bathed in wet brown/blue/grey. Geoffrey is my messiest.

137.

138. “What's that, Geoff?”

139.

140. “Chocolate milk.”

141.

142. “Did you show Dad?”

143.

144. “Yup. He said to show you.”

145.

146. Of course he did. I force myself not to glare at Joe, cheerfully oblivious on the couch.

147.

148. “Did you clean the floor?” I ask.

149.

150. “Yup.”

151.

152. “Okay. Let's see.”

153.

154. We wrestle him out of the slimy penguins and he goes to find a cleaner set. The discarded ones sink into my hands, cold and gross. Another job I never imagined when I accepted this position. I pass the scene of the crime, layered with wads of soggy brown paper towel. I dump the pajamas in the washer, then go to clean the floor.

155.

156. “You couldn't have handled this?” I grumble.

157.

158. Joe is smiling at me, blinking through sleepy eyes, stretching his arms over his head. Half time.

159.

160. “Handle what? Oh. Sorry, honey.”

161.

162. His black curls might be flecked with silver, his waistline might be a bit looser, but his smile is that of a much younger man, oblivious to aging. I adore him. Doesn't really matter how much he aggravates me. He can still make my heart flip.

163.

164. Still. He can't pawn everything off on me.

165.

166. “Could you please help Geoff find some pjs?”

167.

168. “Sure.”

169.

170. He pushes from the couch and stretches again. I hear bones pop in his back. He grins at me and I feel heat swirl in my stomach. It still amazes me that he's mine. The hint of grey over his ears makes me sad; a reminder of how years fly by. It also reminds me to make an appointment to cover my own grey. I add that to my to-do list.

171.

172. He folds me into his chest, his arms like a warm life jacket. Everything is calm. He rests his chin on my head and sighs. I know he's smiling, just like me. It's impossible to be annoyed when my nose is buried in his chest. His shirt smells like detergent, but underneath his scent is pure Joe. Tired Joe. Satisfied Joe.

173.

174. Unsuspecting Joe.

175.

176. I pull away guiltily. What if he finds out?

177.

178. “MOM!”

179.

180. “Yes?” I murmur. Only Joe hears. He chuckles.

181.

182. “I'll help Geoff,” he says, giving me another squeeze.

183.

184. “I'll stop the basement battle.”

185.

186. Outside of Joe's protective circle I feel the familiar annoyance returning. I'm prepared, though. Paper towel and bandaids are always handy. I hide emergency DVD's to ease WWIII, if only for awhile.

187.

188. Mornings are quick. I wave goodbye after ensuring their backpacks are filled with everything they need. I open my laptop and see Phil's new message.

189.

190. “Things are good. Running dad's place now. He died last year. How are you?

191. Phil”

192.

193. He cares. No mention of a significant other. And he's probably been aching to find me. I manage a deep breath.

194.

195. “Things are good. Sorry to hear about your dad.

196. Sue”

197.

198. Send.

199.

200. My heart is pounding and that knot of heat has returned to my stomach. I turn to leave the room and spin back when the email pings.

201.

202. It's him. Already.

203.

204. “Coffee next week?

205.

206. I close my eyes. All my teenage life I fantasized about him. I sniffed the air as he passed me in the hall. I called his house dozens of times and hung up when he (or anyone else) answered. We never spoke a word to each other. When beer, wine, rum and whatever else gave me the nerve to kiss him that night, I dreamed he would never look at another girl. Funny what alcohol makes you think, isn't it?

207.

208. Now he wants coffee.

209.

210. “Okay. Wednesday?”

211.

212. Send.

213.

214. “Sure. 9:30, Second Cup on St.Clair?”

215.

216. And so begins my four and a half days of panic. I start doing sit-ups every morning. Joe encourages me, assuming I am doing it for his benefit. I try to find a top without a stain and jeans that don't give me that special kind of overfilled cupcake effect. I feel a flash of resentment. When did I last shop for myself? The boys are completely outfitted. They always look good. I, on the other hand, I ... I sigh, losing steam. I hate shopping for myself, so I rarely do.

217.

218. The autumn weekend is cool but sunny. We go no farther than our leaf-covered yard. Full tackle football with Joe and the boys is my favourite sport. I love watching Joe become a boy and my boys reach toward manhood. Sometimes I stand at the window, watching. Sometimes I join in. Those are the best times. They always end up with Joe pinning me while the boys hop on top and we tickle each other until we're all crying with laughter.

219.

220. Not this weekend, though. I busy myself, cleaning and folding, cooking and serving. Monday comes and I have left so many things off my grocery list I have to make a repeat trip. Tuesday I iron a hole in Joe's shirt. I mix the boys' clean laundry so that they yell that the wrong one is wearing the wrong shirt. I add a black sock to the whites and everything comes out grey.

221.

222. Wednesday arrives. Yes, I do it. Heartbeat racing, palms sweaty on the steering wheel, I take the minivan downtown. Adrenaline pumps through me, then nausea. What am I thinking? Joe's face, his blue, blue eyes, his crooked smile flashes through my mind, just like in those trashy novels I thumb through when I'm not wiping up spilled milk or picking gum out of someone's hair. Am I brave enough to do this? Am I stupid enough?

223.

224. I am. I walk in and glance around, feigning calm. No Phil. I sit with my nonfat latte and look like I'm reading the paper. After twenty minutes I get another latte, full fat. I am not going to leave. Not until I see him.

225.

226. Then the door opens, the cool autumn wind whirls in, and there stands Phil.

227.

228. He walks towards me, wearing a sharp black suit and eyes to match. I think I might throw up. He nods toward the girl at the counter, then turns his attention to me. His smile is easy. I try to copy him.

229.

230. “Hey,” he says and sits.

231.

232. The girl appears at our side. She has brought him an espresso. They never do that.

233.

234. “Thanks, Julie,” he says in a honeyed voice.

235.

236. She's maybe twenty years younger than he is and is staring at him is if he is a freshly baked, fully frosted brownie. And she's starved.

237.

238. “Haven't seen you in awhile,” she says, fluttering.

239.

240. “My mistake,” he replies smoothly.

241.

242. She turns a sweet shade of pink and backs away. I try frantically to force the same colour back down my neck before he turns toward me. Too late. Those brown eyes are on me, direct and unblinking.

243.

244. “You look good,” he says, and sips.

245.

246. “You too,” I say brilliantly.

247.

248. Pause. I search for something intelligent to say and come up empty.

249.

250. “Isn't Facebook great?” I exclaim.

251.

252. “Yup.”

253.

254. He takes another sip. He's watching me, a smile playing with one side of his mouth. What's he thinking?

255.

256. Pause.

257.

258. So I say “I'm sorry to hear about your dad. How's your mom?”

259.

260. “Don't know. They're divorced. She's in the States. Remarried.”

261.

262. “Oh. Your brothers?”

263.

264. “We don't see each other much.”

265.

266. I nod, keeping my eyes round and trying not to look desperate. He's not helping this conversation at all. I gulp.

267.

268. “Are you seeing anyone?”

269.

270. “Nope. You?”

271.

272. At last! A question I can answer. Or can I? Should I tell all about my living happily ever after? Should I be cool and evasive? Should I lie?

273.

274. “I'm good.” I go with evasive. “How's business?”

275.

276. “Dead,” he says, then grins, waiting for me to laugh.

277.

278. I force a giggle. If he'd told me any kind of joke twenty years ago, I'd have eaten it up. Now I wonder how old that one is.

279.

280. “I guess that's good,” I say.

281.

282. Phil has black hair like Joe, but Phil's is straight. He gels it back. He always has. In high school I'd wondered what the gel felt like. I knew how it smelled. His hair is exactly the same length as it was twenty-three and a half years ago. There's not a hint of grey.

283.

284. Phil has “sleepy eyes”: dark and half covered. Under their lids they're hypnotic, like the burning eyes of a hunting cat. In the past I'd felt an occasional blast of that heat as he walked past. It had left me dazed. Now he launches it directly at me and its force is tangible. Wow.

285.

286. Except it doesn't turn my heart over like I expected it would. Kind of my stomach, actually. Because, much to my shock, Phil is leering at me. I haven't been leered at in a long time, except by construction workers when I pushed a stroller over a bad patch of sidewalk. Has this expression always been a leer and I'd just been too far away to notice? Or has it only grown into one?

287.

288. “You look good,” he purrs again. “Haven't changed much.”

289.

290. Does that mean I looked “good” in high school? He never leered at me then. What does he see now that he hadn't seen then?

291.

292. He reaches across the table and touches my hand, which is hanging onto that latte for dear life. He curls his fingers over mine, loosening my fingers from my drink. The mug is hot, his fingers are hot and my body is frozen. I think my chest might combust.

293.

294. What do I have now that I didn't have then?

295.

296. “Thank you,” I manage. “You have. Changed.”

297.

298. He raises his eyebrows and his lips curl into a confident smile. He has full lips, shaped like a Cupid's bow. How many teenage nights had I spent fantasizing about them? If I touch his cheek will it feel like Joe's: soft under his bristles? He had missed a few hairs under his chin when he shaved. Still gorgeous, though. Just a little less, what? There used to be an exciting promise of risk burning in those eyes. Like a dare. Now he's more sleek. Still dangerous, but more … contrived.

299.

300. What do I want? The pressure of his fingers tells me the next move is mine.

301.

302. Twenty-three years of wondering versus fourteen years of cooking, picking up dirty underwear, parking that ***** minivan, staying up with fevers, changing diapers, racing after schoolbuses …

303.

304. … wiping away tears, snuggling, learning to read, school plays, holding sticky hands, falling into cool sheets and warming myself against Joe's long body. Knowing he picked me for better or worse ...

305.

306. Unrequited Lust versus Reciprocated Love. Sizzle versus Simmer.

307.

308. “I've thought about you, Sue.”

309.

310. “Really?” What? “I mean I -”

311.

312. That sounds pathetic. Back to casual. My lips tingle.

313.

314. “That's nice.”

315.

316. I turn my hand and squeeze his fingers. I'm holding Phil's hand. His fingers are strong and warm, like I'd always imagined. I used to dream of this, used to write my name and his on the inside covers of all my duotangs. Sue Donovan. MRS Sue Donovan.

317.

318. I let go.

319.

320. “Isn't Facebook great?” I say again, back in control of my lips. “Finding old friends and seeing what's become of them? You look successful.”

321.

322. “I am,” he says, leaning back in his chair and giving me a quizzical look. I haven't seen that expression before. Uncertainty. Actually, it looks good on him. “You?”

323.

324. “Oh, yes,” I say. I begin to gush. “Being a mom's a lot of work, but I have good kids. Joe and I have our fifteenth wedding anniversary coming up. We're going to go somewhere hot. I need beachtime! His mom has offered to watch our three boys while we're gone.”

325.

326. I stop to sip my latte.

327.

328. “Three boys?” he asks. His eyebrows lift again. He takes a long pull on his espresso. “Good for you. That's good. I never got married. Never worked out.” His lids drop lower and his voice as well, into a warm, inviting cappuccino. “But I did think about you, after high school. Wondered where you were, what you were doing. Sometimes I wondered why we never got together back then.”

329.

330. “What?!” I blurt.

331.

332. Oops. I had meant for that to be my inside voice. I clear my throat and am mortified to see a smile creeping across his lips. *****. I was so close to being in control. But … he'd wondered? Really? Maybe he only wondered because here I am, now, showing him how I'd wondered.

333.

334. I admit it's great to hear him say that. But what a relief. Not to wonder anymore. My shoulders feel lighter. If I ever really had any questions, they had all been answered.

335.

336. I know what I want. What I have always wanted. Of course I do. And I don't feel guilty sitting here because maybe what I needed was to step briefly in a different direction and realize that I already had it all on my regular route. I know what keeps my days full and exhausting and wonderful. They will be sitting or running around the house in a few hours, screaming, hungry, wanting their brother's stuff, wanting me. He will pour me a glass of wine and tell me about his day, with minute, bewildering details that make my eyes gloss over. Mine will be the last face they see before they fall asleep. All four of them.

337.

338. Unlike Phil, they rarely consciously think of me. I am always there, part of the landscape. I am their rock. And I actually like being that rock. One hardly notices rocks, but without them the world would collapse. And the way they look at me, well, sometimes I feel like a diamond.

339.

340. “I don't know why we didn't,” I admit. “You know I had a huge crush on you.”

341.

342. I let myself give him a real, honest smile. He winks at me, sure of himself now. He looks like Joe does when he grabs the football – just before the rest of us tackle him to the ground. He opens his mouth to speak but I interrupt.

343.

344. “But things sure ended up perfect, didn't they?”

345.

346. That stops him. He sips.

347.

348. “I can't stay long,” he says.

349.

350. “Of course,” I say. “But thanks for coming. I'm glad I got to see you.”

351.

352. “Yeah,” he says, nodding slowly. “Me too.”

353.

354. For a moment he doesn't look like the object of my frustrated teenage lust, nor does he resemble the smirking hunter he has become. He's open-windowed. Someone I can finally see. And he doesn't look so confident through the glass. Then the blinds close and he's back, smooth and cool and someone I don't know.

355.

356. “Maybe I'll see you on Facebook.”

357.

358. He stands, smiles and leaves. There's no reason to stay.

359.

360. I won't look for him on Facebook again, but it's cool to think that maybe, once in awhile, he might spy on me.

361.

362. I stand, smile and leave. I stop at the grocery store, wondering what the boys would like for dinner.

363.

364.

365.

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