with just one click
with just one click
amanda strong
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
WITH JUST ONE CLICK
Copyright © 2011 by Amanda Strong.
Cover design by Photosani/Fotolia
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
Hardcover ISBN 978-1-257-09240-6
Paperback ISBN 978-1-257-09241-3
For Cameron and Skylar, always follow your dreams.
one
chloe
My mind was somewhere else that day. I should’ve been giving thanks for my family, my health … I mean, wasn’t that what any thoughtful person on Thanksgiving would be thinking at that very moment? I guess I wasn’t one of those people. I sat at my mother’s dining room table, pristine ironed napkin on my lap, head down in prayer as my brother-in-law mumbled something about how lucky we all were to be celebrating the day together as a family. It was too bad I couldn’t pay attention to anything he said … all I could think of right then, at that moment, was Facebook.
A foreigner to the world of social networking, Bianca, my friend, coworker, and roommate, incessantly nagged me until I joined and opened myself up to friends. My name is Chloe Brennan, thirty-one years old, grew up in a small town in New Hampshire with big city dreams. My fascination with movies began at thirteen years old when I entered a real theater for the first time and saw Jurassic Park. To watch a film on a bigger-than-life screen and indulge in overly buttered and salted popcorn, all the while on the edge of my seat, anticipating the next big action sequence, was a thrill beyond words.
My first job out of NYU was as a movie reviewer’s assistant for Entertainment Reporter, a highly regarded magazine dedicated to entertainment news and reviews. I worked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, proving myself to colleagues I wasn’t just young, but a driven woman with a strong work ethic. When my boss retired, the years of getting coffee, making copies, and showing I was a capable and prolific asset paid off. I became the youngest reviewer in the company.
I rented a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn with Bianca Trombly, the epitome of perfect: tall and slender, her blonde hair trimmed and highlighted every six weeks. At twenty-eight years old, she knew who she was and who she wasn’t. Her tailored yet chic style was straight out of a Neiman Marcus catalog. Manolo Blahniks were just the tip of the iceberg. Chanel and Louis Vuitton were her BFFs. She required the best of the best and had the credit card debt to prove it. Bianca was the head gossip columnist’s assistant when I first met her. We were totally different; with long chestnut hair, my only claim-to-fame was having the Rachel haircut from Friends for a brief time during the height of the show’s popularity, per my hairdresser’s suggestion. I shopped at Target and Gap; my biggest splurge was a simple J.Crew black wrap dress, timeless and practical. Standing next to the bombshell, I was just another girl, but I wasn’t a slouch—I had my fair share of admirers.
When Bianca mentioned Facebook, I truly believed this was just another fad she was obsessed with; she’d lose interest fast, then move onto the next hype, buying into that trend and dropping Facebook like an old but expensive pair of heels—not good enough to wear anymore, according to her trained eye for imperfections. But my rationalization was wrong—this particular fad wasn’t like all the rest. My roommate was a member of Facebook for months, with no signs of slowing down or jumping ship. She simply was a voyeur; Bianca would’ve rather called her actions people-watching, but I called it stalking her friends. Bianca had over one thousand friends, but not a single post to update her friends on what was going on in her life. She threw her friends one bone, posting a profile picture of herself in perfect light in front of Trump Towers. She called her routine harmless, checking her Facebook page every day, knowing her friends’ every move. My prying friend even confessed she kept tabs on people she knew who weren’t friends, by looking their names up and checking their posted profile picture. I insisted to Bianca I wasn’t interested in social networking, until a weak moment when I was somewhat vulnerable and slightly bored.
It was early fall in downtown New York. The air was fresh with a raw coolness, making me not want to get out of bed. I sat at my desk in Manhattan, wondering why I felt hung over when I didn’t even touch alcohol the night before. The beautiful skyline behind me was worth taking in for a minute, but I wasn’t in the mood for anything of that magnitude. Pretty or gorgeous didn’t register. I was resigned to being miserable.
My office wasn’t spacious—just room for a white desk and silver swivel chair. Some called me sort of a neat freak—sticky notes right next to my organized pens and so forth. I had a window view of the city, plus glass walls; my colleagues could see in, and I, unfortunately, could see out. My compulsively filed reviews, categorized by movie genre and film title, surrounded me as I pondered why my relationships always turned into disaster. This fault was an active topic in the hour-long sessions with my therapist. I looked run-down, pants wrinkled, hair thrown up in an awful makeshift ponytail, and minimal makeup, revealing every last dark circle … I was a total and utter mess.
An offender of the one rule I said I’d never break—dating someone at work. I should’ve never let Tyler’s blue eyes get to me. Okay, maybe it was more than that—his boyish good looks, his sexy demeanor, the way he smiled at me like I was the only girl within a five-mile radius. I believed he intently listened to every word that came out of my mouth—pathetic! The worst part: I was stuck seeing the two-timing television reviewer every day, but with an added bonus. His next conquest was the music reviewer’s much younger assistant. Humiliation was an understatement.
As I wallowed in my own poor attitude, Bianca strolled in my office without knocking. She never acknowledged her entrance, but I guess close friends were exempt from doing so.
“You look like hell,” Bianca whispered as she closed the door. “Snap out of this.” She gestured to my lackluster appearance. “You left early this morning, I didn’t know what happened to you … then I saw the empty ice cream container on the counter, the bag of half-eaten peanut M&M’s … and everything came clear to me,” she said, standing over me in expensive heels, which probably cost half of our monthly rent.
“I know what you’re going to say … just save it for another time,” I said.
Bianca smiled. “Chloe. Rule number one: Never let him see you vulnerable. If Tyler walks by here, he’s going to know you’re devastated … his huge, undeserved ego stroked yet again. That piece of shit, I tell you …” Bianca ranted until I interrupted and told her to stop.
I stood up from my chair and felt weak at my knees. Not only did I feel like crap, but I hadn’t eaten anything all morning. I almost felt like I was going to pass out. Maybe that was a good thing: At least fainting would’ve gotten me out of facing my relationship faux pas. Unfortunately, I kept my fragile body from keeling over and told Bianca I knew she had good intentions, but it was my life, and she needed to leave. As I scooted her out, she tried to reiterate her take on my love life until I closed the door on her and her opinions.
I was exhausted and wanted to lie down, but I had a meeting in two minutes. I grabbed some notes off my desk and headed toward the small boardroom just a few seconds from my office. As I walked in, I noticed some colleagues seated in the cushioned chairs surrounding the long oval conference table. My eyes fixated on the coffee, tea, doughnuts, and muffins table. I mulled over my choices in my own little world, finally choosing coffee with cream and sugar and a blueberry muffin; I’d profit from any type of sugar boost at that very moment. I chose a seat by myself and settled in with my notes and makeshift breakfast, purposely not making eye contact with anyone—I was in no condition for small talk. Fashionably late, Tyler walked through the door right before the first presentation, and I couldn’t help but glare at his smug face for a second. Disgusted, I looked away. He wouldn’t get the best of me.
As the weeks passed, I started to feel like me again. Our two-bedroom apartment, fabulously decorated courtesy of Bianca, was in dire need of some TLC. I cleaned with a vengeance until the granite countertops sparkled, the walnut leather couches were uncluttered, and the mail was finally opened … separated into two small black wicker baskets for bills and magazines. Relaxed and invigorated with my domestic accomplishments, I took a break, relaxing with my laptop and a cup of coffee at the kitchen counter. I typed Facebook into the search engine, succumbing to peer pressure. I thought, Why not give it a shot? My life wasn’t a bed of roses.
“It’s so easy, Chloe. You just post a picture of yourself, and then start inviting people to be your friend,” Bianca had advised two weeks prior.
“Inviting people … like I’m asking them to be my friend?” I asked.
During our last chat about Facebook, Bianca seemed dismayed at my hesitation. I felt like I was back in high school, with bad acne and tapered jeans, hoping I was cool enough to have friends. Now, I could be rejected all over again. I sounded like a whiner, and I exaggerated a tad; the acne wasn’t that bad, and I did have a handful of friends in high school. The real reason I dragged my feet: I wasn’t sure I really cared about what my old friends were doing every second of the day, or if I needed to see hundreds of pictures of their friends and family. My reluctance was matched with a pit in my stomach. Once I joined, anyone could randomly find me. Did I really want to be found?
I ignored my better judgment and browsed my computer for pictures of myself to post on my budding profile. I mulled over whether I should choose a picture of myself or with friends, or pick something entirely out of the box. Pressure mounted … how would the millions of network users perceive me? My acid reflux started to act up; my deodorant kicked into overdrive. Was I really going to introduce this insanity into my life? And for what?
I finally found a picture of me sitting in my apartment with a couple of friends. I cropped the picture down to just me; I was one step closer to my new friends. I perused Facebook for a minute until I was interrupted by the doorbell. I sluggishly walked over and opened the door. Bryan stood in the doorway, looking as flamboyant as ever, wearing a red and white checkered scarf, tan blazer with dark jeans, and Converse sneakers. He stood slightly taller than my average height, with a thin frame, but with a presence larger than life. I threw my arms around him.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I said, breaking away from our embrace. “What are you doing here?” I smiled ear to ear.
“I heard through the grapevine my girl was a little upset, so I left the studio early and swung by to see how you were doing with my own two eyes,” he said, walking into the apartment ahead of me.
“Slightly better now that you’re here,” I said, closing the door, relieved to see my best friend.
Bryan Finley and I met during sophomore year at NYU. He was an aspiring fashion designer, and I was majoring in communications, but both of us stuck in the required English 101—the driest class on campus. Fortunately, Bryan was in attendance, which made the class more interesting and semi-bearable. I always referred to our meeting as destiny, but I think he ended up sitting next to me because he thought I looked academically competent and could interpret the course for him. Weeks passed; our only interaction was of me laughing at some of his off-the-cuff jokes, muttered under his breath when the professor asked questions deemed boring by Bryan.
One night, I walked down a hallway in my dorm, clutching a couple of books I just checked out of the school library. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bryan off in the distance in front of another dorm room. I didn’t realize our rooms were so close, but I barely paid attention with the fast-paced campus life and heavy workload. I yelled out to him, but he didn’t turn around. Certain it was him, I started to walk over to him. His back was still turned away from me; he hadn’t yet opened the door.
“Bryan, it’s Chloe,” I said once again before I reached his door.
No response. I stopped just short of being right in his face; he seemed paralyzed and unresponsive, not like the happy, jovial, carefree personality I so enjoyed laughing with at our professor’s expense. I glanced at him, and then at the front of the door. Written in big, fat letters was the word fag. Bryan snapped out of his trance when he finally noticed me next him, staring at the same disgusting sight. “Just when you think you’re accepted,” he said with pain in his deep walnut eyes.
“Hey, let’s go inside,” I said, practically shoving him forward to use his key and open the door.
We entered his room; darkness filled the space until Bryan leaned over and switched on the lights. The room was unorthodox, to say the least; he’d turned his single dorm room into a mini fashion studio. A form stood in the middle of the room with fabric draped over the bodice, and a sewing machine sat on a small fold-up table next to a couple of rolls of additional fabric. His setup exceeded all expectations of a typical nineteen-year-old college student.
“Listen, why don’t you sit down.” I pointed to a worn tweed loveseat positioned in front of a small television.
He obeyed me and plunked his belongings down next to him.
“You know, this is the first time I’ve actually seen that written out. I mean, when I came out in high school, I heard whispers … he’s gay, or there’s the faggot … but something about seeing the word … it’s a different feeling,” he said, sounding broken and defeated.
I placed my books and bag down on the sewing machine table. “Do you have some paper towels or something?” I asked, glancing around.
Bryan was a little taken aback by my question, but quietly answered, “Under the sink.” I flicked the light on in the bathroom and retrieved the paper towels and a royal blue hand towel with a mixture of hand soap and water. I left the bathroom with my supplies in hand; Bryan glanced up as I headed straight for the door.
“What are you doing?” he questioned.
“Don’t worry, it will be gone in a minute,” I said, focused on the door.
He stood up quickly. “You don’t have to do that, Chloe.”
I turned around. “I know. I want to.”
He whispered under his breath, “Thanks,” and sat back down on the couch.
We learned everything about one another after that day. We never found out who used graffiti to express their hate, but something wonderful came out of such an awful situation; I found my best friend.
Bryan and I lived in the same city, but we were too busy with our careers and wrapped up in our own lives to see one another very often. Bryan became a designer; he slaved over his own small upcoming collection, the clock eaten up by his creativity and meticulous eye for detail. Knowing his crazy schedule, I was surprised to see him in my apartment. He strolled around, familiarizing himself with my place again. My giddiness was apparent as I walked over to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of wine, and rummaged for a wine opener.
“Some wine?” I said, scoring the one and only opener in the drawer.
“Of course,” he said, stopping in front of my computer.
“What are you working on?” he said, peering closer.
I grabbed wineglasses from one of the far cabinets and couldn’t get to him in time. “Nothing really,” I said, waiting for the inevitable fallout from what he’d just discovered.
“Oh, my, my … what do we have here? My girl is joining Facebook, of all evils,” he said, laughing through his words.
I placed the goblets down and poured the wine. “Don’t knock a girl down when she’s already scraping herself off the floor,” I said.
I handed him his wine, and we made our way to the couch. I indulged in a lengthy sip of wine.
“Yes, what’s going on with that loser?” he said, flashing me the told-you-so look. “You know I called that one … you’ll never learn.” He took a sip of Pinot Grigio.
“You don’t have a perfect track record yourself … you just lucked out with Joey,” I said.
Bryan and Joey met three years prior at an art exhibit for a mutual friend. Joey, an incredibly trustworthy and loving boyfriend, was a highly regarded sculptor, an artist in his own right. A few years younger than Bryan, he always seemed like an old soul, enjoying the likes of Frank Sinatra and a glass of Grand Marnier. Within two months of meeting, the two were madly in love and living together.
“Joey and I are so busy these days, we don’t get to spend a lot of time together,” he said, placing his wineglass on the coffee table. “But I do have some news. Someone’s collection is showing during fashion week!” he exclaimed.
“Bryan, that’s amazing!” I shouted, giving him an excited embrace.
We celebrated for a minute, and then he fell silent.
“What is it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I just wish my sister could come and see my work. I hoped things would be different by now.”
Bryan’s parents were killed in a small plane crash when he was sixteen years old; his sister, Kimberly, was the only other immediate family member still alive. She lived in Washington State with her husband and three-year-old son. After Bryan met Joey, he wanted to fly out and introduce his boyfriend to his sister. He was flat-out denied; he was told his trip was unnecessary. If he was gallivanting around with another man, his sister wanted nothing to do with him. Kimberly knew for a long time Bryan was gay, but her impression was that his lifestyle was by choice. When she realized his relationship wasn’t part of a frivolous phase, her conservative views clouded the family bond. She knew right from wrong, and Bryan’s dalliances, as she called them, didn’t qualify as right.
“Maybe you can reach out again … time has passed, and maybe she’s in a different place now,” I said, trying to be supportive.
“No, I can’t. I’m not the one that stopped communicating. I shouldn’t have to grovel for my sister’s attention … it’s probably better off this way,” he said, almost convincing himself.
He quickly switched focus back to my dismal love life and created a stand-up act revolving around all my past boyfriends. We sat for hours, polishing off the bottle of wine and laughing until we couldn’t breathe—a perfect prescription for a broken heart.
I sat in my office, listening to Bianca as she guided me through the final steps of signing up for Facebook. By the time she explained the dos and don’ts of social networking, I’d wasted an hour at work. A pounding migraine ensued; I felt like I’d lost vision in one eye from staring at the computer screen for so long. Chloe Brennan officially joined the masses and came out of the dark.
Bianca wasn’t gone for two minutes before she friended me. I opened the e-mail from Facebook alerting me Bianca wanted to add me as a friend while I was immersed in a review. I followed the directions and clicked on confirm to add her as a friend ….my first. Less than an hour later, I discovered two more friend requests in my inbox: a girl from high school, and Bianca’s friend, an acquaintance of mine, who just happened to recognize me on my roommate’s friends list.
After I finished the review, curiosity got the better of me. I checked Facebook. My ten friends (seven more requests interrupted work throughout that day) posted status updates and pictures. I understood why Bianca was obsessed with the friggin’ network.
One friend posted:
Gone shopping with the girls.
One friend posted:
Shopping while the kids are in school … priceless!
One friend posted:
I hate rain!
After perusing, I learned my first lesson about Facebook: The opportunity to post status updates and comments was the It thing to do … obviously, too tempting to pass up for most friends, but not for me.
A week went by, and the rush to finish our holiday movie preview edition was fast upon me. The films with the most Oscar buzz were jam-packed into the last months of the year. I sat on the couch late at night and wondered why my whole apartment mirrored a page from a Pottery Barn catalog. I admit, Bianca was an impressive decorator with impeccable taste, but I, unfortunately, was on the hook for half the cost. My roommate was off on a date, somewhere in SoHo at a trendy bar she frequented often. My notes sprawled out the length of the couch, my laptop on the glass top coffee table. I typed a couple words, and then deleted them. I finally wrote:
The extraordinary lives of the Dansel family fall short in When We Weep. Tycoon William Dansel, in his late sixties, marries a much younger woman, Celeste MacDonald, beginning the long journey of a desperate man’s struggle to hold onto his wife—a somewhat redundant theme.
A twinge of guilt penetrated my fingers, but I continued:
We’re left as viewers wanting to weep ourselves, not for the characters themselves, but for the time lost watching this train-wreck.
I rested my head back on the soft leather couch. Each review brought a sense of accomplishment … likening my words to a piece of fine art, never the same, always an original. I glanced at the time in the bottom corner of the computer screen, 11:30. I felt inspired to give myself a quick pedicure before bed. I stood up, about to head to the bathroom to dig through the nail polish selection, when I noticed a new e-mail had arrived. I hesitated for a second, and then clicked on the message. It read:
Kyle Woodward has added you as a friend.
My heart raced, my hands felt damp and sweaty … full-blown panic attack.
Pull it together, Chloe! Just be calm, breathe through your nose, out through your mouth, I yelled in my head.
Easier said than done. I was my worst enemy. A million questions popped in my head. Anxiety—not from an old classmate or acquaintance friending me, but from someone I hadn’t spoken to in fourteen years: my first love.
I stood waiting under the canoe rack. Rain poured down on top of the tipped canoes above where I was huddled to keep dry. The musty smell of mildew permeated the air while I crouched down a little to avoid hitting my head on the interior part of the canoe. I told myself he was coming … he must’ve been running late … he couldn’t have forgotten. Then I panicked. What the hell was I doing? I stood in a periwinkle rain coat with jeans and striped hot pink and hunter green flip-flops, realizing I should’ve grabbed my sneakers on the way out of the cottage. Over the echoing taps coming from the dribbles of rain falling down from the dark sky, I heard faint footsteps. The sound of feet got louder as someone approached the canoe rack. I felt nervous, my stomach a little queasy with anticipation. I waited through my anxiety with a hidden smirk, because I knew it was him.
Kyle Woodward was eighteen years old, tall, handsome, athletic, and tanned from endless hours in the sun that summer. His smile permeated every part of his being, from his sparkly, ocean-blue eyes to his slight dimple on his lower left cheek. He was the total package … and I couldn’t believe he was coming to see me.
The footsteps stopped silent before the canoe; I glanced down and saw two feet in all-black flip-flops. Within seconds, he ducked down and appeared under the cobalt blue canoe. He grabbed my semi-cold hands and balanced his footing underneath our hiding place.
“I didn’t think you were going to come,” I said with a slight grin.
“I’m sorry … my parents were asking me all these questions about where I was going in the rain,” he said apologetically.
“But you got away,” I pointed out while my legs shivered under my jeans.
“I did,” he said, moving closer to me.
Silence filled the air, only the pitter-patter of rain and the faint sound of him breathing. He reached out to my long, flowing hair and pushed the strands away from my face. His hypnotic smile engrained in my mind, the faint smell of his cologne, and the softness of his face; he moved closer. I waited, yearning with teenage desire; slowly his lips reached mine. The light touch of his hands holding my face sent tingles all over my body, while his tongue entered my mouth. With every kiss, my heart sank deeper and deeper into my chest. He worked his mouth away from my mouth and slowly caressed my neck with his fingers. For a split second, he glanced at me … no words exchanged. Our lips met once again … never coming up for air until an hour passed.
That rainy, unforgettable night was the beginning of many summer nights Kyle and I spent cuddled together under the night sky. My family rented a modest cottage for that summer on Arrowhead Lake in Maine. The association where we stayed was small, with only ten cottages sharing one beach. Each cottage was painted white and was rustic inside, only room for the immediate family … a space where sand was on the floor and wet bathing suits hung in the bathroom on a daily basis. My father commuted back and forth from his job in New Hampshire so the rest of us could stay and enjoy the summer.
The day after we moved in, I noticed a family emptying out their car in front of the cottage two doors down from us. I first spotted the boy; as he unloaded a black suitcase from the white SUV’s trunk, he glanced up for a second and caught my gaze. Dressed in a preppy, light blue polo shirt tucked into starched white shorts, accessorized with a striped nautical belt … I knew he wasn’t the average teenager. If he added an argyle sweater around his shoulders and a tennis racquet in hand, I would’ve guessed his last name was Vanderbilt, not Woodward.
His snobby parents were immediately the outcasts, by their own fruition, never making an effort with the other families. Subsequently, my first interaction with Kyle was not at the cottages, but at the beach where I was a lifeguard. While he and three of his friends threw a Frisbee around, I caught him staring at me like he was trying to recall where he knew me from. Finally making the connection, he strolled, exquisite and shirtless, over to my lifeguard chair.
“You’re the girl from the cottage, right?” he asked me.
After Kyle’s simple question, multiple conversations about school, friends, and teenage stuff ensued. We formed an innocent friendship until one day when he tried teaching me how to play golf, on the same course he taught children all summer long. We walked back toward the clubhouse after a dismal lesson, and out of the blue, he held my hand and asked me if I wanted to meet up later that night. I knew he’d just asked me out on an official date. I played the moment off cool, but butterflies emerged in my stomach. After our first date, dinner and a movie, we were inseparable, but our relationship hadn’t gone past hand holding until that rainy night.
My family was genuinely happy their daughter was hanging out with a nice boy, as they called him. His parents weren’t so inclined to extend a hand or any warmth my way. Kyle was headed to Yale at the end of the summer, and they didn’t want any complications or distractions hindering that goal. I always remembered his smile and almost always-present dimple; Kyle was relaxed, goofy, and compassionate when we were alone. Like a flip of a switch, those attributes I loved about him disappeared when he was around his parents.
That fateful August night was a week before all the families packed up and left the cottages for a dose of reality back home. Kyle’s parents spent the night driving up the Maine coast to some fancy waterfront resort. Excited to have some time alone together, we had his entire cottage to ourselves for the night.
He popped open two beers he bought using his fake ID earlier that day; we sat on a small, tan microfiber sofa in the main living area, watching an old television with basic cable. The volume lowered as we began to caress each other; he moved his hand up my bare thigh, underneath my jean miniskirt. He leaned in and kissed me … it was wet and a little sloppy. I could taste the beer on his lips, which surprisingly made me want him even more. He slowly moved his soft hand from my thigh to my breast. He lowered my brown and white striped tank top and caressed my erect nipple with his tongue, sending a tingle between my legs.
We kissed again; I slowly guided my hand down his jeans until I felt him react to my touch. We fell onto the sandy area rug, and within seconds, I was topless, breasts exposed. He stopped abruptly, and without words, stood up from the floor and reached out his hand for me. He led me to a dark bedroom; we kept the lights off as we both stumbled to find the small bed. I quickly helped remove his clothes—his polo shirt, jeans, and boxer briefs all on the floor. We rolled around naked, exploring every part of each other’s body, each trying to insight more pleasure to the other. We finally made love; the emotions and feelings built up over an entire summer finally came full circle.
We lay naked, wrapped up in each other’s arms as one … until we heard the front door open. We both sat up, unable to move or say anything. It happened so quickly, everything was a blur. His mom entered the pitch-black room first and saw our two figures. A little shriek, along with a shout to Kyle’s dad, led both his parents into the cramped bedroom; the overhead lights switched on. Kyle covered our exposed bodies with the blanket and sheet, but they might as well have seen me naked—the irreversible damage already done. No words were exchanged between Kyle and me as he gathered my clothes, just a walk of shame as the door slammed behind me, courtesy of his mother.
Thankfully, the next day, I woke up to find a note on the kitchen counter from my mom that said she went to the grocery store. I was relieved to be alone, and with the tone of the note, I knew my mom had no clue what had happened the night before. As I poured milk on my bowl of cereal, I heard car doors slamming. I glanced out the window and saw Kyle’s mother and father packing their car. I tried to run out the door, but Kyle stood on the front steps in my way. I looked into his eyes, confused as he handed me a note. Dumbfounded and at a loss for words, I watched Kyle slowly turn around and walk away from me.
I started to cry before I even turned around and walked back into the cottage. I slowly closed the door behind me and angrily ripped open the envelope. I stared at his words:
Dear Chloe,
I am so sorry for all of this. I know you don’t understand everything, but I shouldn’t have let this happen … I wish I could’ve protected you from all of this … I love you, Kyle.
I fell to the ground. The note slipped out of my grasp and delicately landed on the floor next to me. I cried for weeks, and my gut intuition was right: I never heard from him again. The only lasting memory of that night was a letter sent to my parents from Kyle’s parents detailing their daughter’s “indiscretions.” I was mortified and heartbroken.
I couldn’t sleep at all the night Kyle tried to friend me. The sunrise brought a new day, but I felt stuck in the past, like I’d morphed into a heartsick teenager again. I incessantly stared at the page where I’d ultimately decide whether to confirm him as a friend or not. With one click, I’d be a friend to a person I once hated, resented, cared for … and loved. The latter part is a difficult one to swallow. At seventeen years old, how much did I really know about love? I rested my finger on the mouse pad, still weighing my options, indecisive as ever.
morgan
Was I a typical stay-at-home mom? I don’t even know what that means. What I did know? At thirty-three years old, I was a devoted mother of two young children and still madly in love with my husband. When I met EJ, Edward John Davis, I felt like I was swept away into a magical dream. I had stumbled upon my prince charming. He was five years older, handsome, and fit, with a profitable occupation and great personality. Facebook wasn’t even a thought or on the radar back then. We just had each other.
After receiving my undergraduate and master’s degrees in elementary education from UVM, I moved to a smaller town in Vermont called Bakersville and taught third graders at Brook Lee Elementary; I grew to love the area. It had great shops and an eclectic crowd, and I had loyal friends, but no boyfriend.
EJ and I met at a field-day fundraiser for my school. EJ represented the sponsor, Vermont Eastern Bank, and he was on hand to present their substantial donation for new computers. I volunteered at the baked goods table and had caught a glimpse of him as he adjusted the bank’s banner that was hanging from a nearby chain-link fence. He stood over six feet tall, with hazel eyes, slightly gelled hair, a crooked smile, and impeccable style. His suit had been custom-tailored to fit his body.
The sun blasted the participants on the field as I tucked my small fold-up table under a large, shady, barely-recovered-from-a-harsh-winter oak tree. My wavy blonde bob trapped the heat and moisture on my neck as it was too short to pull back in a much-needed ponytail. As I unwrapped donated cookies, brownies, and cakes, our eyes met for a split second. I quickly glanced down at the oversaturated table of chocolate and sugar as my face turned bright red. I told myself to act cool when I saw the same man approaching the table. I fiddled with the goodies, trying to appear busy, which was silly for a grown woman—but I was a work in progress.
He pointed to the table and asked me if I had made any of the delectable treats. I simply said no, purposefully omitting my less-than-stellar domestic skills. The man of my dreams walked away, leaving a ten-dollar bill for a one-dollar brownie.
The homemade delights were a hit; there was a consistent line of salivating children during the two hours of fun and festivities. As the potato sack and relay races ended, I efficiently placed the yummy, irresistible treats back into containers, until I was interrupted by a powerful voice. EJ stood in front of me. He smirked and asked me if he was too late to purchase another brownie. As I assured him that he wasn’t, he nonchalantly introduced himself as EJ.
“Nice to meet you, EJ. I’m Morgan,” I said, solidifying our first official conversation with a handshake. His skin was pure silk, like a baby’s bottom. He must’ve applied cream twice a day to achieve such soft and supple hands.
Edward John Davis handed me a business card with his cell and office number after I accepted his invitation for a date sometime. I waited three to four days before conveniently leaving a message at his office after work hours. It was much easier to talk to voice mail and place the pressure on him. The reason why I called him is because he hadn’t asked for my number. Instead of being a random guy asking me for my digits, he had given me the choice to call him. I respected that. When EJ called back the following day, I was giddy, a feeling that was a little foreign to me. I’d never really been in love. I had dated, but not anyone for over six months. In high school and college, long-term relationships hadn’t appealed to me. Even in my early twenties, love hadn’t been on my radar. It had been more passion and lust than matters of the heart.
EJ suggested the upscale restaurant Noble for our first encounter. I wasn’t quite sure how comfortable I’d be. My first dates had usually consisted of meeting at a bar or lounge for drinks or a casual meal that was followed by an easy exit strategy if things didn’t go so well. I had never eaten at that restaurant before, but I knew of its five-star, pricey reputation.
I was a wreck the week leading up to the Saturday night. My third graders had noticed my lack of concentration during class: I had forgotten to give out homework on three out of the five days. I arrived home to my one-bedroom condo the Friday before the big date and walked into my bedroom, where shopping bags from various department stores lined the floor. I had shopped all week to find the perfect outfit for the occasion and ended up purchasing a bunch of maybes. After much consideration and two glasses of chardonnay, I chose a pair of simple black pants with a burgundy silk button-down blouse and leopard-print heels—a touch of class, style, and subtle sexiness all wrapped up in a sophisticated bow.
I arrived in front of Noble and was totally caught off guard with the valet service and unprepared with the right tip money. When I handed the attendant the keys for my modest white sedan, I felt uneasy and slightly out of place—not because I didn’t think I belonged, I just wasn’t familiar with all of the etiquette. I needed a little refresher course from back in the old days when my parents took our whole family out to a fancy restaurant to celebrate birthdays. Those were the days when my mother laid out my very specific fancy dress and told me what to do and not to do.
I walked into the stuffy, diamond-star establishment and immediately noticed the dimmed lighting. The walls were adorned with a classy, floral wallpaper that led up to a small podium where a statuesque, seasoned-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair stood wearing a standard suit and tie. I approached the matured host with the all-business attitude and was quickly told my party was waiting for me upstairs. I ventured alone past the intimate downstairs dining area and strolled up the lavish stairs that were lined with an immaculate cranberry rug that complimented the shiny, polished railings. I arrived at the top of the stairs and discovered similar accommodations with one distinct difference: the heavily made-up, forty-something hostess with overly dyed, crimson hair, which was undoubtedly masking shades of gray. (Sometimes less was more, and less was best in that situation.) Her apparent well-fueled ego permeated through her tone when she asked if she could help me.
After my voice slightly cracked from first-date jitters, the snobby hostess ushered me to an intimate table for two that was tucked in a corner away from the other patrons where it overlooked the window. As we approached the romantic setting, EJ immediately stood up and greeted me with a smile. He guided me to my seat, like an old-time gentleman. My date shot a casual glance at the standoffish and prissy hostess, like he knew her. Did he bring all of his first dates here?
He wore a fabulously tailored sport coat and crisply ironed button-down white shirt with the two top buttons strategically undone. The no-tie look did him justice. He went ahead and ordered a bottle of red wine that, undoubtedly, cost more than I made in a day.
“I know this place probably seems a little much for a first date, but I love to eat, and I like good food, so I figured a woman like you wouldn’t find fault with that,” EJ reasoned.
I smiled and assured him I was comfortable with his choice, even though I hadn’t decided whether I was going to really eat or just nibble like a typical woman on a first date.
I knew I should’ve eaten something that day. The wine rapidly loosened my nerves and speech. His eyes sparkled during our fluid and effortless conversation. We laughed hysterically, a foreign sound in a dignified and proper restaurant. We forgot about the stuffy atmosphere and ignored the blank stares that came from the nearby tables. EJ wasn’t kidding when he said he liked to eat. That’s all we did—plus we polished off two bottles of wine and a bottle of Perrier. I guess tap water was too middle class. Course after course, I shoved extraordinary food into my mouth. I had thrown out the stereotypical date policy and had decided to eat. EJ didn’t find fault in my indulgences. When the check arrived, the waiter strategically placed the concealed bill in front of EJ. I immediately insisted on paying half. My date emphatically said no—not even entertaining the offer.
The night ended with the two of us outside, waiting patiently for the valet to bring our cars around. We both agreed the night had been filled with fantastic cuisine and conversation. He asked me if he could call me sometime, and I tried not to be overly enthusiastic when I said yes. When the attendant pulled my car around, EJ placed a sweet kiss on my right cheek.
“Thanks again for a wonderful evening,” he said sincerely.
I smiled as I handed the valet a tip. (I remembered that time.) I sat in my car and adjusted the seat belt, and then I drove away from the curb, knowing that I’d just had the best first date of my life.
Two days later, the doorbell rang in my apartment. I opened the fairly old, fragile door; a delivery person stood in the doorway with an arrangement of bright yellow and pink Gerber daisies in a sparkling, clear glass vase.
“Please sign here,” the stoic man said to me, pointing to a vacant space with an X beside it. Stunned by the floral surprise, I signed quickly. I shut the door, anxiously ripping open the tiny envelope with my name on the front. I pulled the note out:
Just wanted to tell you again I had a wonderful time with you. EJ
EJ and I married after dating for a year. We settled into a modest Colonial with a huge backyard, situated on a cul-de-sac great for kids. I loved teaching but had babies on my brain. We were over the moon when we found out we were expecting our first child. We waited to find out the sex; the suspense nearly killed me. My job meant the world to me, but after giving birth, I chose to stay at home full time with my new baby girl, Ashley, and two years later, with our son, Tony.
When Ashley turned five and Tony was two, I finally scraped my way out of the huge pit called the diaper and formula days and realized how much my husband worked. EJ was a great father. He’d come home exhausted but still be active and present with the kids. Any leftover time was for me and sleep—sleep won out most of the time. I wasn’t a complainer. We had a great life, but I definitely felt isolated at times.
One chilly October day, some moms convened for tea and conversation at my house, while our children enjoyed hot chocolate and watched a G-rated animated Halloween movie. Grace was a thirty-five-year-old mother of three, a spandex mom—one who worked out consistently and was fit to a T and didn’t mind prancing around in skimpy spandex. Elyse was a thirty-two-year-old mother of two, a former high school homecoming queen with a couple extra pounds of baby weight. Her kids were four and six. The three of us met at my first Mommy and Me class with Ashley, and our personalities just clicked.
Elyse, Grace, and I sat around the granite countertop, sipping black tea. It was just another chitchat with the girls until Elyse blurted out, “I joined Facebook.”
I glanced at Elyse and then Grace. “What?” I said, shocked and surprised. “Where did that come from?” We all laughed for a second at my reaction.
“No, seriously. My high school reunion’s coming up. Fifteenth, I can’t believe it,” Elyse whispered and shook her head. “And one of my friends told me there was some information on Facebook. You can’t just look without signing up, so I did,” she said with a jubilant smile.
“Really?” Grace asked.
“I already have forty friends. You’d be surprised at who friends you. You two should go on,” Elyse said with a grin. I hadn’t seen her that happy since we walked into a Coach outlet and found a 75 percent off sale.
Grace and I exchanged some secret glances. Our friend had definitely lost her mind. Before I could say a word on the matter, Ashley screamed from the other room; the movie had stopped. By the time I figured out which gremlin touched the remote and inadvertently switched the DVD to regular television, the conversation had changed. Grace said her gym was having a deal on memberships and asked if Elyse wanted to join. Our friend was a good sport about the whole topic; she knew Grace’s heart was in the right place. Elyse constantly started exercise programs, and within the first couple of weeks, her motivation fizzled.
I always felt guilty when the topic of exercise entered our conversation. Sure, from a clothes standpoint, my size-eight, average waist was acceptable, but if Grace saw my bare, naked ass, she would’ve suggested the gym membership to me, too.
After the playdate for moms and children ended, I picked up the family room, retrieving popcorn from the sloppy movie watchers in between the black leather cushions. Meanwhile, I tiptoed around my own kids, who were passed out on the oversize bean bag chair on the floor. I threw the crumbs in the disposal and dumped the rest of the hot chocolate down the drain. I glanced over and saw my laptop sitting on the opposite counter. I strolled over, turned on my computer, and curiously typed Facebook into Google.
Three weeks after I jumped the shark and joined the very site I’d balked at with Grace, I had close to one hundred friends. I felt awful that I had judged Elyse and her willingness to join Facebook after I became a member. In a very short time, I became somewhat addicted. I scoured the site, completing any quiz imaginable. My favorite: Which character on The Brady Bunch would you be? I was Jan. I created countless photo albums and posted too many pictures of Ashley and Tony to even count. When Elyse mentioned Facebook, my reluctance was partially because I couldn’t imagine reconnecting with old friends and classmates … but the network supplied me with so much more.
I posted:
Need a yummy salmon recipe—please help!
Within an hour, two friends commented with fantastic choices.
During an average day, I’d contribute updates at least a few times. Mostly, I vented.
I posted:
These kids are driving me crazy …
My friends flooded the comment section; I immediately calmed down.
A couple days later, a friend posted:
My kids insist on not taking their naps … don’t they know that’s when I get on Facebook?
I commented:
Humorous … I was about to say the same thing!
Ironically, EJ initially felt the same way. He didn’t understand the hype surrounding social networking … but he still joined. I called him a lazy user; he occasionally posted and checked his page a couple times a week. On the contrary, my Blackberry was my accomplice, making the process of reading and posting too convenient to pass up.
During Ashley’s dance recital, I snapped pictures of my adorable ballerina and immediately posted them during intermission under the photo album My Little Ballerina.
On a day I cleaned the house, I posted:
Off to clean the playroom … again.
Within minutes, three friends commented how they felt my pain over the dreaded toy organization.
EJ continued working long hours. By the time I’d ushered the kids around to numerous activities, brought them home, fed and bathed them, and read countless bedtime stories, I was completely exhausted. One guilty little pleasure was the time between the kids going to bed and the one or two nights EJ came home late from work … the time was solely mine. I indulged in a hot shower and slipped on my comfy pink chenille robe and moccasins. With my tired feet rested on the black leather ottoman and my laptop balanced on a throw pillow, I quietly caught up on the day’s News Feed in the luxury of my own family room.
One late night, EJ arrived home and found me in my usual spot.
“You’re not on that again, are you?” he said, motioning to the computer; he looked exhausted.
“Getting off now—just waiting for my precious husband to come home,” I smirked, glancing from a focused state.
I just finished giving one of my friends a smackdown in a game of checkers—she was in over her head.
He flashed a slight grin with his sexy, crooked mouth, and then he started to walk away. “Yeah, right. I’m going to take a shower.”
“Okay, honey,” I yelled as I heard faint footsteps on the staircase.
I shifted my attention back to Facebook. I posted:
My hubby’s finally home—can’t wait to spend some time with him.
With a click of a button, my updates were officially done for the day.
The kitchen sat in total disarray, an ultimate disaster from my mommy baking extravaganza—a far cry from the first day I met EJ and my inability to bake anything homemade.
The countertop was covered with baking powder, flour, vanilla, chocolate chips, and eggs. I never fashioned myself as Martha Stewart; ingredients weren’t neatly placed into small glass bowls before executing any recipes. A clunky white industrial mixer sat in the middle of the chaos—the one I added to our wedding registry and never thought I’d use. Instead, I strategically placed the baking appliance front and center, enabling our guests in our home to falsely assume my domestic skills. The joke was on me: I wore that thing into the ground.
Ashley wore a bubblegum-colored apron embroidered with Princess on the front as she stood on a step stool, her blonde pigtails covered with flour. She was an adorable little baker. She grinned with delight as I handed her a fragile egg and opportunity to break something without recourse. She lightly tapped the edge of the stainless steel bowl and cracked the shell. The yolk and whites fell into the bowl, along with just one tiny piece of shell; she confidently smiled at her success. After washing both of our hands, I quickly grabbed my phone and snapped a picture of my daughter before her attention span diminished. I added the photo to Facebook, where one hour prior I had posted:
About to bake with my daughter … priceless.
After Tony woke up from his nap, I packed up for a playdate at Grace’s house. While my children tried to potty before we left, I checked Facebook. Three friends already Liked my earlier post. As I scrolled down, I noticed EJ had posted:
My bank is offering great opportunities right now—check it out.
I proudly thought, My husband, always the businessman. I glanced underneath the update. Julie Donahue had commented:
Sounds great … will check it out.
EJ’s ex-girlfriend from high school was one of his friends? A pang of jealousy rushed through my body as Ashley tugged at my sweater; she demanded we leave for the playdate. Preoccupied, I told her I needed a couple of minutes. My stubborn daughter adamantly nagged me—she was ready. Frustrated, I threw my hands up and pointed toward the kitchen. “Go get a cookie,” I said. My children trotted off, happy as two clams, as I investigated their father’s Facebook page.
brynn
I’d just hit forty, and I started reassessing my life: where I was at and how the hell I ended up there. I couldn’t deny the gnawing ache in my spirit … I felt unwanted and used as a mother and wife. Facebook happened to be around at the right time, allowing me to escape from my everyday life. My name: Brynn Haggerty. I had two children, Hailey, my fifteen-year-old daughter, and Finn, my thirteen-year-old son. My married life started off like a well-oiled machine. Chad Haggerty and I met at the University of Connecticut, where we both majored in business and attended many of the same classes. Chad liked to party, but he was never the one to start the festivities. He lurked in the shadows, taking a backseat to the more rowdy, obnoxious frat boys who made it their business to be the center of attention with keg stands and the occasional hit from the community bong.
When I met Chad, I immediately noticed his piercing chocolate eyes and the slight scar on his chin, a hockey mishap. When he spoke in class, he seemed polite and genuine. I was drawn to him and found myself fantasizing about him from afar. One night, my daydream turned to reality. We were both at the same house party, and Chad just walked up out of the blue and asked me out. He mumbled, “You probably didn’t know I existed,” as he explained the mutual classes we attended together. We soon realized each was stalking the other.
My business degree came in handy; right out of college, I provided clerical work for Chad’s father’s construction business, while Chad became his dad’s right-hand man. As husband and wife, we settled into a charming little cape on the outskirts of Greenwich. We were fortunate as young newlyweds to have secure jobs. Chad wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth; he worked for everything he had, and so did his father. Haggerty Construction had a respectable reputation for building exquisite single-family homes and for giving back to the community through donations to various local charities.
Our incredible honeymoon to the Caribbean Islands was everything I ever dreamed it would be: long walks on the crisp, white-sand beaches; luxuriating in the crystal-clear ocean; and making love all day and night with the man who sparked unbelievable pleasure when he touched me. When we returned from our amazing vacation, Chad immediately worked longer hours. I dropped to part-time, enabling me to search for a more permanent job and freeing my time up to decorate the house. I updated the walls with some fresh paint and furnished our entire home with many bargains, including furniture I restored or cleaned off from other people’s garbage. No matter how late it was when Chad arrived home, he always spent quality time with me. Wrapped up in each other’s arms, we had meaningful conversations, regularly leading to overly satisfying nights.
We slipped up a couple of times during those passionate days, and at age twenty-four, the little stick was positive … we were having a baby. Shock turned into reflection. I thought, what better time to start a family then when I was kind of in limbo and partially at home already? I surprised my husband with a special dinner, debuting Lenox china from our wedding registry that had previously sat in unopened boxes down in the basement. On top of his fragile plate, I placed an adorable set of white satin baby booties I’d bought a couple hours prior in a plain, discreet box. My mother’s passed-down delicate crystal vase was filled with a subtle mix of pink and yellow roses in the middle of the lavish place settings.
I dimmed the lights, turned on classical music, and waited. I glanced at my silver and diamond watch, a first anniversary present from Chad. The chicken Marsala warming on the stovetop permeated the air; my stomach suddenly went into overdrive. Or was it just morning sickness rearing its ugly head at seven o’clock at night? The sensation was like I dropped out of the sky, same as riding in a confining rollercoaster car without any control, the popular amusement ride rip-roaring down the no-holds-barred track. Right at the time when I could’ve made myself sick, the door to the garage creaked. I breathed in and calmed the wave down; vomiting onto the meticulously clean hardwood floor was not an option.
“Brynn?” Chad called out.
“I’m in here,” I flirtatiously said. I poured a glass of cabernet for the father-to-be; he strolled into the kitchen and jumped slightly at my sudden, in-your-face presence. “Some wine,” I said, offering him the glass.
“What’s going on?” he said, cautiously accepting his beverage.
Chad walked further into the kitchen and took inventory of the decorated table, which was usually defined with maximum clutter. “What’s all of this?”
“Come, sit down,” I said, ushering him to his seat.
He locked eyes on the small box. “Are you proposing …?” he chuckled, reluctantly taking a seat.