Page 22 of Five
Throughout the day, I find myself fielding several parent messages that are similar in theme to the Staton one. Apparently, a phone tree message and a next-day email are not nearly enough to reassure people that all is well. I apologize profusely to each one and immerse myself in the children.
They’re why I do this, I remind myself.
Oliver continues to send me short, sweet messages, and on my lunch break I click over to the app and open a chat, just to keep myself sane.
Me:Today has sucked, just want to let you know.
Oliver:Why is that? I would think daycare would be thrilling and super fun, all the time.
Me:Ha, ha. Nothing much. Normal stuff. Some days just aren’t great, you know?
Oliver:Yeah, I know.
Me:So, what do you do, anyway?
Oliver:I write fiction.
I do a double-take.
Me:As in, successfully? Professionally?
Oliver:Ha, ha. Yes.
Me:That’s so cool! Would you have written anything I’m familiar with?
Oliver:Depends on what you like to read.
I twist my lips, considering. I like romance, and very often kinky romance, which is not something I generally reveal to people I’m just meeting. There’s a stigma, however undeserved, that romance is not as cerebral and its readers aren’t as intelligent.
I call bullsh—hockey. I call bull hockey.
Me:Romance. I read a lot of romance.
Oliver:Ah, okay. Have you heard of James Hunt?
Me:Have I heard of James Hunt? Everyone’s heard of James Hunt. He’s the new Nicholas Sparks.
Oliver:Thank you. I consider that a flattering comparison.
What?I stare at the screen of my phone in shock. James Hunt is huge. Crazy famous. As-in movies made from several of his books and an adoring female audience. He is reclusive though… he doesn’t have an author photo and as far as I know, rarely if ever attends signings or conducts interviews.
Although, I did learn that he had done a signing at the bookstore here in the Keys that I frequent all the time. I was so annoyed to find out that I had actually been in the store the same evening… had even wondered at the crowd… but I had been so fixated on a couple of cute guys that I missed out figuring out who the author was.
Those cute guys who I never did call. I had gotten busy and backburnered it, and before I knew it, it was weeks later and too late. But maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I should call.
Me:You’re…James Hunt?
Oliver: Yes.
Me:Excuse me while I go die for a little while. Be back later.
The phone chirps with one last text, but I ignore it. I need to process. And get back to work, probably.
The rest of the day goes smoothly, aside from a few more irate parents, and I’m relieved to finally be in for the evening when I get home. The mystery that is Oliver is uppermost on my mind, and I’ve barely kicked my shoes off before I am messaging him.
Me:Hi, Oliver-AKA-James.
Oliver:Haha, funny. I’m just Oliver.
