Chapter 6 #2
Today, I put my newly blonde hair in a topknot, slide in some hoop earrings, and don my work T-shirt and black pants.
After swiping on mascara and lipstick, I tell myself it’s okay to indulge in a few minutes of social scrolling.
You know, just to catch up since I’ll be occupied for the next eight hours.
Also, I don’t want to miss anything important like the cool vinyl purse brand that’s dropping their latest design, the daily meme trend, so I’m not left out of any inside jokes, or the photos from my friend Danica’s birthday brunch that I missed.
First, I check my email. Expecting only a few more than the nine hundred and ninety I had yesterday, I see that the new magic number is a thousand and one.
Go me!
It’s probably too early to be this sarcastic, but it’s one way to avoid the overwhelm that threatens me from all sides, including the little black device that seems to read my mind while polluting it at the same time.
Among my emails, I have a link for a workshop on how to tackle digital clutter somewhere in there, but finding it means sifting through the aforementioned mountain of correspondence.
I make a deal with myself to tackle ten.
The first is a newsletter including a discount from a razor-of-the-month company I don’t recall subscribing to.
The next features twenty-four things to do with lettuce. Then the third is …
I tuck my chin. This can’t be right. I emailed Hudson from my junk mail account last night.
When I officially became an adult, I started using a system I learned that involves keeping three different email addresses.
One is for family and friends, the next is for bills and business-type things, and the third is for newsletters, subscriptions, and discounts.
The beauty of the method is that they all funnel directly to my main inbox, so I don’t have to log in at three different places.
Unfortunately for me, I never got to the part of the program that explains how to organize them, so I don’t have a thousand emails all in one place.
It had something to do with folders and tabs, but if I recall, it was at that point I decided to try a new planner system recommended to me by Jess.
She’s big into the bullet method and we went shopping to get all the supplies, which are still in the plastic bag hanging on the back of my door.
I open the email and expect that it’s one of those grumbly little mailer daemon auto-replies that indicate the person no longer has that email address. I imagine a goblin in a dank cellar office with a buzzing fluorescent light typing the message with one finger.
But no.
It’s a letter.
From Hudson.
He’s goblin-like, at six and a half feet tall with an athletic build. I feel bad for whoever has to touch and trim his stylishly tousled dark hair. The man is a mutant with freakishly symmetrical features, a sharp jawline, and full lips with a perpetually obnoxious half-smile.
Don’t get me started on his eyes fringed with dark lashes or that his T-shirt sleeves hug his stupid muscles. Also, I beheld his bare chest, revealing his pecs and abs during our little cat burglar rendezvous. Yeah, the man is definitely a goblin of the hob variety.
from: Hudson Roboveitchek
to: yoursecretadversary@
date: Sept. 18, 5:07 AM
subject: Re: Revenge bedtime procrastination
To my Secret Adversary,
It’s been a while. What, like seven months since you last emailed me? I’ll admit that I’ve come to look forward to your notes spewing hostility and animosity. In fact, I admire your tenacity for sticking with me all these years. I can’t say that for most people. Not even my own family.
I’ll admit that when I originally read your letter in the back of my yearbook, I was a little freaked out. It was an unsettling find—the opposite of putting on a clean pair of pants and finding a twenty in the pocket.
If you follow my career (doubtful considering it’s obvious you’re not a fan), you’ll see that I was recently moved to the Nebraska Knights. This means I’m back in my hometown.
Our hometown.
While unpacking, I came across the yearbook and wandered down memory lane until I reached the last page.
It’s safe to assume you also went to Clarkson High School, given the yearbook note.
Are you still in Cobbiton? I’m not happy about it.
Being here, I mean. You might love small-town life.
Actually, do you love anything? You seem like a pretty unhappy person.
Can’t say I’m all cheerful smiles either. At least not lately.
This might be my last season in the NHL. Hmm. I probably shouldn’t write this. You could leak it to the press and attempt to embarrass me. It would probably work.
But I have to say, this return to town has me down. Numb? Bleh? I can’t really describe it, but it’s like I don’t care much about anything … except one thing, actually.
I’m going to figure out who you are.
Sincerely,
Hudson
My stomach drops. Well, this is a surprising turn of events. In all these years, he’s never replied. In fact, I figured the emails I sent went directly to spam or disappeared into the internet void. For all I knew, he blocked me and the service provider didn’t alert me to protect his privacy.
Yet Hudson is in my inbox … and he’s going to try to figure out who I am. It’s too late to call out of work. No, the plan is to act normal, especially if I see him. He’ll never know my secret identity, even if he does discover that I was the one who dropped off the gnome.