BlueAsTheSky: There you go again with the good grammar. Swoon! Both commas in the proper place? You’re on a roll here, JB. Keep it up.

Me: You sure you’re not an English major?

BlueAsTheSky: No! I love to read, but I’m not a writer. Not by a long shot. I’m definitely the creative type, but I can never remember if it’s I before E except after C…

Me: Sounds about right.

BlueAsTheSky: But I still have to say it when I’m spelling words! I SAY IT OUT LOUD, JB, not in my head. LOL I’m so ridiculous.

Me: Do you use your fingers to do math?

BlueAsTheSky: Only when I’m multiplying by 9.

Me: Huh? That makes no sense.

BlueAsTheSky: Let me see if I can explain this so it makes sense (I had an old tutor teach me this trick in—no lie—fourth grade): whenever you need to multiply by nine, you count on your fingers the number you’re multiplying by. So, say it’s nine times seven. Take your seventh finger and fold it down. You now have six fingers on the left side of the seventh, 3 on the right. The answer is 63.

BlueAsTheSky: That is seriously the only way I can multiply by nine. I suck SOOOO bad. Don’t judge me now that I’ve told you my secret, and NEVER bring it up again.

I stare down at my fingers and mentally calculate nine times five—then fold down the fifth finger on my left hand. Four fingers remain on that hand, five on the other. Forty-five.

Me: Holy shit, you’re right.

BlueAsTheSky: Yeah, I guess you could count it as a stupid party trick, but it only works for nines. Which totally screwed me during math exams since I’m horrible at all multiplication and not just nines. Sigh.

BlueAsTheSky: My teachers were probably so confused about why I was killing it with that number but failing the rest. I’m so awkward sometimes. Actually, I’m awkward all the time.

If she’s anything like this in person, there is no doubt in my mind that I would find her fucking delightful.

Me: Bullshit, you are not.

BlueAsTheSky: Okay, I’m not. I actually talk a lot and am quite personable, LOL

Me: Random question.

BlueAsTheSky: Fire away

Me: Is your name Blue, or…something else? I can’t figure out what BlueAsTheSky means. Are your eyes blue, or did you just randomly make it up?

BlueAsTheSky: It’s not randomly made up. I mean, it is, but it has to do with my name.

Me: Which you have no intention of telling me?

BlueAsTheSky: No, not yet. Sorry, I’m still a little gun-shy.

Me: That’s okay. I totally get it.

BlueAsTheSky: Besides, it’s not like JB is your actual name, so technically I don’t know yours either.

Yeah, and she never will, because my initials will never be JB because I am not Jack Bartlett and never will be.

Me: JB is obviously my initials.

BlueAsTheSky: Obviously, lol

Me: I’m not nearly as creative as you.

BlueAsTheSky: You couldn’t get any less creative with your profile name if you tried. Which you clearly did not. LOL

Me: I’m not usually a fan of sarcasm, but I find yours irresistible.

JB hates being mocked or teased in any way. He’s kind of a sensitive prick, actually. A titty baby, as an old member of the team used to call Jack when he was a freshman.

Zeke Daniels has long since departed, but some of the shit he said stuck with me.

Like my roommate being a complete sissy when it comes to taking direction or being the subject of a joke. So much so that I feel the need to point this out to Blue, even though we haven’t gotten to the part where I’m setting her up on a date with Jack.

She should know he gets butthurt easily.

BlueAsTheSky: You don’t like being teased, or you don’t like sarcasm?

Me: At the risk of sounding like a sissy, I hate being the butt of jokes.

BlueAsTheSky: Noted. It’s a good thing I’m not a sarcastic asshole.

Me: There are some real assholes on the wrestling team I’ve had to deal with, so…

I hit send before I can think twice about it, knowing that if JB goes back through the conversation after he logs in later, he’s probably going to be pissed I told her that.

Oh well.

It’s out there and I can’t take it back.

A small part of me gets a cheap thrill at dishing out that particular bit of information, knowing it was a shitty thing to tell her.

BlueAsTheSky: I respect that; thanks for telling me.

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, not looking forward to the argument I’ll have with my roommate about it later.

I’m making him sound like a pussy.

And in all honesty, since Tasha broke up with him, he’s been acting like one. He kind of was one before, but for the past three months, it’s been worse.

He fucking hates being picked on, and you know how dudes are—constantly giving each other shit, especially in the gym and practice room. It’s almost like we have nothing better to do than screw around when we’re supposed to be focused.

Dick jokes.

Lowbrow insults.

Mocking someone’s intelligence is always a favorite go-to.

We’re all pretty offensive, and at the same time, we’re like one big happy dysfunctional family. It’s really fucked up in a weird way that only makes sense if you’re part of it.

Anyway.

Jack is a titty baby and he’s going to hate that I told Blue.

I change the subject.

Me: So there is no chance you’ll tell me your name?

BlueAsTheSky: Not tonight. Sorry big guy.

I am a big guy.

Much bigger than JB, not that she would have any way of knowing that. All she sees are his photographs; she’ll never see mine, and why I’m even thinking about it is beyond me.

I wonder what she would think of me.

Me as me.

Abe.

Me: You said you like tall guys, right?

JB says he’s six foot, but that’s a total lie. He’s five ten on a good day; I have several inches on him, measuring in at six two.

BlueAsTheSky: I do. I really do.

Then you’re going to be disappointed when you meet me in person, I start to type.

Delete.

Me: I’m your guy then.

BlueAsTheSky: I’ll have to take your word for it. You’re not going to show up for our date and be standing eye to eye with me, are you? Because I love wearing heels, haha.

I flip back to her profile to see if she makes any mention of how tall she is.

Nothing.

Me: How tall did you say you were?

BlueAsTheSky: I didn’t. I’m five seven.

Oh shit, that’s pretty tall for a female. Only three inches shorter than JB if you’re doing the math.

That’s not going to end well.

I wonder if I should say something but decide against it. No reason to put the cart before the horse, and who knows—

maybe she won’t even notice, or care.

I laugh at the thought, knowing that when a girl has her mind made up about something—especially what they consider their “type” to be—there isn’t much room to change their mind.

Especially not when the entire relationship is built on a lie.

Five foot eight.

That’s pretty fucking sexy, and my mind quickly wanders, wondering about her legs. How long they are, if they’re smooth. If she ever wears skirts or favors jeans.

I wonder how closely she resembles the pictures in her profile. One thing is for certain, she’s not using any filters. Still, you never really know until you’re face to face with a person.