Page 136 of Book and Ladder
Shops have set up private fundraisers, keeping them cloaked from Daisy’s awareness, but publicizing them to everyone else. I’m not sure how we’re managing to keep this secret from her when so many people know about it, but so far she seems completely oblivious.
Outside the continuing effort, I’m avoiding Daisy like she caught hand, foot and mouth disease. I don’t trust myself not to blurt out the plans I have, or my feelings for her. I need everything to fall into place and then I’ll face her.
I leave her a fall-scented candle and winter throw in a gift bag on her doormat one day. No explanation. Just, “Enjoy the cooler weather. Stay cozy. - Patrick” on the note. The next day, I bring her a container of soup and a slice of chicken pot pie from Judy’s Diner in a heat-retaining to-go bag. That note says, “In case you’re too tired to make dinner. - Patrick”
Mrs. Hellman reports on Daisy’s comings and goings to me in her unsolicited updates. “She came a-knockin’ this morning before she left. Looked just a little disappointed that you weren’t home.”
I try not to read into Daisy stopping at my home—but I do. I like the idea of Daisy knocking on my door, especially ifshe’s not armed with a bag of flaming dog mess or a glitter bomb.
Online, I respond to Daisy’s emails. I haven’t engaged in a DM since the last one where she talked about how we might know one another. I can’t chance anything slipping out. Emails, I can control. DMs get slippery.
I miss her—the banter, the late night online chats, the way she folds her arms across her chest when she’s frustrated with me. I miss the smell of cinnamon and old books. I miss the sleep rumpled look she had when I fixed her water heater. I miss all the time we’ve lost together. And I’m just hoping we don’t have to lose much more.
No agenda. No expectations, I remind myself.
The night before the big reveal, I go live. The cursor blinks like a heartbeat, reminding me I’m not alone.
I asked Daisy to listen. I reminded her last night in an email. She asked why it was so important for her to listen this time. She’s right to be suspicious. I’ve never demanded her listening presence before, and definitely not this adamantly.
I duck into the closet I’ve turned into a recording studio, set up my mic and computer as usual—but nothing about this night is usual.
This will fly or it’ll sink like a turd in a punchbowl.
I take a big breath and hit the button.
“Hey, listeners. Today is a little different than my usual podcast episodes. I usually prerecord what you hear about a week in advance of publishing the content.
“I also usually start each episode with a quote, but tonight I need to start with a confession.”
I breathe and dive right in—no dead air. That’s a rule in recording. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“My name is Patrick O’Connell. I’m a firefighter in a small town in Tennessee."
“I started this podcast anonymously because it felt saferthat way—safer to talk about love without being seen as the guy who never quite measures up in real life, safer than being relentlessly teased for my reverent appreciation of literature. In my family, I was expected to build buildings, not lose myself in books.”
There’s a beat of silence while I swallow the emotions of my most recent interaction with my father.
“Sorry. I’m still here. You might wonder why I’m finally coming clean, exposing myself, and letting all of you know who I am. Lately, I realized something. I’ve been on here, telling people to fight for what they love—while the truth is, I’ve been too much of a coward to fight for what matters most.”
“There’s this woman.” I huff out a nervous laugh. “It’s always a woman, isn’t it?”
“Anyway, she’s the type of person who makes me want to do better. Her kindness could make a skeptic believe again. And I hurt her, even though I never intended to. She’s the reason I’m doing this—laying it all out here, heart on the line.”
“So, if you’re listening, M&M … I’m sorry I stood you up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth about who I am. I’m sorry for the disappointment and the ways I let you down. I’m sorry for the divided loyalty when you deserved everything.”
I clear my throat—another sound I’d edit out if this segment were being recorded.
“All that changes tonight. I’m done hiding. If you’re listening, M&M, meet me at the address I’m sending you in an email. Come at noon tomorrow. If I’m left standing there alone, I’ll know your answer. And I’ll honor it. But, know this, I’ve never wanted anything more than to have you show up.”
I exhale. Everything’s out there now—my heart, my name, the truth. I left it all on the airwaves, holding back nothing—all for Daisy.
“Thank you for listening. Next week I’ll be back, discussing some of John Grisham’s novels. No spoilers, I promise. Just a conversation about his gift in suspenseful storytelling. Join me then if you will.”
I hit the button, and with a click, the broadcast ends.
I lean back in my chair, running my hands through my hair. The emptiness of my apartment echoes around me. My hands feel clammy, my throat raspy. I grab my water bottle and take a swig. Then I hesitantly open my email. I don’t want her to answer, and I do. Mostly not, because I’m hoping the next time I speak with her will be at the location I’m sending now—tomorrow, at noon.
The number of emails in my inbox is climbing by the minute. I open one and then another. Fans are going crazy for my profession of love, for my courage. There are requests to know who M&M is. Offers of marriage—three so far.
