no longer valid.
Adam frowned at the monitor. What the hell? He typed her name into the search window and spent a few moments locating the right Jenna McArthur. Her profile was locked down tight. He could see her name and profile picture, but everything was privacy protected to the max.
That figured.
He was ready to shut down again when another notification popped up. He clicked the icon.
Friend request: Jenna McArthur.
What the hell?
He clicked the Confirm button to accept.
Sorry, this request is no longer valid.
Adam shook his head, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed. It was possible she’d been hacked, or that someone else was messing around on her computer.
He watched as the friend request icon lit up again and clicked Confirm as fast as he could.
Friendship established, he clicked the icon to send her a direct message.
Have you made up your mind yet?
He wasn’t sure if she’d see the message or if it would get routed into an invisible folder. That might be the case if she’d already unfriended him. What were the Facebook rules there?
He waited a few minutes, wondering whether he’d spooked her or if she hadn’t seen the message at all. Maybe this was some sort of weird computer glitch. Maybe it was a trick.
Maybe he’d been watching too much television.
He watched the little pop-up window, feeling disturbingly like a preteen girl passing notes in class and wondering if her crush would reply or not.
The little ellipsis popped up in the dialogue bubble, indicating she was typing a reply. A prickle of anticipation traveled up Adam’s arms, and he sat waiting, watching the screen. And waiting. And waiting some more.
Christ, was she writing an essay?
Jenna McArthur: Sorry about that. My wineglass fell on the keyboard.
Adam stared at her message, more curious than he’d been a few minutes ago.
Adam Thomas: Repeatedly? On the same key?
Jenna McArthur: Apparently I should switch from stemware to sippy cups.
He smiled, appreciating the wisecrack even if she hadn’t addressed the question. He hesitated a moment, then typed a reply.
Adam Thomas: Did you get the stain out of the dress? Incidentally, this is the same message Bill Clinton would have sent Monica Lewinsky if Facebook had been around in 1996.
He wondered if he’d made her laugh, and hoped he hadn’t crossed some line in the sand. Seconds later, he had her reply.
Jenna McArthur: Unlike Ms. Lewinsky, I had the good sense to visit the drycleaner on my way home. If our Facebook accounts are ever subpoenaed, this exchange will look highly incriminating.
Adam Thomas: You spies are always thinking ahead. Shall I come over with a blowtorch so we can destroy our laptops together?
Jenna McArthur: Won’t matter. Everything lives in infamy in cyberspace. Maybe you can dismantle the Internet. Was Internet hacking one of your specialized gigolo skills?
He smiled. Hesitated. Put his hands on the keyboard again.
Adam Thomas: Well, if we’re busted anyway, let’s make the most of it. What are you wearing?
The pause dragged out, and Adam kicked himself for going there. The ellipsis popped up to indicate she was typing a response, and Adam braced himself to be shut down.
Jenna McArthur: Very funny. Did you just try to sext me?
Adam Thomas: Is it still called sexting when it’s a Facebook PM?
Jenna McArthur: Does it still count when you use a phone sex pickup line in a typed message?
Adam Thomas: I’ll consult my official guide to social media sex. Please hold.
He was contemplating his next message when a reply popped up.
Jenna McArthur: Since you asked, I’m wearing your ex-wife’s dress. Because clearly, this whole thing wasn’t creepy enough.
Adam winced. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Cracking a joke about his ex-wife’s hygiene would be tasteless, not to mention making Jenna feel defensive of her friend. Playing it cool might be the right approach, but that wasn’t really Adam’s style.
He settled for
Adam frowned at the monitor. What the hell? He typed her name into the search window and spent a few moments locating the right Jenna McArthur. Her profile was locked down tight. He could see her name and profile picture, but everything was privacy protected to the max.
That figured.
He was ready to shut down again when another notification popped up. He clicked the icon.
Friend request: Jenna McArthur.
What the hell?
He clicked the Confirm button to accept.
Sorry, this request is no longer valid.
Adam shook his head, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed. It was possible she’d been hacked, or that someone else was messing around on her computer.
He watched as the friend request icon lit up again and clicked Confirm as fast as he could.
Friendship established, he clicked the icon to send her a direct message.
Have you made up your mind yet?
He wasn’t sure if she’d see the message or if it would get routed into an invisible folder. That might be the case if she’d already unfriended him. What were the Facebook rules there?
He waited a few minutes, wondering whether he’d spooked her or if she hadn’t seen the message at all. Maybe this was some sort of weird computer glitch. Maybe it was a trick.
Maybe he’d been watching too much television.
He watched the little pop-up window, feeling disturbingly like a preteen girl passing notes in class and wondering if her crush would reply or not.
The little ellipsis popped up in the dialogue bubble, indicating she was typing a reply. A prickle of anticipation traveled up Adam’s arms, and he sat waiting, watching the screen. And waiting. And waiting some more.
Christ, was she writing an essay?
Jenna McArthur: Sorry about that. My wineglass fell on the keyboard.
Adam stared at her message, more curious than he’d been a few minutes ago.
Adam Thomas: Repeatedly? On the same key?
Jenna McArthur: Apparently I should switch from stemware to sippy cups.
He smiled, appreciating the wisecrack even if she hadn’t addressed the question. He hesitated a moment, then typed a reply.
Adam Thomas: Did you get the stain out of the dress? Incidentally, this is the same message Bill Clinton would have sent Monica Lewinsky if Facebook had been around in 1996.
He wondered if he’d made her laugh, and hoped he hadn’t crossed some line in the sand. Seconds later, he had her reply.
Jenna McArthur: Unlike Ms. Lewinsky, I had the good sense to visit the drycleaner on my way home. If our Facebook accounts are ever subpoenaed, this exchange will look highly incriminating.
Adam Thomas: You spies are always thinking ahead. Shall I come over with a blowtorch so we can destroy our laptops together?
Jenna McArthur: Won’t matter. Everything lives in infamy in cyberspace. Maybe you can dismantle the Internet. Was Internet hacking one of your specialized gigolo skills?
He smiled. Hesitated. Put his hands on the keyboard again.
Adam Thomas: Well, if we’re busted anyway, let’s make the most of it. What are you wearing?
The pause dragged out, and Adam kicked himself for going there. The ellipsis popped up to indicate she was typing a response, and Adam braced himself to be shut down.
Jenna McArthur: Very funny. Did you just try to sext me?
Adam Thomas: Is it still called sexting when it’s a Facebook PM?
Jenna McArthur: Does it still count when you use a phone sex pickup line in a typed message?
Adam Thomas: I’ll consult my official guide to social media sex. Please hold.
He was contemplating his next message when a reply popped up.
Jenna McArthur: Since you asked, I’m wearing your ex-wife’s dress. Because clearly, this whole thing wasn’t creepy enough.
Adam winced. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Cracking a joke about his ex-wife’s hygiene would be tasteless, not to mention making Jenna feel defensive of her friend. Playing it cool might be the right approach, but that wasn’t really Adam’s style.
He settled for
Similar Books
