Dear Adam Read Online Free PDF Page B

Sicily.
    She noted his spelling of certain words -
"colour", "neighbour" - all British spellings. He might be the
Englishman he claimed.
    He answered all her questions, which she
threw out like challenges, waiting for him to evade. He seemed as
straightforward as a stranger could be. At least on paper.
    What if he was really Troy in disguise,
luring her into starting their relationship anew?
    Or an attorney in the office, the one who
delighted in playing pranks on people and had goaded her for months
before her obstinate refusal to engage finally discouraged him?
    Or one of the cops, the type who mistakenly
thought a single mother would be grateful for any type of male
attention, even from a married man?
    She didn't at all consider her ex-husband -
he didn't even own a computer.
    Only Troy knew about her blog, and the man
she was corresponding with didn't write like Troy would write. Troy
was romantic, but more wishy-washy. This man did not seem to have a
dreamy side to him at all.
    When she started the blog, she hadn't been
too careful about hiding her real name. Now she was a lot more
private. She had tried to delete every instance where her identity
could be compromised. But everything on the Internet was forever.
If someone who knew her name were to dig long and hard, eventually
they could uncover the existence of her blog. And vice-versa.
    None of the cops she knew could possibly
pretend to be so well-read or sophisticated. They were like little
boys with guns. All macho bravado and action. Try as she could, she
couldn't picture any of them writing with Adam's eloquence. The
attorney would be the most likely culprit, but his prankster
personality was at odds with the man who wrote those poems. Unless
it was a cover.
    She couldn't imagine anyone she knew as the
man who was writing to her. He was like no one she had ever
met.
    Adam wrote
abo ut honesty .
Should she believe him?

 
    Chapter 4
     
    Eden tried not to think of the mysterious
Englishman. She tried to tell herself that she must have been so
starved for attention that she had made more of an online
flirtation than it actually was. Yet she woke up the next day much
too excited to go to work to see what the next stage of their
conversation will bring. Another poem? More witty banter? A debate
on gender roles? Or something more serious?
    She logged onto her private e-mail first
thing and stayed logged on, intermittently checking it throughout
the day. The morning came and went with nothing from him. She
visited other book blogs and commented perfunctorily, checked her
Twitter, and busied herself with work. The day started to drag.
    By early afternoon she felt quite silly. She
had made more out of nothing. A stranger had been bored and started
communicating with her to pass the time - and two days later she
was forlorn when he had moved on to something or someone else. She
had been engaging in online social networking for three years and
should have known better than to become attached to something as
impermanent and inconsequential as an Internet connection. While
she had never been active on Facebook - only owning an account so
that she could view her friends and family's pictures - she had
been very social with other bloggers, much friendlier than she was
in real life. But they were all women, bookish nerds like her. As
in real life, she should have been more reserved when a man paid
her attention, even if it was only over the Internet.
    She read his last e-mail to her, where he
threatened to call her "mother" for sending him to bed. Perhaps he
had merely had a change of heart, having reconsidered the age
difference as too great. He should have done so before sending her
a poem, before a whole day of sending e-mails back and forth. He
should have just ended it once he found out. Before she got
attached.
    It was Friday afternoon and she had a weekend
of reading and activities on her list of 36 new things to occupy
her. Eden refused to feel sad for herself. There