Apparently, it’s like the first two rules of Fight Club.
You do not talk about The Book Boyfriends.
You donottalk about The Book Boyfriends.
And I totally get it, I do. Other than my super awesome best friend, few people would believe you can build a man on an app. Still, I find it odd that I’ve found no online chatter. Nothing—not a website or a download link. Nothing. Not a trace that this app exists anywhere except on my phone.
Oh, and it vanished from the app store.
For a hot second, I doubt it even happened. Maybe I imagined them? Was it a wild dream, and I made Rhys up in my mind? No, it happened, and Rhys Ravenstone was real.
That nagging voice of doubt? That’s pre-Rhys Charlotte.
Post-Rhys Charlotte trusts in the unbelievable.
This new version of me believes in the impossible because the impossible knocked on my door and changed me for the better.
But after four days of finding absolutely nothing, I’m…disheartened. Of course, I’m not giving up. No, I’ll keep pressing on, diving deeper into the dark web. What I find hilarious is that I’ve learned enough about Greek mythology and the gods’ family tree that I could give a TED Talk on the subject.
Not that my newfound knowledge has helped.
On the couch, laptop open, surrounded by an eclectic mix of romance novels and books on mythology, I blow stray hair away from my face and pound the keyboard. Another empty search term that yields zero results.
Damnit.
I yank the spoon from the pint of strawberry ice cream (a sadly underrated flavor, in my humble opinion) that’s on the coffee table, only to stab it back into the frozen deliciousness. I scoop out a hearty amount and shovel it in my mouth, wincing at the brain freeze that follows. The gulp of warm air I take to counter the cold helps as I chew, and after I swallow, I wonder out loud, “Where are you holding him prisoner, you miserable asshole?”
Currently, Cupid is at the top of my shit list.
I tap the spoon against my lips, thinking. Always thinking. My mind hasn’t shut off since the morning I woke up alone.
I jab the spoon back in the ice cream before snatching my phone off the couch cushion. Opening The Book Boyfriends app, I check messages. Nothing. The one I sent remains unread. See? He’s a little winged asshole. I hope he accidentally shoots one of those fucking arrows into his own foot.
To hell with it waiting.
I send another.
And another, flooding ‘customer service’ with about a billion messages.
“Let’s see if you can ignore me now, dickhead.”
The problem is that I don’t know if these messages are going to an actual person—or possibly to the deity himself. Or anyone. For all I know, this page is bogus. But I have hope. And so, I send more. A ton more, until my goddamn thumbs hurt from the furious typing as I bare my entire soul in a series of rambling messages.
To Cupid.
To whoever might read these.
I write about how I was my grandmother’s rock when she couldn’t be strong for herself and how I maintained good grades in school despite…everything. That I did everything right, followed every rule, crossed everyt, dotted everyi, and even when life knocked me down, I got back up and kept fighting. I ramble on about how one of my greatest regrets is quitting college because I wanted to become a child psychologist. Most of all, I write about Rhys.
Wonderful, glorious, arrogant, selfless, Rhys Ravenstone.
