The impressive cock doesn’t hurt either.
Where’s an emoji when you need one? I could use a winky face or a crying laughing face as a follow-up to get a read on the situation. Damn, are we flirting? I’m so bad at this.
Impressive? Now you’re just feeding Steve’s ego.
Good Guy
In all honesty, thank you. A compliment like that from someone with an eye like yours means a lot.
There’s my answer. We’re joking, not flirting. Which is better, right? I’m days out of a relationship. A dismal failure of a relationship, but still a relationship. I need a break. And a new friend would be good for me.
Benji’s voice jolts me back to reality and out of my head. “Aunt Soph, were you yelling for me?” He’s peeking out of the bathroom door, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping on the floor.
“Crisis averted. Finish your shower, it’s all good,” I yell back. Because right this second, it kind of feels like it is. Confusing, but good.
Then I type,
You’re welcome. I’d better get back to work.
I don’t need to convolute this exchange with my overthinking when it righted itself.
Good Guy
Me too. Talk later. Have a good one.
That kind of positivity should make me want to throw up in my mouth a little, but it doesn’t. Not at all.
You too.
I kinda like Good Guy. A lot.
seven
It’s Saturday night.I haven’t heard from Good Guy today, and my interview is looming.
I’m a person who likes to have a purpose and be productive. The unknowns where my job is concerned have me at a standstill, and it’s driving me batshit crazy. I’m filling my time with worry, worst-case scenarios, over-analysis of past job performance, and second-guessing every life decision I’ve ever made, good or bad. My anxiety level has been holding steady at an eleven out of ten. I feel like I’ve been dropped into an alternate, round-hole universe, and I’m a square peg. Nothing fits. I’m not a go-with-the-flow person, so not knowing what’s going to happen next drives me insane.
Chance texted this afternoon asking for a hundred bucks to replace his Nespresso. I didn’t reply, but Venmoed him fifty out of guilt because my sister pulverized it in classic over-the-top Lola fashion. I’m hoping the charitable contribution wards off bad juju. A deposit into my good karma account can’t hurt.
Benji and Lola are both gone tonight. Benji is staying over at his friend Kasey’s, and Lola is on a date with a guy she met at ametaphysical bookstore yesterday. She went to buy me a garnet crystal because she’s convinced it will bring me good luck with my interview and walked out with his number in her cell. They were both looking at the same rose quartz pendant necklace. Lola says it’s the crystal of unconditional love, and they both took it as a sign that they needed to explore their connection over dinner. I don’t believe in any of that, but guaranteed, dinner isn’t the only way they’ll explore their connection. She showed me his Instagram profile. He’s thirty-six and has serious Henry Cavill vibes—and not clean-cut, all-American Superman, but the Cavill who emerged from the chrysalis as a fully formed Witcher demigod. I’m not convinced that luck is on my side, but it’s certainly on hers.
I showered and put on real clothes this afternoon, which felt like a triumph. I’m feeling passably human, another bonus. I even ventured out to pick up some takeout tonight and ate alone, standing at the kitchen island while I went down the otter video rabbit hole.
When I return to my bedroom to change back into the pajamas I’d been wearing nonstop for the past two days, I notice a shoebox on my bed with a big red bow on it. I recognize the box; it’s from my closet. When I open it, instead of my checkered Vans, it contains four miniature bottles of alcohol, a joint in a small baggie, and a book. There’s also a folded note card. It’s Lola’s handwriting:
Dealer’s choice.
Just don’t mix them. (The weed is Bruce Banner and will knock you on your ass all by itself.)
Relax. (But don’t try to meditate. Your version is bastardized and always morphs into worry in 2.5 seconds. Avoid at all costs.) Watch otter videos. Watch Thicker Than Water videos. Watch Treachery’s Riot videos or all those fan edits of Raven you pretend you haven’t saved. Put your vibrator to good use. Message Good Guy. Start this book. (It’s on loan from my coworker, so don’t dog-ear the pages, heathen.) The possibilities are endless.
Love, the keeper of your spare kidney,
Lo
Since I’ve already hit my monthly quota of otter videos today, I roll each tiny bottle inside the box and read the labels: tequila, vodka, whiskey, and rum. Quite a combo, all the solid fan favs. I don’t want to go search for a mixer, so I down the vodka straight and wince. Next, I slide out the book,Devil of Dublinby BB Easton. “Hello,” I say approvingly to the handsome face gracing the cover. I set it on my nightstand and promise, “You and I are gonna spend some quality time together later.” Then I pick up the baggie and inspect it. It’s been years since I smoked. When Lola turned twenty-one, we went to a dispensary simply for the experience. The bright lighting, friendly staff, and organized presentation of dozens of strains with funny names gave the impression of a candy store for adults. I smoked with her thatnight, but it was more to celebrate adulthood and progression in this country than the desire to get high. Lola smokes sometimes, but I never join in for fear of a random drug test by my employer.
Since I’m not even sure I have a job anymore, my spiteful side rears her head.
