She looks hopeful. “Yeah, that.”
Benji shrugs. “I mean, sure, it’s possible. That’s how this stuff happens.”
“There must be a glitch or something.” They’ll get it corrected, my follower count will drop back down to forty-five, and all will be right in the world.
Lola taps my breastbone. Hard. “Shut your pessimistic mouth. This is destiny manifesting. We’ve fucking summonedit. Screw the interview tomorrow and dream bigger.” Then she claps her hands and speed walks to the far end of the unfinished space where her crafting table is set up. “That’s it, we’re making vision boards.”
Benji and I look at each other, and he shakes his head and mouths, “I’m not doing that again.”
When we hear her say, “Where’s my glitter glue?” I nod, agreeing with him, and we tiptoe upstairs while Lola digs through her supplies.
Grabbing my cell off the kitchen counter where it’s charging, I head for my bedroom. Behind the closed door, I open Instagram, thankful for the distraction from the interview nerves, and plop down on my bed. I haven’t checked it since last night, and instead of looking at my page, I immediately open my messages. There are so many—so fucking many—but the only one I care about is Good Guy.
He said he was always there if I needed him, and an unbiased audience is necessary.
He sent a message an hour ago.
Good Guy
How’re you feeling? Was there a second encore?
“Please be around,” I whisper as I type.
No second encore. I’m going to pretend it’s because the first was utter perfection and not because I fell asleep wearing a generously applied (and oh-so-messy) face mask in a pile of pillows and Oreo crumbs.
His response comes in under a minute.
Good Guy
Perfection followed by a therapeutic, self-care, delicious shit show? That sounds like a well-earned night off.
I laugh out loud. Good Guy is what I need.
I like your description better. Let’s go with that. How’s your day been?
A photo comes through. The foreground is a pair of toned calves smattered with dark hair (he’s undeniably not six), ankles crossed, feet bare. An obvious sock line delineated by deep tan above and fairer skin below. He’s sitting in overly long, lush grass near a huge tree and a small fountain. People, alone or in small groups, are scattered everywhere. It looks like a busy park.
The majestic tree is the focus of the shot, but I can’t stop staring at him as a little thrill runs through me. I wonder whether I’ve instantaneously developed a foot fetish.
The tree is spectacular. But those tan lines are wicked, I can’t stop staring.
Good Guy
I walk a lot. Socks and shoes are a requirement. Wicked tan lines are the reward.
Indeed.
I add the heart eyes and hit enter before I second-guess myself.
Good Guy
I showed you mine. Show me yours?
He adds a quick follow-up.
Good Guy
Damn, that sounded creepy as hell. I’m sorry. I meant your SURROUNDINGS.
