We lasted no longer than five months together out here, and because I could never afford to rent a nice, safe place on my own anywhere in Palm Beach County, and Simon is hardly ever here during the season, neither of us moved out. We’re basically roommates. Roommates who hate each other and not in that cute, romcomthey’re gonna kiss and get it onkind of way; I would literally murder Simon if I knew I could get away with it. But I’ll never admit that out loud because, knowing my luck, homeboy would wind up dead somewhere and with my past, I’d be thrown in prison for a crime I didn’t even get to commit.
When Simon is here, however, he’s a pig. Hence the state of this place right now. There’re clothes strewn over the back of the fold-out sofa where he sleeps when he’s home. An empty pizza box is left on the coffee table, next to a few empty beer bottles. The countertop of the wall cut out that separates the living room and the kitchen is littered with even more empty beer bottles.And, from what I can see in the kitchen, the sink is piled high with unwashed dishes.
Yes, Simon is a pig. But unfortunately, I’m an enabler and my own worst enemy because I’m the one who tidies up after him, but only because I can’t live like this. Which he knows. He leaves a mess because he knows it pisses me off enough to clean it up. I’m stuck in this vicious, endless cycle; sometimes I can’t help but wonder if maybe prison wouldn’t be so bad after all…
After cleaning the apartment, followed by aneverythingshower, I’m dressed for bed in my usual oversized t-shirt and boy shorts, with my damp, nearly waist-length hair secured in a heatless curler roll. With a nice, hot cup of tea, I lock myself in my bedroom, switch on my candle warmer, and hop into bed with my laptop to catch up on some work.
I make earrings. Statement earrings. I use leather off-cuts that I buy in bulk for a fraction of the price, and with a little imagination, some fun paints and glitters, and a whole lot of patience, I create custom, one-of-a-kind wearable art for your ears. I have an Etsy store, and although I’m lucky to sell a couple pairs a month, my dream is to, one day, turn my hobby into a full-time job. Earning a livable wage off a hobby is total goals. It probably won’t ever happen, but for now, it’s fun. And whatever I don’t sell, I get to wear, so it’s win-win.
I finish updating my social media with a new photo of the sparkly gold and rainbow confetti dangles I completed yesterday. I reply to a few comments, engage online with fellow designers, send a customer my standard thank you email, and then I go to close my laptop. But a thought crosses my mind, and instead, I scroll to Google and typeBrookes Devereauxinto the bar before clicking the search button, my eyes widening at the links to the stories that appear on the screen, none of them kind, and all of them accompanied by unflattering photographs of Brookeseither on the golf course or leaving what appears to be an airport.
Devereaux’s Disappointing Return
The Not-So Comeback Kid
AGL’s Warning: Clean Up Your Act or You’re Out!
I click onto Brookes’ Wikipedia page and have a quick look over the information. I know nothing about this man; if I’m going to agree to be his fake girlfriend, I need to know that he’s not a sociopath or a far-right freak like so many other golfers.
From what I can see, Brookes is an only child and he was born in Savannah, Georgia to a very wealthy family. Old money, dating back to the Revolutionary War. He attended Stanford University and was captain of the golf team. He turned pro as soon as he graduated. And, in the ten or so years that he’s been a professional golfer, he’s made a lot of money if his net worth as of last year is accurate.Wow.
According to Wikipedia, he’s never publicly confirmed a relationship, but he’s been linked to some of the world’s top models, actresses, singers, influencers, you name it. What the hell is doing with me? He said the last thing he wants is a girlfriend, but from what I can see, the man has options. Why me?
I huff a breath, staring at the photo on screen. It’s dated a few years back. At some awards show afterparty in Los Angeles. Brookes has his arm around the waist of a very well-known model and member of one of the most notorious families in Hollywood, both of them smiling for the cameras that flash in their beautiful faces. God, that is so not me. I don’t dislike the way I look; in fact, I love the way I look, but I’m definitely no size two, five-ten supermodel, that’s for sure. Not only do I not look like her, I’m so not anawards show afterparty in LA kindof gal. I prefer my nights in, watching nineties teen movies, eating snacks and, if budget allows, maybe indulging in a lux anti-inflammatory eye mask.
Chewing on my lip, I reach for the Vista Palms napkin I placed on my side table, looking down at the messy scrawl written in blue ink. No name. Just a cell phone number. I stare at it for a few long beats, and then, before I can talk myself out of it, I click through to my messages on my laptop.
Me: Hi, it’s Poppy…. Are you sure about this? Because I’m definitely no Kennedy Monroe.
It takes a few moments for a response to come through, but when it does, I can’t help but laugh.
Brookes: Thank fuck for that.
Me: Bad blood?
Brookes: Let’s just say that by our third date she was picking out baby names.
I cover my mouth to stifle my own giggle.
Me: Yikes.
Brookes: Yeah. Huge yikes.
I chew on my thumbnail, staring at our messages, considering myself a moment.
Me: I’m not going to change who I am or how I look.
Brookes: I wasn’t expecting you to…
Me: And I’m not going to put up with any crap.
Brookes: Me neither.
Me: No funny business.
Brookes: No funny business.
Me: No drama.
