I furrowed my brow in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“Reed Luca.”
“I’m sorry, what?” It was a joke. It had to be a fucking joke, right? Or I was hearing things. I’d been a little unnaturally preoccupied by the weasel lately. This was some kind of transference or projecting or some psychobabble bullshit. There was no way Joe actually just said the words it sounded like he said.
No. Way.
Joe sighed into the receiver. “Listen, honey, I’ve got a pastrami on rye sitting on my desk waiting for me to sink my chompers into. I’m not sure how many other ways I can explain this. Reed Luca has his own column now with the San Francisco Journal—”
I cut him off before he could finish. “What in the hell is his column called?”
“Reed This.”
Oh, well, isn’t that just too fucking clever. The bastard.
“And what is the point of Reed This?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“To give the opposing view to Sex Says,” Joe responded without the irate reaction I had hoped for. I mean, why was I the only one pissed off about this?
There was no way in hell this was about to be my life. I had done everything I could to avoid Reed Luca, even ignoring the email he had sent me a few weeks back. It was some senseless message about me being a unicorn. I honestly didn’t know if he was telling me I was rare in a good way, or if it was the start of some ridiculous insight on how I live in a fantasy world.
I had refused to take the bait and fall down that rabbit hole of nonsense. Or get pulled into his web of insanely attractive, I thought in annoyance.
“That pretentious, know-it-all, far-too-confident, good-looking motherfucker.”
“Christ, that’s a pointed description,” Joe noted in surprise. “Why am I getting the impression you’ve met him?”
“That’s not the point, Joe,” I quickly redirected. “What in the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
“You’re not supposed to do anything. This is good publicity.”
“Good publicity!” I exclaimed. “How is this good publicity? Reed Luca is going to be writing a dating and advice column that contradicts everything I tell my readers!”
“Trust me, Lola, this is a good thing.” Joe’s voice was too goddamn calm for this, and it only made me more irate.
“This feels like a terrible fucking thing, Joe!”
“Just keep writing, Lola,” he answered, calm and collected. “That’s what we pay you to do.”
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered and stomped my Converse-clad foot against the pavement.
“Oh, and Lola, that ‘pretentious, know-it-all, far-too-confident, good-looking motherfucker’ won’t be too well received by the conservative crowd. Mind giving me something a little less colorful?”
My jaw clenched in response. “That pretentious, know-it-all, cocky prick has barked up the wrong tree.”
“You took out good-looking—”
“Joe!”
He chuckled. “Fine. Fine. That’ll do.”
The second I hung up the phone, I sat down on an empty park bench and pulled up my internet browser. And the instant the San Francisco Journal’s website loaded, Reed Luca’s smug smirk stared straight back at me.
Reed This, Ladies and Gentlemen:
He captivated the world with his thought-provoking take on the Sex Says advice column a few weeks ago, and now, we’re pleased to announce that Reed Luca will be the fresh, new voice for the San Francisco Journal’s newest column, Reed This.
Fresh, new voice, my asshole.
Before the Journal could force-feed me more bullshit, my phone lit up with a text notification and I pulled up my messages.
543-217-6789: Hi, Lola. This is Tammy Boyd with Glamour magazine. I’d love to schedule a phone chat with you and ask you a few questions regarding your response to Reed Luca getting an opposing column with the Journal.
And then again.
689-432-9014: Hello, Lola. This is Mark Sommers with the New York Press, and I’d love to get a few words from you regarding Reed Luca and his new column, Reed This.
And then again.
And then again.
And then again.
Until all I could do was turn off my phone and shout at the top of my lungs, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, universe!”
Three pigeons flapped their wings erratically and scattered away at my words, and a full-cheeked baby moving past me in a stroller started to cry. Her mother flashed me the look—you know, the look that said, “I’ll murder you if you shout profanities near my child again.”
Frankly, I couldn’t blame her. I was sitting on a park bench by myself and screaming like a lunatic. This wasn’t good. I was scaring babies, and even birds could sense I was about to blow a gasket. Those winged little scavengers couldn’t get away from me fast enough.