Shoving up and out of my chair, I climbed to my feet and swung my jacket off its resting place on the back. I had to get out and do something that gave me the fulfillment I wouldn’t get out of this. I had to see and experience, and there was one best place for that—Dolores Park.
Just as I turned to go, my screen lit up as a new email settled at the very top.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Subject: What you think
You know what, Reed? You think what you want. Because it’s already my job to think differently than you do. You want me to hate you? Keep spewing your poisonous fallacies. Today and every day forward are opposite day for you and me.
You want me? That means I don’t want you.
Good day, sir.
Sincerely,
Lola Sexton (NOT LOLO)
I shut the screen to my laptop and picked up my jacket again as I headed for the door, but this time, I did it with a smile on my face.
Lola Sexton was fun, and even better news, she thought I was too—she just didn’t realize it yet.
She was antagonistic and opinionated and completely off her rocker.
And now, I had her right where I wanted her.
Reed Luca—the fucker—had officially gotten inside of my head.
He’d mindfucked me, and it wasn’t good ole missionary. This was dirty, ass play, doggy-style kind of mindfucking.
I had a column—that I hadn’t even started—to finish in the next twenty-four hours, and my brain seemed to be spending most of its power on flipping off that bastard whose name I’d rather not speak, much less think.
But my column was first priority—my only priority—and that was exactly what I was going to do.
I wasn’t going to think about…him. Not his column, or his trashy, instigator-style emails, or the way his hair laid so easily back from his face.
Nope. Nuh-uh. Screw that guy, and his little dog too.
The midafternoon sun filtered through the sheer, white curtains of the large loft windows in my apartment, highlighting the golden hue of Louie’s little fins, and I instantly softened slightly.
Shit. I hope he doesn’t really have a dog.
I rested my elbows on the counter and stared through the glass of Louie’s aquarium.
With my head in my hands, I sighed, and his eyes met mine, seemingly understanding that I needed to vent. “I need to focus, Louie. I need to focus on dating…and relationships…and basically, anything and everything related to vaginas and penises in a state of cohabitation,” I told him.
He swished his tail around a few times and proceeded to give me his typical yet outwardly sarcastic fish bubble response, Blup. Blup. Blup.
I rolled my eyes. “Well, besides one particular penis and the owner of said penis. I’m not going to think about him. No fucking way. That dude and his package are getting pushed far, far away, preferably to a place that is very similar to the fiery pits of hell.”
Blup. Blup, Louie retorted and then swam away to his favorite neon castle.
In fish speak, he had basically just said, Yeah, right.
“Whatever,” I muttered. “I know you don’t think I’ll be able to forget about…him…but I’m going to. I’ll prove your little fishy doubts wrong, dude.”
Louie gave no response, already done with the conversation.
“I knew I should’ve adopted a cat,” I mumbled and turned away from his fish house.
A cat would be an even bigger asshole, Reed’s unwelcome voice taunted in my head.
Go away! I shouted back telepathically.
God, if anyone knew how often I had conversations with my fish—if Reed knew—I’d never hear the end of it. They’d probably wrap me up in a straitjacket.
But I couldn’t help it. It was so much of a compulsion, a calling, if you will, I was convinced I’d probably become the fish version of the cat lady if I never found that perfect person to fill the void.
Logistically, I’d need a bigger aquarium; that was a certainty. And, the rest of my fish wouldn’t be sarcastic little bastards, either.
Okay, I just need to clear my head and get my writing mojo moving and shaking.
All I needed was the perfect playlist. The right topic. And a mind devoid of a certain prick of a vlogger turned columnist who seemed to think he knew everything.
Easy, right?
Once the addictive beat of The Kooks singing about a “Bad Habit” filled my otherwise quiet apartment, I made the short trip across the fluffy beige carpet of my living room, grabbed my laptop, and posted up on the sofa.
Five minutes later, any figment of concentration I’d been able to build was shot to hell by my sister. Like a demon, she started sending me text messages about her three lovable yet batshit crazy kids rapid fire. I mean, I loved my nieces and nephew, but the Reynolds’ kids were a serious little gang of insanity.