Epilogue Dex
He did not just say that shit on national TV.
I rewind the interview, listening to my best friend—Landon Burke—word vomiting all the sappy, lovesick bullshit he’s been going on about for the past two months, his visit to la-la land about to become an extended stay.
Surprisingly enough, he gave me a shout-out on the air too.
“I want to give a shout-out to my buddy Dex Lansing—some of you may know him—plays for Arizona, and I look forward to seeing that slick [bleep] on a more regular basis.”
Ha. He called me a slick bastard on TV, that fucker.
I’m the first to admit that it will be nice to see Landon happy. It sucked serious balls having him in Seattle; his whole demeanor changed. He butted heads with his coach and didn’t love Washington. The only time we were ever able to link up was when our teams were playing one another. And now he’s got a new girlfriend to distract him.
He does not miss a beat or waste time, does he?
Fucker works fast.
They’ve been dating such a short time, and he’s going to a team in her city? What kind of bullshit is that? Seriously. Who does that?
I would never.
Not me.
Not that I have any room to talk; I haven’t had a girlfriend in ages, not for lack of trying or for my publicist’s attempts at setting me up.
I think about those women I dated, all of them low-key celebrities, singers, television hosts—no relationships that worked in my favor for various reasons. Hey, it’s not my fault that I have a fear of commitment.
But they always say When you know, you know —right? And I haven’t known.
Landon knew as soon as he met Harlow. As soon as she sassed back at him in Central Park and he damn near puked on her shoes, he knew she was the one for him. The fact that she agreed to go on a date with him, even after seeing him gross and disgusting, still blows my fucking mind. I’ve seen what he looks like with the flu and COVID, and let me be the first to say—it ain’t pretty.
He’s a whiny little bitch too.
But.
Maybe Landon is on to something.
Maybe dating the girl next door is the way to go, eh?
The remote in my hand, I point it at the massive TV affixed to my living room wall, staring blankly out the back window and into my huge yard.
Big pool.
Fancy outdoor kitchen.
The children’s playground that the previous owners put up for their kids mocks me and takes the entire grassy area.
Kids.
Blah.
Don’t need those either.
Who would you say is your biggest fan at the moment? the reporter asked Landon.
Harlow. He didn’t hesitate to reply, even though I’ve been his biggest supporter for the past however many goddamn years! Has he already forgotten that?
Dick.
Starts getting boned by that chick he met on a work trip, and now it’s all sunshine and roses?
Pfft.
Hearts all over the nation are breaking, the reporter mused to a room full of saps. Who knew the media room was packed with romantics?
Harlow is his biggest fan?
What nonsense is that?
Who needs one fan when you can have thousands , filling an entire stadium one night a week during the football season?
Besides. “Where the hell do you go to find a woman who’s never heard of you, or seen your face on TV?” I muse, turning my attention back to the interview, my dipshit buddy singing his new girlfriend’s praises for all the world to see.
The library?
Nah, full of nerds.
An animal shelter?
Nah, full of do-gooders.
“Who needs to date anyway? It’s not like it matters ,” I say to no one, my house empty since the cleaning crew left over an hour ago. Not even a cat or dog to share my woes with.
I sigh, holding up my palm. “Well. It’s just me and my right hand.”
See? Funny guy’s got masturbating jokes.
I don’t need anyone.
“Yup. Keep telling yourself that,” I mumble.
Although . . .
It wouldn’t kill me to download that dating app, would it? For shits and giggles—nothing gained, nothing lost—least it can do is kill some boredom.
What the hell was her app called again?
I rewind the interview to get a look at the shirt Landon is wearing, with its big pink logo and dumb hearts shooting out of the top like an explosion of jizz.
The thought cracks me up.
Kissmet.
How stupid.
It’s not in the App Store yet, my eyes doing a quick scan for that pink heart and coming up null, even though I’m the last person on earth who should be going on a first date.
I have no time.
If I want to get laid, I can go through my phone and hit someone up.
I hate drama.
I hate meeting new people—the friends I have are enough, thank you very much.
I don’t need anyone.
But like an idiot, I close my eyes, my finger landing on a random dating app. And like an idiot, I hit download.