Chapter Five Evie #2
Golds: I swear it’s not a guilt trip. It’s just being this far away makes me worry. We haven’t been apart until now. I love you. We’re soulmates remember.
A deep exhale leaves me as my body recognizes defeat.
I don’t want to type what I type. But I do anyway because I don’t want to ruin her damn honeymoon. Especially since I know I’m being difficult, but what am I supposed to do?
Me: Okay. Fine. I’ll try and find something redeemable about him.
It’s not like I can tell my sister that part of why I hate him so much is because I can’t get rid of how horny I am over him. It’s disgusting. Truly.
Although I should, because if she’d eloped like a regular human instead of forcing people to celebrate her, I wouldn’t be in this mess. It was a nice wedding, though.
But what if what happened at the wedding happens again? Because it’s clear to me, and not because I looked it up on the damn internet (I did), that this “attraction” is solely a trauma response. It’s the only explanation for why I’m sexually attracted to the human equivalent of a hot dog.
Chase is all lips and assholes smushed into something that resembles a dick.
We just went through some weird shit, and now, in the recesses of my brain, I sometimes see him in the narrative my mom and sister keep trying to push on me.
I’m nodding to myself, remembering a Reddit I read by Immareal1. They had a similar experience happen to them. According to their post, this is a thing. And they are a real one, as stated in their name, so the advice seems solid.
I mean . . . without that theory, I may start to believe the lie. That he’s actually something. And he’s not.
“He’s like a real-life Happy Gilmore. Except worse,” I breathe out, my fingers hovering to text her, but she beats me to the punch.
Golds: I know you’re thinking this will be hell. But hear me out. I’ve got three reasons I think you two would make great friends
—and delete.
There aren’t any reasons other than head trauma that could make me like him.
I mean, I had sex with him . . . and not just sex. I literally remember every minute. If only his personality matched his skill level. He’d be unstoppable in this world, like Pedro Pascal winking at any camera.
Instead, he’s more like accidentally buying milk after the expiration date—it looks fine until it makes you sick.
There’s no way I don’t regret being the nice sister. No way. I type one last text before I commit myself to trying to forget how my new life in LA is now tainted by a taint.
Me: Go do some more French shit. I’m adulting.
Golds: It’s almost midnight. I’m just spamming you with photos from earlier. But thank you for agreeing. He’s actually pretty great when you give him a chance.
Then you date him.
Oh my god. Wait a minute. Back it up. That is not what she said or asked. Why did I just think that? What is wrong with me?
My shoulders pull to my ears as I physically cringe.
This is going to be the longest month of my life. It’ll literally take years off.
“Shit. How am I realistically going to do this?” I say aloud, hearing them both answer with an Mmhmm before I continue.
“How can I be nice to the guy who, when we first met, gave an entire soliloquy about how the pinnacle of women’s beauty began in 1967 and how it’s all been downhill ever since?
He literally insulted every woman in the room and did it all while stuffing his dumb face with his own homemade tzatziki. ”
The image of him shoveling a piece of pita into his mouth before licking his fingers is suddenly summoned into my mind. And unfortunately for me, it’s zoomed in to where his mouth met his thumb . . . Also, sadly, it’s running in slow motion.
Fuck.
The moment I think it, my phone dings, and I swear I almost toss it across the room.
Golds: Please take in the beauty of this countryside, and also remember (just in case you’re starting to regret your decision) fighting in front of the baby is unhealthy.
“You have kids together?” Derek blurts, but I shake my head and glance back, watching them try to pretend they weren’t reading over my shoulder.
Me: Your baby licks her own ass. I think we’re past unhealthy environments.
Golds: Evie! You dare speak ill of my child?
“What the fuck? Babies do that?” Devin whispers.
Me: Frankly, your child is a traitor, because the minute he moved in, she slept in his room.
Golds: Cats are a good judge of character.
“Oh shit, it’s a cat, dude,” Derek whispers back.
Me: Perhaps she was dropped at birth?
Golds: No, mom said you were tho.
Look at her making a funny joke. I’ll let her have it since it’s so rare.
Me: You know you’re going to owe me a suitcase full of Hermes as payment for this atrocity.
When I turn around, the boys jump back, guilty-as-charged smiles all over their faces like two little snooping Sallys. They really are like puppies.
Devin grins, not even pretending. “Why do you hate him so much? What did he do? It can’t just be because he loves women from the sixties?”
That question makes my eye twitch. “I already said he’s a man-child. He says and does everything wrong. That’s not enough?”
“Yeah, but what did he save you from?” Derek throws in, stealing my chair and sitting on it backward as they both stare at me. “Because that’s kind of hot, right? Girls like protectors.”
What, are they taking a poll? Geez, people say women like to gossip. These two are salivating.
But joke’s on them, because as public as the attack was, our identities were kept private, so I do the one thing I was afforded—I lie. There’s no way I’m telling them the truth about any part of my life.
“Fine,” I rush out like I’m giving in. “He actually saved me from a cult.”
Their eyes spring open, much to my amusement, and I swear they move a smidge closer, saying “No way” simultaneously.
I nod, leaning my bottom back against my worktable. “Yeah way, it’s true.”
“What was it called?” Devin presses.
“MYODB.” I add a shrug as if they should recognize the name.
They repeat it, looking at each other like they’re trying to figure out if they’ve heard of it before.
“Was that the one with the sneakers?” Derek whispers to his brother before he answers, “No, I think it was that one from the Bay Area.”
I have to stare down at the ground to hide my burgeoning smile.
“Is it an acronym?” one of them asks.
“Yeah,” I manage with a heavy tone before I level, “It stands for mind your own damn business.”
They instantly groan, and I toss a paint-stained rag at them. “I’m not telling you my whole life story. This is not us living out our girlhoods. Go back to work. We have a lot to do.” I chuckle, but my throat suddenly feels tighter. “Now, raise your hand if you wanna get me a soda.”
Neither of them raises a hand, unless I count the ones they aim at each other as they fight to be first to walk out the door. So I yell, “And a cookie from craft services. The good chocolate chip ones.”
The door hangs wide open, making me roll my eyes, but there’s something about the instantaneous silence that makes me roll my shoulders back.
Or maybe it’s that I got just a little too close to the truth in front of them.
I take a deep breath, feeling the familiarity of a panic attack building.
“Not now,” I whisper. “Please, not now.”