Chapter 7
seven
It’s Saturday night. I haven’t heard from Good Guy today, and my interview is looming.
I’m a person who likes to have a purpose and be productive.
The unknowns where my job is concerned have me at a standstill, and it’s driving me batshit crazy.
I’m filling my time with worry, worst-case scenarios, over-analysis of past job performance, and second-guessing every life decision I’ve ever made, good or bad.
My anxiety level has been holding steady at an eleven out of ten.
I feel like I’ve been dropped into an alternate, round-hole universe, and I’m a square peg.
Nothing fits. I’m not a go-with-the-flow person, so not knowing what’s going to happen next drives me insane.
Chance texted this afternoon asking for a hundred bucks to replace his Nespresso.
I didn’t reply, but Venmoed him fifty out of guilt because my sister pulverized it in classic over-the-top Lola fashion.
I’m hoping the charitable contribution wards off bad juju.
A deposit into my good karma account can’t hurt.
Benji and Lola are both gone tonight. Benji is staying over at his friend Kasey’s, and Lola is on a date with a guy she met at a metaphysical bookstore yesterday.
She went to buy me a garnet crystal because she’s convinced it will bring me good luck with my interview and walked out with his number in her cell.
They were both looking at the same rose quartz pendant necklace.
Lola says it’s the crystal of unconditional love, and they both took it as a sign that they needed to explore their connection over dinner.
I don’t believe in any of that, but guaranteed, dinner isn’t the only way they’ll explore their connection.
She showed me his Instagram profile. He’s thirty-six and has serious Henry Cavill vibes—and not clean-cut, all-American Superman, but the Cavill who emerged from the chrysalis as a fully formed Witcher demigod.
I’m not convinced that luck is on my side, but it’s certainly on hers.
I showered and put on real clothes this afternoon, which felt like a triumph. I’m feeling passably human, another bonus. I even ventured out to pick up some takeout tonight and ate alone, standing at the kitchen island while I went down the otter video rabbit hole.
When I return to my bedroom to change back into the pajamas I’d been wearing nonstop for the past two days, I notice a shoebox on my bed with a big red bow on it.
I recognize the box; it’s from my closet.
When I open it, instead of my checkered Vans, it contains four miniature bottles of alcohol, a joint in a small baggie, and a book.
There’s also a folded note card. It’s Lola’s handwriting:
Dealer’s choice.
Just don’t mix them. (The weed is Bruce Banner and will knock you on your ass all by itself.)
Relax. (But don’t try to meditate. Your version is bastardized and always morphs into worry in 2.
5 seconds. Avoid at all costs.) Watch otter videos.
Watch Thicker Than Water videos. Watch Treachery’s Riot videos or all those fan edits of Raven you pretend you haven’t saved.
Put your vibrator to good use. Message Good Guy.
Start this book. (It’s on loan from my coworker, so don’t dog-ear the pages, heathen.) The possibilities are endless.
Love, the keeper of your spare kidney,
Lo
Since I’ve already hit my monthly quota of otter videos today, I roll each tiny bottle inside the box and read the labels: tequila, vodka, whiskey, and rum.
Quite a combo, all the solid fan favs. I don’t want to go search for a mixer, so I down the vodka straight and wince.
Next, I slide out the book, Devil of Dublin by BB Easton.
“Hello,” I say approvingly to the handsome face gracing the cover.
I set it on my nightstand and promise, “You and I are gonna spend some quality time together later.” Then I pick up the baggie and inspect it.
It’s been years since I smoked. When Lola turned twenty-one, we went to a dispensary simply for the experience.
The bright lighting, friendly staff, and organized presentation of dozens of strains with funny names gave the impression of a candy store for adults.
I smoked with her that night, but it was more to celebrate adulthood and progression in this country than the desire to get high.
Lola smokes sometimes, but I never join in for fear of a random drug test by my employer.
Since I’m not even sure I have a job anymore, my spiteful side rears her head.
And prompts me to walk to the kitchen, grab a book of matches from the junk drawer, and put a check on the blackboard.
Before I chicken out, I head to my bathroom, open the window, and flip on the overhead exhaust fan.
It sounds like a hamster running on a squeaky wheel, and either the wheel is lopsided, or the hamster has a wicked limp.
Lighting up, I sit on the closed lid of the toilet, close my eyes, and inhale deeply.
The thick smoke drifts lazily toward the window because the fan, though noisy, is useless.
Focusing on the calm that’s curling up inside my skull like a cat in a patch of sunlight, pure slackened warmth, thanks to the alcohol.
I open Spotify on my phone, and because I feel like singing but don’t feel like waking sleeping neighbors, I skip the metal bands I love and go for something more subdued and nostalgic, focusing on nineties favorites.
Before I know it, I’m belting out “Wonderwall” like Liam himself has crept inside my skin and possessed me, not just wholly, but purposefully.
After I wrap up my enthusiastic but supremely off-key songfest with “Iris,” I fumigate the bathroom with a heavy dose of air freshener, which only leaves it smelling like a skunk let loose in a Cinnabon.
Then I float through the house gathering every pillow I can find because I have a plan.
I also grab the package of Oreos from the kitchen, because every plan should involve cookies.
Lining the pillows up against my headboard, I create the cloud I envisioned and snuggle into it.
I contemplate diving straight into a Thicker Than Water video lust-a-thon, but Oreos, at least the way I eat them, require two hands.
Hands-on lusting will have to wait. I open Spotify instead, search for Treachery’s Riot, my favorite band, and hit play.
I’ll consider it auditory foreplay while I finish my snack.
Spontaneously, I switch to Good Guy messages.
Testing…1, 2, 3, 4. Is this thing on?
I pluck a cookie from the package on the bed next to me and untwist it while I await an unlikely, real-time reply. Scraping the filling out with my teeth, I place the demoralized wafers back in the package and start the process again with the next cookie.
When I’m on number four, … appears on my screen.
I bolt upright, unblinking. It’s like I conjured him. Maybe there’s something to the positive thinking that Lola preaches. Or maybe the weed is a magical strain.
Good Guy
It is. What are you up to tonight? (I’m no detective, but I assume from your photos that you’re American and it’s nighttime wherever you are.)
I’m not sure you want to know everything I’ve been up to tonight, but there may have been a nineties tribute concert involved. And yes, I’m in Colorado. You?
Tonight might be the night I find out more.
Good Guy
How am I supposed to NOT want details after a comment like that? Also American, I’m on the East Coast. Where was the concert?
In my bathroom.
Good Guy
Pardon?
Full disclosure, cannabis may or may not have been the instigator of the singalong. Not to brag, but it turns out when I’m high, I can sing “Yellow Ledbetter” with 10% lyrical accuracy (up from sober 7.5%), AND I can channel the hell out of Liam Gallagher. Who knew?
Good Guy
10%?!?! I’m jealous. I hover closer to .5%. And please tell me there was a tambourine involved or you didn’t do Liam justice.
No tambourine, but I did improvise with a half-empty bottle of Midol during “Wonderwall.”
Good Guy
Solid substitution. What song did you save for the finale? That’s important.
“Iris.”
Good Guy
That’s a good song. My mom used to play it a lot when I was young.
Mine too!
Maybe we’re the same age? Reasoning is hard right now, but it feels like a logical assumption.
Good Guy
Any plans for the rest of the night? I mean, it’s hard to follow up bathroom karaoke, but…
Eating Oreos (filling only).
Good Guy
Filling only? Barbarian. Do you have something against the delicious chocolatey cookies on the outside?
1. They’re the opposite of delicious. 2. They aren’t chocolatey, they only appear that way to deceive. I don’t like trickery where my food is concerned.
Good Guy
Fair enough. I don’t have a dog in this fight. I’m a Chips Ahoy fan.
What have you been up to tonight?
Good Guy
Worked late. Eating some pizza now and then I need to try to get some sleep.
I want to ask what he does, but I also like not learning everything at once and letting the details unravel slowly.
Do you always work nights? And what toppings? Toppings are telling.
Good Guy
It depends. And pepperoni.
No veggies?
Good Guy
Sadly, I eat like a six-year-old.
As long as you’re not six. Because if that’s the case, your grammar and vocabulary are exceptional, but I’m probably going to hell/jail for participating in the cock convo.
There’s a pause on his end.
Good Guy
Sorry, I just blew water all over my phone and lap. Pretty sure some of it came out of my nose. No, I’m not six. I swear I’m legal.
You should go clean up and get to bed.
I yawn at the thought of sleep, even with all the sugar flowing through my veins.
Good Guy
I should.
Before I can reply, another message comes through.
Good Guy
I don’t want to because I’d rather talk to you, but I should.