Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
One in particular had me irrationally irritated—probably because it had fifty-six replies and was single-handedly feeding the algorithm while spiraling out of control.
If number five was such a good guy, then why didn’t things work out? Why let him go?
Seems sketchy to me. Compared to the rest of the guys, you’d think she’d just settle—if that even means settling.
Maybe something happened we don’t know about?
Either way, I’m calling it—Fake. He’s fake because the rest of them sound like nightmares.
The comment below that one just said Agreed.
And the one beneath that said: I mean, she picks the absolute worst personalities.
Rude.
True.
But still—rude.
Then came the war cries:
I’m voting for prison guy as the first.
Prison.
Prison.
PRISON!
Over a hundred comments chanting it like a messed-up Hunger Games tribute.
Which meant my first official date would be with—Cash.
(Yes, like the currency. No, that wasn’t his birth name.)
His actual name was James, but he changed it to Cash after he was “liberated” from prison.
Because apparently, “James” was his oppressed identity. I was afraid to look deeper into his profile.
That should be a fun conversation. His liberation from being named.
I grabbed my phone, smoothed my hair, and clicked record.
“Okay, based on all of these comments—some not-so-fun ones about fake exes—it looks like my first date is going to be Cash.”
Deep breath. Try not to visibly flinch.
“He claims he’s a changed man, but all I have are memories of a felony, lots of tears, and being handcuffed… but in all the wrong ways, to the wrong person, if you get my meaning.”
I smiled tightly.
“Time will tell. Stay tuned for my midnight update.”
I posted the video, turn my chair around, and stare at my closet like it’s a war zone.
We were supposed to go to a fancy dinner on the water, which sounded relaxing in theory.
In practice, it meant I’d be eating overpriced scallops across from a man who once tried to sell bootleg supplements out of his gym bag.
Maybe it’ll be fine.
Maybe I was overthinking.
I was sure even Ezra is sick of my paranoid texts, though at this point, it’s just a barrage of memes that make zero sense.
I checked my phone screen.
Two hours.
Two hours.
Five exes.
Plus one imaginary guy I accidentally manifested into the plot of my own life.
I could do this.
James, aka Cash, arrived at the restaurant thirty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds late, not that I was counting the time or chewing an alarming amount of ice cubes in nervous anticipation. Of course this meant I had to pee twice in the process, also forcing me to stare at myself in the mirror and question all life choices that led to this moment.
Talented family. Crazy grandma. Apartment I must keep. Worth I’m hell bent on proving. Why? Because everyone in my family thinks I’ll fail and I can’t fail again. My sister was a super successful lawyer, quit to be at home and had two perfect kids—I still think they’re under some sort of mind control they’re that perfect, one potty trained himself because it felt right. My brother owned two art galleries and was jet setting across the world with his model girlfriend and my parents were retired corporate executives with a homestead. My aunt was the one crazy one, if you could count being a famous painter as crazy, and even with all her success the family still called her the black sheep. If she was the black sheep what did that make me? A teacher? A naked sheep? Was there an animal that was two down from the black sheep? Why was I even asking this question?
I sat up as straight as possible when Cash finally approached the table.
“Sorry, babe,” he said, strutting toward me in a velvet blazer and mirror-lensed sunglasses; something that may seem semi appropriate if we were outdoors, or he was a celebrity, or if it wasn’t seven at night. “Traffic was a beast, and Gerald gets anxious if I brake too hard.”
“Gerald?” I repeated. Please let that not be the name of his car.
Cash held up a Ziploc bag and dangled it over the table. The hell. A goldfish? An actual, honest to God, live goldfish was swimming around in that Ziploc. I had so many questions.
“My emotional support aquatic,” he added proudly. “It really helps me center myself.”
I nodded and forced my brain to understand. Look, everyone has a thing, a kink, a chip on their shoulder. Maybe this was his thing. “So, you brought him to dinner?” He did realize this was a seafood restaurant right?
He waved me off. “He’s chill. I give him an hour of oxygen in that bad boy, possibly two if he stays super calm, plus I heard it builds his lungs.”
I blinked in disbelief. “Gills. You mean it builds his gills.”
“Same thing.” Was he mocking me with his laugh?
I closed my eyes and muttered under my breath. “It’s not.”