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)
Cash plopped down nearly taking the table cloth with him, like we’re not in a nice place, like he didn’t just whip out a traveling fish from the inside of his jacket the way criminals do when selling counterfeit watches, and waved the waiter over.
I watched in complete fascination as he tapped the menu like he already had it memorized and spoke. “I’ll have the tomahawk steak. Rare. And for the lady—” he paused and looked me over like a confused toddler, “she’ll have the Louis Salad. Dressing on the side.”
Food was sacred. He just ordered it. For me. “I’m allergic to shellfish, Cash.”
“It’s a salad.”
My nod was slow, deliberate, on purpose so I could take a deep breath and form words that would come out calm verses the rage I felt. “With shrimp, and crab. It says so on the menu.”
He leaned back, unbothered, and slid something across the table like I hadn’t just spoken. The waiter opened his mouth but Cash waved him off. “Shrimp on the side then.” I stared down. He’d slid over a business card.
Cash Wilder. Entrepreneur. Crypto. Consulting. Vibes.
“I’m getting back into the game. Trying to build a portfolio.” He winked. “You’d be perfect for the wellness brand I’m launching. Real spiritual stuff. Sage candles. Reusable mascara wands, organic tampons.”
I stared at the card. Then at Gerald. Then at my life.
I drop the card straight into his glass of whatever questionable liquor he ordered and smile sweetly.
“Wanna know what else is reusable? This rejection.”
CHAPTER
SIX
EZRA
Yolo, call me. Uh, in case you didn’t know, Yolo means you only life one. So…
-Leif
“You didn’t even give him a chance.”
I poured more wine into her glass and set the near-empty bottle back down on the rustic purple coffee table. I really needed to stop staying over, I had my own apartment but half the time, I just stayed with Harper. No wonder I was in the friend zone, we had sleepovers like chicks.
Harper glared at me, even angrier than usual—though somehow still pretty—despite the terrifying face mask peeling off her cheek like a horror film extra.
“I mean, were you asleep during the part where I told you he brought a goldfish in a Ziploc bag to dinner? Or the part where he ordered me a potentially deadly dish, then pitched me a collab on organic tampons?”
I snorted into my glass. “Classic. Bro came in with a goldfish. That’s next-level confidence. And as for the organic tampons, I hear it’s better for the vagina,” I added with a smirk.
She chugged her wine and glared over the rim. “It’s like you want me to slap you in the dick. Are you that desperate for action?”
I laughed. “Not that desperate, thanks.”
I shifted back on the couch and grabbed the Apple TV remote. “So… before you post your update, do you want Friends or New Girl? You just binged Schitt’s Creek for the fifth time. You need something nostalgic.”
Harper plopped down beside me and laid her head on my shoulder.
I really wished she wouldn’t do that.
Not because I didn’t like it—because I did. Too much.
It’s like ever since this whole blog-your-exes circus started, my brain had glitched. Or rewired. Or combusted. I felt everything more; every exhale in my direction, every time she changed perfume. Every tiny Harper-specific quirk had carved itself into my consciousness like graffiti on a wall I couldn’t scrub clean.
And the worst part? The thought of her actually finding someone—choosing someone—made my stomach turn inside out.
Why was it so hard to say it?
Date me. Choose me. Try me.
Probably because she never had.
Not even once. Not even an accidental, drunken, regrettable kiss.
If it hadn’t happened by now, it probably wasn’t going to.
Life sucked sometimes.
I needed to move on. Do some me-work. Focus on literally anyone who didn’t make me want to rewrite the entire definition of friendship just to fit how I felt around her.
I told myself I’d help her this once—ride out the social media storm—and then I’d be done. If the Vex thing didn’t get her attention, I’d start my own path. Even if it meant walking in the opposite direction of hers.
I was pushing thirty.
Time to cut the apron strings.
Or maybe it was just the wine talking, because the next thing out of my mouth was:
“Can you set me up?”
The room went silent. Even the Friends preview stopped looping, like it knew something important was happening.
Harper jerked away from me. “Wait, what? You mean—you want to date? Like, a person?”
I glared. “No. A robot. Preferably AI. I’ll fall in love with her personality—humans be damned. Yes, a person.” I gestured dramatically. “I mean, I have Excel, and firewalls, and a smart fridge that judges my snack habits, but maybe it’s time.”
She leaned in, squinting. “Are you drunk?”
I flicked her nose. “Off life and cyber security, baby. You know it.”