Page 23 of Hot Mess
I knew, because of all the people who messaged in response to the ad, not one of them could answer my screening question correctly:Where did we first meet?
Various answers:
At the grocery store.
When we were buying roses!
In Chinatown in the rain :)
Wrong, assholes.
What the hell was wrong with people anyway? What kind of dickwad fake-replied to a classified ad?
“You’re just pissed at yourself because you lost her,” Dylan pointed out. The dude really was all kinds of helpful in situations like this.
I was lying on his couch in the dark, half-watchingIt’s Always Sunny in Philadelphiaon his big screen. Couldn’t get into it. Couldn’t get into anything right now.
This entire day had been a waste of life. I was basically horizontal the whole time. After a few restless hours in my bed and a shower, I’d ended up camped out on Dylan’s couch again, occasionally dragging my ass to his fridge for sustenance.
Everyone else but Amber had gone back to the city, and Dylan’s cleaning lady had come and gone, so the place was tidy again. He’d even asked her to clean my place, too, which she did, though I’d managed to slip her some cash so he wouldn’t try to put it on his bill.
For most of the day, Dylan and Amber were packing and groping each other upstairs. I probably could’ve offered to help them pack, but that would’ve required remaining vertical, plus watching them grope each other. Wasn’t happening.
At least I’d messaged Summer and verified that no, I didn’t screw her last night, or even attempt to screw her. So there was that.
Felt like an accomplishment.
And there was the classified ad. Staring me in the face every time I checked my phone.
You’d think a rock star wouldn’t have to take out a classified ad to find a woman, but there it was.
Do you think he’s depressed?Amber asked Dylan once, when they were standing in the kitchen watching me, right where I could hear them.
I can hear you, I’d muttered.
He’s not depressed, Dylan said.He’s hungover.
He wasn’t wrong about that. I was epically hungover. Recovering from my breakup party was rolling slowly and painfully along, though that worked out pretty well since I kinda felt the need to suffer just a bit for being such a dumbass.
Really, I only had a few more hours to do this anyway. Had to soak it up while I could. Wouldn’t be the same without Dylan lying over there on the couch across from me.
Not the same at all.
There was a time, maybe six months ago—after I’d kissed him in his kitchen, then he broke my heart—I would’ve thought I’d never be here again, doing this. But here I was, pretty much every day since he’d come home from tour twelve days ago.
Loitering around his house.
Binge-watching TV and letting time pass me by.
“Lost who?” I asked him, distracted. I was busy counting the slats of wood in his vaulted ceiling again, trying not to think about tomorrow.
“Yellow boots,” he said. “You keep talking about her.”
Did I keep talking about her? Didn’t think I was talking at all.
“You really like this girl, huh?”
“I don’t know her,” I said.
