God, I hate him.
That had been my mantra for the entire fifteen-minute bike ride to my parents’ house.
I hate him. He may be really sexy, and the instant his lips touched my cheek, my nipples went into a full military-style salute, but I hate him. Yes, I definitely hate him. Obviously, my boobs just haven’t gotten the memo yet, but that’s to be expected. They’re boobs. They don’t have special talents like feeling feelings and picking up Reed’s weird radio frequency—they just react to cues for arousal.
I mean, was he trying to ruin my life?
And how in the hell had he known where I lived?
I still couldn’t believe he had the audacity to show up at my apartment, unannounced and definitely unexpected, and hand me an advanced copy of his column—one that consisted of a diatribe about penis pressure and how some people don’t want or need sex and blah, blah, blah.
Just like before, he’d read my column and twisted my words into something ridiculous. I wasn’t penis pressuring anyone. I had merely written a fun and entertaining piece about how it was okay to just want sex for the act itself sometimes.
Fucking penis pressure. Give me a break.
After reading his response, you’d think I’d told my readers to grab a ruler and a stopwatch and administer an elementary-style timed sex test to their significant others. If I didn’t dislike him so much, I might’ve actually applauded his ability to make magic out of mist. The fucker.
My family chattered around me at the dinner table, but I had nothing to contribute. I was too caught up in conjuring ideas for future columns and then disputing their validity as solid ideas based on how I thought Reed might twist and turn my shit to contradict me.
If I said, “The Golden Gate Bridge is huge,” Reed would take that comment and have a goddamn field day redirecting it into an existential discussion on what defines the word huge. Hell, he’d probably toss in an absurd argument based off of polynomial-time algorithms, and then I’d probably fall asleep because no amount of college algebra would help me understand polynomial time.
I groaned out loud and took the serving spoon for my mom’s famous mashed potatoes and scooped some onto my plate. And then I scooped another helping just for good measure. Hating someone was hard work, and my body needed to carbo-load if there was any hope of plotting my revenge.
“Uh, Lola?” my sister Annie called from across the table. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Lo, you’re really getting at your mom’s mashed potatoes,” my father interjected. “Mind sharing some with the rest of us?”
I looked up and noted that everyone at the table—my mom, dad, Annie, brother-in-law Brian, even my nieces and nephew—was staring at me.
“I’m fine. Just hungry,” I muttered.
Annie quirked a concerned brow in my direction, but I ignored her. I knew if I made eye contact, she’d ask me a million questions about why I was smacking the mashed potatoes with the serving spoon. Sometimes sisters were a real pain in the ass.
This probably wasn’t the best night for me to attend family dinner at my parents’ house. And even though I always got bombarded with annoying questions about marriage and kids and renter’s insurance policies, I generally enjoyed our twice-monthly routine.
Thanks a lot, Reed. You’re even ruining family dinner night.
I slid the bowl of mashed potatoes toward my dad and settled into my plate. I was determined not to let that pretentious, know-it-all, newbie columnist fuck up the rest of my day.
Conversation continued around me, and I just tuned it out for the moment and focused on the baked chicken in the middle of my too-full plate.
But it didn’t help.
Bite after bite, I grew more and more angry. I had never really hated anyone in my life, but I really, really hated Reed Luca. With a fiery passion that made me better understand those women on that show Snapped—the one where they go off the deep end and kill their boyfriends or husbands. Not that I was plotting murder because, yeah, that was a bit over the top, but I could at least understand where those chicks were coming from.
“Henry,” Annie said in that disappointed yet irritated tone only moms use on their children. “Stop stabbing your chicken with your butter knife. That is inappropriate.”
“But…but…Aunt Lola’s doing it!”
I glanced up at the sound of my name, and then I watched Annie’s gaze move from Henry’s plate to mine. My eyes followed hers and, yeah, my nephew was right. I was currently stabbing my chicken with a butter knife. Mutilating it, actually.
Seriously, I swear I’m not actually plotting Reed Luca’s murder.
Fantasizing about him just disappearing to a safe place where he wasn’t injured but couldn’t bother me? Yes.
But actual murder? No.
“Okay, I’ve had enough,” Annie announced and dropped her napkin onto the table. “What’s going on, Lola? Even for you, you’re acting weird, and that’s saying something.”
“Nothing,” I lied.
“Lola, honey, you seem a little upset,” my mother added. “Are you sure everything is okay?”
“A little upset, Deb?” my dad chimed in. “Our daughter just took half the bowl of mashed potatoes, and now she appears to be performing some sort of satanic ritual on your baked chicken. Which is delicious, by the way,” he added with a mouthful of half-eaten poultry as proof.
“What’s a salantic ritual?” Lucy, my youngest niece, asked.
“Just a little something adults do when they’re thinking about taking a cruise, Luce,” Brian, my brother-in-law, answered.
“Ohh!” Emma, my oldest niece, exclaimed. “I want to do a salantic ritual!”
“You have to get it approved by the president first, sweetheart,” Brian responded, and Annie rolled her eyes. Her husband always used the most ridiculous scenarios to get out of difficult conversations with their kids. And “getting approval from the president” was one of his go-tos.
Emma wants a puppy? Sorry, sweetie, but we have to get the president’s approval first.
Henry wants to download the Pokémon Go app to his iPod? Sorry, buddy, but that has to go through Congress first.
Annie and Brian’s kids currently had 300 pending approvals from the United States government.
“Seriously, Lola, stop stabbing the chicken. It’s weird,” Annie said and I glared at her.
“If I want to stab my chicken, I’ll stab my chicken. You’re not the boss of me.”
Annie pointed her fork in my direction. “I’m about to stab you.”
My mother clapped her hands twice. “Girls!”
Uh-oh, Deb was getting angry. If her claps were the equivalent of a traffic light, we’d reached the yellow light seconds before it turned red.
“I want to stab someone!” Henry shouted.
“Gotta get that approved by the president first, buddy.”
Oh. My. God. I was one Annie glare and Brian “president approval” comment away from my brain exploding.
“Spill it, Lola,” my dad demanded. “Tell your sister what’s going on before she starts talking with that awful, high-pitched shrieking noise none of us can stand.”
“Dad!” Annie screeched. “I do not sound like that!”
My dad winced. “For the love of God, tell your sister why you’re currently showing homicidal tendencies toward your dinner before my eardrums burst.”
“Fine.” I slammed my hands down onto the table. “I hate Reed. I mean, I really, really hate him. “
“Everyone hates weeds, Lo.”
“Not weeds, Dad,” I corrected with a sigh. “Reed. He’s an actual person, not vegetation. Reed Luca. He is trying to ruin my life.”
Annie’s brow furrowed. “Wait…is this that guy who posted the YouTube video about your column?”
My eyes nearly bugged out of my head. “You saw that?”
“Pretty sure everyone saw that,” she retorted. “It has, like, ten million views.”
“It has ten million views now?” Now it was my turn to screech, and the fact that my dad was covering his ears proved I was doing it effectively.
“It was up to twelve million when I watched it,” Brian added.
“Are you talking about that video with the handsome boy who doesn’t like Lola’s column?” my mother asked before tsking, “Though, that smoking is an awful habit.”
“Yep,” Annie kindly answered to keep this topic of conversation going.
Seriously, sometimes sisters were a huge pain in the ass.
“Oh, when I watched it on your dad’s laptop, it was up to fifteen million views,” my mom said with a smile. “I can’t believe my little Lola is so popular that she’s getting videos made about her.”
“Mom,” I said through gritted teeth. “He wasn’t saying nice things about me in his video.”
“I’ll be honest,” she responded, and her cheeks started to flush pink. “I had a hard time focusing on what that boy was saying. His eyes are just so…blue.”
My eyes narrowed. “Are you blushing?”
“No.” She waved me off with her hand. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh my God, Mom!” I exclaimed and promptly removed my butter knife from my chicken and pointed it in her direction. “You’re blushing! Over a guy who posted a YouTube video about how much he hates my column.”
“Well…he’s really handsome, sweetie. Maybe you should try to go out with him. Some of the best love stories start off with the two people not liking each other.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mom, You’ve Got Mail doesn’t count. It’s a movie. One that you’ve seen no less than one hundred times.”
It needs to be noted now that my mother, Deb Sexton, has a habit of acting like her favorite romantic comedies are real-life love stories.
If she ever tells you about a story that sounds a lot like The Notebook, it is actually just her telling you about The Notebook.
As much as she wishes she knew Noah and Allie, she doesn’t.
“I just love that Tom Hanks so much,” my mother announced on a dreamy sigh.
“He’s on your mom’s list,” my dad added, far too comfortable with the idea of my mom having a list.
Annie’s head tilted to the side in confusion. “Wait…What list?”
I couldn’t stop the huge smile that had taken up residence on my face if I tried. My sister had officially just redirected the conversation toward a topic she would soon regret.
“Her list of famous people she can have s-e-x with if she ever meets them,” my dad answered with ease.
“What?” Annie shrieked.
He nodded proudly. “I have a list, too.”
“Stop!” Annie shouted and covered both of her ears with her hands. “Please, stop before I vomit.”
“Who else is on your list, Mom?” I asked sweetly, and Annie discreetly flipped me the middle finger. This was like killing two birds with one stone. It was the perfect opportunity to keep the topic of conversation far away from Reed Luca while allowing me to torture Annie.
“Umm…Leonardo DeCapricorn and Benedict Cumbersome.”
I hoped to God my mom actually learned these guys’ names before she got to bone them.
“Don’t forget Hugh Bradford,” my dad chimed in.
“Oh, yeah!” Deb clapped her hands excitedly. “Hugh Bradford is on that list, too.”
Annie’s face scrunched up. It was equal parts confusion and disgust. “Hugh Bradford is the butcher on Market Street, Mom.”
“I know,” she said with a far too happy smile. “He’s a very famous butcher, Annie. Everyone in San Francisco loves him.”
“But you actually know him, Mom. Like, you know him. You buy meat from him. Weekly.” The vein in Annie’s forehead had made its first appearance of the night, which meant she was about two seconds away from spontaneous combustion or stroking out from mortification.
“I know.” My mother waggled her eyebrows, and my father just chuckled in amusement.
Holy hell, had my parents just insinuated they’re swingers?
“Oh. My. God,” Annie groaned. “Someone change the subject before I pass out from discomfort.”
“You’re thinking exactly what I’m thinking aren’t you, Annie Bananie?” I asked, my expression morphing into glee.
“Don’t say it,” she said through gritted teeth.
My grin grew wider. “Mom…Dad…do you guys like to swing?”
My mom just winked in response.
“I love to swing!” Emma exclaimed.
“Me too!” Lucy added. “Mommy, can we swing like Grandma and Grandpa?”
“Yeah…okay…” Annie got up from the table. “I’m finished.”
“Can I get up from the table, too, Daddy?” Henry asked.
“You have to get the president’s approval to leave the dinner table before everyone is finished eating, buddy.”
Henry’s face fell into disappointment. “But Mommy got up.”
“Annie, did you get the president—” Brian started to ask but was quickly cut off by my sister pointing a finger in his direction.
“Don’t even say it, or I will murder you in your sleep,” she whispered.
Brian just laughed it off.
“So, Lola,” my dad started, “was it just the video that ticked you off or something else?”
Ugh. And here I thought I had managed to avoid this topic entirely.
Of course, Annie’s ears perked up, and she found her way back to her seat. I swear, Nosy Nancy could hear better than most canines.
“Well…” I paused on a sigh. “Reed Luca has accepted a position with the San Francisco Journal. He’ll be writing an opposing column to mine.”
Annie’s jaw nearly hit the table. “What a di—not nice guy.”
“Oh, believe me, it gets worse,” I responded in annoyance. “He decided to hand-deliver this week’s opposing column to my doorstep today.”
Her mouth popped open in surprise. “He showed up at your apartment?”
“Yep.”
“Is he a psychopath?” Annie asked with narrowed eyes. She was just as pissed off about this as I was. I guess sisters weren’t always a pain in the ass.
My mother tsked. “There’s no way a man with those blue eyes could be a psychopath.”
“Mom!” I groaned. “Could you forget about your little fangirl crush for just a second to do the normal supportive thing and say bad things about Reed Luca with me? I mean, you’re my mother. You should be raking his name through the mud to show your support.”
I couldn’t deny the man had the most intense, striking eyes I’d ever seen. Hell, if I never had to hear him babble existential bullshit, I’d consider keeping him around just to lose myself in them.
But that was beside the point. Beautiful blue eyes, sexy smile, perfect hair, kissable lips…they were inconsequential when their owner was a certified asshole.
“Do I need to kill him?” my father asked, like it was the most normal thing in the world to discuss murder.
“Uh…I think that might be a little overboard,” I refuted. “But…if you’ve got any ideas on how to make him disappear that doesn’t involve homicide, I’m all ears.”
“Well…there’s kidnapping and sending him to a remote island.”
“Harry,” my mother voiced her disapproval regarding illegal kidnappings.
My dad flashed a knowing look in her direction. “Oh, like you wouldn’t be asking me to drop you off with him.”
“Eww, Dad,” Annie chastised.
“Don’t get pissed at me. Your mother’s the pervert, not me.”
My mother grinned. “I’d prefer to use the term cougar.”
Annie rested both elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. “Oh my God, Mom. You’re not a cougar.”
“Your father is two years younger than me.”
“That doesn’t count,” my sister muttered into her palms.
“Counts in my book, Deb.” My father winked. “You’ll always be a sexy cougar in my eyes.”
“Can we get back to me?” I questioned in frustration. “I mean, you should all be bashing Reed right now. That’s what a good family would do.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, sweetheart,” my dad apologized. “If you want me to kill that little prick, I’ll kill him. And I’m sure his column will be a shitheap of nonsense compared to yours.”
“Grandpa just said shitheap!” Henry exclaimed.
“Dad.”
He just shrugged. “Sorry, Annie, but I can’t bash and spell out words like a moron at the same time. Something’s gotta give here.”
“I hope that handsome boy gets a taste of his own medicine.”
“Jesus, Mom.” I groaned. “Are you even trying?”
“I think your dad’s idea about the remote island is something to think about, Lola.”
Brian had a point, and it came without the requirement of getting the president’s approval first. Obviously, I needed to add it to my list.
I clicked open the Notes section on my phone and typed it in.
Way to get rid of Reed Luca:
1. Teleportation Device
2. Remote Island
Okay, so there were only two items on that list, but in my defense, I refused to resort to homicide. It was too fucking messy, and there was no way in hell I’d mess up my manicure and fresh coat of pink shellac for Reed Luca. I was a bit eccentric, but I wasn’t insane.
In the meantime, I’d just have to go back to ignoring him. I’d managed that just fine until earlier this afternoon, and I could do it again.
Reed Luca only exists if I want him to exist. Reed Luca only exists if I want him to exist, I chanted in my head.
One click of the heels of my bright pink boots and he’d be nothing but a memory.