The afternoon sun warmed my bare shoulders as I rode to a stop inside Golden Gate Park—one of my favorite writing spots on good weather days…and a good excuse to procrastinate by taking the thirty minutes to ride there. After scanning my surroundings for the safest place to lock up Daisy, I walked her toward an empty pole and wrapped the lock around her frame. My phone vibrated against my skin as I slipped my helmet off my head and hung it on her handlebars. I pulled my phone out of my pocket but didn’t look at it as I headed toward the Conservatory of Flowers to find a spot to lay a blanket on the lawn and stretch out with my laptop.
By the time I got there and settled, it rang two more times. When it rang a fourth time, I knew I either had to answer it or stick it down my pants and use it as a vibrator because the calls weren’t going to stop coming.
Given the public nature of my setting, I deferred on the latter.
“Hold your fucking horses,” I mumbled to myself.
Incoming Call: The Devil
Jesus. Good thing I’d decided against masturbation.
“Hey, Joe,” I greeted as I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder.
And I know what you’re thinking, The Devil?
But seriously, writer’s block can make you do some weird things at three a.m.
And honestly, the title suited him 99.9% of the time, so why change it?
“Shit’s about to change, sweetheart,” he responded and made a little eh-eh sound to clear his throat. “I just got word the Journal snatched up your advice nemesis, and now I’ve got every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the publishing industry ringing my phone off the goddamn hook to get your thoughts.”
Tom, Dick, and Harry? What in the actual fuck was he trying to say?
Whenever Joe started acting like an old-timey newspaperman from the fifties, he was amped about something. I also found it impossible to translate.
“Speak English, Joe. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That cocky vlogger,” he answered. “The Journal just offered him a dating and advice column, and he accepted.”
I furrowed my brow in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“Reed Luca.”
“I’m sorry, what?” It was a joke. It had to be a fucking joke, right? Or I was hearing things. I’d been a little unnaturally preoccupied by the weasel lately. This was some kind of transference or projecting or some psychobabble bullshit. There was no way Joe actually just said the words it sounded like he said.
No. Way.
Joe sighed into the receiver. “Listen, honey, I’ve got a pastrami on rye sitting on my desk waiting for me to sink my chompers into. I’m not sure how many other ways I can explain this. Reed Luca has his own column now with the San Francisco Journal—”
I cut him off before he could finish. “What in the hell is his column called?”
“Reed This.”
Oh, well, isn’t that just too fucking clever. The bastard.
“And what is the point of Reed This?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“To give the opposing view to Sex Says,” Joe responded without the irate reaction I had hoped for. I mean, why was I the only one pissed off about this?
There was no way in hell this was about to be my life. I had done everything I could to avoid Reed Luca, even ignoring the email he had sent me a few weeks back. It was some senseless message about me being a unicorn. I honestly didn’t know if he was telling me I was rare in a good way, or if it was the start of some ridiculous insight on how I live in a fantasy world.
I had refused to take the bait and fall down that rabbit hole of nonsense. Or get pulled into his web of insanely attractive, I thought in annoyance.
“That pretentious, know-it-all, far-too-confident, good-looking motherfucker.”
“Christ, that’s a pointed description,” Joe noted in surprise. “Why am I getting the impression you’ve met him?”
“That’s not the point, Joe,” I quickly redirected. “What in the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
“You’re not supposed to do anything. This is good publicity.”
“Good publicity!” I exclaimed. “How is this good publicity? Reed Luca is going to be writing a dating and advice column that contradicts everything I tell my readers!”
“Trust me, Lola, this is a good thing.” Joe’s voice was too goddamn calm for this, and it only made me more irate.
“This feels like a terrible fucking thing, Joe!”
“Just keep writing, Lola,” he answered, calm and collected. “That’s what we pay you to do.”
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered and stomped my Converse-clad foot against the pavement.
“Oh, and Lola, that ‘pretentious, know-it-all, far-too-confident, good-looking motherfucker’ won’t be too well received by the conservative crowd. Mind giving me something a little less colorful?”
My jaw clenched in response. “That pretentious, know-it-all, cocky prick has barked up the wrong tree.”
“You took out good-looking—”
“Joe!”
He chuckled. “Fine. Fine. That’ll do.”
The second I hung up the phone, I sat down on an empty park bench and pulled up my internet browser. And the instant the San Francisco Journal’s website loaded, Reed Luca’s smug smirk stared straight back at me.
Reed This, Ladies and Gentlemen:
He captivated the world with his thought-provoking take on the Sex Says advice column a few weeks ago, and now, we’re pleased to announce that Reed Luca will be the fresh, new voice for the San Francisco Journal’s newest column, Reed This.
Fresh, new voice, my asshole.
Before the Journal could force-feed me more bullshit, my phone lit up with a text notification and I pulled up my messages.
543-217-6789: Hi, Lola. This is Tammy Boyd with Glamour magazine. I’d love to schedule a phone chat with you and ask you a few questions regarding your response to Reed Luca getting an opposing column with the Journal.
And then again.
689-432-9014: Hello, Lola. This is Mark Sommers with the New York Press, and I’d love to get a few words from you regarding Reed Luca and his new column, Reed This.
And then again.
And then again.
And then again.
Until all I could do was turn off my phone and shout at the top of my lungs, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, universe!”
Three pigeons flapped their wings erratically and scattered away at my words, and a full-cheeked baby moving past me in a stroller started to cry. Her mother flashed me the look—you know, the look that said, “I’ll murder you if you shout profanities near my child again.”
Frankly, I couldn’t blame her. I was sitting on a park bench by myself and screaming like a lunatic. This wasn’t good. I was scaring babies, and even birds could sense I was about to blow a gasket. Those winged little scavengers couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
Fucking Reed Luca. Ruining my goddamn life.
The one guy I was devoted to avoiding had made himself unavoidable.
Fine. If he wanted to mess with the bull, he was going to get the motherfucking horns. I turned my phone back on and typed out an email.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Reed,
Congratulations on the new job.
You’re an asshole.
Sincerely,
Lola Sexton
As I sat there, on a park bench, on a day that should have felt like sunshine and goddamn unicorns, I was cursing Reed’s name with every creative epithet I could think of. I had only reached the dickface variety when my phone vibrated in my hands.
And there sat an email.
From the dickface himself.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Dearest Lola,
Passionate words reveal a passionate soul.
Maybe try using some of that passion for your advice column?
And thank you so much. I’m looking forward to giving our readers much-needed perspective. What are we writing about this week?
Love,
Reed
What are we writing about this week? I fought the urge to toss my phone toward the Golden Gate Bridge and focused my energy on a response.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Dear ASSHOLE,
We are writing about men who think they know everything and how their holier-than-thou personalities can be detrimental to a relationship.
Sincerely,
Lola
Suck. On. That.
The sucking didn’t last long, though; he fired back a response a few minutes later.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Dear beautiful and intelligent Lola,
Interesting topic. May I suggest looking at the wisdom and knowledge that can be gained from a man like that?
Sincerely,
Reed
God, why couldn’t he respond like I expected or wanted?
That’d be too easy, an annoying voice in my head taunted. It sounded like him.
No. He had to do the complete opposite of normal human beings. Defensive and pissed off over being called an asshole? Not him.
As far as I could tell, he was never self-justifying. Never angry.
Just…Reed.
That was the only way I knew how to describe him. He was on a completely different wavelength. If everyone else was tuned in to FM radio, listening to the latest pop and hip-hop songs, Reed Luca wasn’t even listening to the radio. He had some weird device that allowed him to listen to podcasts about the space-time continuum broadcasted by existential aliens.
I needed to end this conversation before it resulted in me doing something crazy, like showing up at his apartment and strangling him.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
May I suggest you stop emailing me before I come to your office and shove my stiletto up your ass?
I swear, I’m not generally a violent person.
I’m honestly a really nice girl.
Holy hell, this guy made me feel crazy, like I was one interaction away from ending up on Dateline: Behind Bars.
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
Hmmm…stiletto? I’d gotten the impression you were more a Converse and Doc Martens kind of girl. Color me intrigued.
And my office? I work from home now. I’m shocked the SF Times doesn’t let you do the same.
I glanced down at my bare legs and Converse-clad feet and huffed out a breath of frustration.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
I do work from home. I just figured the Journal would want to babysit your ridiculous ass for the first few months. You’re a bit of a loose cannon.
And what are you trying to say, Reed? You got a problem with girls who wear Converse and Doc Martens?
To: Lola Sexton
From: Reed Luca
I was merely saying that I thought my new friend Lola was the type of woman who didn’t let social expectations pressure her into wearing shoes that hurt her delicate little feet.
My new friend Lola?
Not only was Reed Luca an asshole, he was seriously deranged. We were about as far away from the term friends as two people could get. I legitimately hated him.
“Friends? Pfffffft. We are not friends,” I reiterated to myself.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
First of all, stilettos don’t hurt my feet.
Secondly, you might think you know everything, but I can tell you with absolute certainty you don’t know anything about me.
Thirdly, stop talking about my feet.
And finally, WE AREN’T FRIENDS.
Boom. Suck on that, asshole.
I hit send and smiled proudly to myself.
He could take his idea of friendship and shove it straight up his ass. I sure as hell didn’t want a friend who created viral YouTube videos to ruin my career, and now, agreed to write a column for a rival newspaper that’s sole purpose was to contradict everything I told my readers.
Reed Fucking Luca wasn’t my friend.
He was my enemy.
A really, really hot enemy, I thought to myself and then sighed in frustration.
I refused to think that way. I refused to think about his stupid blue eyes or sexy smirk or the way his natural confidence was like a homing device for my vagina.
He was competition.
And he was going the fuck down.