THERE’S A BLONDE HAIR stuck against the shower wall as I take my evening shower, and for a second it takes me back. My ex—the one with the self-proclaimed “organic vagina”—was an aspiring actress.

Also blonde.

Actresses around here are a dime a dozen and I generally avoid them at all costs, but we met when I was installing some light fixtures in her condo. She was wearing a lime green mud mask and talking my ear off, and I thought she was actually pretty funny. Not to mention she clearly didn’t care what anyone thought of her, another rarity out here.

Spunky and outspoken, she had wild saffron hair, a spray of freckles across her nose, and a contagious laugh, Holliday—yes, that was her real name—was everything.

But after a while, I realized everything about her was just an act. She’d slip into these personalities like they were wardrobe changes. One minute she’d be a gym rat, living in Lululemon, doing sunrise yoga and drinking Matcha green tea coconut milk lattes. The next minute she’d be protesting with PETA and throwing out all the dairy products in her fridge and all the leather in her closet.

It wasn’t until she started dressing to the nines and clinging to me less that I realized she was on the verge of yet another phase—phasing me out.

I’ve never loved anyone, but I was pretty damn close to loving Holliday.

But she moved on without warning and she moved on to older men with money, ones who showered her with the kind of gifts I could never buy and took her to places I couldn’t afford to step foot in. Assholes like the one who pulled up in his freshly waxed import the other night to pick up Melrose.

Losing Holliday stung like a bitch at the time, but I like to think I came out a better person in the end—a person who refuses to get caught up in piddle-y things like “feelings” ever again.

But lately, it seems as if I’m being tested …

This new girl makes me feel shit all right.

Annoyed.

Frustrated.

Turned on…

How the one girl who gets under my skin could simultaneously be the same girl I can’t get out of my head is like some cruel joke the universe is playing on me; a giant “f-you” to my vow never to let myself get caught up over some woman ever again.

No good can come of that.

At least in my experience.

Anyway, all I’d like is a little bit of peace, a little refuge, but I can’t stop thinking of Melrose. I even found myself chuckling today when I thought about the look on her face when she realized her cock-blocking with Meegan was a success. I recognized that familiar glint, that bitten smile—because it was the same face I wore the night I sent her date packing.

Satisfaction.

Vindication.

Self-righteousness.

I’ve literally met my match—a version of me with curves and a pretty face—and she couldn’t be more annoying or more … sexy.

Earlier this morning at work, I caught myself up in some stupid daydream scenario that involved a very naked Melrose and a bunch of other shit that all started with a very unexpected kiss … and I almost ran some twelve-gauge wire instead of eight-gauge—which would’ve been a costly mistake.

I can’t afford to be thrown off my game.

I can’t afford to surrender to these stupid reveries when I’m running a business and wiring multi-million dollar estates.

I’ve spent the last few days wondering what it’d be like to bed Melrose, but that isn’t going to happen on principle, and now I need to get her out of my system.

Grabbing my phone, I text a girl named Tiffanie who’s always been “one call away” in my hours of need. She replies almost instantly with a shit ton of emojis and a capital YES, and I hit the shower, shamelessly deciding I might try to close my eyes tonight and pretend Tiff is Melrose because it’s going to be the closest thing I’ll ever allow myself to going all the way with her … and I’m absolutely fine with that.

When I’m finished getting ready, I head downstairs to grab a cold one, only to find the place is dark. Across the kitchen, a stack of folded t-shirts rests on the table. My t-shirts.

Why would she fold them for me? Is this her fucked-up way of trying to play house?

And then I see it. The Post-It.

“OLIVE BRANCH?” it says in her feminine purple scribble.

Glancing outside toward the driveway, I notice Melrose’s car parked where it was when I came home, but the house is silent. Not a single floorboard creak or footstep or God-awful show tune playing.

She must have left while I was in the shower, so I’ll have to tell her thanks next time I see her. I guess. I wouldn’t put it past her to be messing with me. This could all easily be a setup.

She’s good, that one.

Sly.

And I know because the old adage is true: it takes one to know one.

Heading to the kitchen, I retrieve an ice cold Rolling Rock, take a seat in the living room, and enjoy some time to myself until Tiff gets here in a couple of hours. Halfway through my shower, I determined the reason I can’t stop thinking about Melrose boils down to the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in a few weeks.

It’s pent up.

It’s not her. It’s hormones. Or some shit like that.

My little explanation makes me feel better for now, makes me feel like I’m not going downright crazy and crushing on some obnoxious blonde who curses the day I was born.

After tonight, my little fixation will be a distant memory—I’m sure of it.

And if it isn’t? If I’m wrong and this doesn’t work?

I might be fucked, but not literally, and not by Melrose.