Georgia: Call me. I have an exciting proposition for you.
I stared down at the text message and sighed. Unless she’d started a new job, her exciting proposition had something to do with the Mavericks. And the Mavericks meant the one man I was valiantly trying to scrub from my brain would be involved.
It’d been a few weeks now, but still, Sean Phillips was all up in my goddamn thoughts like a sticky vat of jam.
Mothersmucker.
With a heavy heart and anxiety clawing at my throat, I tapped her number and called her.
She answered by the second ring.
“Six! How are you?” Georgia greeted, voice cheerier than Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.
Even though it felt like my entire world was crashing down and I was on day one of my period and I was certain my uterus was plotting an exit route from my body and my traitorous brain couldn’t stop thinking about Sean, per societal norms, there was only one appropriate response to her question.
“I’m good.” It was a bullshit response on my end, but I didn’t make the rules for proper social interactions. “How are you?”
“Well, considering the Mavericks are getting ready for the championship game, I’m fantastic.”
I already knew the news. I’d watched the game. I’d seen Sean score two glorious touchdowns. Hell, I’d even watched the live aftershow where they celebrated and interviewed nearly half of the team.
Well, they’d interviewed nearly everyone but Sean.
Which, pathetically, had only made me feel sad.
Even if he’d moved on, even if he’d long forgotten about me, I still wanted to see him. Hear his voice. Take in the handsome lines of his face and the way his eyes lit up when he was happy and excited about something.
Obviously, I was a masochist.
“That’s a huge deal,” I responded. Because it was. The Mavs could very well end their postseason with a big-ass championship trophy in their hands and bragging rights for the rest of their lives.
“A huge deal that we want you to be a part of,” she added, and I could hear the giddy smile in her voice. “We want you there for the big game. We want to add an additional episode to the series.”
Shit. Sadly, it was all of my worst fears realized.
It was one thing to see Sean’s handsome face on my television, but it was a whole other ball game to have to witness it in person.
My sad little heart could only handle so much.
I knew my reaction to her news was crazy stupid. I should have been ecstatic. I should’ve been jumping up and down like a lunatic. But all I felt was anxiety. Throat-clawing, chest-tightening, vomit all over myself unease.
“Six? Are you still there?”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.” I cleared my throat and swallowed down what felt like an entire bread loaf’s worth of apprehension. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten an entire baguette. “I guess I’m just a little bit shocked.”
“I hope it’s a good shocked…”
“Of course.” I pushed the two words past my lips. “Of course, it’s a good shocked. This is an incredible opportunity.”
“Well, it’s well deserved,” she said. “The response to the series has been overwhelming, and ever since that first episode posted several weeks ago, my players have received several endorsements. Because of you, the Mavericks are becoming a household name to nearly everyone in America.”
“Wow. That’s fantastic.” The incredible nature of it all was amazing to me.
“So, you’ll do it?” she asked. “You’ll let us fly you out to Minnesota for the championship game next week?”
I wished I could say no. I wished I already had some sort of obligation that would make me unable to commit.
But I had nothing. Not even the self-sabotaging stupidity it would take to turn down an offer like this. Obviously, my parents were to blame here, helping me pursue an education and all.
“Count me in.”
“Fantastic!” she exclaimed. “We’ll get our lawyers to draw up a contract and send it your way. In relation to the terms, almost everything will stay the same as the first eight episodes in the series. The only difference is that we would like this to be an hour-long episode instead of thirty minutes. And because of that, the compensation is higher.”
If one thing could be said about Georgia Brooks, it was that she was fair. She could negotiate the hell out of a deal, but she never faltered at being honest. It was a rarity inside her profession.
I was sure it also helped that the Mavericks’ marketing budget wasn’t a pocket full of peanuts.
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “I can’t wait to get started.”
Liar. You’re totally dreading this.
“Fantastic. I’ll have a contract for you by the end of the day,” she said. “See you soon, Six!”
I ended the call with a feigned excited goodbye.
The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me.
Basically, everything I had ever hoped for and dreamed about in terms of my career was coming true. And all I felt was melancholy.
Which then made me angry.
I should’ve been celebrating. I should’ve been calling everyone I knew and letting them know I’d be at the fucking championship game.
But what was I doing? Grabbing my keys, hopping in my car, and stopping at the goddamn grocery store to pick up a cheap-ass bottle of wine and more tampons.
And what did I do after purchasing the wine? I went the fuck home, threw on some yoga pants and a tank top, and started to drink it.
One glass. Two glasses. Three glasses.
Down the hatch, it all went.
By the time the bottle didn’t have a single drop left, I sat in the living room of my apartment buzzed—more like drunk—rewatching Game of Thrones.
I’d already finished all seven seasons, but I was addicted, and I wanted to see my two favorite characters together again.
Khal Drogo looked at his Khaleesi like she held all the power, like she was the most beautiful, perfect creature he’d ever seen, and I started to feel the emotion build up behind my eyes.
And then, he said it. One of my favorite quotes from the series where Drogo professes his undying love for his Khalessi and calls her the moon of his life.
My emotional dam burst, and tears starting flowing like water down my cheeks.
God, I wanted that. I wanted a man to look at me like I was his whole fucking world.
And I wanted to feel the same about him.
You have felt the same.
That thought only made me more emotional.
I didn’t want to think about him.
I didn’t want to think about Sean’s smile or his laugh or his gorgeous eyes. And I sure as fuck didn’t want to think about how he was probably out fucking other women while I was at home on my period, drinking my sadness away.
I hated how much it all hurt.
I hated that I wasn’t really over him.
I hated that I’d let myself fall for him and still hadn’t found the ability to move the fuck on.
I decided to blame it all on my period. No doubt, hormones held the power to make you a lunatic. And day one was always like being on an emotional roller coaster ride straight to hell. I could cry about anything and everything. Car commercials. Pictures of mini pigs in rain boots Sean’s sister Cassie sent me. Running out of cookies. Thoughts about Sean.
The far too sensitive struggle was real.
Although, the whole bottle of wine I just drank probably isn’t helping either…
A truer thought had never occurred.
With the sleeve of my shirt, I scrubbed the tears and snot away and took a long, deep inhale.
I needed to get it together.
But more importantly, I needed to chat. I needed to vent. I needed to ramble. I needed to get all of these thoughts off of my chest.
Without hesitation, I grabbed my phone, pulled up the YouCam app, and logged in to my private account. My long-distance besties, Everly and Sammy, would be the perfect audience for my emotional tirade.
“Guys,” I said, skipping the greeting and diving right into the meat and potatoes of my pseudo-breakdown. “Buckle up and prepare for a ramble.”
I stared into the camera and sighed.
“I’m on my period and my mental health status is in question. Fuck periods!” I bellowed. “Being a girl is so hard. So, so, so hard, right?” I questioned, but I didn’t need a response. The constant sensation of a knife repeatedly stabbing my uterus was answer enough. “My uterus is plotting murder against me. Like, don’t be surprised if you have to attend my funeral next week. If you do, it was my uterus. She finally killed me. She’s a real bitch and a plotter, you know? Month after month, she makes her move, but this time, this time,” I shouted, “she’s really done it.”
I picked up the camera and walked into my kitchen to grab a bag of Doritos.
Once the bag was open and I’d shoved a few chips into my mouth, I talked to the camera over a mouthful of nacho cheese.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if we were men? I mean, if I had a penis, then I wouldn’t have to deal with a period.”
The word penis filled my head, and then visuals of Sean’s penis followed.
“I has no penis,” I said…well, slurred…into the camera. Obviously, I was drunk, but Everly and Sammy would understand.
Tears started to form behind my eyes again, and I let them fall unchecked down my cheeks.
“I have no penis at all,” I announced. “But I had the best penis once. Seriously. The. Best. Penis. I’ve. Ever. Seen.”
My lip trembled from the sad penis-less thoughts, and I tried to busy myself by licking the nacho cheese dust off my fingers.
And eventually, I found the strength to forge forward into another ramble.
“I was best friends with that penis. But it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. It’s been so long, practically as long as he is, and I’m so sad. I wish I could talk to him. I wish I could kiss him. I wish I could tell him I didn’t mean any of the things I said on the last day of filming and that he’s got the perfect rounded head. I wish I could tell him that I do want to be with him. That I want to be together. That I want to try to make it work. But I-I got scared. I got so scared, guys.” Tears blurred my vision, so I took my hand out of the chip bag and scrubbed at my eyes. “I fell for the penis that never falls for anyone. The rod that never sets its reel. The shaft that never ever closes down its elevator for the night. That thing goes up, guys. It’s like poetry. But you only need poems when you’re in a relationship!”
I sighed and sighed again and then blew some of the curls out of my face with a long, upward puff of air from my lips.
“But now it’s too late. He’s moved on. He’s found other girls.”
Other girls. Sean and his penis were probably out fucking other girls right now.
A soft sob escaped my lips. “I wish I had more wine right now. Even though I think I’m really drunk. Like, right now, it looks like there are two cameras. But I’m pretty sure I only started with one camera.”
I wiggled one finger in front of my face, but there appeared to be so many it was bordering on disorienting. So, I refocused on the bag of Doritos on the kitchen counter.
“And there’s also two bags of Doritos, but I think that’s a good thing because I love Doritos. You know what else I love?” I asked, and instantly, fresh tears formed behind my eyes and started to fall in big fat waves down my cheeks.
I scrubbed away the liquid emotion with my hand, and then quickly realized I still had Doritos on my hand, so I wiped it all away again with my shirt.
“What was I just saying?” I looked up at the camera and then at the ceiling, and then I remembered. “I love Sean Phillips, guys. I love Sean and his penis, which used to be my penis. It was all veiny and thick and really and truly perfect. It was warm without a turtleneck, and the circumcision really looked good on him. I don’t think I want to love him—Sean, him, not penis him—because he isn’t the kind of guy who settles down, but I can’t help it. I love him.”
Another little sob. Another sniffle. More tears.
“God, I miss him. I miss him so much. And I’m going to have to see him again soon, and it’s going to hurt so bad. Almost as bad as this gremlin in my uterus. I’m tired of my heart hurting because of Sean Phillips and his perfect penis. It’s a really big penis. But, like, not overwhelming big. Just, like, perfect big.”
Fuck, I had to stop thinking about him.
I had to stop thinking about his penis.
“I think I’m gonna go now, guys,” I announced through a half whimper and half yawn. “I’m feeling really sleepy. And I’m feeling kind of drunk. Or really drunk. I’m not sure. But I’m gonna go to bed.”
I didn’t even say bye. I just logged out of my live video feed and locked the screen of my phone.
By the time my feet had reached the couch, I let myself fall like a sack of potatoes onto the cushions and allowed sleep to take over.
In the too near distance, my phone kept on ringing and pinging and fucking vibrating, and I groaned my irritation into the pillow currently covering my face.
Eventually, silence took over, but it was fucking brief. And what felt like a minute later, my stupid phone started blowing up with notifications again.
With a groan and a muttered fuck from my lips, I removed the pillow from my face and opened my eyes.
What time is it?
It took several blinks of my eyes to clear my vision enough to check the clock below the television.
10:32 a.m.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it felt earlier than that. But the late-morning California sun blinding me through the windows of my living room said otherwise.
I sat up on the couch, and instantly, my head throbbed and pulsed and swam with discomfort until it formed into a persistent ache behind my temples.
“Holy shitola,” I mumbled and rested my head in my hands.
Although my memory wasn’t too clear on why I felt like someone had shoved cotton balls down my throat and hit me over the head with a sledgehammer, I knew, without a doubt, I was hungover as a motherfucker.
Swallowing past the discomfort and with the constant annoyance of my phone chiming its presence somewhere in the kitchen, I stood up from the couch and shuffled my way toward its sounds.
Right there, on the kitchen counter, beside an empty bottle of wine and a half-eaten bag of Doritos, I spotted it.
And the little bastard just kept on vibrating and pinging and lighting up before my very eyes.
Jesus. Is the world ending? I mean, what could be so important right now?
I snagged it from the counter and stared down at what felt like one million notifications scrolling across the screen.
With one quick tap of my thumb, I unlocked it and proceeded to turn it on silent before I tried to decode why it felt like Armageddon had occurred while I was asleep.
Twenty missed text messages.
Twelve missed calls.
Too many YouCam notifications to count.
And several hundred missed emails.
What the hell?
I decided to start with the text messages.
The first one I opened was a group message with Everly and Sammy.
Everly: Holy shit. I thought Mexico was bad. What did you do last night?
Everly: For the love of God, tell me you meant to post that video last night…
Sammy: Uh…Six? What is happening?
Everly: Dear God, do you think we need to head to San Diego to make sure she’s okay?
Sammy: Maybe? I mean, let’s give her like another hour or so. But if we don’t hear anything by then, we probably need to start planning an SOS mission.
What video? I wondered. And then an onslaught of memories hit me like a freight train. I’d posted a video to my private YouCam account last night, a full-on tirade about God only knew what, but I had a sneaking suspicion it most likely revolved around a certain man I couldn’t seem to remove from my brain.
Me: What are you guys talking about? The video I sent you last night? Was it that bad?
Everly: Sent us? Uh…you didn’t just send that to us.
Me: Huh?
Sammy: Sweetie, you posted that video to your public YouCam account.
What?
My stomach pretty much fell straight out of my body as I tapped out of the group chat and opened up the YouCam app.
I didn’t even need to log in because I was already fucking logged in. And right there, on the screen of my public profile, stood a still shot of my face covered in Dorito crumbs, which just so happened to be the image for the latest video I’d posted.
Last fucking night, apparently.
I didn’t want to, but I did. I clicked on the video and proceeded to watch a drunken, wine-stained lips, and Dorito-crusted version of myself ramble on and on into the camera.
It started out as a diatribe about my period.
Okay, no big deal…
Surely, I’d done more ridiculous things than this before.
But then, it took a real abrupt turn down Nightmare Lane when drunk me somehow found a slurred segue from talking about wishing I had a penis to missing Sean’s penis.
Oh God.
“No! No! No! Stop talking!” I shouted at the fucking lunatic of a woman rambling on and on into the camera, which, unfortunately, just so happened to be me.
And then, it all went up in flames.
“I love Sean Phillips, guys,” I slurred on the video.
The fucking public, viewable to millions and millions of people, video.
If I hadn’t been holding myself up with a hand firmly secured on the kitchen counter, I most likely would have collapsed to my knees.
I’d just accidentally told the entire world I was in love with Sean Phillips. And more than that, I’d even waxed poetic about his penis and how much I loved his penis and missed his penis and…fuck.
As quick as my fingers could move, I tapped across the screen until that god-awful, embarrassing, fucking terrible video was deleted from my profile.
But I knew it didn’t matter.
I’d posted it several hours ago.
Which was more than enough time for pretty much anyone and everyone to record the evidence of my wine- and period-fueled mental breakdown.
I was so fucked.
So fucking fucked.
I stared down at the screen of my phone, jaw resting on my goddamn toes, and eyes wide from what I assumed was post-traumatic stress.
And just before I threw my phone across the room, a text message notification from Cassie lit up across the screen.
Oh, please, for the love of God, tell me his freaking sister hasn’t seen it…
I clicked open her message with very little hope and pretty much just braced for impact.
Cassie: Hot damn, girl. I think I’m in love with you. Although I could’ve used a little less commentary about my brother’s dick, I loved every second of your video. You fluffing owned that shit and let your crazy flag fly motherfluffing high in the sky. Hell, even Thatch pretty much has a boner for you at this point. (Obviously, he’s a sucker for crazy chicks.) See? Thatch is basically your number one fangirl now.
And following that text was a picture.
Of Thatch.
He was smiling wide, with a bag of Doritos in one hand, a thumbs-up raised high on the other hand, and his huge chest covered in a replica of the cat T-shirt I’d worn to dinner the first time I’d met them.
And all I could think was, Has Sean seen the video?
But, deep down, I already knew the answer to that question.
Help. Me.