Page 99 of Not Dating Material

Oh my god, I saw a squirrel carrying a nut! F;gkjadgj It was the cutest effing thing. I used to see them all the time back home and it’s just occurred to me that was the first one I’ve seen since I got here. We might need to set up a feeder.

… is it okay if I set up a feeder?

If that’s overstepping, I don’t have to.

Ooooh I think Xander’s home!

My mouth is hanging open as I read through the stream-of-consciousness thoughts Molly’s sent my way. And not for the first time. He’s … different. How is it that even through message he’s so golden? So happy?

I close out of his texts and call Xander instead.

“What?” he moans, clearly feeling sorry for himself.

“We spent the morning on you. Can I have the floor for a second?”

“Is it gossip?”

“Might be.”

“Then you have my full attention.” Of course I do. Gossip gremlin.

“Molly just sent me thirty-seven texts.” And I know it was thirty-seven, thanks to the super helpful little red dot.

“Okay …”

“Thirty-seven, Z.”

“Right.”

“Is that weird?”

“Weird or cute?”

I snort, clearing off my workstation before my first client shows up for their appointment. “If you need to ask, then it’s definitely weird. He’s done it a few times, and I’m just … Who does that?”

“Ah, Molly does that.”

“But … why?” If I didn’t write back after one text, why the heck would he send thirty-six more?

“Because he likes you, dummy. He wants to talk to you. He wants your attention. How are you not getting that?”

“Well, fluff a duck. That’s what I was worried about.”

Xander lets out a long, drawn-out groan. “What do you mean worried?”

“I told him I’d help him, but it meant nothing. I don’t want him getting all … feelings and things.”

“Unlike you, most people have a heart. I’m told it’s a good thing. But also, what did you think would happen when you stuck your dick in him?”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie. I saw my paint room when you were done. I’m thinking of hanging that canvas up in there, by the way. It’s got a great Molly-shaped butt print.”

“How are you so messed up?”

“Trauma,” he says simply.

I huff and rake my fingers through my hair. “What do I do?”

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