Page 16 of Infatuation

“Okay. See ya around,” she writes. “Say hi to your big dick for me.”

I stare at my phone for a long minute. Really? That’s it? ‘Say hi to your big dick’? I tell the woman I’ve got a family emergency and that the length of my stay in Seattle depends on how long my brother needs me and she doesn’t even ask me what’s up? Or if my brother’s okay? Well, that’s Bridgette for you in a nutshell: a sociopathic narcissist, through and through.

I’m done. I should have done this a long time ago. I’ve spiraled into total douchebaggery since Emma, and I’m fucking sick of myself.

“Hey, Bridgette,” I type. “I’m gonna take a break from meaningless booty calls and sociopathic narcissism for a while. Well, forever, actually. It’s been super fun. Thanks for the memories. Best of luck.” I press send. A total dick move, but I don’t care. She’s not even gonna ask me if everything’s okay with my family? Didn’t I just tell her I’m in Seattle for a fucking family emergency? Jonas is literally my only family, other than my uncle, and she knows it—I told her about Jonas once when she told me about her sister going into rehab—and she’s not even gonna ask me if he’s okay?

“Sure thing,” she writes back immediately. “I’m going to Milan next week and then to Barbados for a shoot. I’ll text you next timeI’m in LA, just in case you change your mind, which we both know you will.Küsse, Faraday.”

I’m tempted to write something like, “Erase me from your contacts,” but I refrain. I’ll just leave it. I said what needed to be said. And it felt pretty damned good, too. I just turned down one of the most objectively beautiful women in the entire world. (Well, physically, anyway—I think her heart is filled with battery acid.) That’s got to be a sign I’m headed in a new, healthier direction.

There’s a clattering noise in the kitchen and I look up. Jonas is freshly showered, doing something in the kitchen, looking like a bull in a china shop. “I’m making myself some kale-apple-beet-spinach-carrot juice,” he shouts at me. “You want some?”

I hold up my beer. “No, I’ve got my vitamins right here, bro, thanks.”

He doesn’t reply.

I feel electrified. I should have told Bridgette I wasn’t interested in her a long time ago. It’s time to clean up my act. My little vacation in The Club was perfectly understandable, and I’m not at all sorry about it, but after that, I just kept going in vacation-mode in my real life, too. I don’t need to see a shrink to figure out I’ve been wallowing in self-pity since Emma, afraid to get back in the dating pool with real women. But it’s been almost a fucking year since Emma kicked me in the teeth and then didn’t even have the courtesy to break up with me officially before running off with that ascot-wearing cocksucker. It’s seriously time for me to move on and stop acting like a douche. That’s it. No more mainlining cotton candy for me—it’s time for me to start feasting on some meat and potatoes again.

“Hey, you know what?” I call to Jonas. “Yeah, gimme some kale-apple-whatever-whatever juice. Sounds great, bro.”

I swig my beer, letting my mind wander. Today marks a new era for me. No more women who are only in it for courtside seats at Lakers games or backstage passes to concerts—women who don’t even ask me if I’m okay when I’ve had a family fucking emergency.

Kat’s beautiful face flickers across my mind, but I force myself not to think about her. This isn’t about Kat in particular. This is about me checking back into reality. Moving on. Getting my personal life back on track. This is about me getting off the Douche Train.

I tap out a text. “Hey, Party Girl with a Hyphen. I’ve got a quick question for you.”

She answers immediately. “Hey, Playboy. Did you make it back up to Seattle okay? How are you doing? Is Jonas hanging in there?”

Well, holy shit. After my text exchange with Bridgette, Kat’s genuine interest in how we’re doing feels like a thunderbolt cracking the sky. Is this just a coincidence or a sign from God?

“Jonas is a fucking wreck,” I reply. “A total asshole to be around. That’s why I’m texting you, actually. Do you know if Sarah’s been avoiding Jonas?”

“Not to my knowledge. Why do you ask?”

“It seems like she’s giving him the cold shoulder, maybe—but, of course, she’s also recently been stabbed by a hitman, so it could be that. But, seriously, Sarah hasn’t asked to see Jonas since she left the hospital. That seems a bit odd. I’m worried he’s about to get crushed. He’s really, really into her, Kat—like, seriously out of his mind for this girl.”

“I’ll see if I can get some info,” Kat writes. “But Sarah’s my best friend, so it’s not a lock I’ll be able to tell you whatever I find out.”

“I understand. But I’m kinda desperate for any little crumb you can feed me. Any intel you could throw my way would be greatly appreciated. I’d owe you one.”

“Well, I will say this—as far as I know, Sarah’s absolutely crazy about Jonas.”

“Good to hear.”

“So how are you doing, Playboy?” Kat writes. “Are you okay? Must be hard trying to keep Jonas on track all the time. From what I saw at Jonas’ house, you have your work cut out for you.”

Yeah, there’s no question about it: this text exchange with Kat is a sign from God. I can’t remember the last time a woman asked me sincerely how I’m doing.

“Thanks for asking,” I write. “I’m okay. I just decided to stop being a total douche so I’m doing pretty good.”

Jonas sits down next to me on the couch and hands me a juice concoction that looks like it was squeezed out of an alien.

“Thanks,” I say.

He doesn’t reply, but instead turns up the volume on the basketball game.

“You’ve decided to stop being a douche? So you were a douche and now you’re magically not one anymore?” Kat writes.

---