Page 3 of Well, Actually
This is coming from the man whom I dated for about two months in college, an experience so awful, he scarred my love life for eternity. He is the archetype of a dirtbag and it makes me sick to my silly little stomach that he’s seduced the world into thinking he’s the patron saint of nice guys.
My drunken fingers take over, and I’m hitting “stitch” before I can even worry about the fact that I’ve never used the feature before.
Cooper’s video cuts off as he advises viewers to not returnto a fumbling man’s bed, and my skeptical reflection stares back at me, lip curled and one dark eyebrow raised, my blond hair as icy as my attitude as I hit record. I keep it together for point-two seconds before bursting out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” I say through a snort. “But that video is pretty hilarious coming from the biggest fuckboy I’ve ever met.” I cackle again, then let out a steadying breath through pursed lips. “Either Rylie Cooper is dabbling in extremely personalized satire, or he knows his pretty privilege will allow him to get away with lying to you all.” I laugh again. “To fuck around is human, to find out is divine, so allow me to shed some light on the truth of who he is.”
I’m unreasonably happy that my deep red lipstick I put on for shooting earlier today survived my drinking, because I am fuckingfeelingmyself as I cock a dangerous smile at the camera.
“This guy”—I make a mental note to edit in a picture of Cooper at this spot—“took me on a handful of dates in college, filled with at least half a dozen red flags, mind you. Our relationship”—I throw in some aggressive air quotes with my free hand, my long, almond-shaped nails painted a dark green, adding extra drama to the movement—“culminated on the night he told me he had feelings for me, then made me watch him play hours of shirtless beer pong at his frat’s party. This three-pump chump then led me to his room with a mattress on the floor—nary a fitted sheet or pillowcase in sight, I might add—then finished up what might be some of the most artless intercourse known to human history in about twelve seconds. What an amazing first time for me, one for the diary,for sure. He ended this fairy tale by telling me he’d call me, only to ghost me like the cliché he is.”
A swell of vindication bubbles through me as I pause, ready to deliver the final blow. I mold my words into an arrow and take aim.
“Worst of all,” I say, staring into the camera like I’m holding his arrogant gaze, “he didn’t make me come. Not even fuckingclose. In fact, he might be the laziest person in bed I’ve ever had the displeasure of sharing unfitted sheets with.”
I smile, a winning, dazzling smile, as I close it all out. “So, while his warnings may ring true, Rylie Cooper isalsonot the man for you.”
I stop recording, check the captions for the audio, and insert a few stickers and his picture to the video, thoroughly enjoying myself as spite makes me drunker than the alcohol. I add the song “Sweet Home Alabama” in the background to really seal the deal. And because in my heart of hearts I am nothing more than a troll, I tag it #TheCancellationOfRylieCooper.
With a proud snort, I toss my phone to the side. No one is going to see the video and I don’t even care. I average about two-hundred views anytime I post.
It bothered me for a bit that no one is interested in what I have to say if I don’t have a wiener in my mouth, but after wading through some of the fucked-up comments on mySausage Talkvideos, it’s almost nice to have a nonexistent audience on my personal accounts… At least, that’s what I tell myself whenever I’m feeling surly and defeated at my plateaued career.
With another proud sip of prosecco, I turn on my TV and flick through some streaming apps before deciding onThe X-Files. The noise lulls me into a drowsiness that’s hard to find in silence, and I drift off, letting the TV lie to me that I’m not alone.
Chapter 2
I wake up with a pounding sugar headache and my phone buzzing itself off my nightstand. Bleary-eyed, I drape my arm over the side of my bed and bat for my cell on the floor for a few moments before finally scooping it up. It’s still vibrating with a stream of notifications, and a hum of anxiety that something isn’t right wakes up my system. I blink a few times, my eyebrows notching in a frown as my screen fills with social media alert banners, many of them listing new followers.
I don’t have a lot of followers on social media… at least Ididn’tnine hours ago, but my measly count has plumped up to a number that makes my eyes bulge, and there are—
Jesus Christ.
I jolt upright so fast my neck pops. I bring my phone an inch from my nose, then hold it at arm’s length. My post fromlast night has seven hundred fiftythousandviews and… oh damn, a really decent ratio of likes to go along with it?
My video starts playing on a loop, and a profound level of humiliation sinks into my bones that so many people now know I was railed to dissatisfaction on a frat-room floor-mattress. With shaky fingers, I click on the comments, eyes a bit unfocused as I scroll, afraid of what I might see.
The comments range from hilarious—this woman’s evil cackle just cleared my skin, watered my crops, and blessed my autumnal harvest—to horny—Mother, I am kindly asking you to sit on my face—to laughably cruel—like not even kidding ur a fucking joke. women r so vindictive and emotional it’s embarrassing fr.
But most of them, to my utmost horror, tag Rylie Cooper.
My pulse pounds in my palms as my thumb hovers over his name.
Has he made a comment? Posted a video response?
With a queasiness like I’m cresting a hill of a roller coaster, I click to his profile, letting out a long sigh of relief when I see that he hasn’t posted any new videos. I scan a few of the thumbnails, frown deepening as I scroll. It is truly a crime that someone so abysmally cliché is also so good-looking. His crooked smile moves along a spectrum from goofy to downright wolfish depending on the post, gray eyes hooking you in and pulling you under. But the one thing that’s consistent, even through a screen, is that the man seems to radiate a genuine type of joy and pleasure in what he creates.
I click on a thumbnail featuring him and a woman laughing… accidentally. Not out of any sense of obsessive curiosity and instant jealousy. I watch for a few seconds, wondering ifthis beautiful woman is his girlfriend when his low, rough voice cuts through.
“As a very huge thank-you for eight hundred thousand followers,” he says, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “I’ve invited my little sister, Katie, to roast the hell out of me. Katie, take it away.”
I see the resemblance immediately. She’s younger than him, probably only eighteen or nineteen, but she shares his raven hair and enviable lashes. Her lips are fuller, though, and she wears them in an earnest grin as she says through suppressed giggles, “You were a breech birth and it shows. Even from the start you’ve done everything ass-backward.”
Cooper tries to keep a straight face as she continues with a few more jabs—“EuphoriaandSuccessionare your comfort shows, and your teeth look like they belong on an American Girl doll… You are basically a billboard of a psychopath.”
He bursts with laughter, his glasses askew as he reaches under them to wipe his shining eyes. I feel my own lips quirk at the corners at the sound.
Oh no. Absolutely not. I slam my mouth back down into a scowl as I flick out of the video, scrolling back to the top of his page. I will not find goddamn…merrimentfrom his content.
