Page 30 of Well, Actually
“Maybe I don’t know everything about you, Eva,” Cooper says, leaning forward. “But I know some things, and all those things make me want to know more. If you’ll let me.”
The way he says it scrapes the bone, the sincerity seeming so raw and real. I hate my stupid, overeager heart for leaping at the idea. Someone wanting to know me. Someone seeing my sharp, prickly edges and gleefully asking for more. But that’s not how it works, not for people like me. It’s fun and games and an exercise in sparring until it becomes too much work, too many minefields to navigate the second things get a little bit real.
Rylie Cooper was the origin story for the trend that’s plagued my entire dating life, and I’d be a fool to fall into the same trap again.
“That’s enough for today,” I say, ripping the headphones from my ears and tossing them on the table before fumbling with the mic’s off switch.
“Eva—”
“I’ll see you for our next sham of a date,” I cut him off, scurrying for the door and not looking back.
“Hold on,” Cooper says, chasing after me down the stairs. “Why are you so mad?”
“Why am I so mad? Are you serious?” I spit, barreling down the second-floor hallway. “Aren’t you supposed to be some psychic master problem-solver of people’s feelings?” I despise the way my voice cracks, feelings damming up my throat and building pressure behind my eyes. Being an angry crier is the world’s greatest curse.
But even if I could speak, I’m not sure I’d be able to articulate exactly why I’m so mad, and that fuels my rage all the more. I make it to the ground level and flounder with the front door’s lock, finally wrenching it open. Cooper’s palm lands on the wood, shutting it again. I stare at the gold handle, unable to look at him.
“Damnit, Eva, will you talk to me?” There’s fire in his voice, making the threatening tears in my eyes burn even more. “Tell me what’s going on. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I grit my teeth and pinch my thigh to regain control over these pesky and pathetic feelings. I force my features into a glare as sharp as a dagger, looking up and pinning him with it. I hope it slices him to ribbons. “No.”
“No?”
I shake my head, offering a cruel smile. “No. I’m not going to tell you what I’m thinking. You want a gold star for remembering a region of food I like and a color that I wear all the time? Good for you, I’m sure your fans will be weeping at how goddamn sentimental and caring you are. But none of this is real. You don’tgetto know me. You don’t get to back me into a corner and demand I tell you things about myself so you can feel better about being a fuckup in college, then use it against me in a stupid podcast recording to prove you’re some sort of nice guy and deserve the frenzy of adoration you’ve somehow tricked people into. Now move your fucking hand.”
Cooper’s face is ashen, lips parted as he stares at me. His palm slides from the door, landing with a heavy slap at his side.
“Wow, youarea good listener,” I say with a sneer, then walk out the door.
Chapter 8
Every planet must be out of order with Neptune double-penetrating Uranus because something unbelievable is happening: I’m actually having a good time at work.
It’s taken me almost a week to recover from the sour taste the podcast recording left in my mouth, but my currentSausage Talkguest is doing some serious heavy lifting on my mood.
“And then you squirt just the tiniest bit of mayo as a classy touch to bring it all together,” Lizzie Blake, a Philadelphia-based erotic baker turned internet sensation, says as she places a dollop of mayonnaise at the tip of the bun and steps back to evaluate her gloriously vulgar work. “There you have it, wiener à la titties,” she says with a booming laugh.
I stare at her with hearts in my eyes. While we usually try to get actors and musicians on the show, this isn’t a hugestretch. After going viral multiple times for her shocking work, Lizzie has built a small but mighty vulva-shaped empire… The power of the entrepreneurial spirit and what have you.
After begging (exploiting) a favor from Aida for going along with all the Cooper stuff, she let me mix things up with Lizzie.
“Where do you come up with these ideas?” I say, my usual deadpan mask slipping as I smile between Lizzie’s freckled face and the homemade pretzel buns she’s fashioned into boobs with halved olives as the nipples, a hot dog artfully carved with a very detailed head and veins sitting in the doughy cleavage. The whole, er, package is completed with a dribble of mayo jizz and a side of shredded lettuce with tomatoes to look like bush and balls.
It’s so crass. I love it beyond measure.
“Anything phallic I model after my partner,” she says with a wave behind her shoulder.
My eyes widen as I look from the foot-long hot dog on the table to the tall man in the corner whose furious blush I can see from here. He’s so absurdly handsome that Lizzie’s swollen, pregnant belly that she’s currently rubbing makes a whole lot of sense to me.
She cackles as she takes in my face. “I’m kidding. Kind of. More than anything I just never evolved beyond my perverted twelve-year-old-maturity-level brain and found a way to channel it for good. If we have to work, we might as well have fun with it, right?”
I blink, a sudden surge of envy cinching my throat. Well… damn. She pretty much summed up all my withered hopes and jaded dreams. I shake off my sudden storm cloud, volleyingsome banter for a few more minutes, then wrap up the shooting.
“This might have been one of my favorite interviews ever,” I say, turning to Lizzie.
She beams. “I was about to say the same thing. Honestly, I was super nervous about this because you’re just so damn…” She waves her arms at me wildly. “Cool. And I have zero chill, but this was awesome.”
“Do you want to be friends?” I blurt out. A blush claws at my cheeks, but I don’t take back the question. It’s an indisputable fact that I will develop the most intense (parasocial if need be) connection to any woman who is both hilarious and by some miracle finds me cool.
