@MenAreJerks: I would eat it off her chest.
@DownwithDouches: Also, her ring looks fake. I bet it’s cubic zirconia.
@FanofNietzsche: What did I tell you about jerks? Jerks are always the hotties. And jerks always win. And he won. The hot jerk got the hot girl, and they hoodwinked us all. Once again, it’s the universe’s way of reminding us that nihilism is alive and well.
@QuestionEverything22: Or maybe that they are pranksters?
@DownwithDouches: They pranked us! Let’s start a movement to stop pranksters. Also, I zoomed in on her ring from the hockey game. TOTAL FAKE, like they are.
@HZRedhead: Ahem. We stopped the pranksters. You’re welcome.
@TheThird: Yes. You see, we had a feeling, Hazel and I. We sensed they were faking it. So we followed them. And then we caught them on camera. They tried to trick us all. But guess who’s getting the last laugh?
@HZRedhead: We are. We’re cackling as we sit in a coffee shop writing this and smooching and enjoying the satisfaction of exposing two douchey jerk canoes who tried to trick us all!
@ManCandyFan: Umm, aren’t you married, @TheThird?
@TheThird: Happily divorced and enjoying my new girl. We fell in love as we took down the fake fiancées. NO ONE should lie about love.
@HZRedhead: Love is beautiful and true. Like you.
@TheThird: No, like you. <3
I yank on boxer briefs one-handed while scrolling, slack-jawed, through my phone.
“The internet must end,” I say.
“Like my dreams are ending. This is terrible,” she says, hunting around for clothes in a hurry, finding her purse where she stashed her sundress from the thrift shop. She tugs it over her head, then borrows some boxer briefs from me and retrieves her wet dress and underthings from the bathroom. The briefs on under her dress are kind of an odd look, but, hey, desperate times.
And they’re definitely desperate when I see there’s a message from my newest client on my phone. It’s three words long.
Is this true?
And another from Helen Williams Designs asking me to call her.
Then Summer wags her phone. “Look at this.” Her breath catches, and her face twists in a wince as she shoves the screen at me.
It’s a message from The Dating Pool.
The note is terse, to the point.
This email is to inform you that both the Best Dates piece and your winnings from the essay contest have been canceled, your entries disqualified.
And one from her mother too. She thrusts that at me next.
Honey, are you all right? My book club is forwarding me a lot of strange tweets. I told them that I would know if you were engaged or if you were faking it. So let me know which it is. Love you, Mom.
“I need to go.” Her voice cracks, and she covers her mouth with her hand.
“Yeah, I need to deal with this too.” I scramble to get dressed, cursing as I tug on jeans then a shirt. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Not a single bit of it.”
She freezes. “What?”
“The whole thing. It’s a fucking shitshow.”
She swallows roughly then nods. “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen either. None of it.” She grabs her purse and says, “I’ll talk to you later.”
Then she marches out, stopping at the door to turn and offer a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”
“It’s my fault,” I argue, but the door’s falling shut behind her.
Out in the hall, her phone rings, and I hear her ask, “What’s going on, Roxanne?”
36SUMMER
“You’re stuck on a stripper pole?”
I rub my ear in case I’m hearing things. Because that just can’t be. How can Roxanne be stuck on a stripper pole? How can anyone be stuck on a stripper pole?
“I’m not stuck,” she says diplomatically.
“Who is, then?” I ask, swiping at the tears pricking my eyes, zeroing in on the Mayday call instead.
“It’s more like the pole is stuck.”
“In your apartment?”
“In the activity room,” she confesses in a hushed voice.
