Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
It doesn’t take long for me to get back into my normal routine, i.e., pour a glass of wine and sit in front of my laptop and microphone to talk all things sex and relationships on my podcast. I guess the one great thing about going viral on TikTok and gaining tons of followers is that I could start a brand new career outside of event planning that includes things I actually want to talk about.
Until it starts reminding me of how single I actually am.
Or lonely.
Or sad.
At any rate, my new job at least provides for me outside of my parents’ trust fund and allows me the freedom to do what I want.
So my ex can just go screw himself.
CHAPTER SIX
Scarlett
I stop counting after two drinks, and then I somehow manage to crawl into my attic, grab my sewing machine, pieces of cloth that are probably from curtains, and make a small tuxedo for Chuck Norris.
This is what it’s come to.
I’m going to freaking bring my turtle to my sister’s wedding.
“HA!” I laugh out loud and slam my drink back onto the counter as ice falls out. “You know what, though?” I point my finger at Chuck and sway with a double thumbs up. “Turtle power.”
Did I just try to high five my red-eared slider?
My phone starts to ring.
I can barely see it let alone grab it, but I manage to finally answer it only after horrifyingly realizing that I was texting earlier.
Wait.
Who did I text?
Leather Pants?
Who the hell is—
“Oh, SHIT!” I say, answering the call.
“Are you alive?” Adrian asks. “Weren’t we doing spaghetti night? I’ve been waiting, and then suddenly no spaghetti and no Scarlett and why did you curse? Are you even home? I listened to the podcast and then you haven’t answered any texts for the last two hours, bro.”
“Shit. Shit. SHIT!” I yell even louder.
“Use your words,” Adrian says calmly. “In times like these, I usually—”
“I will literally rip your arm off your body, shove it up your ass and force you to say thank you if you keep talking!” I scream.
He’s quiet and then, “That was extremely violent for a Thursday.”
“Ha-ha!” I force the laugh out. “I’m fine, I’m totally fine, by the way.”
“You’re Fine? You’re fine?” He sighs. “Tell me you didn’t pull out the sewing machine again.”
I look down at the sewing machine and Chuck Norris. “I was inspired if you must know!”
He immediately requests FaceTime. I answer out of all my shame. He stares me down and then calmly says. “Show me Chuck.”
“He died.”
“Scar.”
“He’s busy! Turtles can be busy!”
“Show me the turtle.”
Slowly, I lower the phone to add to my shame. Adrian sighs again. “Well at least you did a really good job on the shell, can hardly tell he’s a turtle and not a man.”
“Thank you. I thought so—”
“Is that Celine Dion?”
Shit. “No! No, it’s the radio!”
“You only listen to podcasts and Apple music. Shit, you literally have your turtle wrapped up in a homemade tuxedo and probably pulled out the Titanic blanket.”
I guilty-look over at the Titanic blanket on the chair I was just sitting on then drunkenly yell, “It sank, though! Jack died!”
“Duck me, why are we friends?”
“Just say the real curse word, priest!”
“Wow, okay so you really aren’t good. Do I need more proof of life for Chuck or should I just come over?”
“I texted Leather Pants.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“Now you say it!”
“Be right there, and whatever you do, stop texting! The Lord commands it!”
“I’m already going to hell for wishing hell on my sister and dressing Chuck Norris in a suit!”
“Tell me how was that the first option in all the bad choices you could have made, I’m truly curious.”
“It was theatrical! For the TikTok!”
“FOR THE LAST TIME THERE IS NO THE BEFORE TIKTOK! IT’S JUST TIKTOK AND WHY DID YOU TEXT WHEN SAD?”
“Stop yelling at me!”
“Open the door,” he grumbles.
Five minutes later, two knocks happen. I grab the door, look into his eyes that mirror my shame and burst into tears. “I found the old pictures of the wedding, and the viral newspaper that I promised never to look at again and it just all went to hell again!”
I sob into his shoulders. He hugs me tight. “So how much wine are we talking and what exactly did you say to Leather Pants?”
I sniffle and pull back. “I’m actually afraid to look.”
He holds out his hand. “Give me the phone, I’ll rip the band-aid off.”
“No!”
I try to hold him, but he’s too strong. He rushes by me grabs my phone, points the wine bottle at Chuck.
“YOU DARE THREATEN HIM!”
“YOU DARE DRESS HIM?” he yells back. “You have to see how ashamed he is.”
Why does Chuck choose that moment to twist his neck toward me in sadness like he knows he looks stupid and knows I’m sad.
“Hi, Leather Pants, it’s Adrian.”