Page 7

No offense to The Odyssey or anything, it’s wonderful, but so are books that are just read for fun.

As a kindergarten teacher, I’m very much ‘team read whatever makes you happy.’ And it’s my personal opinion that if you make hating something that other people love your entire personality, you’re not actually cool or edgy.

You’re not even just a massive asshole. You’re a massive, boring asshole.

At least put some effort in and find something niche to hate.

“I do have a bookshelf at home with quite a few memoirs—wait!” he prematurely defends himself when my eyes roll in my head without my permission. What can I say? My facial expressions have a mind of their own, and I cannot be held responsible. “I like fiction too! I like all books.”

He likes all books? Too good to be true.

“Horror?”

“We live in Colorado, it’s practically a crime not to have read The Shining .”

“What about romance?” I arch an eyebrow, sure that I’ve found his first flaw.

“I don’t care what it says about me, but I’ll read or watch a rom-com over just about anything.”

Impressive, but not even he can pass this final test.

“Okay then.” I cross my arms and narrow my eyes as I enunciate each word. “Self. Help.”

“Alright,” he deflates. “You caught me. I avoid that section. I had a college roommate who quite literally almost drove himself insane because he was so afraid of thinking negative thoughts after he went on a self-help book binge. I know there are good ones, but I think a lot of them can be pretty detrimental.”

“Well damn.” I collapse onto the bed and stare up at the ceiling. “That’s the right answer.”

I don’t shit on people who read self-help books, but I do feel like after reading The Secret for the fifth time, you should be obligated to pair it with a mental health expert—and no, a life coach does not count.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” he says. “Would it make you feel better to know you were right and that I am a writer?”

“Since being right is the most important thing in my life, and I live for an I told you so moment, it makes me feel much better.” I spring off of the bed, and all signs of despair are long forgotten. “What kind of writer?”

“A journalist.” He swivels in the desk chair and grabs his computer. “I did attempt to write a novel in college, but it was not good and I try not to remember.”

“Okay, well obviously I have so many questions about that.” A few genre questions, but also what kind of college experience led him to spending his free weekends penning a novel instead of camped out in the Taco Bell drive-thru like me. “But first, please tell me you’re not the sports guy.”

It’s not that I don’t like sports. I think they’re fun and I love going to a game or two.

What I don’t like is someone explaining sports to me or being forced to spend every Sunday during the fall camped out in front of the TV or worse, someone telling me about their fantasy team.

My roommate in college dated a sports management major and he made every game day hell. I can’t go back, never again.

“No, not sports.” The creases next to his eyes have deepened along with the warmth in my chest. “I’m an investigative journalist.”

“Wow, that’s actually really cool. It’s kind of like crime and mystery combined.” I love my job, but it’s definitely not cool . “How’d you get into it?”

He shrugs, and it doesn’t take an investigative journalist to see that he’s uncomfortable with receiving compliments.

“I wish I had a cool story, but I was really just a nerd who was obsessed with Watergate. I did a paper on Woodward and Bernstein in high school and that was it. I knew from that moment on it was what I was going to do.”

Ambition and determination? Just add it to his never-ending list of green flags.

“You say nerd, I say man with a plan.” I nod at the laptop in his hands, more curious now than ever before. “Can you tell me what you’re working on, or is it top secret?”

“It’s pretty secret, but I can tell you if you promise not to tell.”

“Pinky promise.” I lift up my pinky, and he wraps his around mine, following my lead as I kiss my thumb and smush it against his. “There. That’s basically as official as an NDA.”

His grin widens, and I’m nearly blinded by the beauty of it.

He moves his finger around on the trackpad, waking up his sleeping computer.

Giddy little flutters in my belly have me leaning in closer.

I’m just as excited to learn another morsel of information about Luke Miller as I am for the potentially criminal gossip he’s going to show me.

“Okay, so, it’s not a government takedown, but I’m really excited about it.

And since we share similar beliefs about self-help books, I think you’ll love it.

” He turns his computer around to face me, but I can’t tear my eyes away from his face.

The pure joy, almost childlike giddiness that spreads across his face when he talks about this work is contagious.

Who knew that word nerd would be my kink?

“These companies are so dangerous, but they hide behind false claims of empowerment. They are filled with predatory monsters, and I’d argue that the majority of them should be labeled as cults. ”

“I love culty things…” I start but lose my train of thought as I begin to comprehend exactly what I’m reading.

Words like gullible and desperate jump off the screen, and declarations of false feminism and mob mentality make my stomach turn.

But it’s the repeated usage of two words that has me seeing red. “Is this about Petunia Lemon?”

“Yeah, have you heard of them? I didn’t realize how popular they were until I started this project.

I knew there was a certain demographic that was more likely to fall into these MLM traps, but I had no idea just how many women this particular company has sunk their claws into.

” He keeps on going, clearly not sensing the shift in my mood.

“It’s actually the reason I was here this weekend.

They had a big convention, and I wanted to see what it was about.

You had to have noticed all the obnoxious people with gigantic lanyards repeating the same five phrases and crying about their ‘sisters in skincare.’?”

I’m not looking at him, but I swear I can almost hear his eyes roll. Disdain drips from his every syllable, and even though I would cut off my leg for him to shut up, he just won’t stop talking .

“It was hard to watch,” he continues on.

“I’m supposed to stay neutral as a reporter, but at what point do you shake these people and tell them to grow up and get a real job?

One where they don’t prey on their friends.

They’re all so brainwashed that they actually think they’re helping people by introducing them to this money pit.

And maybe I could feel bad for them if they just did it to themselves, but these people are sheep and they bring down everyone around them.

Dragging their families into financial ruin over sunscreen and for what?

An all-expenses-paid vacation? Pathetic. ”

And it’s at being called pathetic by the man who spent all night with his head in between my legs, that I finally decide enough is enough.

My fingers flex around his computer, and I wait for the urge to throw it against the grass-cloth-covered wall to pass.

Inhaling through my nose, I use the calming techniques I teach five-year-olds and hand him back his stupid computer with his even stupider article before I slowly stand and walk to my purse in the corner of the room.

“Emerson?” There’s hesitation in his voice as he calls after me. “Is everything okay?”

Wow. Look at those A-plus investigator skills.

“Of course.” I aim the fakest smile I can muster at him, my voice so sugar sweet it causes the hairs on my arms to rise. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You seem a little…off.” For the first time since I met him, his full lips turn down and the lines on his forehead deepen with concern. “Did something I say offend you?”

“Offend me?” I reach into my purse and pull out the Petunia Lemon lanyard I tucked inside last night. His eyes laser focus on the—admittedly obnoxious—neon credentials. “Do pathetic sheep get offended?”

I don’t know why, but I assumed that once he realized I was part of this group that he seems to so vehemently abhor, he’d be immediately apologetic. He would grovel at my feet and beg for forgiveness.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He sounds more like a bulldog I helped bathe last weekend than the man I spent the night with. And with the way his lip curls in disgust, he looks more like him too. Just much less snuggly. “This has to be some kind of cruel joke.”

“I think the joke’s on me,” I shoot back, somehow more pissed now than I was moments ago. He was my green flag guy! How did this happen? “To think I thought you were a nice, good guy.”

“To think I thought you had a brain.”

I gasp. “You did not just say that!”

“I’m pretty sure I did.”

Luke may know me intimately, but he doesn’t know me well.

If he did, he’d know that I’m terrible at saying no (hence my presence and subsequent registration for Petunia Lemon) and that my people-pleasing ways run so deep that I’m still not sure if it’s from childhood trauma or just my actual personality.

He’d also know that I’m so nonconfrontational, I came home from school with hives almost every single day until my junior year of high school.

But most importantly, he’d know that all of that flies out the window the moment I’m presented with a bully.

My mom called it the red haze because when I get like this, it’s like I see red, smell blood, and nothing and nobody can calm me down.

And unfortunately for Mr. Miller here, I’m feeling pretty fucking hazy.

“You also thought you had talent, so I can see that being wrong is something you’re very familiar with.

” I grab my pants off the floor and slip them on without breaking eye contact.

“But what I just read? Your favorites would cringe. It reads like a small, bitter man who is jealous the popular girls didn’t invite him over in high school.

Even if you had a good point rolled around in there somewhere, it was impossible to find beneath the patronizing, dismissive, and personal tone you set in the very first sentence.

That’s not journalism. It’s a hack job. Just like you.

” And then, because I like to add a little razzle dazzle to things, I lift my middle finger in the air and deliver my final blow.

“Fuck you, Luke. I hope the next time you read your article, you choke on it.”

I don’t give him a chance to respond before the door is open and I’m running down the hallway.

The elevator is right in front of me, but I know I can’t chance Luke following me out or worse, having to share an elevator while making my walk of shame.

I push open the heavy door to the staircase, and once it slams shut behind me, I lean against the wall and take what feels like my first breath in ten minutes.

I don’t know how long I stand there. Could be seconds. Could be hours. I still can’t figure out how one of the best nights of my life turned into the worst morning ever.

But I do know one thing for sure: when they said fuck around and find out , they definitely didn’t mean for me to take it so literally.