Chapter 5: Ophelia

Chapter 5: Ophelia

It takes me a minute to realize where I am. Still on Trent’s bed.

Alone.

I glance over toward the bathroom, where light seeps out of the partially open door. Yup, Trent’s still passed out on the floor.

After I realized he wasn’t coming to greet me properly, I went back downstairs to find him pounding Jägermeister shots, just like he did in college.

And a few minutes later, he started puking, just like he did in college.

I wanted to text Marley, but I know her response would be about him refusing to grow up. I make sure Trent’s breathing, which he is, and then pull out my phone.

Whoa.

This … this can’t be right. Over 150 ClikClak notifications.

Who the hell is notifying me?

I’ve never had this many notifications. My heart rate speeds up. It’s finally happening.

I click on my landing page. What? My video of walking in has over four thousand views. In … I check the time … four hours. My most viewed video only has three thousand views, and it took a week, not to mention a super funny shot of Sunny falling off my desk, to get there.

People love stupid cat videos.

4,500 views.

Holy crap. I’m going viral.

Yes.

People love a good romance. I knew they would. The world wants romance and big sweeping gestures.

I glance toward the bathroom door again. Ha. Romance.

If they only knew the truth.

I open a new draft.

Okay, so you’ve all apparently seen the surprise. I mean, right now, at three a.m., it’s had almost five thousand views. I didn’t even think five thousand people saw my videos ever, so thanks for watching. Buuuut, yeah. The night didn’t go as I’d planned.

I turn the video to peek through the bathroom door, catching a glimpse of a bare leg and the sound of cacophonous snoring. I should probably turn him on his side. Again.

So yeah, apparently he was so overcome with my surprise—and Jägermeister—that this is how my night went. In his defense, he was probably pretty drunk by the time I got here, so this was a short trip … to the bathroom floor.

I turn the camera back to me and shrug.

Oh, well, wish me better luck today. I’ll keep you posted. Kisses and hugs!

Part of me wants to cry. Part of me wants to kick Trent. Part of me wants to explain this all away as poor timing. Part of me wants to admit that I’m settling.

I glance at my ClikClak account. The views keep climbing. My brain cannot wrap itself around these numbers. I’m used to posting great videos and getting like twenty-two views. Not … 5,352.

Holy shit.

My hands shake and I don’t know whether to jump up and down and shriek, or vomit. Of course, Trent has the second one covered.

There’s a good chance I jump on the bed for a minute.

See? I knew it. I knew the world would love me being in love. They’d flock to and share this moment of happiness in a world that’s been nothing but bad news and worse news lately.

My #romanticsuprise is making the world smile.

I want to call Marley, but it’s the middle of the night, and no one is bleeding. I text her instead to check out my account, followed by a string of exclamation marks. My inbox is continually pinging. I’m not ready for the inbox yet. Especially since the reality has not met the expectation of the video. Instead, I check the comments.

Girl.

What a dog.

She’s an idiot if she thinks he’s happy to see her.

Look at that body language.

This isn’t happiness to see her.

#romanticsurprisefail

I see the hashtag #romanticsurprise over and over. Of course, I’d put it on the series of videos myself, along with my trademark #xoxo and #liainlove.

My stomach sinks into my toes. I might really vomit. Or pass out. The pit in the depths of my gut started when Trent chose to get plastered and puke instead of spending the time with me. It’s only continued to extend down further and darker until I can’t imagine there being a bottom to it.

I sag back into the bed, fatigue—and despair—washing over me. I’m going viral. And not in a good way.

I start sweating, the cold, clammy kind. My heart pounds and my hands shake. Bile rises in my throat. What a colossal disaster.

They hate me. All of ClikClak thinks I’m an idiot and my boyfriend sucks. Okay, well I agree with them on the second part, at least at the moment, but seriously, what’s with all the negativity? Doesn’t anyone believe in love anymore? How can they be so cruel when I was trying to do something so sweet?

I bury my face into the pillow. Maybe I can accidentally smother myself so I never have to face the light of day again.

For the first time, I’m glad my username is @lovelylia. I don’t know what made me use Lia instead of Ophelia, but now I’m thanking my lucky stars I was too embarrassed to put my real name on there. Can you imagine if people actually knew who I was and what a fool I’d been to think this was a good idea?

Of course, now my face is going viral, so people might recognize me from that, but at least they don’t know my real name. They shouldn’t connect this to my account on Instagram or anything like that.

The door creaks open and Trent stumbles out, his blonde hair matted in some areas and standing straight up in others. He’s scrawny, yet doughy, all at the same time. I can see this because he’s only wearing his underwear.

I can’t believe I was ever attracted to him.

Eww.

If it wasn’t the middle of the night, I’d be hightailing it home. As it is, I’ll be on the phone with the airline first thing in the morning to change my flight.

"Hey, babe. Sorry about that. I was feeling an epic rager, and I didn’t know how to process new information."

Epic rager.

We’re thirty. At what point do epic ragers become sad?

He staggers to the bed, almost lurching as he grabs my leg. I think he’s trying to come on to me but doesn’t quite have the motor function to pull it all together. "Why don’t we wait until you’re a bit more sober?"

And smell less like bad choices and desperation.

He crawls onto the bed. "Yeah, I’m not sure I can get any wood now anyway." And with that, Trent begins snoring.

I know, despite my tiredness, sleep is not going to come anytime soon for me. So, I do what any rational person would do. I continue reading the comments and messages on ClikClak.

Three hours later, as dawn is threatening the horizon and after I’ve watched my own video several—dozen—times, I’ve come to realize three things:

One. Trent does not want me here.

Two. Romance is dead.

Three. Going viral isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Over eight thousand people agree. Or eight thousand people are laughing at my expense. That’s more like it.

I can’t take it anymore. I pull the blanket off the bed, leaving a mostly naked Trent uncovered, and head up to the roof deck to watch the sunrise. This’d be perfect if I had a steaming hot cup of coffee in my hands on this crisp October morning.

Actually, it’d be perfect if I had a boyfriend who loved me and was happy to see me and wasn’t still passed out. As if to kick a woman when she’s down, a large mourning dove lands on the railing right next to me. The stupider cousin to the pigeon, this bird doesn’t seem to understand the arrangement I have with its feathered relatives up in Boston.

My heart quickens and my hands start to tremble ever so slightly. My mouth goes dry. I flick my hand at it. It doesn’t move. I wave the corner of the blanket. Still, it sits there, black eyes staring at me.

"What are you looking at? Shoo. Go away." I swish the blanket like a can-can skirt. The bird takes a step closer to me. Then another. It puffs out its feathers, trying to intimidate me.

It’s working.

Oh no. This is it. It’s going to jump on me and peck my eyes out. Or poop in my hair. Either way, it would be the end of the world. I hop to my feet, waving my arms in the blanket like my own set of massive wings.

The blasted thing doesn’t move, except to bob its head.

Then, it rears up, spreading its wings. This is it. It’s about to attack. If I don’t defend myself, it’s going to kill me.

"Go away. Get. Get. GET." I’m yelling now. I’m sure, if asked at a later time to analyze this situation, I might say that my reaction was intensified by my lack of sleep and extreme stress. However, at this moment, I don’t have the clarity to think that. Instead, I start shrieking like a banshee, screaming that this bird is trying to kill me.

For the record, when you shout from a rooftop, "Help, he’s trying to kill me. Help. Help me please," it’s bound to get a police response.

Four cop cars pull up, seemingly out of nowhere.

And it’s not like anyone believes that I felt threatened by a mourning dove. Oh no, they look at Trent, who has stumbled out to the deck, still in only his skivvies. It takes the police almost two hours of talking to us, both together and separately, to leave us be, finally convinced that there was no domestic incident.

Trent glares at me.

"What?" I finally ask. I’m clutching my toiletry bag in my hands. I’m going to take a shower and then head to BWI and beg someone to put me on a different flight.

"You’re crazy. Like absolutely nuts."

"I don’t like birds. He was taunting me. He was about to attack me." I would go to my grave believing that. I saw the malice in its cold, black eyes. I firmly believe that if I don’t run a good offensive, birds will be the death of me someday.

Trent shakes his head. "You know, I don’t think this is working."

Screw the shower. I can stink on the plane. I need to get out of here as soon as possible, otherwise, the police may be called back when I rip his pubic hairs out one by one. "Really? What gave you that idea? I’m so surprised. This is my surprised face," I deadpan before shoving everything back in my suitcase.

"What did you expect? That we’d last forever? You don’t even live here."

"Um, you were the one who moved here. And without even asking me!" I mean, we weren’t that serious, but you’d have thought he’d at least have discussed it with me. Or, if he wanted to be with me, asked me to come with him. I mean, I work from home. That can be done anywhere. And it’s not like there aren’t accountants everywhere. Everyone needs their money counted.

Of course, I’m not going to let him off the hook by being all reasonable or anything. "It’s been good, Trent. Or actually, it hasn’t. Not really. Lose my number."

He scoffs. "I don’t think you have to worry about that. I wouldn’t touch you again if you paid me to."

I roll my eyes at the loser I’ve wasted the last eighteen months on and begin hauling my stuff down the stairs. Just like my romantic surprise that wasn’t, it’s hard to stomp off in a dramatic exit when I’m practically toppling over with my backpack and a suitcase that keeps flipping on its side.

There is a slight chance that I spend too much time lost in the fantasy world of books and movies, and that it’s setting me up for a world of disappointment.

And by slight, I mean one hundred percent definite.