Chapter 7: Ophelia

Chapter 7: Ophelia

I keep waiting for that sick feeling to go away every time I look at my phone. Nope, still there.

The necessary evil is that I need my phone. At least I do if I want to talk to my best friend. Marley works in a busy doctor’s office, so I can only text with her during the day. And since it’s Monday, that means I have to pick up my phone to get some much-needed emotional support right now.

Marley: 400K+

Yeah, I didn’t need that text message.

I don’t need to know that over four hundred thousand people have witnessed one of the most embarrassing situations in my life. And that’s an impressive statement because remember, I’m the girl who had the police called because she felt her life was threatened by a dove.

And we won’t even talk about the sock incident.

What’s so embarrassing about this is that I didn’t know. I had absolutely no idea. I didn’t see until thousands of strangers—literally—pointed it out to me. I mean, things were over with Trent anyway, obviously, but the video …

A wave of nausea rolls over me.

How could I have been such a fool?

Yet another check in the column of "stupid things Ophelia Finnegan has done in her quest for love."

I had to shut down my direct messages. I turned off my notifications. I thank my lucky stars that my ClikClak account is not under my name so that no one can find and troll me on my other social media accounts. Sure they could look for my face, but that’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack of short, average-looking brunettes. At least they can’t link my ClikClak to my real name.

Lovelylia.

More like "Laugh at Lia."

Here’s the thing—I don’t know what to do now. Hell, that’s the story of my life. My follows have gone through the roof as my video—and all the ones in the series—have blown up in views. I could, and should, use this as a springboard for more.

It’s just … I don’t know what more. I have no idea what else to do with my life. Try as I might, I don’t really have a long-term plan or goal. My dad will tell me that I need a plan. It’s only … for what? I’ve no clue.

I don’t have tons of causes I feel passionately about. My life is pretty much all work since my social life is non-existent. I’m really good at my job, which is how I ended up doing it. I do admit that getting myself lost in numbers is soothing, and it passes the time, but I wouldn’t identify it as a passion. Growing up in the shadows of my uber-successful brothers, being good at math was the only useful commodity I had. I didn’t even do that well in school overall. Frequent comments on my report cards included, "disorganized," "talks too much," "talks out in class," and my personal favorite, "unmotivated." We all know that was their nice way of calling me lazy.

I wasn’t lazy. It was just … hard to get my shit together. No one understood that though. I was smart enough to do homework. Just not smart enough to turn it in. My impulsivity and awkwardness negated any sort of popularity I might have had. Owen was the captain of the football team. Aiden played baseball. I was a mathlete.

That was not a compliment.

I might be good at crunching numbers, but it doesn’t spark that thing inside me. It relaxes me. It makes the days go by fast, but it brings me no passion. The only thing I feel that way about is … passion. Romance. Love.

The things I’m pretty much totally incapable of figuring out. I mean, I’m thirty. It’s not like I’m a kid anymore. Yes, Mom, I know I’m not getting any younger. But … I still just don’t get it. Why doesn’t anyone want to love and romance me the way books and movies imply it should happen?

I know I’m loved. My parents, my brothers, and even Marley. Sunny the cat loves me. Well, when I have a can of cat food in my hand, he does.

It’s not nothing.

But it’s not enough.

Me: You’re not helping. I should shut my account down.

Three dots wave.

Marley: Don’t. This could be good.

Good for what? Pointing out that I’m an idiot when it comes to men?

Let’s face it, I’m not cut out to be an influencer, and no one in their right mind is going to take makeup tips from me. I mean, if I ever sat down and actually wrote the romance novel I’ve been dreaming of writing, then ClikClak would be a benefit to me. Like if even half of the people who are following me went out and bought a book, I’d be golden. ClikClak has literally made authors’ careers. If I had a book, then I might be set.

All I have to do is write it now.

I ignore the fact that the last time I tried to write, it was garbage. I haven’t been able to pen more than a random tidbit here and there. Not an outline, and certainly not enough for a story.

I take another drink of my vodka cocktail. Okay, it’s pretty much straight vodka with a splash of orange juice so I don’t feel like a total lush. Mimosas are totally acceptable, so this should be too. I’m fresh out of champagne to make a mimosa, and I need the hard stuff anyway. I’m off work today since I was supposed to be away. Sunny looks at me through squinty eyes, obviously judging my day drinking.

Whatever. He had his nuts removed before he can remember. He doesn’t know what heartbreak feels like.

I open ClikClak.

Yeah, so obviously I’m an idiot when it comes to men, as several hundred thousand of you have pointed out. No, I didn’t see his hand on her thigh. No, I didn’t realize that he was not thrilled to see me—I honestly thought he was just surprised. But yes, I can see it now. Also, I should have clued in when he got totally shitfaced and spent the night on the bathroom floor rather than with me. I guess I thought because I knew him before and because we’d hung out all during COVID that it meant something. Maybe it did and the distance thing was too hard. Maybe I’m just an idiot. Maybe I’m drunk and rambling. I think number three might be the winner, but number two is a strong contender. Anyway, my big romantic gesture was ruined. I’m a viral laughing stock, and I still have no idea how to date someone who’s not a total loser. Even though I love romance, I’m not any good at it. I’m an accountant, so maybe that’s just not compatible with true love. So yeah, that’s where I’m at. If you have any tips or tricks for me, I’m game. ClikClak, work your magic and bring me Mr. Right. Kisses and hugs.

I add my signature “XOXO” to the screen and the appropriate hashtags.

I try to scroll through, but my own video keeps popping up. Sometimes it’s a splice, where someone else records themselves watching along. Those are the worst because their judgy judgment is on display.

Then my phone dings. It’s a text from Trent. Trent!

What else could he possibly want? I mean, he already screamed at me.

And no matter what he says, I’m not taking him back. I may be lonely, but I’m not desperate.

Okay, I’m a little desperate, but not that desperate.

Trent: You need to take down the video.

I roll my eyes hard enough to strain one of them. I wonder if there’s a medical diagnosis for eye strain due to an idiotic male. I scribble on a post-it to look that up. If there isn’t, there should be.

Me: No.

Even though, like ten minutes ago, I was totally gonna pull it down. Now, I’m not gonna pull it down, if only to spite him.

Trent: You have to. It’s defamation of character.

Me: You would have to have some character for me to defame it.

Boom. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Trent.

But I’m not done. Not yet. One more.

Me: Plus, it’s not like I identify you anywhere in the video. If you claim it, it’s on you. You’re defaming your own character, you stupid asshole.

And then I block his number.

I finish my drink and immediately pour another. And then I open  ClikClak again.

So, like, he just messaged me and told me to take down the video because I’m defaming him. Or his character. Or whatever. I was like you’d have to have some character for me to defame it.

I mimic a mic drop.

Can you believe he has the nerve to do that? Like I’d take it down because he asks. No, I want everyone to know what a loser he is. Of course, I was chasing after him, so what does that make me? It’s like my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, but only if they’re narcissistic, immature, and unstable. I gotta try making a different flavor. I’m sick of this one. Kisses and hugs!

I then do what any sane, rational human being would do. I stalk Trent on social media. I mean, we were already friends everywhere before, but now I want to see what he’s posting. I should have known something was up when he didn’t follow me on ClikClak. Hell, I didn’t even know he was on here until one of his many rants post-viral video. I wouldn’t have to be a gambler to guess he’s ranting and raving about the injustice of me exposing him on ClikClak. And I know I have a small window before he blocks me everywhere.

This, of course, conveniently overlooks the fact that he was supposed to be in a relationship with me, but obviously had plans with the girl on his couch.

I wonder who she is?

I start scanning through his followers on ClikClak, but can’t tell, especially when a lot of them have something like "ID23879077" as their username. Hell, I go by Lia on there, so it’s hard to tell who’s who. Instagram, though … Instagram is a different story.

His followers are numerous, with a high percentage of busty women on his list. It looks like if they’re not a set of boobs, his followers are soccer players. At least that part makes sense.

I don’t follow soccer, so the members of the Baltimore Terrors are unfamiliar to me, mostly only recognizable by their team gear. There’s one guy who is wearing a Terrors jersey, in addition to a thick leather glove with an owl sitting on it.

I shudder and swipe past as fast as I can.

I mean, birds are bad enough, but owls … they mean death. Or at least bad luck. Everyone knows that bad luck befalls you if you hear an owl hoot three times. Not to mention owls are the only creatures that can live with ghosts.

Maybe this guy is why the Baltimore Terrors were so bad this year. Do they know he cursed them?

I keep scrolling, looking more closely at the women. And there are so many women. If I were the flexible sort, which I’m not, I would be kicking myself right in the ass for not realizing this before.

I send a quick text to Marley.

Me: You are fired from being my best friend.

We fire each other at least once a month, if not more.

Marley: Good. I was gonna quit anyway. What’d I do now?

This is why she’s my best friend. She gets me.

Me: Um, you didn’t social media stalk Trent and you didn’t tell me to either. A good best friend is supposed to act like a PI. Look at all the boobs he’s friends with.

I throw in an entire line of red flag emojis.

Me: I’ll give you one last chance, but you need to totally vet the next guy I sleep with.

After I send the text, it occurs to me that maybe I should have her vet the guy before I sleep with him. Between the two of us, we haven’t exactly been doing a bang-up job. This calls for reinforcements.

It takes me almost two hours, but I look at my finished product and smile. Perfectly timed to music, short enough to be spliced with someone else’s video. Animated graphics and of course my trademark "XOXO" at the end. I toss back another shot of vodka and hit "post."

Why yes, I did just post a ClikClak video asking my 75,000 followers to find me the man of my dreams.