Chapter 9: Ophelia

Chapter 9: Ophelia

I stare at the message. My fingers hover, poised over my keyboard, but totally incapable of actually typing anything.

I click on his profile. Xavier Henry.

Okay, he’s hot. How did I not notice this when I asked him to record my entrance? Actually, I’m glad I didn’t because if I’d realized how attractive he was, I’d probably have turned into a bumbling idiot.

But also, he’s the guy with the owl in his profile picture. What is he thinking? I’ve got to set him straight and have him change that.

I will as soon as I take some ibuprofen. My head pounds. There’s a slight—okay absolute, no pun intended—chance I overdid it on the vodka yesterday. I’ll say that I deserved to get raging drunk.

Even so, I still wasn’t sleeping on the bathroom floor like that loser who shall remain nameless.

Instead of responding to Xavier Henry, I text Marley.

Me: I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.

Marley: Going on dates, apparently. ClikClak is trying to hook you up.

No shit! I open the app and see yet another trending video for me. Okay, maybe that was not my brightest idea. I should probably not be on this app. I can’t be trusted with the responsibility of it.

Me: Make me not read the negative comments.

Marley: Like I can control anything you do. If I could, you wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

Me: That’s not untrue.

My hand shakes as I begin to scroll through the comments. There are tons that tell me about a brother/son/cousin/friend who is available. But then there are those that are downright mean. Apparently, being an accountant is not well respected, and people are not shy about telling me I should be ashamed of it. I mean, just because I help people file their taxes doesn’t mean I’m the one responsible for them. There’s a bunch that say I don’t look like an accountant. I don’t even know what that means. What’s an accountant supposed to look like? A tight bun and glasses? No, wait, that’s a librarian.

And then there are the ones that say I’m a three or a four and shouldn’t expect much.

Ouch.

Or that I’m too desperate and needy and no man wants that. There’s more than one "woof" comment. There is definitely a common thread that agrees I’m undateable.

People are mean, yo.

No, I have to remember that there are millions of people out there, so a few negative comments don’t mean the world is mean. And that maybe, just maybe, one of the suggested brother/son/cousin/friends might actually be the guy for me.

Either that or I’m truly undateable.

Still, it’s a little too overwhelming for my hungover brain to process, so I close the app. I think I’ve closed ClikClak more in the past five days than I ever did in the entire length of time leading up to last Friday.

I should try to focus on work.

And I will as soon as I respond to that Xavier Henry. I’ve had my share of impoliteness on social media. Responding to his kind words is the least that I can do.

Me: Thanks for recording the other night. I mean, I sort of wish you hadn’t because, well, my life has blown up ever since. But I guess it’s good to know that Trent is a … wanker. What is a wanker even? Is there any chance you got a video of him losing his shit? It’d be epic to post that. Oh, BTW, did you see his latest Insta post to me? Next time I ask you to record me, please make me go sit in a corner and think about my actions.

I got back to his profile, click follow, and then look at his latest picture. It’s a selfie … with the Custom House in the background. At least it looks like the Custom House, which is my favorite building in the downtown skyline. Before I can stop myself, I flick back to messages.

Me: Wait, you’re here in Boston? I live in Boston.

The minute I hit send, I wish I could take it back. It sounds so desperate.

This is why I’m not allowed to people.

I need to put myself in time out.

I send a quick message to Marley and my mom that I have to turn my phone off for a work thing, and if they need me, they should send an email. Then, I do the unthinkable and power off my phone.

It’s for the best, really. I can’t be trusted.

Why would I say that?

It’s not like I’m going to meet up with him. I don’t even know him. One kind message does not mean anything. Other than he probably now thinks I’m some kind of psycho stalker.

Speaking of which, I should look him up.

FOCUS, Ophelia.

Yes, I need to focus on my job that pays my physical bills but leaves a great emotional void. It’s great to get lost and hyperfixate for hours at a time, but, you know, not exactly the career aspirations I dreamed about.

Here’s the thing: I never wanted to do this. But with one brother in vet school and the other already through law school, the last thing I could do was tell everyone I wanted to be a writer. They would have said I was being foolish Ophelia, lost in her daydreams and out of touch with reality. Again. I’d heard that enough when I was growing up. I wasn’t about to have that shoved in my face for the rest of my life.

If only I weren’t too chicken to do the job I’ve dreamed of, instead of doing the job I’m good at.

My gaze darts to the small pile of moleskin-covered notebooks on the shelf behind my desk. They sit there, taunting me. Calling me a coward.

They know the truth.

They know I’m a coward.

I went there once, and it was a disaster.

With a Herculean effort, I force my attention back to my computer, where I crunch numbers and fill out spreadsheets for an eternity. Because I took Friday and Monday off, my to-do list seems a mile long.

The next time I look up, it’s dark, which means it has to be after five. My eyes feel like I rubbed sandpaper in them, and suddenly I’m aware of how famished I am. I remove Sundance from my lap, where he’s spent most of the day. It’s only about ten steps to my kitchen, which isn’t long enough to undo the knots in my back and legs after sitting for so long.

I should go for a run or something.

Instead, I make myself a salad. Seems like a totally appropriate compromise. After I eat, I put on a YouTube yoga video. That’s about the only type of workout I like to do, which my physique definitely alludes to.

On the other hand, with so much sitting, I need to do something. I’ve often considered getting a dog if only so I have a reason to go for a walk every day. You’d think I could motivate myself without the financial commitment of an animal.

And yes, I did buy a harness and leash for Sundance early on in the pandemic to try and walk him. Unfortunately, and I still question why they even sell these, the leash was a bungee. Sundance, in typical cat fashion, freaked out and tried to run away when I put the harness on him. But since it was a bungee, he came flying back.

It was traumatic for the both of us. One of us can now laugh at it. The other may still be plotting how he’s going to murder me in my sleep.

At least I feel like less of a slug having done the yoga. Then, it’s a long hot shower and a bowl of ice cream while I watch last night’s episode of The Bachelor. I don’t know why I watch it. It’s like the opposite of who I am and everything I want in life.

Of course, I’m the girl who asked ClikClak to set her up.

I probably should turn my phone back on and see what’s going on there. I try not to see the notification along the top of my screen that I have a new message on Instagram. Once again, I’m unable to control my impulse to click away.

Xavier: I didn’t realize that. I’m heading to a football game this evening, but if you want to grab a pint, I can meet you out before I head down to Foxborough.

I wrinkle my brow. I don’t know tons about sports, but I’m pretty sure the Patriots play on Sundays. I remember going out to Sunday brunch that turned into an all-day affair because the Pats were on.

It is Tuesday, right?

There’s a second message.

Xavier: A wanker basically refers to, well, someone who wanks off. A tosser. You know, someone who masturbates. But that’s not really what it means. Basically, someone who’s a jerk or arsehole. Funny thing, the English language. Even though we speak the same language, somehow, it’s quite different.

Oh, he’s British. I don’t think I heard him speak that night at Trent’s. So he doesn’t mean football football. He means soccer. Which actually makes a lot more sense, with him knowing Trent and all.

I close my eyes and let out a breath, relieved for once that my imbecile thoughts were not played out on social media. Though, and I don’t know why I have this thought, I could see Xavier and me laughing about it someday.

With a resigned sigh, I open ClikClak. I should probably post a video, since I haven’t posted since yesterday. About what, I’m not sure. People are splicing my video left and right. I’m not gonna lie, there’s a lot of eye candy here.

Like, a lot.

Me: Um, you gotta help me choose which one. There are too many.

Marley: Who says you gotta pick just one? Think of it like a game of Pokémon.

Me: Gotta catch ’em all? That sounds exhausting.

I could start by weeding out the ones who don’t live around here. No way in hell am I doing the long-distance thing again.

I might be a slow learner, but at least I learn.