Page 3 of Reality Girl, Ep. 3

Chapter Two

I hadlittle interest in witnessing Eric’s arrival first hand, and was doing my best to express my lack of concern regarding the event. Determined to go on a diet in hopes of counteracting the calories I was drinking on an almost daily basis, I was chopping up a watermelon like a woman possessed.

“What are you doing?” Bobby asked. “You’re going to cut your finger off if you don’t watch it.”

I had minimal experience with kitchen utensils, especially sharp ones. Even so, the chance of severing a digit was nil.

I paused the watermelon slashing exercise and glanced over my shoulder. “I’m experienced.”

He raised the camera to his shoulder. “It sure doesn’t look like it.”

“Well, I am.” I continued slicing the fruit into bite-sized cubes. “Don’t film it, though.”

“We’ve got fifteen minutes,” he said. “Then we’ll need to go wait for--”

I turned to face him and wagged the knife in the air. “I’m not really giving a fuck about Eric showing up. If that’s what you were going to say.”

“Kelli said--”

“I don’t give a fuck what Kelli said.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You should, she’s--”

“Here,” she said.

Shit.

Wearing a disdainful look, she walked into the kitchen, eyed me up and down, and then turned toward Bobby. “You will film his arrival, and she will be there.”

He gave her a nod. “Yes ma’am.”

She turned toward me. “I’m sure there are YouTube videos on how to do that. You should watch one of them before you hurt yourself.”

I continued slicing, but at a significantly slower and much safer pace. “I’m doing just fine, thank you.”

She shot me a slight glare. “You look drunk.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“You better not be.”

I was drunk. And depressed. I wanted to be with Franky and although he made it clear that he wouldn’t be romantically involved with me until the show was over, I couldn’t seem to accept it, or to rid my mind of thoughts of him.

I finished the fruit slicing exercise, set the knife aside, and glanced at her. Dressed in a burgundy pencil skirt and a sheer white top that seemed to be missing a few buttons, she looked the same as she always did.

Like an expensive hooker.

“I’m not feeling this Eric guy,” I said.

She scrunched her nose and gave me a look. “What does that even mean? Not feeling him?”

“It means I’m not really excited about him showing--”

“I know what it means.” She pressed her hand to her hip and looked me over. “Are you drunk?”

“Not really. I had a few margaritas at the pool.” I shrugged one shoulder. “It’s probably the sun.”

“Eat something before he gets here. Something starchy.”