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I shake my head loose from my anger. Well, almost.

“Ma’am? I’m freaking twenty-eight. Save your ma’ams for when I’m older.”

“Fine. Can we get going, miss?”

Dick. Nah. Not in the mood for this. I take a bottle of wine out of the cart and toss a twenty at the kid. “Keep the change. And enjoy putting it all back, junior.”

I’m unhinged. I just shut down that innocent kid. That’s not who I am. I smash out a text to him and start the car. Three-Date Tate is getting takeout and real lucky tonight.

BETTE: Asshole.

He answers instantly.

JERKFACE: You already said that. Did you need something?

BETTE: ACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK. I cannot wait to bury you and your smug assface.

JERKFACE: Smug face or assface?

BETTE: Leave me alone.

JERKFACE: Then stop texting me.

I toss my phone in the back of the car. I scream as I’m pulling out. There’s no one on this earth more confusing than Hayden Corelli.

* * *

Harsh sunlight is streaming through my window. I’m a little sore from yesterday. I roll away from the light and towards the rest of my bed. I look over and smile at the pillow across from me. It’s empty. Shutting down Three-Date Tate was the right thing to do. His kiss was drab. Can a kiss be colorless? Well Three-Date Tate’s was. I’m pretty sure his kiss will color someone else’s world, but it’s not mine. I’m going to skip my workout today, stay in bed, and not think about work or him.

BETTE

“YO! I need you here. This shit isn’t going to sell itself. WORDS. I need words from you.”

I look up from our well-loved cherry-covered couch as Sophie’s waving her arms at me. She’s holding up two fantastic pieces of dog food art. We went with a cutting edge, modern sense. To update the ideas behind a one-hundred-year-old company. It’s as good today as it was for a farm dog in the depression. The company has innovated and the food is now organic and woke. Can dog food be woke?

Sophie looks haggard.

I ask, “Did you stay up all night and do these?”

“No, these took a couple of hours. I stayed up all night doing some dude named Chad.” I roll my eyes. “Come on. Chad’s a cute name. And his dick was def the cutest I’ve seen in a while. How was Three-Date Tate’s dick?”

I shrug and get up. I write the word “Arf” on a giant sticky note and slap it on the artwork I like better.

“None of that is helpful to me,” Sophie says, then climbs onto her chair and squats, pulling her arms around her knees.

“Fine. I sent him home after he scoffed at me for ordering food instead of cooking for him. So sadly, he’ll forever be Three-Date Tate. Never making it to four.”

I have an idea. I grab one of those jumbo Sharpie markers and slash it down the middle of her mock-up. I stand there, pleased with what I’ve done. She’s horrified, but she won’t be in a second.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Stay with me. What if we did, like, a split screen thing, using your modern idea, but putting half of it in black-and-white. Put 1922 on one side and 2022 on the other. Then identical dogs. Each just saying ‘Arf.’” Sophie starts sketching. “And then we tag it. If it was good enough for Scruffy’s great-great-great-great-grandfather, it’s good enough for Scruffy.”

“Scruffy?”

I shrug. “It’s a working dog name. But concept-wise, what do you think?”

She’s drawn half a turn of the century farmhouse and half a modern modular house mashed together, but divided down the center of her paper. She sketched it that quickly.