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The Hottie Goes Kersplat
Brooke
Are you kidding me?
I stare at the email from my ex in disbelief.
This has got to be a prank. Or he’s doing it for upvotes on some Reddit post—Wildest things an ex has ever said,or something.
Or maybe I just haven’t had enough coffee.
The Los Angeles sun streams through my kitchen window as I cross the kitchen to pour another cup of ambrosia. I swallow a hearty gulp and let it work its magic on my brain cells.
There.
I’m fueled up after the worst week ever and ready to read this bizarre request again.
Hey, Brookey Babes!
So, you probably follow me online. If you don’t, you totally should. Started a new profile. I call it The Shirtless Esquire. You know, since I used to be a lawyer, and “esquire” just sounds so fucking cool.
Anyway, I’m doing a hot new series called “Conversation with my Ex” for The Shirtless Esquire OnlyFans page. Get this—I’ll be interviewing my exes about what went wrong. It’s gonna be insightful and healing, and it’ll give me a chance to tell both sides of the story. And I know it’s been a hot minute since we were a thing, when I think of exes, you’re one of my faves. How about it? Wanna help me break the Internet?
Love ya much and always,
Sailor
P.S.: Yeah, I’ll be shirtless for the convo. Feel free to do the same, but no pressure. Totally up to you.
And…I did read it right the first time.
Exasperated, I contemplate a reply. Something like: “Shockingly, Sailor, I do not want to be part of your interview series. Or to speak to you shirtless. We split because you went pants-less with other people. Maybe you should try keeping your clothes on for a change?”
Ugh.
I’d ignore the email and forget about it, but I know Sailor will call too.
And yup. My phone trills and his face flashes on the screen.
I grit my teeth, send the call to voicemail, then text a reply.
Brooke:Thanks for thinking of me. But feel free to lose my number.
Then, I block his. I down the rest of my coffee, blow out an exhausted breath, and stare at the kitchen counter, littered with reminders of my hellish week. My bottle of migraine meds got a workout these last seven days. So did my wallet, thanks to the bill from the tire shop after I drove over a nail in the grocery store parking lotafterI got rear-endedby a mom texting in her minivan. And over in the corner, a wilted bouquet of peonies dies miserably, fallen petals collecting around the vase in a stinky mess.
Who sends flowers to someone who didn’t get a promotion? My boss. Why can’t Stephen make it easier to be mad at him? But I guess I should be grateful. Flowers and no promotion are still better than redundancy and no job. It’s hard to get ahead in my industry, and I need the money, so I’ll just have to water the peonies, smile, and go to work tomorrow, ready to do it all again.
But there’s only one thing for me to do today as the weekend draws to a close.
Hit the beach and read a book.
Nothing cures a bad week like some sun and an escape into make-believe.
After a few hours spent basking on the beach, immersed in the latest escapades of Axel Huxley’s vigilante-for-hire, I’ve nearly forgotten my ex’s ridiculous request. The sea and stories have always settled me, ever since I was young. Today, the combo does its trick, washing away my week.
Normally, I wouldn’t let an ex bug me so much, but I can’t escape The Shirtless Esquire. He’s become athingon social media. My co-workers update me about his online antics, more than one of them noting how hot Sailor is.
