Page 17 of Catfish

"We have your tux fitting at noon tomorrow, and then I have to run the final details with you about the next fundraiser," Emmy Lou states in one breath. Sitting across from me on my plane ride home, that she wasn’t invited on, she starts getting into her “work mode”.

Rummaging through her black leather briefcase on the vacant chair next to her, I frown as she continues killing my vacation vibes by just being here. She couldn’t wait for me to get back home before rambling off everything that needed to be done and sucking me back into the shit of my reality.

I wasn’t ready to go back to Connecticut. Especially since I got a taste of freedom for the first time in years. And what it was like to speak to a woman like a fucking human being was again.

I came clean to Chase about going through his damn phone on our first night. Just not the part where Reagan was hot as fuck or the fact that she and I spoke for over three hours after she gave me her number.

I deleted the whole conversation off his Bumblebee app and blocked her, keeping with the entire fifty-year-old bag lady story. Then Chase proceeded to tell me that I had no life, and my need to grab one should take precedence over everything before I come up with an imaginary friend next.

Shit, it’d be better than half the assholes I talk to. Not a bad idea.

The whole thing with Reagan was weird; the more I thought about it. I don't know if it was because I wasn't stuck in a room with Reagan or that she was really that interesting, but I can say that I haven't enjoyed speaking to someone like I did her in a long time.

Even if the pictures she sent me were still fake and stolen off some woman’s Instagram page, it wouldn’t have mattered if she really was a fifty-year-old bagger from Walmart. She took my mind out of my own self-made prison, a place where I’ve locked myself in because I need to prove to myself that I can do something. That I can be the man I dreamt up when I was a kid. That not everyone who holds a position of power is a desolate piece of shit because the ones I’ve been around are.

Regardless, my alleged new “friend” was refreshing. I can say whatever I want, and she could ghost me without it affecting anything in my life.

My real life.

She doesn’t know shit about me—who I am or what I do for a living.

It’s the perfect setup.

Hypocritical but ideal for someone sitting in the governor’s office who can be one headline away from ruin.

I don’t owe her shit—plain and simple.

She has more than I ever will, independence without the press up her ass at all times, able to walk the streets and grab a pizza without being asked for an interview on state budgets and school reform.

She’s a big girl—she’ll live.

It's not like it gives me a boner or a warm fuzzy feeling to lie to the girl, trust me. I'm pulling the poor woman around by a lie of what I look like, what my name is, and what my whole life entails.

But not everything is a complete lie.

I am a Yankees and Patriots fan, born and raised.

I do want Reagan to rip and burn her horrible taste of teams and never mention them again.

It's just hidden behind my best friend's face.

And speaking of his face, I haven't stopped looking at his hair since she mentioned that he looked like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. I made him get a damn haircut while we were at the resort because it started to drive me that fucking crazy when it didn't before.

Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing.

This can’t go far, I’m not the guy she’s technically seeing, and I’m building our online friendship on a falsehood.

But I need an outlet for a little while, or I'm going to fucking lose my entire shit. I need someone to talk to who isn't involved in my immediate world and wants to talk about things other than how loose I want my suits and what events I want to attend.

“Did you need new dress shoes?”

Speaking of those types of questions...

Em skims her slim finger down the notebook in her binder and taps her pen off the tip of her nose. So fully invested in my schedule that she boarded my plane from the States to the Carribean just to ride back with me and ask me dumbass questions.

“Emmy, why are you on this plane?” Her mahogany eyes flick up to me before brushing a piece of long blonde hair out of her face.

She frowns like that’s an out of place question. "Because we have a lot to go through. Your next fundraiser is in two weeks, and we still have to set up your next debate with the—"

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