Page 9 of Catfish

Reagan: Yeah, jealousy, that’s it.

Reagan: At least when I’m stuck watching the game, I can eye-fuck Edelman.

Me: You’re a pig, Reagan.

Reagan: No, I have eyes. *wiggles brows*

Me: I’m appalled and highly offended.

Reagan: Why, did you claim him first?

Me: *unamused emoji*

Reagan: I don’t wanna cramp your style or dreams. Just let me know, I’ll move aside.

Me: Not sure if he’s into a fifty-year-old bagger from Walmart with a hot girl’s picture but give it a shot.

Reagan: Ow. Let’s add paranoid to the list too.

Reagan: Please hold.

I take a generous sip of my drink and smirk. She’s probably traipsing the internet for another picture to send to me to “prove” it’s her.

Reagan: *download attachment*

I halt my glass in mid-air from going to my lips again. Well, our bagger lady has either a good sense of humor or she got lucky as fuck because the girl in the picture is now giving me the middle finger.

Coincidence?

Me: Proves nothing.

Reagan: Wow, you really are paranoid.

Me: Careful, if you ask me for a hundred bucks, I’m ghosting you.

Reagan: Do you even make an income, because some of your photos look like you couldn’t afford a haircut.

A loud laugh escapes my lips because, not only did she have the balls to rip into my best friend, but she was right. I’ve been on Chase for weeks about his new seventies-looking hairstyle.

Me: Women like the shabby look.

Reagan: Yeah, if they were looking for young Zac Efron combined with Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.

Me: Hateful woman.

Reagan: How do I even know it’s you?

Me: Why the hell would I pick lawyer if I could pick any job in the world for my profile?

Reagan: You could be, just not with the boy-next-door look.

Me: *download attachment*

Reagan: Current day?

Me: Today, actually.

Chase decided to take about eighty selfies earlier, half with his tongue sticking out of his mouth, some where he looks constipated while trying to do duck-lips and a few where he looks halfway normal.

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