Page 92 of Catfish

A family I put some distance between.

And plenty of voicemails I need to return from politicians that want to meet about what I’m bringing to the table if I become president.

This is the time where my days are mixed with lunches and conference calls. Where I have to show my face and not look so miserable.

It’s hard to even find myself through the mirror when I get ready every morning because my mask of cool and collected has become my everyday look. It’s become who I am. A cyborg of influence and authority.

Reagan working with me is going to change that. It’s going to rupture the structure of my every day. Every monotonous hour that I spend preparing myself and my name to become known all over the world.

I snatch up my phone, powering on the screen and delve into the app that I was texting her out of.

I want to know where her mind is at.

I want to know if she’s been thinking of me.

I want to know every fucking thing.

? Dive Right In — Story of the Year ?

I'd say it was the perfect night. A large pizza with double pepperoni and bacon, a six-pack of Coronas, I remembered my Netflix password and was sitting on my sectional for the first time since I bought the damn thing online.

It wasn’t until my eyes fell on the manila folder on my coffee table that things took a turn for the worse.

The most outrageous and infuriating contract I literally believe has ever been drawn up in this entire fucking world.

Contracted party planner, Reagan Shelton, with said employees must conduct themselves with integrity and manners at all times—no fucking problem.

Miss Shelton must abide by the plans and ideas of Mr. Wade Lockwood for all events hired by A Series of Fortunate Events and third parties hired by said company—that’s a given.

Miss Shelton must accompany Mr. Lockwood on any important events or matters that Mr. Lockwood deems beneficial for his campaign—um, no. I’ll need more details on that.

Miss Shelton must wear appropriate attire approved by Mr. Lockwood while working on his staff—my teeth grind a little bit at this one.

Miss Shelton will not bring any male guests or visitors to any social events that she hosts or attends as Mr. Lockwood’s guest—absolutely not.

The list goes on, and on, and on to where I’m not going to sign or entertain this.

I can't even believe he has a staff that honors these terms. He just made my decision that much easier because I'm not going to be tied down by the ten commandments of his fucked-up little universe, nor am I going to live in it.

Tossing the folder and letting it slide across the table, half of the papers land on the floor—where they belong. And to soothe away the intensifying dislike that I have for the governor, I crack open another beer and chug like a frat boy at an Omega Kappa-whatever-the-fuck-they’re-called party.

The buzzing of my cell phone taunts my peace, which was already breached by the governor’s dumbass demands.

I swipe it from my side table, about to ignore whomever it is, besides Mama and Marty of course, when I see his name appear on my screen.

Chase.

My eyes expand, my brain immediately goes to how I miss our mindless conversations and how he could get me out of my own perception of the day.

Fuck, I miss talking to him.

Until I think about the threesome I had only thirty-five minutes after his brush-off to try and erase the time I wasted on him.

Irritation becomes the front-runner next. Why is he bothering me? I’m not doing this back and forth because he sucks, and I'm awesome.

I open it, not ashamed that I do because I want to know what he wants. What he could possibly say to even make me want to respond back.

Chase: This is a sucky ass line, but I miss talking to you.

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