Page 31 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I ignore that last comment—though I’m dying to respond to it.

Gio: I don’t know what pictures you’re looking at, but the ones I’ve seen you look fine. BETTER than fine.

Adorable. Cute. Fun.

Austin: Lies. But thank you for saying so.

Gio: Not lies. Just facts.

Austin: Yeah, well, tell that to the people on Twitter. I made the mistake of reading the comments, and now I’m emotionally scarred for life.

Gio: Rule number one: NEVER READ THE COMMENTS. Rookie mistake.

Austin: I’m so seriously butt-hurt right now and never want to leave my house. One woman said I look like your “dorky cousin” who is so far beneath you it’s laughable.

Gio: My dorky cousin? Wow. Harsh.

Austin: Like, not just a cousin. The DORKY one.

Gio: First of all, I don’t even have a dorky cousin. I have three cousins total and all of them are male.

Austin: That’s what you’re focusing on? The cousin part—not the part where I’m so far beneath you?? Shit.

Gio: Yes, Yes, because the cousin thing is ridiculous. You’re not “beneath” anyone. Especially not me.

At least not yet…

Austin: You say that, but Twitter begs to differ.

Gio: STAY OFF TWITTER. It thinks the moon landing was fake and pineapple on pizza is a crime. Not a reliable source.

Austin: You’re really defending pineapple on pizza at a time like this?

Gio: I’m just saying, Twitter’s full of bad takes!!!! FOCUS.

Austin: I mean, pineapple pizza is a crime against humanity but whatever….

Gio: I regret nothing. You’re awesome, Twitter is trash, and I will die on this hill. WE RIDE AT DAWN.

Austin: Are you going to come hide out with me now? Is that the next step?

Gio: Er. I doubt we have to hide out…

Austin: I mean. It sounds fun though, doesn’t it?

Gio: Maybe we meet at Five Alarm and plan our course of action.

Austin: Hmm. I guess I could eat.

Austin: Is your sistercoming?

Gio: Fuck no!

Two hours later I’m walking into the bar.

She’s standing at the counter, waiting for someone—waiting for me—and for the second time this week, I stroll into an establishment I’ve only set foot in once in the three years I’ve lived at the end of the block. The place is busy, a low hum of conversations blending with the faint sound of the playlist over the speakers.

It’s dimly lit; the kind of place where you don’t come to be seen.

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