Page 2 of The Dallas Dilemma

[email protected]

@ JoeVSVolcano @BodaciousBuckaroo211 Maybe you two should just kiss and make up.

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JoeyB@JoeVSVolcano

@Poppy.Bee1 As if.

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DFW@BodaciousBuckaroo211

@Poppy.Bee1 Bro would be so lucky.

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CHAPTER ONE

Joey

Mondays aren’t my favorite.Are they anyone’s, really? But at least I can leave my pajamas on if I want, because my commute is literally only a few steps into my apartment’s extra bedroom where I have my home office set up.

I work remotely for a wireless company, answering chat requests for customer service. No face-to-face. No phone conversations. No contact, whatsoever. Just the way I like it.

Peopling is hard, and I’ve found the perfect job to keep that particular activity to a minimum. Okay…I guess in the grand scheme of things, Mondays aren’t so bad for me. I shouldn’t complain. But I’d really rather be reading in bed.

I finish up with my customer, then pick up my phone to surf Cackle while I wait for the next chat request. It’s my favorite social media site because I can post my thoughts without using pictures or videos. No one knows who “JoeVSVolcano” is. There’s no possibility of comments on my appearance or my weight. I stay away from political topics, which seems to limit the number of attacks on my intelligence or morality. For the most part.

There are still trolls who love to attack any comment on any post, but I’ve learned to let those roll off my back. Well, most of them, anyway. There’s one particular user who manages to get under my skin every time––DFW, aka Bodacious Buckaroo.

After our initial disagreement and subsequent argument last year, the jerk followed me and started making snarky comments on all my posts. And, of course, rather than blocking his ass and being done with it, I followed him back and started doing the same to him. Immature? Sure. I can admit that.

But it’s like some kind of sick, twisted obsession, finding ways to bring him down a peg or two. As much as I hate to admit it, our battles invigorate me. Make me feel powerful. Even if Buckaroo does piss me off like no one ever has before.

A pinging sound echoes from my computer’s speakers, so I close out the app and set my phone aside. Using the mouse, I click the icon to accept the chat and paste my standard greeting with my name and an offer to help into the chat box before pulling up the phone number’s accountpage. The customer responds to my greeting quickly, and I’m relieved they aren’t one of those people who requests the chat and walks away, thinking it’s going to take a long time like when they actually call the company.

310-555-0020: Hi, Josette. Thank you for your assistance. I’m moving today, and I need to change the address on my account.

Josette: I can help with that. Can you please verify your name, current address, and account number for security purposes?

When the customer responds, I quickly compare the information to what’s listed on the account, and it all matches. I respond with a quick thanks and ask for his new address so I can update the account. My eyes grow wide as he recites the address, and I turn in my chair, staring at the wall like I’ve somehow developed x-ray vision and can see right through it.

Turning back, I read the address again. Yep. It’s the apartment across the hall. What are the odds? I help customers who live all over the country, not just California, and yet, somehow, I’m the one who gets the request from my new neighbor?

I heard someone moving in yesterday, and I thought about popping out to welcome them to the building. But then, I remembered who I am and chuckled. Yeah. I amnotthe person who initiates conversations with strangers. Not in real life, anyway. I was also wearing my rattiest pajamas and had yet to brush my hair, but those were only excuses I came up with to make myself feel better.The truth is, the thought of introducing myself made me feel nauseous.

I did, however, tiptoe to my door and spy through the peephole. What? I’mhuman.

I only saw my new neighbor’s back as he carried a couple of stacked boxes into the apartment, not his face, so all I know is that he’s tall. Like,reallytall, especially when compared to me. I barely top five feet, and I swear, his hair brushed the top of the door frame as he disappeared inside.

Okay. Maybe it didn’t. But he is tall. He has to be over six feet.

I look at the name on the account again. Dallas Westfield. Should I tell him we’re neighbors? That would be weird. Right? But then again, if we ever meet in the hallway, I’d have to pretend I don’t know his name. I could probably pull that off, but what if we become friends? Could I go on lying to him, forever? Would I want to? No. I’m not a liar.

And how will he react when I eventually tell him the truth…probably blurting it out like a psycho in the middle of a totally unrelated conversation? Will he laugh it off? Or think I’m some weirdo stalker and cut off all contact?

I close my eyes and take a few slow, deep breaths. I’m spiraling, making a huge deal out of nothing. Scenarios that may never happen and aren’t really important in the grand scheme of things.

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