Page 4 of Lovetown, USA
No fucking way this is real.
It’s gotta be a scam.
I’m at the bottom of my latte when I realize maybe this doesn’t have to suck. In fact, this could be good. I don’t have to change my writing style for this after all.
I’m gonna approach this as an investigation.
And then I’m gonna expose that scamming ass town for exactly what it is.
Then maybe I can get my career back.
2
Lane
Man, fuck Britt.
I immediately regret everything.
Lovetown, USA looks like somebody was driving by when a cupcake factory exploded, gave the fallout a name, and called it urban planning.
The houses are pastel-colored confections. My mouth hangs open as I stare out the window of my Uber at mint green Victorians, buttercream yellow colonials, soft pink cottages with baby blue scalloped shutters.
And the business aren’t much better. The colors aren’t too crazy, but almost all of them have chalkboard signs out front with pithy messages and hearts drawn all over. There are so many fucking hearts. It’s gross. Even the fast-food places…their marquees…it’s insane.
Then there are the billboards. They’re everywhere, and plastered with things like:
FIND YOUR PERSON IN LOVETOWN
WE BELIEVE IN LOVE AT FIRST ZIP CODE!
YOUR SOULMATE MIGHT BE BUYING FRUIT AT OUR FARMER’S MARKET! EXIT 36
I’m gonna throw up.
Even the air smells sweet, like pastry and honey. I’m lowkey offended. Where’s the smog? Where’s the aroma of dog shit? Where’s Florida man to streak past me naked and on bath salts?
Lovetown is not a real place.
My hotel is normal, at least. Must have already been here before Satan took over the town. But as I look around, I realize the walls are covered in oil paintings of couples in various stages of courtship, and the pillows on the waiting room chairs are heart-shaped.
Fuuuuuck.
“Welcome to The Standard!” is what the young Asian guy at reception loudly greets me with. “Let’s get you checked in!”
Reluctantly, I nod.
Thankfully, my room is normal. I look around and feel like I can breathe again. Then I dump my suitcase and march straight to the bar, which, thankfully, also looks pretty standard. There’s a couple slow dancing in the corner—in the middle of the damn day—but I’m gonna assume they’re drunk.
Like I’m about to be.
I slide onto a blue velvet barstool and say, “Martini. Blue cheese olive. Very, very dirty.”
The bartender flashes me a sunny smile. “Rough travel day?”
“No. I just hate it here.”
She laughs like I’m joking.
