Seth:I just don’t want to spend the next ten weeks fighting with you. Can we call a truce?
Lana:Fine. Truce for now.
Lana:But I reserve the right to revoke said truce at any time.
Seth:Good night, Parker.
Lana:Good night, Seth.
7
If you want to know if you’re compatible with someone, take a trip to IKEA.
—Lana Parker, “How to Know When You’ve Found the One”
Having a clear plan for our tasks does little to soothe the frustration radiating through me. As soon as we say good night, I drop my phone and head directly into my home office. I stand in the center of the room, the original hardwood floors covered by a soft sky-blue rug. Almost the entire space is lined with wall-to-wall bookshelves, and they’re filled to the brim. I have a really hard time letting go of my books, and since I read anywhere from fifteen to twenty a month, those shelves are packed. Not just with books, but also with candles and mugs and goodies collected from my multiple bookish subscription boxes.
On the one wall not encompassed by shelves, I have a long white desk, neatly cluttered with supplies and piles of notebooks. Floating shelves hang above it, my collection ofsuperhero Funko Pop!s on proud display. FramedPlaybills fill in any of the open wall space, and a rolling cart of my TBR books lives next to my desk.
Just to the left of where I’m standing is a cushy gray armchair and a small birch side table, a tall gold reading lamp perched overhead. I sink into the chair with a sigh. Closing my eyes, I attempt to clear my mind.
The readers want to see more of you and Seth together.
Not the defense you think it is, sweetie.
Lana, I wasn’t trying to hurt you...
Ugh. What has become of my life? I push out of the chair and head over to my desk. Next to my laptop is a pile of books I put aside to review. Opening up my computer, I log on to my blog site and clickNew Post.
I started this blog about four years ago, right before I began dating Evan. I’d just had my heart broken—again—and the last thing I wanted to be writing about was finding love. I bought a domain and figured out how to post, and it felt good, purposeful. Even though my blog has never been fancy or intended for public consumption, it’s always been mine. I blog about new Marvel movies and the books I’ve read, all the things that annoy me about my fandoms and all the things I love about them. It’s where I published my five-thousand-word treatise on why the end ofGame of Throneswas a detriment to society. And where I espoused my love for the purehearted goodness ofSchitt’s CreekandTed Lasso. I’ve taken solace in pop culture since I was young, and this blog has become the place where I get to show my appreciation.
And yeah, maybe no one reads it except my few closest friends. But that’s okay. The point was never to make it my job. Now, though, writing about these passions will be my job, once I win this stupid competition. And Iwillwin this competition.
—
I keep upmy positive thinking as I make the short drive to pick up Seth the following morning.
Seth’s place is not what I was expecting. Mostly because it’s a house, not some run-down apartment. Not that I think he’d gravitate toward a run-down apartment, but the LA housing market is a bitch and he did just get here. And he doesn’t even know for certain if he’s staying yet.
So the cute little bungalow, in need of some love but located in a primo spot in Highland Park, catches me off guard. I park my Prius behind a different Prius and make my way to the front door, stepping carefully through the weeds littering the yard.
Seth opens the door before I can even knock, a snarky grin plastered on his face. “Hey.” He gestures for me to step inside, sweeping his arms wide like he’s welcoming me to a Renaissance castle.
The inside doesn’t seem to be in much better shape than the outside, though at least everything looks clean. And empty. Seth wasn’t exaggerating about the milk crate, which sits in the center of the living room, in front of the small TV residing on its own crate. There’s a card table and a single folding chair in the dining area. I’m scared to even look in the bedroom.
“So when you said ‘starting from scratch,’ you meant actual literal scratch.” I begin making a mental list of everything he’s going to need, then pull out my phone to start taking notes because I’m never going to remember a list this long.
He runs a hand through his hair. It’s a classic Seth move, and it leaves his hair sticking up all stupid cute—not that I notice. “Actual literal scratch.”
“Please tell me you’re not sleeping on an air mattress.” I hesitantly head down the hallway, equal parts worried and intrigued as to what I might find.
There’s one bathroom, still outfitted in the original tile, which is old enough to be back in style. At least he has a shower curtain up and a towel hanging over the bar affixed to the wall. I peek my head into the first room I come across, but there’s not a single thing to be found inside. The next room I come to is his bedroom. There’s a mattress and even a box spring, though both rest in the middle of the room, sitting on the hardwood floor, without a bed frame or nightstand in sight. A table lamp sits plugged in in the corner, on top of a stack of books.
“Not bad, considering I just moved in, right?” He creeps up behind me and I almost jump out of my skin.
“At least it’s clean.” I stride farther into the room to avoid having to turn and look at him, unwilling to give him even the smallest amount of affirmation. “Did you buy this place?”
“Renting. For now. I made a deal with the owner that I’d do some work on it while I’m here, try to get it in presentable shape. In exchange he’s going to give me first dibs before it goes on the market.”
