SETH:Not my fault the readers find me appealing.
LANA:Barf.
SETH:Good one.
LANA:I’m sure your appeal will fade as soon as they get to know you.
SETH:They already know you and yet I don’t see them commenting on your piece...
JAMES:Wow, you two. Get a room. Or a DM thread.
COREY:Ha! Have you seen all the comments shipping them? If only the readers could see this!
LANA:We can see that, you know. Also, gross.
SETH:Yeah. Barf.
LANA:Good one.
5:36 P.M.
SETH:I’m up to 200 comments. How many do you have,@Lana?
LANA:Shut up.
SETH:Oh, you haven’t checked? Let me check for you.
It’s seventeen. So few, I had to spell out the number.
Just a little journalism humor for you.
LANA:Fuck off.
10
Is my new Ektorp sofa the key to all my romance woes? Now that I own a dining table AND four chairs (hold your applause until the end, please), will I finally find the woman of my dreams?
—Seth Carson, “Some Assembly Required”
I stab angrily at my phone screen, closing theATFsite. It’s been two days since our first articles went live and Seth’s piece still has the majority of the comments. Seth is also still continuing to gloat about his lead in the work Slack, which used to be my favorite time-waster. Now, like the rest of my life, my work happy place has been commandeered by my stupid ex. Shoving my phone back in my purse, I cross my legs tightly, my foot swinging in impatience. Not only is Seth an arrogant bastard, he’s also late.
Okay, only a minute late. But still.
I spot him a second later, striding toward where I sit on the edge of the fountain in the middle of the Americana outdoor shopping center. I’m here against my will today for Seth’s makeover challenge. I argued he could’ve managedthe task with some online shopping, and, most important, without me, but in Natasha’s words, it’s all in the name of “content.” Seth gives me a small smile when he sees me, but I pretend not to notice him.
My anger and frustration falter in my chest as I take him in. He’s wearing a navy-blue T-shirt and jeans, topped with a black baseball hat. Aviator sunglasses cover his eyes, and I wonder if he’s hiding from his emotions as much as I am.
Because there’s no denying the swoop in my stomach at the sight of him. The way my chest tightens when I stand and he gives me a perfunctory side hug. The way the salty, sunshine scent of him immediately sends me back to the days when I thought our life together was going to be happy and perfect and beautiful.
Just as there’s no denying that I still can’t forgive him. For twelve years ago, for two years ago, for coming to LA, for this whole ridiculous competition.
Neither of us says anything for a moment; we just stand there in stilted silence.
Seth shoves his hands in his back pockets and clears his throat. “This place is cool.”
I nod, gesturing with a limp hand to the mostly fancy shops around us. “I come here a lot.”
“Cool,” he says again.
