Page 27 of Sour Notes

I can’t even jerk off now. She’s apparently found a way to fuck with me there too.

Frustrated and furious, I don’t even bother with a towel. Ripping open the bathroom door, I take long, purposeful strides back into the kitchen to grab my Post-it stash again.

Scrawling a note to her, I walk back down the hallway and slam it onto her bedroom door before disappearing behind my own with a bang.

That’s enough.

I’m done.

6

MIA

Thank fuck Swayze’s truck is nowhere to be seen when I get home this morning.

Quickly unlocking the door, I walk toward my bedroom, my eyes snagging on the yellow square stuck to the door.

Uh oh… roommate war activated.

What the fuck do you do in the shower? Just so you know, the hot water’s not unlimited.

S.

Rolling my eyes, I scrunch up the Post-it.

I can hear his growly tone loud and clear from his scrawled words alone. He’s obviously forgotten how many times I’ve had to take cold showers after he’s been in there.

I’m glad I didn’t bother coming home last night. I just wish it was because the date went so well that he took me back to his place and made me forget Swayze’s name, let alone the earth-shattering orgasm he gave me the other night.

Alas, that was not the case.

At. All.

The guy showed up in a dirty shirt and shorts with his comb-over unwashed—it hadn’t just been bad lighting—to a pretty nice restaurant he apparently booked.

He proceeded to drone on and on about himself. He didn’t ask me a single question, let alone comment on what I was wearing.

An hour into the date and I still wasn’t sure he knew my name, to be honest. I disappeared to the restroom, had Haven call me with an emergency, and spent the night hanging with her instead.

It’s officially the first and last time I let my mom arrange a date for me. What was she thinking? Apparently she’s scraping the barrel worse than I am. In what world would that be realistic? I may as well hang a neon sign around his neck saying boyfriend for hire. I mean, jeez, I don’t wanna look like a totally insecure liar. That’s sooo not a vibe.

I want to look desirable. Fun.

Like a phoenix that’s risen from the ashes of that toxic relationship better than ever.

And sure, I don’t necessarily need a man beside me for that, but my douchebag ex took great joy in delivering a parting line I still remember word for word.

Look at you, Mia. No man will ever look at you twice let alone put up with your bullshit long enough to marry you.

So yeah, I might be burning my feminist card admitting it, but I want to say a huge fuck you to him, with the help of a super hot guy beside me.

Except it’s starting to look like he was right.

His cold, clipped voice plays on a loop in my mind making my chest tighten. I curl my arms around myself, tears threatening to cloud my vision.

Ugh. No.

He’s not fucking right.