Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
I screenshot my exes’ texts.
What started as me venting my dating disasters online (creative outlet, don’t judge) has turned into a blog with actual followers—and the only thing keeping me in my dirt-cheap apartment. My grandmother-slash-landlord insists I “prove my creativity” to stay, so the blog lives on.
Except now my readers want a happy ending. With an ex.
Problem? None of my exes qualify.
So…I invent one. The perfect guy. The one that got away.
Rule #1: Never roast your exes online if they know how to read.
Rule #2: Definitely don’t make up a fake ex-boyfriend just to keep your rent low.
Rule #3: Don't—under any circumstances—let your best friend discover the lie.
Because now he’s volunteered to become my fake perfect ex. And the more we fake it, the more I can’t tell if my readers are the only ones falling for the story.
Turns out, the biggest plot twist of all?
I might have been in love with him the whole time
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER
ONE
HARPER
You know, it was super fun while it was fun, girrrlllll. Wanna hook up tonight? I bought the new Batman movie but we both know we won’t be watching it—we be flying high, fleek, rizzzzzzzzzzz.
Besides, Sarah and I decided to just be friends. Like us. But friends with benefits. We’re adults.
Text back.
—Deacon
Istared at the text, then the whiteboard across the room labeled in red Sharpie: Wall of Regret. It had names splashed across it along with little tally marks from all the online votes. I’m a visual person like that.
“Has a nice ring to it, right, Ezra?”
Silence.
I glanced over my shoulder, nearly losing my sheet mask in the process.
“Dude, you awake?”
Ezra didn’t answer, just lifted his phone higher as his fingers tapped across the screen. His dark, shoulder-length hair flopped messily across his face like an emo shampoo commercial gone wrong. Any hairstylist would weep. He doesn’t bother pushing it aside like a normal human. No, he just shoved his neon-green glasses up the bridge of his nose and snorted again.
Wow, his snorts were starting to take on a rhythmic quality, might be able to compose a sonnet of snorts at this point. As his best friend, I’ve taken it upon myself to label them, like some weird science project. If it’s a quick snort, he’s just working and doesn’t have time to process words into sentences that could potentially be wasteful. For example, conversations with me about the reality dating shows or my six-step skincare routine. I still don’t understand the skincare one, he's half Korean, wasn’t that in his genetic makeup? Skincare? But I digress. He waves the phone into the air like he was signaling a waiter—maybe me? And yawned.
“Are you… acknowledging me?” I asked. That would be a first in the past few minutes,. He’d resorted to snorts, hums, sound effects, emojis, and my personal favorite, tongue clicking.
Another snort escaped. Then finally, “You’re a mess.”
“Says the guy who hasn’t cut his hair since the last Spider-Man reboot and owns more black hoodies than a CW villain.”
He exhaled through his nose. “This again.”
“Before you even try to use your glasses as a ‘pop of color’, they’re an accessory. Doesn’t count. And I’m not a mess. I organized all the crazy dating app texts I’ve posted over the last year on my TikTok and Instagram accounts and put up the ones with the most likes, like a psychopath who actually enjoys reading lame bootie calls.”
“You created a digital landfill of every reason why most people hate dating apps and are single,” he muttered. “Random screenshots. Fake names to protect their delicate identities. Emojis in every file name. Your use of emojis is… medically concerning. I gagged at a winky face.”
I reached into the bowl of chocolate-covered almonds with a dramatic sigh. “I care not for your judgment. Only for your brain.”
“And my body?” He was teasing but I still tensed, some lines we do not cross, some lines stay firmly drawn even if we have to re-draw them at least a dozen times a month. Do not covet thy best friend for his body, brain, and the hidden face behind all that nerd.
I joked instead. “Your body’s hidden under a hoodie older than my trauma. Why do all the rich ones dress like they’re in witness protection?” He said he was a trust fund baby but I still didn’t buy it, he didn’t fit the part. All I knew was he had loads of money.
“Because we’re trying to avoid girls with whiteboards full of exes,” he muttered, eyes still glued to his laptop, his phone beside him, the screen lit up with my TikTok account. “And your trauma has its own calendar invite, pew pew.”
Was he making Star Wars guns references at a time like this?
He continued. “Single party of one, yes we’ll just have water I’m actively waiting to be stood up by another loser who lives in his mom’s basement, it’s a tough gig but someone has to walk so others can run, you know?”