You've Got Fail
Celia Aaron
1
Willis
It started with a simple email.
I really enjoyed meeting you tonight. I put your number in my wallet, but I’ve since misplaced it. I’d love to buy you dinner sometime. My number’s in my sig. Hit me up.
Todd
Dated four nights ago.
I cocked my head at my monitor, the sun slanting through the wide glass windows of my apartment, and flicked through the last few days in my memory. Four nights ago, I’d stuffed myself with Chinese food while watching college football reruns with my best friend Elias. Both of us had been firmly planted on my leather sofa, our feet kicked up on my battered coffee table.
There was no Todd involved. There was, however, the flu. I’d come down with it that night and had been living in hell until this morning. I coughed and took a test sip of my coffee. It stayed down. All was well.
While I’d been ill, my unread messages number had ballooned to terrifying proportions. My blog—usually a well-tended hotbed of discussion and witty posts (the latter made by yours truly)—had been bopping along without me, though there were quite a few messages from concerned readers with “get well soon” notes.
I stared blankly at the email, my brain fuzzed with a leftover Nyquil haze. Todd must have entered his intended recipient wrong, though how he could cock it up badly enough to turn it into [email protected] was beyond me.
I deleted Todd’s errant overture and continued scrolling through my emails. A couple from my editor who was working on review quotes for my upcoming book, a dozen or so from blog fans, and one from my agent wanting to know what we were going to do about the whole “you’re a guy pretending to be a woman on a blog that’s an international hit” issue. Apparently, going to signings in drag wasn’t a particularly wise move. I had no answer for her, so I kept moving down the line. One from the New York Daily News caught my eye.
Ms. Rocket,
It was so great to meet you at the Celebrity Gala this weekend. When can we get together for that interview we discussed?
Jina Feinstein
Lifestyle Blogger
New York Daily News
What. The. Fuck? I sat back in my chair and stared at my laptop as if it had grown tentacles. First, there’d been no Todd and second, I’d never discussed a damn thing with Jina from The New York Daily News. I searched Jina’s signature, found her number, and grabbed my phone. Then I slapped it back down on my desk. What was I going to say? “Hi Jina, I’m the real Scarlet Rocket. Just ignore the fact that I’m obviously a man, and also the fact that there is no actual Scarlet Rocket.”
I scrubbed a hand down my face. Maybe this was flu-induced insanity. Little flu minions invading my brain and turning my gray cells a sick shade of green. That was a thing, right?
Pushing away from my desk, I rose and strode to the bathroom and splashed some cool water on my face. After days of being sick, it felt good just to move around the house without wanting to lay down and die. My reflection told me I needed a shave and a shower, but I had no fucks to give on those points.
My eyelids drooped as fatigue washed over me. The flu was already winning the day, and I hadn’t even written a single word in my blog yet. And worse, I was caught in some sort of weird reality where Scarlet Rocket, my blog personality, was a walking, talking person who was apparently capable of flirting with a Todd and nabbing an interview with the Daily News. It occurred to me that Fake Scarlet was doing a better job than I was at relationships and publicity. Well, shit.
My phone rang. Actually rang. Someone was calling me. What sort of maniac would do such a thing? I returned to my desk and saw Elias on the caller ID. I waffled on answering or letting it go to voicemail, but decided to put on my big boy pants and actually speak to another human being today.
“Yeah?”
“First, you sound like shit. Second, have you seen page six?” He munched something in my ear.
“Not yet.”
He snorted and took another bite of what sounded like a crisp apple. “How can you be this queen of gossip and dating advice yet not keep up with page six?”
“King, not queen, as far as you’re concerned.” I opened my bookmarks and clicked over to the gossip section of the New York Post. “I’m there. What am I looking for?”
Elias whistled. “Redhead, leggy, black dress, smoking hot.”
I searched down the page until I came to photos from the weekend’s Celebrity Gala at the Four Seasons. The woman Elias had described stood with a champagne flute in her hand, her head tilted up with an air of confidence while she spoke to a man in a tux.
“So?” I took another drink of coffee to try and clear my mind.
“Read the caption.”
Scarlet Rocket, of the synonymous love and advice blog, makes her debut to the New York elite, pictured here with real estate tycoon Todd Mathers.
“The fuck?” I re-read the sentence in case I’d hallucinated.
“Yeah.” Crunch. “This level-ten hottie is out there pretending to be you. Or, I guess more accurately, pretending to be Scarlet Rocket, who is also you.”
I leaned forward and scrutinized her profile. Red lips, button nose, thick lashes. Pretty, but not familiar. “Who is she?”