I dread calling my mom back, but I hung up on her when I got into my house. I used my pee-mergency as an excuse, but I’m a little freaked out over any news about my ex.
Still, I have to know the score. I grab a pair of pink flip-flops—with a flower between the toes—then shove my feet into them.
Except, this shirt is a little gross. I did drive in it all day. After a quick freshen up, I tug on a purple halter top, then leash up my leading lady and hit the road.
Our first walk in our new town. Too bad I’ll have to use it to get the lowdown on my ex. But a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. I stab Mom’s contact name, my gut swirling with worry.
I’d heard rumors that LGO had picked up a series about my infamous ex-boyfriend—Dexter Longfellow, akaFabio. The timing couldn’t be worse professionally.
Mom answers on the first ring with a relieved sigh. “There you are. I was getting sick,” she says.
“I was only gone for a few minutes,” I reassure her as I turn down the block toward Abbot Kinney Boulevard. “What’s going on with…” I gulp, then woman up and blurt out the name I wish I could avoid. “Fabio’s List.”
“The Hollywood Scoopran the piece today that LGO officially picked up the documentary. They’re going to run it in the fall, the story says. Rikki Finch is the reporter, and she’s never wrong.” My mom is apologetic, as if it’s her fault the show was greenlit.
My nerves speed through me like they’re on the Jumbotron race car track at the ballpark. “Mom, do you think the producers are pissed that I turned down their request to do an interview for it? Can they mention me by name without my permission?”
“They better not, or they’ll answer to me for it.” I can picture her shaking a fist at the sky. Her mama-bear ferocity eases some of my worries. It always has. “But who’ll want to watch this rubbish?” Mom continues. “Your show is going to be so much better,” she assures me. “I have zero interest in viewing a salacious tell-all about a chiseled model who conned hundreds of thousands of dollars from women he found on dating apps.Quelle horreur.”
I clear my throat and lift my chin. “He didn’t con me, though.” I don’t take justsomesolace in knowing that. I takeallthe solace in that.
“Of course not. I raised you right,” Mom says proudly. “Still, I’m going to organize protests against the show. And you can focus all your energy onThe Dating Games.”
The show I wrote and am producing for streaming giant Webflix starts shooting later this month. It’s why I moved to Los Angeles. But the reality is, my last boyfriend went to prison for swindling women he met online. When word leaked a few months ago that a production company was shooting a salacious doc on his romantic duplicity for Webflix’s rival, Hollywood tongues began wagging.
Right when I’m about to launch my new career, from actress to TV writer-slash-producer, the last thing I need is a trail of tawdry ex-shenanigans to follow me.
“I’ll just say no if the producers ask me again,” I say firmly. Like I said no to my ex when he told me he needed money because he was supposedly in danger. Somebad guyswere after him, he’d claimed.
Please.
I kicked his ass to the curb, but I still don’t want to appear on camera or be named as one of his exes. It’s one thing for a few producers to know—quite another for all the industry. I want a clean slate as I start my new gig. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously as a woman in Hollywood without a link to a scam artist.
“This is a sign you need to focus on dating good guys,” Mom says, putting on her helpful tone.
Oh gee, that thought never occurred to me.
“Yes, Mom. I’m going to check the good-guy box on Boyfriend Material when I get on the apps in LA.”
“I know you’re rolling your eyes, but you have a habit of picking bad boys. It would be a good habit to try to break finally. Remember senior year when you dated that stoner who skipped school and stole money from me?” she points out.
“Yes, Mom,” I concede begrudgingly.But that stoner gave me my first O,and I was kinda hooked on Os after that.
But there have been good guys in my dating repertoire—surely.
“And then in college, you went out with the guitarist from Astronaut Food. He had a permanent scowl. His fingers were inked. He rode a motorcycle, Ellie! A motorcycle! He was probably the president’s son, like in a motorcycle club.”
Someone has read too many MC romances. Besides, if she only knew…I’ve dated jackholes and jerkoffs too.
“I’ll also checkguys who only drive station wagons,” I say as I head along Abbot Kinney with Gigi. My new neighborhood teems with trendy boutiques and quirky new eateries. This street buzzes with energy, brims with surfers and artists and athletes. Maddox set me up well.
“I’m just saying, those bad boy types are all over Los Angeles. Instead of joining a dating app, why don’t you let me set you up when you come to Aunt Tilly’s birthday party this weekend? There are some lovely guys here in San Diego. There’s Chad, Joanie’s son,” she begins.
I blink. She can’t mean that? “Chad literally just graduated from college.” I tug my pup closer while a pack of skaters fly past us.
“But he’s ready for a long-term commitment,” Mom says.
Doubtful. More like Joanie wants him to settle down. “I’m not dating your friend’s son. I can go solo to the party. That’s a thing single people do.”