Miss Americana

Part 2

"It gets worse!"

I was laying on my bed with my head smushed into the pillows. I pulled the pillow over my ears. 

"How could it possibly get worse?"

Amy laughed. 

I groaned. "Stop. I'm already embarrassed."

Amy raised her hands in protest. "Hey, I'm not the one who asked if a famous soccer player with 2.3 million Instagram followers was asking me out."

My head snapped to her, my eyes wide open. 

"No. He does not have 2.3 million followers.

Amy laughed and nodded, scrolling on her phone. 

I smacked my face with a pillow. "Jeez. I barely have two hundred followers and he has two million. I can't believe I did that."

"Hey, you would have more followers if you ever posted anything. I tell you all the time to post stuff and you never listen."

I shrugged. "I never have anything to post."

Amy gave me a disbelieving look. 

"Bullshit. You're literally a professional photographer. You are what Instagram is made for," she argued. 

I rolled my eyes, not finding any other suitable argument. 

Amy glanced at me and then placed her phone down. 

"You know...this might be a sign that you need to start getting out there. Dating wise," Amy said giving me a suggestive glance. 

I looked at her wide-eyed. "What? If anything this experience has shown that I should never interact with people again. Especially dating-wise."

Amy rolled her eyes. 

"Yeah but you only reacted that way because you're out of practice. Come on, Perry," she said reaching forward and grabbing my hands. "You're young, attractive, have a stable career. You're a catch! Any guy would see that."

"Yeah me jumping to conclusions and embarrassing myself is totally what guys are looking for these days," I said sarcastically. I glanced at her phone and reached for it, "Let me see."

Rafe Press's Instagram photos were 90% about soccer, 5% paid partnerships, and 5% pics with his drop-dead beautiful girlfriend. 

I scrolled and clicked on her page. I found out quickly from just reading her bio that she's a Swedish tennis player ranked #15 in the world. 

Her page was similar to his except mainly about tennis or ads promoting Nike. 

"Damn she's pretty," Amy said looking over my shoulder. 

"I think it just got brighter in here by looking at her photos," I said shaking the phone. 

Amy clicked on a picture and zoomed in on her face. 

"She's like a walking Barbie doll," she scrolled down to her abs. "Are people even allowed to look like this anymore?"

I snatched the phone away from her and turned off the screen. "Okay as both you and Sabs' best friend I feel obligated to put an end to you viewing that picture."

Amy rolled her eyes and flopped back on the bed, pulling herself under the covers. 

"Oh relax. Sabs and I have a perfectly trusting relationship," she said. "Though it is tempting."

I gaped at her and shoved her with my pillow. 

"I'm telling her you said that," I threatened, leaning back to join her on the bed.

"She'll agree with me," Amy said, laughing. 

"You're right," I said, lacing my fingers through hers. "Y'all are weird. My two best friends start dating and I just have to deal with it."

Amy squeezed my hand. "Yes. You do. You love us."

I laughed. "That's true."

Amy turned on her side and looked at me. 

"Seriously though, Perry. I have a bunch of people at work I could set you up with. Just let me try."

I sighed. "Okay. Maybe."

Amy punched the air. "I'll take that as a win! So what type are we looking for here? Tall, dark, handsome?"

I laughed. 

"Where did you get these adjectives? A fanfiction?"

Amy shrugged. "I don't know. You know that's not my area of expertise."

We spent the rest of the night laughing and me oddly dodging any relationship questions. 

By the end of the night, I'd completely forgotten all about Rafe Press.