“Stop there. If you set-up my profile, I’m quite sure you turned me into Jess number two, which I am not.”
“My only number two ever,” she assures me. “And I did good. You’ll see. Download the Duets app and take a look.”
I crinkle my nose. “Could the name be any more cheesy? But I guess that’s better than being calledMénage.”
“Speak for yourself, honey,” she teases. “Ménagesounds pretty inviting to me.”
I snort. “Whatever. You are not that girl. You barely tolerate one man more than two dates, let alone two men at once.”
“It might be less boring than my recent dates.”
“I guess the real test for your article execution will come down to, Can I get to date number one and can you get past two?”
“I have no desire to get past number two, but I’ll give a few guys a go just to write a good story.” She grabs my phone from the bar counter. “I’ll download the app for you.” She punches in my code and takes a bite of the appetizer while she waits for the installation. Once my phone pings, she opens the app and slides my phone in front of me. “Your ‘Invisible Girl’ email and password.”
Some people might think it’s strange that she knows my passwords, but the email she references is one that she set-up for me and is not my primary email. Not to mention, we’ve literally known each other for over ten years, many of which we were roommates. She set-up half of my online shopping accounts in an effort to try to force me to be more present in today’s world. All it did was make it easier to shop.
As for entertaining her with my dating entanglements, or lack thereof—been there, done that. Not interested in repeating those disasters. I grab a chip and guacamole. “I’d rather walk a plank over shark-infested waters than repeat my experiences on any dating app.”
She rolls her eyes. “Such a drama queen. You get that from overreading.”
I bristle. “You can’t overread.”
She ignores my rebuttal. “This is for my work, Mia,” Jess scolds. “It’s forme.”
I press my lips together and pick up the phone, logging in to the app and immediately eyeing my photo. It’s a shot of me she took one night when the lighting was perfect. It might as well have been one of those old glamour shots. It looks nothing like me. In fact, if I saw this photo, I wouldn’t even think it was me, and I know myself pretty darn well. I’d think I was a gorgeous brunette with long silky dark hair, perfect skin, and brown eyes. The girl who wore glasses like a boss, not a geek.
Not the girl who woke up this morning with unruly hair, sensitive skin, and a round face that my limited makeup skills couldn’t hide. I’d tied my hair at my nape, done my makeup the best I know how, which is not all that well, and finished the look off with the dark-rimmed glasses that allow me to see clearly. I’d forgotten the photo of the girl who might have been me.
Until now.
“This photo does not look like me,” I argue, pointing at my face. “This is me.”
“Oh, whatever, Mia.” She gives me a little elbow nudge. “You already have three messages.” She points at the little icon. “See? You arenotinvisible.”
Good Lord, what has she put on my profile?I glance down and quickly scan the details:
Thirty-two
115 pounds
Only child
Addicted to books
Well, I’m 125, but I’ll take it as a compliment that she put 115—unless she’s trying to create one big fake Mia Anderson. Because thereal Mia isn’t good enough. That idea stabs like one of the forks in our place settings.
She waggles a finger at the screen. “Three messages and I just set-up the account.”
“All of which are most likely new-account-setup messages.”
“Only one is a new-account-setup message.”
“You read my messages?” I challenge.
“Of course not, but I know what I got when I set mine up. One setup message. Just one. You have three messages, and two are the real deal.”
I hate the funny little flutter of anticipation in my belly that will lead nowhere but a steep drop off a cliff named disappointment. “If they’re like the ones I had with that other app, most of them resemble closet serial killers.”
