“Spit it out, Penn.”
“I’m catfishing Blake.”
She chokes and coughs up the drink everywhere. My face. My hair. The damn desk.
“For fuck’s sake, Carrie.”
“You what?!”
“Exactly what I said. Me. Blake. Catfish situation.”
She’s staring at me, baffled. “I don’t get it.”
I sigh, looking out at the city lights like they’ll ground me.
“It started with the app. Some dumb article, his mates joined, coaxed him to join and then… I matched with him. And he messaged me. And I… replied.”
She pours more tequila without a word.
“How deep?” she finally asks.
“Deep enough for him to want to be my boyfriend.”
Her jaw drops. I nod. “I know.”
“You’re his wife.”
“Still legally.”
“You’re pretending to be someone else... to talk to your own husband?”
“Yeah.”
She blinks. “Holy fuck balls, Penn. I don’t even know what to say.”
“Same.” I pull my knees to my chest. “Carrie… over the last twenty-one days, I’ve become someone I don’t recognise. I’m catfishing my husband. I’m falling for a guy who might be everything I’ve ever wanted, and it’shim, but I’m too fucked up to deal with it. And my body still longs for him. My mind still wants to hear his voice.”
She leans over and cups my cheek. Her palm is warm. Steady. Home.
“I loved him long before I even knew what love was,” I whisper. “And then he ruined it.”
“I know, baby. Don’t I fucking know. Fuck him. Let’s get drunk.”
She shouts, “Alexa, playS&Mby Rihanna.”
As Rihanna’s voice spills through the office, Carrie yanks me to my feet. I drain my glass, grab the tequila bottle, and startsinging into it like a mic. She’s on backup, dancing like we’re seventeen again, high on rebellion and heartbreak.
“Alexa, party playlist!”
Flo Rida’sLowslams through the speakers. We scream every lyric, shaking grief from our bones with every movement. But it’s still there, under the skin. The ache never really leaves.
“Ihatehim!” I scream, punching the glass. “I neverwantedto fall in love!”
I collapse to the floor. My phone lights up. Blake’s name. I roar like something feral, something unhinged.
Carrie picks it up as it starts to ring.
“I wish he’d hit me,” I whisper. “If he’d just hit me, maybe I wouldn’t feel this broken. Bruises fade. But his words? They’re embedded. They’ve rooted in my brain and grown into something toxic. I want it out of me.”
