The first screen informed me that every time I logged in, the matches would show in order of compatibility, which meantthe first photo to appear would be the woman who was the best suited for me.
I took a seat at my desk and hit the button that showed my connections.
There were twelve.
The first picture that loaded was a woman with the most haunting blue eyes I’d ever seen.
Eyes that didn’t just speak to me. They screamed.
We had something in common, and it wasn’t the color of our irises.
I didn’t need to swipe to the next.
She was the one.
TWO
Alivia
How could Mom sit there on the couch and let her husband scream at me? How could she let him ask me for more money after I just gave him my share of the rent, utilities, and expenses? How could she constantly let him treat me this way?
I knew how.
Because my alcoholic mother had no backbone whatsoever.
What I didn’t know was why I let these questions run through my head every time it happened. And it’d happened almost every day in the three years they’d been married.
“Are you fucking listening to me, Alivia?”
Dean stood halfway between the kitchen and living room with a beer in his hand. If that can wasn’t his prized possession, he probably would have thrown it at me.
“I’m listening.”
I had no choice.
His apartment. His rules. His control.
If I didn’t like it, I could leave.
And I wanted to. Oh God, I wanted nothing more.
“I need money. Your fucking mother needs money. You worked all goddamn day, don’t tell me you don’t have any. Hand it over.” He put the cigarette in his mouth, the end turning red as he sucked. His fingernails were dirty, and so was his palm as he extended it toward me.
Mom nodded at me, then tilted her head toward Dean. She was telling me to give him what he wanted so he would buy her another bottle. That was the reason she had a thin gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. He provided the only thing she needed in life.
Out of everything in this room, the rum in her glass was what she loved the most.
“I don’t get paid for another two weeks,” I told him.
A lie? Yes.
But a lie that protected me, and in my mind, that made a huge difference.
“You’re telling me you don’t have a fucking dollar to your name?”
There were rare days when he asked for nothing. Then there were days when he asked for money more than once. I was allowed to live here as long as I kept giving—and what I gave was money, well beyond my portion of the rent.
I shook my head, keeping my hands on the strap of my bag. I didn’t dare shove one in the pocket of my apron, in fear that he’d hear the crinkle of the twenty. “That’s what I’m telling you. I don’t have any money.”
