Does he suspect the message from another guy? Should I explain the truth to him?
I spent time chatting with this guy online to fill the gap in my life while I was waiting for you.
But I don’t know if I can easily articulate that sentiment without sounding pathetic. Or desperate. Or like I formed an emotional attachment to someone whose real name I don’t even know.
Instead, I obediently pick up my phone.
SunshineGuy’s message is sitting in my phone innocently enough.
Good morning. Hope your date went well last night.
I guess I should suck it up and reply that my date went exceptionally well, and that I’m probably going to pull back from moderating other people’s love stories because I’ve found one of my own.
SunshineGuy will mock me, of course, and I deserve it. After all my rants about statistical improbabilities, finding out I’ve been knocked sideways by a single date will amuse him endlessly.
But as I start to type back, an errant question sneaks into my head.
Wait, how does SunshineGuy know I went on a date? He told me he was going on a date, but I didn’t tell him I was going on one too, did I?
I stare down at the message, my forehead crinkling. I scroll back through my messages to check, and yes, I definitely didn’t mention going on a date anywhere in our conversation.
“What’s wrong? You’re looking at your phone like it just told you that spreadsheets have been outlawed.”
I snap my head up. Something about the way Devin’s looking at me makes me wary. It’s the kind of studied innocence that would make a golden retriever who definitely didn’t eat the couch cushions proud.
A hypothesis begins forming, one so improbable that I immediately want to dismiss it.
Except I’ve spent two years learning that improbable doesn’t mean impossible. SunshineGuy has taught me that much.
I slowly type my response.
My date was amazing, thank you for asking.
I press send.
Devin’s phone immediately pings.
“Oh, will you look at that. It appears I’ve got a message.” He takes a sip from the ShareYourGlow mug.
My brain is running calculations it can’t possibly complete. Every conversation, every joke, every late-night message isbeing cross-referenced against the person currently sitting in my kitchen wearing my shirt.
Devin picks up his phone. He smiles when he sees the message on his screen.
“Who is your message from?” I ask through numb lips.
“It’s from this guy I moderate a forum with. He’s quite a character. And I get the feeling that in real life, he’s incredibly hot and great in bed.” Devin gives me a saucy wink.
My breath whooshes out of me.
Oh my fucking god.
My mind feels like a processor hitting maximum capacity. Every synapse is firing at once, trying to reconcile two separate datasets that were never supposed to overlap: SunshineGuy—my online sparring partner—with Devin, who’s sitting there with barely concealed delight while I undergo what can only be described as a complete system reconfiguration.
The same person. They’re the same fucking person.
“No way,” I manage to get out.
Devin gives me the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.
