“Right?!” Excitement lifts me onto my tiptoes as she swipes through the photos I’ve drooled over at least one hundred times. “He looks like one of the guys from theMafia books that always land in my inbox—tall, dark, handsome, and riddled with enough emotional damage to make a therapist salivate.”
Gemma rolls her eyes.
“You know I have a type.” I shrug, trying to keep it light. Trying not to sound like I’m already invested in a man who only exists on my phone.
“Yes,” she says, handing the phone back. “I know your type. We used to have the same type, remember?”
“And you kissed that tall, blond toad and turned him into a tall, blond hero. I can do the same. Just not with a blond guy. Obviously. Yuck.”
I wait for her to laugh again, to roll her eyes and tell me I’m ridiculous even though I really want to hear that it’s possible—that I can find a man who looks like trouble but is soft and kind and doesn’t go offline when I attempt to be myself…all from the comfort and safety of my own home—not that my romantic ideals are completely unrealistic or unhealthy.
But Gemma stays quiet, gaze soft and far away.
So I push forward, babbling like I’m trying to outrun the vulnerability painting my cheeks red. If I stuff the silence with enough words, maybe I won’t have to sit in it.
I reach back into my purse and fully palm the rose quartz.
“The best part about dating apps is the total control. No food in my teeth, no uncomfortable outfits, no shaving my entire body for the mere possibility of being seen naked. Just posed photos that won’t reveal my identity if they’re ever put online, thought-out texts, and minimal opportunity for embarrassment.”
And sexting. Though I’m probably not going to mention the sexting until we crack open that bottle of wine. Plus, I’ll need a few glasses to go over myI’m not sure I’ll want whatever’s happening between us to just be a fantasytext. Ugh.
I pause. Then add with a shrug, like it’s no big deal, like it isn’t my entire coping strategy dressed up in a punchline, “It’s kind of perfect, when you think about it.”
Gemma doesn’t say anything right away, but I feel her watching me. Present in that gentle, steady, nonjudgmental way only someone who’s become your chosen family can be.
I hate it.
“It’s like one of those story apps,” I blurt, vaguely aware that I’m strangling my juice bottle, filmy green liquid sloshing dangerously close to the compostable rim. “Choose Your Billionaire or whatever, where you get to text flirt with a morally gray CEO who wants to ruin you in a sexy way while also, like, supporting your small business. I get all the drama with none of the consequences.”
Gemma’s brow creases, her chin jutting slightly as she tilts her head. “You’re comparing your potential future partner to a choose-your-own-adventure smut app?”
“No,” I scoff, because I am very clearly doing just that.
Her gaze stays on me, and there’s a sinking sensation in my stomach like I missed a stair in the dark.
“So…” she starts gently. “You haven’t actually met him?”
“What do you mean by ‘met’?” I force a laugh,light and breezy, as if my cheeks aren’t on fire and I’m not scraping my nails against a crystal for any ounce of stability.
Meeting him isn’t the point. What we have now isworking. If he’d just reply to my last message, everything would be great.
“Babe…” Her voice is quiet, warm. Kind in a way that makes it harder to ignore. “How do you know for sure Declan Thorne is who he says he is?”
Her concern wraps around my chest and squeezes.
I didn’t ask for rational. I didn’t ask for gentle. I didn’t ask for this version of Gemma—the evolved one, the responsible one, the glowing-goddess-with-clear-boundaries-and-a-billionaire-boyfriend one. Right now I want the Gemma from ten years ago. The one who would’ve saidfuck it, have fun.
Who cares if ten years ago neither of our brains were fully developed and that we consistently put ourselves in ridiculous situations?
“He sends real photos,” I say quickly, yanking my hand from my purse to point at my phone like it’s evidence in a trial. “And his grammar is flawless.”
I glance up, practically begging for the eye roll, the smirk, the head shake that will let me stay in the delusion a little longer.
Instead, Gemma tilts her chin and narrows her eyes. “Wait a second.” She leans in. “Youlikehim.”
“Well, yeah.” I bark out a laugh that’s way too loud. “You saw the pictures.”
“No.” She shakes her head slowly, her champagne flute seemingly forgotten in her hand. “You have real feelings for him. You might be able to lie to yourself, butyou cannot lie to me.”
