Page 7 of Desserts for Stressed People

His jaw drops, his eyes flaring. “What? Why would you say that?”

Becauseyou’re cheating.You’re being dishonest, and you have no right to askmethis question.

I want to say it. But my apartment, my savings, my reputation. I just have to resist for a few months. “Sorry,” I mumble, shifting my focus to the bread crumbs on the plate I’m holding. “There was no one else. Emma made sangria, and we just chatted at her kitchen table.”

He turns to me with a beer in his hands, eyes narrowing as he tilts his head. “Are you drunk?”

He knows I am. According to him, whenever I have a few drinks, my eyes glaze and my cheeks get a specific shade of red. “A little tipsy.”

Setting the beer down, he stalks closer. “Nice. Do you want to...”

The plates drop from my hands into the sink when his hand cups my ass, making a horrible clinking noise as they tumble onto forks and knives. Turning to him, I swallow away the dryness in my mouth. “What?” I ask in a breath.

He takes another step, and I’m too shaken to speak. It might be the simple fact that he’s making a move on me, which hasn’t happened in months. But it’s more likely the awareness that he thinks me being drunk increases his chances of getting some. What have I done to make him think that’s the case?

He grabs my hand, and with his free one, he unzips his jeans, then pulls his briefs down. I stare at him, once again, too befuddled to do anything. My gaze moves onto his soft penis, hanging out and drowning in short, curly hair, and his jeans crumpled down his thighs.

“Heaven?” He smiles as if he doesn’t notice the shock written all over my face. If he does, he doesn’t seem to care. “Come here.” He tugs me closer, and when his hand pushes my shoulder down, I almost comply. I’m that numb. My body bends, my mind unable to process what’s happening.

He’s done this before, many times. But never so abruptly, never so... disrespectfully. Like I’m here to give him a blowjob whenever he feels like. Wherever he feels like. Like the only thing standing between my mouth and his penis at any given minute is his underwear or how much I’ve had to drink.

But he’s wrong.

“Stop,” I command, slapping his hand away.

“Why? What’s wrong?” he asks with a glower. The fact that he looks upset makes me hate him more.

“I don’t want to give you a blowjob while I’m washing the dishes. That’s what’s wrong.”

He scoffs and buttons up his jeans. Once again, there’s surprise etched on his face, and the worst part is that I get it. I’ve never said no before, so he thinks I’ll do whatever he asks me to. “Whatever.” He leaves the kitchen, and the next thing I hear is the door to the home office slamming shut.

Scrubbing the plate in the sink, I watch my tears mix with the water and soap, my eyes stinging as mascara clumps in my lashes.

I might not have said “no” before, but I’m starting now. And that’s not the only thing I’ll be doing.

Once everything’s clean, I sit on the couch, make sure that the door to the home office is still closed, and open RadaR. It looks quite simple and I’m tech-savvy enough. “On the RadaR” shows me the first picture of a man that fits my settings, and the other two categories are “Matches” and “Profile.”

My eyes dart to the home office door again before swiping left. I figured this would be the most excruciating part, but the profiles I encounter have me smiling, then chuckling.

Robert K. has uploaded five pictures of himself, and there isn’t one shirt in sight. Julian B. must be a health freak. He’s climbing a rope in the first picture, and in the second, he’s flexing in a gym mirror. My favorite yet is Trevor S. In the first picture he’s holding a baby tiger and his bio readsEnjoy life. Party. Beach. Beautiful women only.

Wondering how human beings aren’t extinct yet, I swipe left and freeze.

“Shane H.,” I read out. A dark-haired man fills the screen, and my eyes go to his irises, the same color as cocoa. He has one of those looks that can move mountains. Deep and unforgiving. But his smile is so genuine and contagious that the last thing he looks is unfriendly.

I glance at his midnight blue suit, then scroll to the second picture. He has nice lashes. Long, dark. And in this picture, there’s a little stubble on his face. It looks great on him.

I move to the third one, and it’s as good as the first two. He’s taller than the group of people around him and has wide shoulders. Based on a quick peek, he also frequents the gym more often than Alex does.

Shane H. 30 y.o. Type A personality. Control freak, overworked, stressed out, and extremely competitive. If you’re still reading, you know most of what’s wrong with me. From now on, things can only get better. Looking for something casual, but open to business deals too. #HateHashtags

A chuckle bursts out of my lips.

His description of his flaws feels like staring into a mirror. Type A personality? That’s my job description. I lost count of the number of times Alex called me a control freak over my cleaning habits, or that my mom pointed out I’m always stressed. I might be overworked, but I’m a workaholic, and there’s hardly a moment in which it feels too much. And Shane H. saying that he’s extremely competitive makes me want to prove to him I’m much more competitive than he is.That’s how competitive I am.

I stare back at his pictures, and now that I know his flaws, he looks more handsome, if possible. If our flaws are oh-so similar, are our strengths the same too? Is he nice to a fault, like me? Is he smart and intuitive, someone people count on?

What happened in the kitchen with Alex comes back to me. For a second, the mix of alcohol and anger makes my finger hover over the “Match” button. But I release a deep breath and shake my head like a dog does its fur. Letting my emotions cloud my judgment isn’t something I allow myself to do often. I can almost hear Emma scream in my ear that I should stop overthinking everything and live a little, but the mistake was probably to open RadaR after four tall glasses of Sangria.

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