Page 8 of Desserts for Stressed People

Putting my phone away, I walk to the bathroom and begin my night routine. It’s early, but when I drink, I need a few extra hours of sleep. By ten, I’m under the blanket. Alex joins soon after, saying something about driving up to his parents’ place in the morning. I can barely stand to look at him, and what’s more aggravating is that he looks upset with me.

Once he lies down next to me, his fingers tighten around my shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to?”

I stare at him for a few seconds, and I hate him with such an intensity that it almost scares me. “Positive.”

With a sigh, he rolls to the side. “Good night.”

When the lights turn off, I’m sure there’s smoke coming out of my ears. I stare at the ceiling, but I can’t sleep as every one of the horrible things he does daily piles up in my head, anger spilling out of me like hot lava. Tears fall down my cheeks, and I wipe them away with the sleeve of my shirt.

Alex is an asshole. I’ve let him be an asshole, and that’s who he is now.

For a moment, I wish I could escape, but there’s nowhere I can go. Sure, I could hide in Emma’s place or run to my parents’ house. But this is my apartment. My safe space. My home.

So I don’t leave. I don’t scream at Alex as I want to, nor do I kick him out. Fear paralyzes me. What if he refuses to pay his part of rent? What if I end up covered in debt, sued, homeless? I can’t let him have it yet, but I can think of just the right act of defiance I need at this moment.

I turn to my bedside table, grab my phone, and open RadaR. Then, staring into Shane’s eyes, I swipe right.

Game, set,match.

Chapter3

The First Contact

Shane:

Want to hang out tonight?

I stareat the message on the screen, the only thing I can see in the pitch black of my bedroom. The whole day has come and gone, and the end of the weekend is upon me. However, it looks like Shane H. is still looking to have a fun Sunday night.

With an eye roll, I groan into my hand. I’ll kill Emma. Actually, I’ll torture her,thenI’ll kill her. And I know this isn’t her fault. It’s mine. But she pushed buckets of sangria down my throat and didn’t feed me anything but barbecue chips. So, itisher fault I went home and swiped right on the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on. And that he matched with me and texted me. Well, not me. Nevaeh.

I grab my phone and reread his text as my hands quiver with apprehension, causing the words to dance. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Okay, I guess it isn’t that difficult of a decision. I’ll just ignore his message. He’ll get a clue and slide into someone else’s DMs. But my trembling fingers tap on the message until the chat between us opens, then on his profile picture. Even if I won’t answer, entertaining the thought for a few seconds is exactly what I need to cheer me up tonight.

Staring at his smile only confirms what a stupid thing I did, because Iwantto answer. I wish I could tell him yes. That I’ll meet him tonight. That he can come over and we can have what I imagine will be the best sex of my life.

But he texted Nevaeh, not Heaven. He finds her attractive, not me. And I’m not letting Alex turn me into a vengeful person. I’ll just make do with staring at his photo like I did as a teenager with my poster of Johnny Depp.

I scroll through the three pictures on his profile until I have them seared into my memory, studying them for so long that when I let my lids drop, I picture his matte black watch or the view of the city behind him down to the smallest details.

With a sigh, I lock the screen and toss my phone onto the duvet. This is pathetic. I am mourning my dying relationship, and although this guy is undoubtedly handsome, I am one hundred percent projecting. Imagining that he’ll be able to rock my world, or that he’s the type of man who’ll appreciate my obsessions, support me and be a partner to me like I’d be to him. Imagining he’ll be nothing like Alex.

Dragging myself to the kitchen, I fill a glass of water and drink it in a few sips. When I glance back at the bedroom, a small rectangle on top of the bed is lighting it up.

My reaction to the possibility of another message from Shane is frankly embarrassing, considering I’ve never met the guy, and he thinks I’m someone else. But this knowledge does little to stop me from bolting into the bedroom, nervous energy bouncing off me in little sparks. I lunge at my phone, sitting right in the center of the sheets, and I’ve barely caught my breath when I check the screen. It’s him.

Shane:

Nah, don’t leave me on read. It’s worse than actual rejection.

“This thing has a read function?!” I yelp, dragging my hand across my face. Turning on my belly, I hit my head on the mattress again and again, and when I finally stop, strands of my dark hair cover a good part of my face.

Okay, he said that rejection is better than silence, so I’ll politely let him down.

I open the chat, swallowing as soon as I read his two messages. I type,Hi, then stop. My heart is racing—I can’t tell whether it’s fear or adrenaline. After all, this is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in, well, years.

I type again, but delete everything. I can’t tell him I’m busy tonight. He’ll just propose to meet later this week. And I can’t say that I am not into him, because why would I have swiped right if that were the case? I could tell him I’m looking for something serious, but my profile says otherwise, and from Emma’s descriptions, this app isn’t the place for finding love.

My phone lights up again.

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