Chapter 1
It didn’t feel like snooping.
After five vodka cranberries and a questionable nacho platter, I was alone in Ryan’s room with his computer glowing like it had secrets. And it did.
He’d admitted to watching porn—we never got into specifics—but I figured, hey, a little click here, a little scroll there, and maybe I’d learn what kind of girls he liked. Maybe what positions he was too chicken to ask for. Educational. Harmless. Flirty even.
I expected boobs. Maybe some girl-on-girl, a light foot thing, possibly pee if things got weird.
What I didn’t expect?
match.com.
Recently visited.
The words hit like a slap.
My whole body pulsed with heat—rage or nausea, unclear. I stared at the screen like it might change if I blinked fast enough. It didn’t.
Downstairs, Ryan was yelling at Jimmy Fallon like they were old frat buddies. I had time.
So I clicked.
There he was. My boyfriend. On a dating site.
Tagline: “Living Life.”
My eyes stung. My lungs forgot how to breathe.
And then I saw the photo. My photo. I took it our first weekend away—Fenway Park, Boston. He begged for that shot in front of the stadium. We’d been dating two weeks. Two. Everyone said it was too soon. But I was young, dumb, and thought spontaneous sex in a Marriott courtyard meant something.
That was our first time. I thought that trip meant something.
Back then, he was perfect. Opened doors. Sent flowers. Called when he said he would. We’d just graduated from Michigan, and everything felt possible. Now, nine months later, he was slipping away, and I was doing mental gymnastics to explain it away.
“He’s flirty, but harmless.”
“He’s just friendly.”
“He’s...tired?”
No. He was on Match.com.
I scrolled.
“I’m not on here looking for my soulmate or anything like that. I’m also not looking for just a hook-up either. Just looking for a friend to hang out with and have fun. I can have fun staying home, going out, or taking a trip somewhere. Laid back, funny, smart, athletic, thoughtful, romantic, and a kid at heart.”
A kid at heart, huh? That kid’s about to get his tricycle set on fire.
I closed the browser. Stood up. Walked downstairs, carpet squishy under my feet like it knew something I didn’t.
Ryan sat in the brown recliner, eyes glued to the screen, face glowing blue from the TV.
“Hey, babe. You ready for bed?” he asked, not even looking up.
I didn’t answer.
“What’s going on?” he finally asked, turning. My silence had officially interrupted Fallon.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He blinked. “Watching TV?”
“That’s not what I mean. Upstairs. Your computer.”
His eyebrows rose. “What were you doing on my computer?”
“Oh, that’s the issue? Not the fact that you’re shopping for women like you’re picking out a microwave?”
“Sara—”
“You’re on Match.com, Ryan!”
He stood, footrest snapping shut. “It’s not what you think.”
“Really? Because what I think is that my boyfriend of nine months is looking for a ‘laid back’ friend to ‘hang out with and maybe take trips.’ Sound familiar?”
He tried to come closer. “Listen, I swear, I made that profile before I met you. It’s old.”
“Then why were you just on it?”
“They kept emailing me! I logged in to cancel, but I got curious, that’s all. It was stupid. I swear.” He ran a hand through his hair, his classic stressed Ryan move that always made him look like he stuck a fork in an outlet.
“I swear, Sara. I didn’t message anyone. I wasn’t planning to.”
“There’s a lot of swearing going on tonight,” I snapped. “Maybe you should’ve sworn off dating sites instead.”
His face fell. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”
I stared at him. Brown eyes. That stupid little dimple that shows up when he’s nervous. I hated how familiar he looked. How believable.
But this wasn’t our first blowout. Just the biggest. My signature line in every fight? “What you’re supposed to say is...” and then I filled in the blank for him.
What you’re supposed to say is: I should’ve called.
What you’re supposed to say is: that girl doesn’t matter.
What you’re supposed to say is: it’s always been you.
But tonight, for once, he was filling in the blank himself.
And I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him.
“How am I supposed to trust you after this?” I asked, my voice thinner than I wanted it to be.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I want to fix it. I’ll delete the profile tomorrow. I promise.”
“This is so embarrassing.”
“I know.” He looked down, genuinely ashamed. “I suck at this. At relationships. But I want to keep trying.”
He kissed my forehead. It was soft. Honest. Damn him.
“What time is it?” I asked.
He checked. “Two-thirty.”
“Great. Work in the morning. Let’s just go to bed.”
“You sure?”
“No. But I’m tired.”
He pulled me into a hug. I let him.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he whispered. “I mean it.”
“Sleep now,” I said. “Talk later.”
And with that, we collapsed into bed—him, with the guilt of a man caught red-handed, and me, with the weight of a thousand “I told you so”s I wasn’t ready to say out loud.
I fell asleep fast. Alcohol helps. So do lies.
