Chapter 1 #3
My dating technique is…protective. Whatever. I don’t have to justify my decisions. Point is, I’m not in a healthy, stable romantic relationship because I don’t want to be in one. So…there.
“If I wanted to be with someone.” I continue my justification aloud even though I definitely do not feel any type of way about it. “I could be. I would be. Men would be lined up around the block to—”
“Okay,” Gemma cuts in gently before I’m forced to find an end to that thought. “I’m not saying you couldn’t get married three times. You’re fucking amazing, Amanda. What I’m saying is that once you find your person, you’re going to be with him forever.”
A lump rises in my throat. It’s sudden and uninvited and so full of hope I don’t know what to do with it.
“And I can’t picture you having an actual wedding,” she adds, swirling her champagne. “Not in a traditional sense anyway. You’d shout your vows over an exploding volcano or… I don’t know.” She tilts her chin, thoughtful, a teasing glint in her eye. “WWAD?”
I shake my head. “I don’t—”
“What would Amanda do?”
What would Amanda do?
Hopefully Gemma has the answer, because I have no fucking clue.
My phone trills, breaking us both out of our trances.
My heart rate ticks up as I flip my phone over and swipe eagerly, checking the notification from Flutter.
“App update,” I groan. “Who needs a notification about that?”
Gemma shakes her head and laughs into her champagne flute.
I chew my cheek, pretending that she doesn’t see what I’m trying to hide. But she does. We’ve been too close too long for her not to.
“Gimme.” She holds out her hand, and I know exactly what she wants without having to ask.
I sigh and pull up his profile before handing her the phone. “His name’s Declan Thorne.”
Her mouth drops the same way mine did when his picture first came across my screen.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Second hottest man I’ve ever seen.”
“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 the Mafia 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 my I’m not sure I’ll want whatever’s happening between us to just be a fantasy text. 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 is working. 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 said fuck 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. “You like him.”
“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, but you cannot lie to me.”
Sweat beads along my hairline. “Okay, maybe a little. But not real feelings. Just…” I shrug and try to sound breezy. “I like talking to him. I like the version of me I am when I talk to him.”
Gemma doesn’t say anything right away, and the silence fills with the ghosts of the things I don’t want to admit.
Finally, she says, “Amanda, I love you, and I can’t help but worry about you.
You’ve never been in the same room with this guy or talked to him face-to-face.
What if the version of Declan Thorne you’ve built up in your head, the version of him you’re connecting with, doesn’t vibe with who he actually is? ”
The words land harder than I want them to. Because if that’s true—if Declan’s presenting some shinier, edited version of himself—then he’s just doing what I’m doing. And I really don’t want to think too hard about what that means.
Gemma grips my hand in hers, smooths the soft pad of her thumb along my knuckles. “I feel like sometimes you fall for the idea of a person so quickly, you forget to ask if they’re even real.”
Pop.
The balloon I’ve been clinging to—inflated with hope and fantasy—deflates in a single breath. Now there’s just the slow hiss of reality.
I try to laugh it off, but the sound gets stuck in my throat.
“Hey.” Gemma squeezes my fingers. “I’m sure this guy isn’t some lying loser. I’m sure he’s exactly who he’s presenting himself to be. I don’t think terrible assholes even know how to employ proper grammar.”
My laugh is paper thin. “It’s fine,” I say, forcing a smile that feels like it’s glued on crooked. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be.” Her voice is even softer now, like she knows I’m barely holding it together. “I just want you to find something real. That’s all. You deserve that.”
I nod, but I can’t quite speak. My throat is too dry. My rib cage feels too tight, my dress too fitted, the air too warm. Not even chugging the rest of my green juice is going to help, and I added ashwagandha to this batch specifically for calm and clarity.
My phone buzzes.
I practically leap for it, breath whooshing out of my lungs like I’ve been underwater.
Saved by the bell. Or the buzz. Either way, it’s an excuse to look anywhere but at her.
DECLAN: Are you free tonight?
My stomach flips, equal parts anticipation and dread. The kind of drop felt at the top of a roller coaster right before the plunge.
I glance at Gemma. Then back at my phone as it vibrates again.
DECLAN: I leave for Dubai in the morning, but before I go I want to make this fantasy real.
DECLAN: Rendezvous at 9. At Ember. Dress code’s: make me regret not meeting you sooner.
I read the messages once. Then again. Then five more times to be sure I’m not hallucinating.
He wants to meet me.
Tonight.
My entire body goes rigid. My soul rolls over and plays dead. A weird, nauseating cocktail of it’s finally happening and I might throw up swirls in my gut.
It’s not that I didn’t think he’d ever ask.
I just didn’t think he’d ask now. With no warning.
With less than an hour of mental preparation.
I thought I’d have time to memorize new affirmations and rituals that make pretending I’m fine feel almost the same as actually being fine.
Instead, I’ve been dropped into the deep end of a pool I built myself—tile by tile, text by text, fantasy by fantasy.