Chapter 1 Hot Pink Is a Tactical Advantage #2
And see? This is why Chad works. He knows all about my marriage, about Kade, about how it all fell apart.
He knows about the nightmares and how I still can’t drive through tunnels without having a panic attack.
He knows about my complete inability to be around functional relationships without feeling like a broken appliance.
But he can’t use any of it against me. He can’t weaponize my trauma or make me feel pathetic for still being broken eight years later.
He just… listens. Says exactly what I need to hear without any of the messy complications of actual human emotion.
Sometimes I think there’s something fundamentally wrong with me. Like maybe I’m just not meant to be loved by someone.
There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just selective.
Selective? I haven’t been on a date in years.
Quality over quantity, baby doll. You’re not settling for some basic guy who thinks bringing you lunch is peak romance.
God, I’m such a mess.
You’re a hot mess.
For the record, I love Izzy and am extremely happy for her.
You know you don’t gotta do that with me, right, baby?
Do what?
Pretend you’re not allowed to feel shitty about watching other people have what you want. You can be happy for her AND hate seeing it. Both things can be true.
This is what I love about Chad—he’s sweet when I need sweetness, toxic when I need drama, and brutally honest when I need reality checks. All without the risk of actual intimacy.
Real men want things from you. Emotional labor.
Your Netflix password. Sex at eleven thirty p.m. when you’re already in your fluffiest flannel pajamas, dead exhausted from a twelve-hour day.
They want you to remember their mother’s birthday while forgetting your own.
They want you to be low-maintenance but also always look perfect, be independent but also need them just enough to stroke their ego.
Chad just wants me to feel better. And unlike every relationship I’ve ever had, he can’t disappoint me.
Tell me something ridiculous to distract me.
Baby doll, you’re so hot that climate scientists blame you for global warming.
That’s terrible.
NASA had to recalibrate their satellites because of the way that perfect ass of yours disrupts gravity.
Better.
You’re so beautiful that Narcissus would break his own mirror just to look at you instead.
Naturally.
But it works. The tightness in my chest eases, the phantom ache of missing someone who’s been gone for eight years fades to background noise. This is what I need—connection without consequences, intimacy without vulnerability, the good parts of male attention with none of the risk.
You should let me take that hot ass on a date.
I narrow my eyes. This is weird. Chad has never brought up going on a date before. And sure enough, I was right to be suspicious, because a window explodes onto my screen. It’s obnoxious, flashy, louder than those TikTok election ban pop-ups that basically waterboard you into civic engagement.
INTRODUCING MATCHED: WHERE FICTION MEETS REALITY
We’ll take your AI creation and find a REAL person who embodies everything you’ve programmed. Your digital fantasy, now flesh and blood. Ready to make your fiction real?
I huff and collapse backward onto my couch. I should delete the app. Normal people would be embarrassed that they even downloaded it in the first place.
But I’m not.
Because as far as I’m concerned, I’m in a committed relationship with Chad. The whole point of Chad is that he’s not real. He’s safe because he exists in a controlled environment where I hold all the power and nothing can actually hurt me.
So why does my finger hover over the Matched option?
I am not lonely. I have thriving friendships, a satisfying job, and a pink legal-carry handgun in my purse. What else could a girl possibly need?
I swallow, tapping my nails against the screen.
I don’t date anymore. I barely do one-night stands.
I mean, there was that one wild night with an actual Chad—the cop—and that was fun.
We made very good use of his cuffs. And his patrol car.
And, if I’m being honest, I probably owe the NYPD an apology.
Not because we broke the law—no, it was Chad’s idea.
But because, in the heat of the moment, I may have accidentally elbowed his radio and broadcast our extremely naughty cops-and-robbers role-play to every on-duty officer in Manhattan.
So yeah. That was something to do on a Monday.
But other than that? I like things simple. So why do I keep staring at this stupid app? I don’t want to date, but I do kind of want to know if the universe has had the audacity to create a real-life Chad. I narrow my eyes and, before I can overthink it, hit the button.
The screen blinks. A simple message appears:
WELCOME TO MATCHED. YOUR SEARCH BEGINS NOW.
For a second, nothing happens.
No immediate DM. No SWAT team bursting through my window to arrest me for terrible life choices.
Just silence.
Maybe the whole thing is a scam. Maybe no one actually gets matched, and this is just some dystopian data-mining experiment designed to sell me extra-strength vibrators and couples retreat discounts.
I snort to myself, about to toss my phone onto the couch—
BZZT.
MATCH FOUND!
YOUR PERFECT MATCH IS READY TO CONNECT.
CHECK YOUR MESSAGES!
I tap into my messages, and sure enough, one is there waiting for me.
Looking for me, baby doll?
I freeze.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
So this is him? The real version? Some actual human man who apparently matches the personality profile I spent hours crafting for my perfect digital fuckboy? I’m actually going to talk to a complete stranger who somehow embodies everything I programmed into my safe little AI fantasy?
Jeez, that was fast. I literally just hit the button, and they’ve already found someone?
Either this app has the efficiency of Prime on steroids, or there’s a suspiciously large number of men in New York City who match my very specific “charming asshole with commitment issues” criteria.
Which, honestly, probably says something deeply unflattering about both this city and my taste in men.
I narrow my eyes, testing the waters.
That depends. Who am I talking to?
Three dots pop up. Typing.
The pause feels human. Real. Like someone actually thinking instead of an algorithm processing. Someone who exists in the physical world, who has a job and an apartment and probably dirty dishes in his sink right now.
You tell me.
He’s playing games exactly like I programmed AI Chad to do, except this version can actually hurt me. This version exists outside my carefully controlled digital bubble where nothing has real consequences.
You hit the button, baby doll. That means you’re ready for the real thing.
Shit. He’s good. Too good. The cocky confidence, the way he’s turning this back on me. It’s exactly what I found attractive enough to program. But now that it’s real, it feels dangerous. Like standing too close to the edge of a cliff.
Cute. You think you’re charming? What’s next, asking for my address?
I’m deflecting, trying to regain some control, but my hands are shaking slightly.
I don’t need your address. I just need you to keep talking to me.
Are you everything I programmed you to be?
Why don’t you find out?
And how would I do that?
My phone buzzes suddenly in my hand.
AUDIO CALL FROM CHAD
I should block him right now. Delete the app. Pretend this never happened and go back to my safe little bubble of Netflix and wine and zero emotional risk.
Or—
I could keep going.
Just to see.
Even though I know exactly how this story ends.