Chapter 10 The Red Flag Assessment （We Failed） #2
“That’s…” Izzy blinks rapidly. “You know what? Good for you. Entrepreneurship in the digital age.”
“See? I knew I liked her,” Raven says, toasting Izzy again.
By the time we stumble out of the bar, we’re all slightly buzzed, and Raven has enough content to last her through the weekend.
She hugs us both goodbye, reminding me about Monday dinner (“Mom’s making her passive-aggressive roast, so come prepared for a verbal roast as well”), and disappears into an Uber Black, because clearly OnlyFans does pay well.
Izzy and I are making our way back toward Monarch when she suddenly stops. “Oh, I forgot! I need to pick up a gift for my niece. Her second birthday is this weekend.”
“Now?” I check my phone. “It’s like nine thirty.”
“The Strand is open until ten on Wednesdays,” she says, already changing direction. “Come with me? It’ll be quick.”
I hesitate for just a second, looking up at the familiar brick building as we approach.
The Strand. I haven’t been inside for a while.
It used to be one of my routines in the early years after Kade disappeared.
Wandering the aisles, pretending I was looking for something specific when really I was just trying to find myself in the pages of someone else’s story.
“Yeah, okay,” I say finally, following her inside.
Izzy makes a beeline for the children’s section, and I trail behind her, trying not to think too hard about how many hours I used to spend in places like this.
While Izzy browses the colorful picture books, something catches my eye.
A display case near the section entrance, surrounded by newer printings of the same title.
The Velveteen Rabbit. First edition. 1922.
I move closer, almost unconsciously, and before I can think better of it, I’m picking up the newer printings that surround it and flipping through the pages. I loved this book as a kid. Read my copy so many times the spine cracked and pages fell out.
I smile at the familiar illustrations. The Skin Horse explaining what it means to be Real.
The boy who loves his rabbit so much that it doesn’t matter that the velveteen has worn off and one eye is missing.
And then I get to the part where the rabbit is waiting out back in the bag to be burned, and my vision blurs unexpectedly.
I realize with horror that tears are threatening to stream down my cheeks.
I blink them back hard, closing the book carefully and setting it down.
No. Real love isn’t worth the hurt.
Because that’s what happens, isn’t it? You become Real.
You let someone see all the worn places, all the shabby bits, all the parts that aren’t shiny and new anymore.
And then when they’re done with you, when you’re not useful anymore, you get discarded.
Left waiting to be burned while life moves on without you.
“Amanda?” Izzy appears at my elbow, two picture books in hand. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie, because I’m excellent at lying. “Just nostalgic. Ready to go?”
We walk back toward Monarch, the wine buzz fading into something heavier. Cal is waiting outside, leaning against their car, and when he sees Izzy, his whole face softens in that way that makes my chest ache.
“You know what?” I say suddenly, before we reach him. “I’m actually going to go ahead and just turn off the Matched thing. I’m not going to meet Chad.”
Izzy stops, turning to look at me with surprise and something that might be relief. “Really?”
“Yeah. This whole thing is…” I gesture vaguely. “It’s too much. I don’t need it.”
“Amanda, I love that for you.” She pulls me into a hug, quick and fierce. “I think this is the right call.”
“Me, too,” I say, and almost believe it.
I wave them off, watching Cal open the car door for Izzy like she’s precious cargo, and then I turn and head home alone.
I find it deeply satisfying to wind down for the night in the most dramatic way possible, like I’m the star of my own luxury lifestyle vlog.
First, I shower. Full skin-care routine complete with moisturizer, serums, eye cream, and enough products to stock a small Sephora—because one day I will age, but it won’t be today if I have any say in it.
Then pajamas. Pink satin set that makes me feel like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and a Victoria’s Secret Angel, even if my luxury is purchased via online flash sales and barely available credit.
The finishing touch: my ridiculously oversize silk sleep mask.
It’s extra as hell but also indulgent. Nothing like plunging yourself into total darkness and pretending the world doesn’t exist outside your perfectly curated bedroom sanctuary.
I sink into bed, sighing happily, feeling good, feeling resolved, feeling like I’ve finally made a mature decision that future Amanda will thank me for.
Like I should probably actually turn off the Matched feature before I fall asleep.
Right. That.
I grab my phone, unlock it, and start hunting through the settings with the determination of someone who’s definitely sold themselves on this plan.
Tap through the menus. Scroll. Check preferences.
Nothing.
I frown. Okay, maybe it’s buried somewhere weird. Apps love hiding important settings in the most inconvenient places possible. I type into the help menu: How to opt out of Matched?
No results.
My stomach does a weird, unpleasant little flip that feels suspiciously like the beginning of panic.
Okay. That’s… odd. I try a different phrase: How to disable Matched feature?
Nothing.
Opt out. Stop. End. Delete.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
The panic is definitely setting in now. That’s when a new message appears at the top of my screen, and my stomach free-falls like an elevator with the cables cut.
CHAD
You wouldn’t be trying to get rid of me, would you, baby doll?
I freeze completely, my fingers hovering uselessly over my phone like I’ve forgotten how hands work. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry, my body going weirdly tense under my expensive covers.
Because I didn’t text him first. I didn’t reach out. I didn’t initiate contact. And yet somehow… he already knew what I was trying to do.
Like he was watching.