Chapter Ten Talia
Chapter Ten
Talia
On Tuesday morning, Talia arrives at work and does not stop, as she normally does, at Meera’s desk to say hello.
She’s still angry at her friend. It’s classic Meera, really, to jump to the worst possible conclusion about a man.
She’s always had what seems like a personal vendetta against Townsend—even before he made that mistake with Amanda.
Can’t Meera see that Townsend’s words were empty threats said out of desperation?
Can’t she see that Amanda was the problem, that Amanda was the psychotic one?
Yesterday, after she and Meera read through Townsend’s and Amanda’s Cuff messages, Talia hid out in the bathroom for twenty minutes.
Crouched on the closed lid of a toilet in the handicap stall, she held her face in her hands and tried one of the breathing exercises that her Pilates instructor taught her.
Press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and exhale fully.
Then, inhale for a count of four, hold your breath for a count of seven, and exhale slowly for a count of eight.
Townsend wasn’t a killer; this much she knew to be true.
He was a thoughtful gift giver, a meticulous bed maker, the proud creator of an exceptional chicken salad recipe.
A murderer? Absolutely not. What bothered Talia most was the fact that Meera (and Amanda’s sister .
. . and perhaps even the police . . .) could even think Townsend capable of such a thing.
Was it possible they saw something dark and disquieting in her boyfriend that she—the person who arguably knows Townsend better than anyone—had failed to see herself?
When she returned home last night, Talia poured herself and Townsend a glass of wine and sat him down on the couch. Then, as calmly as she could, she said, “I think we need to talk about Amanda.”
Since that night at the Blue Starlite Drive-in, when they officially got back together, neither has addressed the elephant in the room: the reason they broke up in the first place.
For Talia, avoiding the subject of Amanda had been an act of self-preservation—why poke a wound that’s still healing?
And for Townsend, she imagined it felt like a gift, not having to answer for his mistakes.
But Talia knew they needed to discuss what happened if they were going to have a life together—a life in which Amanda Reade was nothing more than a teeny, tiny, insignificant blip.
“You’re right,” Townsend said. A moment of awkward silence. Talia stifled a sigh. Apparently, he needed to be fed his lines.
“Did you love me? When we were together last year?”
“Of course I did.” Townsend touched her hand. “I still love you now.”
Her heart fluttered—he loved her! But no, she wouldn’t be distracted so easily. “Then why did you let her ruin everything?”
Townsend let his eyes float up to the ceiling, as though the correct response might be written there.
“Just talk to me. Look at me.”
He did, and Talia was surprised to see that he was teary-eyed.
“I was the one who ruined everything,” he said.
“I had the greatest thing going with you, and I was so afraid of losing it—of losing you—that I pushed you away. It was the stupidest decision I’ve ever made, and I feel like the luckiest guy in the world that you’re here now, giving me a second chance I probably don’t deserve. ”
He was saying all the right things, and Talia appreciated that.
But he could never know how broken she’d felt in those months following his betrayal.
Sitting on the couch in front of him that Monday evening, she wondered how a man could love two wildly dissimilar women at once without being fractured inside.
It reminded her of what happened with Malcolm, which was something she tried to think about as infrequently as possible.
“Just . . . why her?”
“It wasn’t even about her. She could have been anyone. I was just so hell bent on destroying my own happiness that I—”
“Did you like that she was younger? Blonder? Was she more fun than me? More adventurous in bed than me?” Talia knew how silly this line of questioning sounded, how shallow and juvenile, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Did you love her more than me?”
“Love her?” Townsend scoffed. “I’m not even sure I liked her.
I thought she’d be someone who’d let me indulge my worst habits without judgment.
As it turns out, her habits were way worse than mine.
” He gave Talia a tentative smile. “I guess it just goes to show that you never know what you’re getting into when you meet someone on an app. ”
Reluctantly, she smiled back. “They really should hire better people to monitor those things.”
“I’d say to hell with them all if Cuff weren’t the reason I met you.”
It was so tempting to end the conversation right then, when things finally felt good again. Still, she pushed on. “When you say Amanda had bad habits . . . are you saying you believe what you told the police? That she could just be off on some bender?”
“It’s entirely possible.” Townsend shrugged.
“When I ended things and told her I didn’t want anything serious, she told me to fuck off and said she was going to Europe for the summer.
Maybe she made it there, or maybe she’s off partying somewhere in the States.
All I know is I have no idea what happened to her. ”
“And you don’t think anything . . . bad happened to her, do you?”
“I don’t think she’s actually missing or, you know, dead or whatever, if that’s what you’re asking.”
End this conversation now, Talia told herself. Change the subject. She didn’t; instead, she asked, “How do you know for sure? How do you know something bad didn’t happen to her in Europe or wherever she is?”
Townsend hesitated for a moment, as though there was something more he wanted to say.
But instead he just shrugged. “I guess I don’t know for sure, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?
She’s not my problem. I can only assume she’s off being her usual chaotic self, because that’s what she does best.”
Talia touched his cheek, and he put his hand over hers, giving it a squeeze. “You’re right,” she said. “She’s not our problem.”
Settling in at her desk, Talia dives into a deep work session, attempting to extract a training dataset from big, noisy, nonsensical data.
When she first started working for Cuff, she saw nothing more than a dating app with silly prompts and a simple swipe mechanism.
She’d never imagined the engineering potential the job encompassed—or her own potential for helping people swipe their way to The One.
Her current project: developing a natural language–processing model that can weed out bad actors from honest-to-goodness Cuff members looking for love.
Despite the smirks she gets when she reveals her job, or the jokes she’s seen circulating on social media (“Like it rough? Into butt stuff? Download Cuff.”), Talia hasn’t turned cynical.
No matter how many people may be on Cuff for easy, meaningless sex, she still believes most users want more than that.
Just imagine the time these millions of people have poured into their profiles.
Writing a 150-word bio that’s pithy and sharp.
Choosing a half dozen photos that exhibit approachability and warmth in addition to a great ass.
It isn’t easy deciding how to present your best self (or, at least, whatever version of yourself you think will serve you best).
Talia wants to reward their efforts by giving them the best user experience possible. May they all be so lucky as to find their own Townsend on Cuff, just as she has.
There isn’t anything wrong with finding love on an app—though to be honest, Talia never imagined her own love life would play out this way.
If she had a choice, she would have met Townsend in some romantic, clandestine way.
Like how the protagonist in her favorite novel, Kennedy J.
Abbott’s Right on Track, met the love of her life: on a midnight Paris-bound train from Vienna.
Or how Kennedy met her own husband. According to an Instagram post the author shared on their five-year wedding anniversary, she and Thad met at the grocery store when they both went to reach for the last pint of Ben Talia would expect nothing less for a romance writer.
What’s less expected is that someone as analytical as Talia would have an affinity for romance novels (or, as Meera refers to the genre, “rom-vom”).
Working in a male-dominated STEM field, Talia feels pressure to be one of the guys—to join the office bracket pool during March Madness and wear Chuck Taylors to work rather than heels.
But in the safety of her home, she’ll always choose a bodice ripper over that night’s game.
These books have been her guilty pleasure ever since middle school, when she discovered the dirty Regency romance series hidden under her older sister’s bed.
And in Talia’s opinion, no one writes a romance novel quite like Kennedy J. Abbott.
Kennedy’s Gramercy Park Hotel wedding was featured in The New York Times, and Talia spent so much time poring over the pictures on Kennedy’s Instagram grid that she could recall every detail, down to Kennedy’s silky cyan-colored Manolo Blahnik slingback pumps—her “something blue,” according to a photo caption.
Now she and Thad lived on a palatial estate in Asheville, North Carolina, where Kennedy doted on their honey-blond twin daughters and penned novels that made Talia feel more loved and seen than any person ever had—that is, until she met Townsend.
Until she experienced her own love story.
Their spark didn’t ignite on a train bound for Paris or in the freezer aisle of a grocery store; it began on a phone screen.
And while she probably won’t find their story in the pages of Kennedy’s novels, Talia has come to accept the origin of her modern romance.
It’s unconventional, but it’s hers. It’s theirs.
It seems like only five minutes have passed before Talia feels a light tap on her shoulder. She startles; she didn’t even hear Meera approach her. “What time is it?” she asks, taking out her AirPods. Rap isn’t her thing, but she’s been giving Jack Harlow a chance for Townsend’s sake.
“Almost six. Are you heading out soon?”
“I am. I have dinner plans with . . .” Talia suddenly remembers her audience and stops herself.
“With Townsend? It’s okay. You can tell me.”
“Yes. With Townsend.”
Meera tucks her hair behind both ears, looking suddenly sheepish. “Listen, I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. I shouldn’t have made an accusation like that without knowing all the facts.”
Talia nods stiffly. Is she even angry at Meera anymore?
She can’t decide. Truthfully, she’s been feeling more pity than anything when it comes to her friend these days.
Meera has made a choice to remain single and bitter, but Talia can choose to reject negativity.
You attract the energy that you give off (as the Spot of Positivitea podcast often reminds her), and Talia believes this to be true.
She even bought herself a “Spread Good Vibes” decal for her Stanley tumbler as a reminder. “Apology accepted,” she tells Meera.
“Good.” Meera smiles, looking genuinely relieved. “I say this a lot, but I really am just looking out for you. I’m overprotective because I care.”
“I know. And I appreciate it.” But I really wish you would get your own life and let me enjoy mine. Talia wants to add this last part but thinks better of it. “Walk out with me?”
“Let’s do it.”
As soon as Talia stands, her computer dings with an Outlook notification.
A new email has arrived at six on the dot, even though the office has a strict policy against sending emails at the end of the workday.
Cuff is all about the “work–life balance”—but still, Talia knows many of the upper-level execs are complete workaholics and use the delayed-send feature so they can fire off emails at two a.m. (and have them arrive at a much more reasonable eight thirty).
Meera squints curiously at her screen. “Who’s emailing you now?”
“I don’t know.” According to Outlook, the message was sent by someone named Amy Stake. The address itself is a nonsensical group of letters and numbers attached to a disposable email domain—a burner email address.
“Amy Stake,” Meera reads. “Who is Amy Stake?”
“Amy Stake.” Talia says the name slowly. “A mistake. I think it’s supposed to be a pun.”
“Clever.”
It would be smarter to report this email as a phishing attempt, but with Meera standing over her shoulder—part protector, part audience—Talia feels emboldened to click. She opens the email and steps to the side so she and Meera can read it together.
Don’t think I forgot about you bxtch. I know your with Townsend now and I know it’s not going to last. Watch your fxcking back. As soon as it falls apart I’m coming for you both.
“Holy shit,” Meera breathes. “Amanda?”
“I don’t—” Talia takes a deep breath to center herself. Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. “Do you think it’s really her?”
“Who else? Just look at it. They mix up ‘your’ and ‘you’re.’ And they weirdly censor any profanity with x’s. Even the syntax is similar.”
Talia sits down at her desk again. “Would that mean . . . ?”
Meera nods. “Unless Amanda sent this from beyond the grave, I’d say she’s very much alive. And from the sound of it, she’s very much pissed.”