by Lexi Ryan
When Instagram no longer interests me, I open up Random for the first time in days, but when I see I have matches waiting, I actually groan. I clearly came here more out of boredom than actual interest. I don’t have it in me to deal with the fuckboys from this app tonight. But bad habits must really die hard, because I’m already checking to see who’s swiped on me.
My stomach lurches into full-on gymnastics at the sight of the bearded thirst trap in the avatar, grinning at the camera.
Kace is on Random. He told me this, didn’t he? I’m not sure I believed he’d really use it, but that’s not the real shock. The real shock is that Kace swiped on me. I couldn’t be more surprised. I’m not qualified for much in this world, but I have the experience of a pro when it comes to being rejected by Kace Matthews.
The match is dated Sunday morning. The morning after sending me away on the worst kind of walk of shame, Kace got on Random, saw the picture of me in my cutest yellow sundress, and swiped. What kind of game is he playing? Did he change his mind? Is this his way of letting me know he wants to finish what we started?
The app is semi-anonymous; when you click on someone’s picture, their basic profile pops up—username, age, and brief bio—but I don’t need any more details beyond his picture to know that GoodHands69 is Kace. I click on the message box. It’s ridiculous to talk here when we can just text each other, but if this is the game he wants to play, I’m down.
ItsyBitsy123: Well, hello, handsome.
I like to imagine he’s settled into bed too. Shirtless—because that’s my favorite way to imagine Kace—with one hand behind his head, the other holding his phone as he waits for a message from me.
GoodHands69: Hey! I’d almost given up on you!
ItsyBitsy123: Sorry about that. I haven’t logged on in a few days. I would have, though, if I’d known you’d be waiting. You want me to come over?
GoodHands69: Um . . . not yet??? Sorry, I have no idea what I’m doing right now. You cool with just talking?
Fuck, he’s adorable. He could’ve texted me and gotten a response immediately. Or he could’ve hit up any other chick on here, but he got on a hookup app and swiped on me. And now he wants to use said hookup app to . . . chat. I’m not surprised, really. It fits Kace’s MO—nothing impulsive, nothing risky. He’d be the type to make himself try out something like this, only to gravitate to the familiar face.
ItsyBitsy123: Talking’s good. I’m already in bed anyway and won’t consider moving for anything short of the best sex of my life.
GoodHands69: And is that easy to come by on here?
I actually laugh out loud. I’ve had so many bad experiences with Random that it’s a wonder I haven’t burned my phone to keep myself from going back for more.
ItsyBitsy123: I wouldn’t know. I like to think I haven’t HAD the best sex of my life yet.
So tell me what you’re doing on Random.
GoodHands69: Grocery shopping?
ItsyBitsy123: Har-har. Don’t be an ass.
GoodHands69: I’m in a weird place. Ready to move on from my marriage, but also not ready, because I have a daughter who matters more than anything. I’m trying to figure out a few things. Anyway, I guess I needed the distraction.
I roll to my side and consider how to reply. Should I bring up what happened in the pool house, or do like we agreed and pretend it never happened? If he wants to pretend, why is he talking to me on here?
ItsyBitsy123: Do you want to talk about it?
GoodHands69: No. I’m . . . still processing, if that makes sense?
It does. I think I’m still processing too, but I’m not sure how chatting with him is going to help me let go of all the “what-ifs” our almost-hookup planted in my brain.
GoodHands69: What brings you to Random tonight?
ItsyBitsy123: I used to think I was here because it was fun. Lately, I suspect I’m a glutton for punishment, but maybe my luck has changed?
GoodHands69: What makes you say that?
ItsyBitsy123: Um, because you’re here, Mr. GOOD HANDS. How long’s it been since you dated? Be honest.
GoodHands69: Honest? I haven’t dated anyone since my ex-wife. Some days I think dating might be good for me, but it’s not the same as it was when I was in college. A friend suggested Random might be a good way to get started, but you’re the only one I’ve been interested enough to swipe on. (You can thank your profile picture for that. It made me smile.)
I bite my lip. I wonder if Dean was the one who got him started on here. I can’t imagine my brother intended Kace to hook up with me when he recommended Random. Then again, if Kace wanted that, all he had to do was let me stay on Saturday. I’m so confused and afraid that because of my lifelong crush, I’m making a mess of something that should be very clear. Pretend it never happened. It was a mistake.
ItsyBitsy123: Glad you liked my picture, but why did you swipe on ME?
GoodHands69: I’m . . . curious.
ItsyBitsy123: Well, damn. Don’t be so giving with those compliments. Might go to my head.
GoodHands69: I mean, you’re different. The other profiles . . . I don’t know how to explain it.
ItsyBitsy123: Sure you do. You just don’t want to admit it.
GoodHands69: The other profiles felt too real, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. This seemed safe.
I frown at my phone. On the one hand, this confirms my suspicion that he swiped on me because I was familiar. On the other hand, I don’t understand how someone he knows in real life would seem less real than talking to a stranger. Or maybe he means there’s no chance we’ll end up hooking up, so it’s like a practice run for using the app?
I roll to my stomach and bury my face in my pillow. Only Kace could twist me in overthinking knots like this, and I really need to walk away before I tell him how much I want him. And not just physically.
But my phone buzzes with a new alert, and I’m fucking weak when it comes to this man, so I look, knowing I’ll chat with him all night if he wants.
GoodHands69: Did that sound insulting? I didn’t mean it that way. Tell me to go away if I’m bugging you.
ItsyBitsy123: You can talk to me anytime. Sometimes I tease, but I can be serious too. And, believe it or not, I’m a good listener.
GoodHands69: No, I can tell that about you. But I want you to have a turn. Tell me something.
Damn, he’s sweet. Reason #23541 no one can blame me for carrying a torch for him. But in typical Stella fashion, I make it a joke.
ItsyBitsy123: I assume that’s not an invitation to start sexting? You’re not asking what I’m wearing?
GoodHands69: Ha! That’s probably what I’m supposed to be using this message function for, but I’m not in the right headspace to go there—even as I type that, I hear my buddy in my head telling me I’m acting like a loser. I can’t help it. I’m a connection-before-sex kind of guy.
I’ve had other guys on here say something similar, but with Kace, I know it’s true. We might spend a lot of time in the same circle of friends, but I wouldn’t call him my friend. He’s never taken me seriously enough to try to connect with me—and maybe that’s my fault, but having him try now makes me hopeful and vulnerable in the most extreme way.
As much as I flirt with Kace, the truth is I’ve never wanted just sex from him. Don’t get me wrong—if he offered, I’d take it (as I proved Saturday), but it’d never be enough for me.
ItsyBitsy123: You’re not a loser, and it’s refreshing, so screw him. What do you want to know?
GoodHands69: Hmm . . . tell me something only your closest friends would know.
I stare at the screen for a long time before I finally settle on a response. What do I wish Kace understood about me?
ItsyBitsy123: I’m afraid I’m too much like my mom . . . and I feel awful even thinking that. My mom’s an incredible woman.
GoodHands69: But there has to be a reason you feel that way. In what way are you afraid you’re like her?
My stoma
ch’s in knots, and I actually back out of the message function so I can stare at his avatar while I consider my reply. How long have I wished Kace would just talk to me? And all it took was connecting on a hookup app that was never intended for talking.
Sighing, I click back into the messenger and frown. I sometimes forget this app is set up to automatically delete any messages—either sent or delivered—after you close out the messaging function. It also gives you a black screen if you try to take a screenshot. It’s all supposedly for “privacy,” but it’s obviously a way to hide evidence for the cheaters who live on here. I’ve never cared before, figuring karma will get the jerks in the end, but I’m already disappointed to have lost these exchanges with Kace. I wish I could keep them for posterity. Hey, a really great guy actually paid attention to me once.
It takes me a while to figure out how I want to reply, but when I do, my thumbs fly over the screen. I’m anxious to get out my thoughts.
ItsyBitsy123: Mom has rotten taste in men—my father included—and instead of finally finding the good guy who’d break that cycle, she just . . . stopped trying. Some days, I feel like I’m one more bad date away from doing the same.
GoodHands69: But you keep trying.
ItsyBitsy123: Of course I do. I like sex. Even the best vibrator is a piss-poor substitute for the real thing.
I hit send and immediately flinch. I want to use this conversation to open up and show him who I am under the surface, but here I am, leaning on the same old defense mechanism of being over-the-top about my sexuality, even though I know that’ll make Kace throw up walls. But he surprises me.
GoodHands69: I call bullshit. Sex is great, and I miss it too. That said, I bet your fear has very little to do with physical intimacy and everything to do with wanting human connection. A partner. Someone who understands you and will be by your side no matter what.
I feel like he just crawled inside my chest and wrapped himself around my heart. He’s not saying anything groundbreaking, but the idea that he feels like he knows this about me? Maybe I’m the one who’s been underestimating him.
ItsyBitsy123: You really see me. That’s . . . I don’t know if it’s comforting or scary. I feel like you just stripped me naked.
GoodHands69: In my experience, being vulnerable is like that. Comforting and scary. When it’s good, it’s both.
I wish we were face to face. Instead, I have to settle for closing my eyes and imagining the hug Kace might give me if we’d had this conversation around his firepit Saturday night instead of on an app. Although I haven’t been the recipient of many Kace hugs, the ones I’ve gotten were spectacular. He’s not a cologne guy, but he always smells clean—like Tide detergent and fabric softener, and maybe a little like whatever deodorant he uses. He’s broad and thickly muscled, and when he wraps his arms around me, it feels like that strength is seeping into me.
GoodHands69: It’s late, and I should probably sleep so I’m not a zombie when I’m driving my daughter to school tomorrow. But . . . I’d like to message you again. If you wouldn’t mind?
I grin. Mind? Is he nuts? I’d stay up until sunrise if he wanted to keep chatting. The idea that he wants to talk again makes me giddy.
ItsyBitsy123: You prefer the app to texting, then?
GoodHands69: If you don’t mind. This feels . . . I hate to say it again, because I probably sound like a weirdo, but this just feels less intimidating. I’d like to keep our conversations disconnected from real life. For now at least?
I chew on the inside of my cheek. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I want him to want to connect with me in real life, not just on Random. But I know I never would’ve opened up about my fears if we’d been face to face, and I’m not sure I would’ve over text, either.
Maybe Kace is right, and there’s something freeing about using the app. This way we can pretend we’re meeting for the first time.
ItsyBitsy123: I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Sleep well.
Chapter Seven
Kace
Tuesday morning, I’m dragging ass. For too many nights in a row, I’ve been stuck in my own head when it was time to sleep, and it’s catching up with me. I dropped Hope off at preschool already, and instead of hitting the road for my typical Tuesday run with Dean, I’m relieved to be pouring my second cup of coffee after he stood me up.
My phone buzzes with a new Random notification, and I take a sip of the dark, piping-hot liquid as I open the app. The sight of a message from ItsyBitsy has me smiling wider than I have all morning.
ItsyBitsy123: Good morning, handsome. How’d you sleep?
I’m not sure I want to answer that. After talking to her on Random last night, I would’ve thought I’d be able to fall asleep without thinking of my best friend’s little sister. I would’ve been wrong. I should never have touched Stella, because now I can’t stop thinking about it.
I actually typed out a text to her last night. Can’t stop thinking about the things you need to learn. I stared at it for a solid minute before I made myself delete it. If she finds a place to live that isn’t within ten yards of my back door, I’ll send that text and see what happens. Otherwise, I need to keep my thoughts to myself. I’m sure as hell not sharing them with another woman.
GoodHands69: I haven’t slept great lately. But that’s why God gave us coffee.
ItsyBitsy123: I’m sorry to hear that. Too much on your mind?
GoodHands69: You could say that. But at least I’m not losing sleep over my wife anymore.
I flinch the second I send the last message. Crap. I don’t want to sound like the bitter ex—especially since I’m really not. Losing Amy sucked, and some days are tough, but I couldn’t make her happy. I won’t resent her for being honest about her feelings.
ItsyBitsy123: I’m glad to hear that. And I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but Amy doesn’t deserve you.
Whoa. That throws me. Did I tell this woman my wife’s name? I remember talking about my divorce, but—
I scroll up to see the messages from last night, and nothing happens. It’s like they were never there.
GoodHands69: Why can’t I find last night’s messages?
ItsyBitsy123: The app eats them the second you close out of the message feature.
GoodHands69: Is it weird and old-fashioned of me to want to be able to revisit our conversations?
ItsyBitsy123: Not at all! I feel the same way. The feature’s annoying and inconvenient AF, not to mention likely enabling cheaters (though, really, if your guy has Random on his phone, that might be a good sign he’s not faithful).
I chuckle. I never expected to enjoy conversations with anyone I met on here, which is shallow of me, but I guess I’ve heard too many horror stories.
I want to know this woman’s name, see her face, but Orchid Valley is so small that there’s a decent chance we’ve met or at least have mutual friends. I know myself well enough to know that the second this feels too real, I’ll shut it down. Names and faces can wait until I’m sure this is something I’m willing to explore seriously.
GoodHands69: What’s the deal with your username?
ItsyBitsy123: Itsy Bitsy. Like the spider in the song?
GoodHands69: Hmm . . . well, that clears up nothing.
ItsyBitsy123: That poor spider just keeps getting knocked down, but she never stops trying. You could say I can relate.
GoodHands69: Where are you now? Climbing or getting washed out?
ItsyBitsy123: Climbing, baby.
GoodHands69: Good. I’ll be here cheering for you next time you get to the top.
ItsyBitsy123: I appreciate that.
My phone rings, and Dean’s picture flashes on the screen. I swipe to accept the call and press my cell to my ear. “Morning, asshole. I thought you were going to meet me for five miles this morning.” Not that I really care. I’m too fucking tired to run, let alone try to keep up with a former cross-country athlete.
“Sorry. I stopped by Mom’s to help her
with her computer and ended up getting sucked into a hundred other things over there.”
I laugh, all too familiar with that experience when it comes to my own mother. “It’s fine. I skipped out this morning, anyway. You get everything taken care of?”
“Not really.” He sighs, and I feel a big ask coming. “I need to get that sink fixed before I have the real-estate agent out to Mom’s. You know I’m shit with plumbing.”
I was planning to sit down in my office and catch up on emails, but I already know how this conversation will end. “Barely worse than I am,” I mutter. The last thing I want to do this morning is fix a leaky bathroom sink. When it comes to construction and home improvement, I can do a little bit of everything, but plumbing is my least favorite job. The rule of thumb is that the simplest plumbing job will require at least three unplanned trips to the hardware store, and I’d rather go in with a sharp mind. Never mind that the bathroom in question is right next to Stella’s room.
“I know I’m asking all the favors lately,” Dean says. “You know I wouldn’t if—”
“If it wasn’t for your mom. I know. And that’s why I want to help.” Sighing, I resign myself to a morning of cursing at pipes.
“Mom already left for work. You still have the key?”
“Yeah, but you’re making the first hardware store run.”
