Page 19 of Desserts for Stressed People

Men, 27, and the radius is the smallest possible. Everything’s right. Unless...With a gasp, I call Emma.

“Yo,” she answers, music blasting in the background.

“What if his info doesn’t match my filters? What if he lied about himself?”

“Who’s this?” she asks with a dramatic gasp, and it’s good she’s such a great saleswoman because she is a sucky actress.

“I’m serious, Em.”

She sighs. “Then he won’t appear in your matches.”

Maybe I should just go through his phone, but the idea of it makes me tremble. I’d have to get it and guess his password, which already feels icky enough. But if I managed to do that—and it’s unlikely considering he never leaves that damn thing unsupervised—I’d have to go through his RadaR profile. I’d see the chats he has with women. Women he slept with. “What if I try to change my filters?”

“Well, you saw the screenshot. Your filters match his profile. Maybe you just need to wait—”

I gasp, standing in an instant. “Oh my God, Emma. I got it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re right, my filters match his profile. If I haven’t found him yet, it must mean thathisfilters don’t match Nevaeh’s profile.” The only problem is, Emma found him. How did she? “What information do you have on your profile?”

There’s a bit of silence, then she clicks her tongue. “Oh—of course. The age filter! He didn’t lie abouthisage. I lied about mine! On my RadaR profile, I’m twenty-two instead of twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-two?” I don’t even try to hide my surprise. We both know Emma can’t pass for twenty-two. “Why would you do that?”

“Because being our age often means wanting to settle down. As a twenty-two-year-old carefree woman, I find many more hookups.”

I sigh. I’d normally give her my condescending “Oh, Emma,” but I don’t have the moral high ground, do I?

“Don’t judge me,” she says. “It’s my sales training. It’s not a lie, more like...an embellishment.”

Maybe she would be a superb actress after all, because it sounds like she believes that. I hold back my amusement and ask, “Okay, so, you think he’s looking for...younger women?”

“I mean...yeah? Maybe it’s just because he figured any of your friends could find him. So he put filters that would keep him off your friends’ feed.”

I close my eyes shut. There isn’t an actual reason for it, but in my head, this new piece of information makes it worse. Like I’m some old wife, and he’s out looking for perkier breasts or less cellulitis. My boobs are just fine. Aren’t they? Peeking down at my chest, I roll my eyes. “So what if I change my age?”

“Yes. Do that. From now on, you’re twenty-two.”

I nod. Yes, from now on, I’m twenty-two. I like pilates, drink frappuccinos with soy milk and no foam, and receive tweet notifications from a self-affirmation account. I am young, carefree, and ready to wear anklets and go backpacking in Australia.

When I end the call five minutes later, there’s a message waiting for me.

Shane:

There. If you have the packaged version of this, please refrain from showing it to me.

I open the picture he sent me with a playful bite on my bottom lip, and as my mouth fills with saliva, I don’t know what to look at first. The light brown, chocolate-chip-infused banana bread, or the firm hand that’s holding the white plate on which it rests. His fingers are long, thick and there’s some flour on his wrist, right below his matte black watch. Hot.

Before I’m done staring, the picture’s gone. “Damn.” I stop myself from tapping on it again and stand, then snap a picture of the canal and send it.

Nevaeh:

No boxed desserts tonight, I promise.

Shane:

You’re out and about. Sorry, go back to your night.