Page 81 of The Play

“What do you mean, skin? Like a nude?”

“Of course not, dumbass. I don’t think that’s even allowed. But you sure as shit can’t usethispicture. You’re wearing a turtleneck—and that long flowy skirt? You look lumpy, Semi. Do you want the first picture potential suitors see of you to make them say,hey, who’s this lumpy chick?”

“You aresuchan ass.”

“No, I’m realistic. I’m not trying to be skeevy, but come on. These dudes don’t care about your personality. They care about your looks. They’re literally swiping through photographs deciding if they want to meet you based on those photos.”

“Okay, fine. How about this one?” In this next photo, I’m clad in a tight tank top and denim shorts. My boobs look great and my hair is loose and flowing over one shoulder.

“Better.” Hunter nods his approval. “Stick that one in for now and then we’ll rearrange the order.” He steals the phone from my hand and takes over scrolling duties. “Ah, fuck yes, you definitely want to include this one.”

“No way. I’m in a bikini.”

“Exactly. And you look goddamn edible. You’re searching for a guy to fuck you, Demi.Thiswould make me fuck you.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. Oh lord. He is sitting way too close to be dropping F-bombs like that. And why does he smell so good? Has he always smelled like this? I don’t think we’ve ever sat this close before. Our thighs are touching, and one muscular arm is pressed up against the sleeve of my thin sweater. I can feel his body heat through the material.

“You would really fuck me if you saw this picture?” I study the bathing suit I’m wearing. It’s a red string bikini that revealsa lotof skin. The picture was taken in South Beach, courtesy of my friend Amber.

“Oh yeah,” Hunter confirms, and I notice his eyes have actually glazed over.

“Are you trying to picture what I look like underneath the bikini?” I accuse.

“Yes.”

I lightly punch his shoulder. “Hey, I already offered you the rebound. You declined. Therefore you’re not allowed to fantasize about me now.”

“Fine,” he grumbles.

We select a few more pictures. Hunter insists I need a full-body shot, a face shot where I’m staring directly at the camera, and a shot in which I’m smiling with teeth, because apparently not showing teeth means I’ve got the mouth of an old British man. He also lays down the law about Snapchat filters, and any selfies taken from above. According to Hunter, that’s the “deception angle.”

“For the last photo, how about this one with me and my friends?” I suggest. “That way the guys can see I’m a social person.”

“You can’t use that picture. You’re with a bunch of guys. It’s intimidating.”

“Why?”

“Are you joking? They look like huge basketball players.”

“Well, yeah. Because they are.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “By posting this, you’re pretty much saying these are the kind of guys you can pull. Any guy who doesn’t look like that will be way too scared to swipe on you.”

“You are scarily good at this,” I inform him.

“It’s common sense, Semi. Now let’s write your profile. We want to keep it short. My recommendation? Three letters. D. T. F.”

“No way.”

“Uh-huh. So I’m wrong about your intentions?”

“No, but I’m sure if we put our heads together we could find a more diplomatic way of saying it,” I say dryly. “How about this?”

I write:

Recently single. New to this and not looking for anything serious right now.

“Not bad,” Hunter relents. “And maybe we should add a few interests. Here, let me.” He snatches the phone again, chortling as he types.

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