Page 27 of Dirty Little Secrets
I twist the cap, take a sip, still reeling from the fact that I went through with it without telling Brent. “I know.”
She plops down on the couch beside me, her energy buzzing like static. “Has it said you had a match yet?”
I glance at my phone for the fourth time since I left work, fingers tapping the screen more from nerves than expectation. “Nope.”
“It will,” she assures me.
I shrug. “It’s no big deal. Maybe it’s a good thing. I can focus on me.”
“Why don’t we go out? Have some drinks.”
I smile, touched by her effort to lift my mood and get me to go out. It feels good to have someone in my corner. I want more than anything to chase something normal. Something safe. But the truth? I’m not normal. Even if I did as she asked and actually found someone, I was broken long before I left. My experience with Landon made me realize how deep the cracks go. How hardit would be to find someone who understood me or bothered to take a deeper look.
Another reason, I would be afraid to go dancing at a club, people would be drinking having a good time and I would probably find myself sober or feel awkward when I tell the guy who wanted to buy be a drink that I prefer water.
“I’m not big on drinking,” I say quietly.
She nods slowly, the empathy softening her eyes. “Right. I forgot.”
Images of my mother flicker through my mind—her slurred words, the empty bottles, the chaos. I hate to be a buzzkill. “What did you have in mind?”
Her face lights up. “We could go dancing. No drinking. Or find a late-night diner. Something spontaneous.”
I’ve learned a lot about Kristina these last few days since I moved in, like how she hates staying in. She’s not quite a party girl, but she thrives on motion. Connecting with different people and trying new things because she needs to feel alive.
“You hate being home, don’t you?”
She leans back on the couch with a sigh, gazing at the ceiling. “It’s not that. I just think there’s so much to see, to do, you know? We’ll have plenty of time to sit around and stare at the walls when we’re old and bitter. But right now? I want to live. Meet people. Travel. Fuck.”
I laugh. “Depends.”
“On?” she grins.
“Who it’s with.”
I’ve seen enough to know that sex can be many things—intimate, manipulative, violent. But I can’t tell her that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“Agreed.” She wrinkles her nose. “A bad fuck ruins your week.”
My phone buzzes with a sharp chime, different than usual. I glance down at a notification from Obsidian.
“What is it?” she asks, leaning over.
“It’s the app,” I say, stunned. My finger hovers over the screen.
“Well?”
“It says I have a match,” I say in disbelief.
Kristina does a little victory dance, bouncing on the couch. “See? That didn’t take long. Girl, what did you do in that room?”
I laugh nervously. “Enough, I guess.”
The contract was clear: no screenshots, no screen sharing, no explaining the process to outsiders. Obsidian demanded secrecy and to give it in return. The mic and camera permissions weren’t invasive; they were protective. The app keeps everything sealed inside its digital gates.
I open the app. A message blinks:
Congratulations RED. You’ve been matched. Please press the button to fill out the next set of questions.
