The phone chimes in my ear, signaling a text. I glance down to see a screenshot of my supposed dating profile.
It’s certainly me; there’s no denying that. My stomach drops three more times as the accompanying pictures come through.
The first is my professional headshot. I’m buttoned up in a suit jacket with a camisole underneath, my hair and makeup expertly applied, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose absent. This one is used on the firm’s website and in marketing materials. Hell, it’s on various billboards throughout the valley. I used to take a different route to avoid it on my way to work.
Gaping at the other three photos, I’m confused. These aren’t for public consumption. In one, I’m scantily clad in a bikini, holding a piña colada while relaxing on a white-sand beach. It was taken a little over a year ago in Key West on a much-needed vacation, and if you look closely, Holden’s tan shoulder is next to my freckled one.
The next is a seductive pose, my blonde sex kitten hair big and tangled, a come-hither look in my green eyes. I’m wearing lingerie, a black corset and thong, the result of a night when I had too many glasses of merlot and a pang of deep sadness I couldn’t shake unless it was with an AmEx card. The $700 price tag I could stomach more easily than the empty pit in my gut. The need to feel sexy was worth the high price, except he didn’t appreciate it one bit.
My jaw clenches at this memory.
In the final pic, I flash a coquettish smile at the camera, one of my hands tucked into the front of my white lace panties, leaving little to the imagination. I’m engaged in an intimate moment touching myself and enjoying it, taunting the photographer.
A flush rapidly spreads down my neck. The last two photos were supposed to be private. He promised me only I’d see them, and I’ve never shown them to anyone. I saved them in the cloud. Could someone have hacked them?
But why?
Because they’re borderline pornographic, I chide myself.
“Are you there?”
“Yes,” I manage to whisper.
“You don’t seem to have much to say.”
Biting my nail, I struggle to think of anything else to add in my defense. I must be a shitty attorney if I can’t make a solid case on my own behalf. “I bought that lingerie a couple of months ago.” I shrug. “You had no interest.”
“Hmm . . .” His voice rasps. “Looks like you showed it to someone.”
“No.” I stare closely at the last picture, at my painted red lips and kitten eyeliner.
His voice rises an octave. The tone is less controlled and hysterical—a perfect match for the unsettled thoughts in my mind. “I don’t believe you.”
I keep my chin up, glad he can’t see it quivering. “We can talk about this tonight.”
“Is there anything to talk about?”
“I didn’t—” I start to say, but just as quickly, I close my mouth.
“First, your birthday, and now online dating? You’re fucking unbelievable.”
Pressing my eyes shut, I try to remember, but it’s all a haze—a loop. I heard about different dating apps from friends who rejoined the dating pool after messy divorces or because they hadn’t met anyone the organic way, whatever that is anymore.
A few nights ago, when I was out, or maybe it was last week, I went to a happy hour with a group of women for networking opportunities. We all work in different industries, and usually, there is an eclectic mix. It’s once a month, and it’s great because there are always new people who join.
A topic of conversation that came up was how vastly different dating is in this day and age, compared to the experiences of those of us who have been married a long time, which is a decade in my case. This prompted a couple of the women to show the different types of apps they were on, which then brought out a comical array of stories from everyone, mostly about first dates. I could hardly take a sip of my wine, I was laughing so hard.
I was curious at the types of profiles some of the women described, and a few offered to show me. One newbie to the group showed me how a couple of the apps worked. All she had to do was swipe left or right. She talked about the “thrill” of swiping, how it was like a fun game.
I toyed with the idea of setting up a profile just for curiosity’s sake.
But I didn’t, did I?
Or did I?
Holden interrupts my thoughts. “You didn’t what?”
“Huh?” I rub my temples. “Nothing.”
My hands start to shake, and when I rub them together, they are ice cold. The chills racing up and down my body cause me to wonder if I should be home in bed. Maybe I’m coming down with something.
Or maybe it’s guilt.
It could even be my own lack of awareness, a missing memory I can’t seem to retrieve.
I wouldn’t have used those pictures to set up a dating profile.
I couldn’t have.
I rest my head in my hands. But what if . . .
No, Sib, don’t go there . . .
What if I was a couple of bottles deep?
You’re a lot of things, but you’re not your father, I warn. Stop transferring his bad behavior onto yourself. As much as I loved my father, I don’t want to end up like him. I didn’t see his anger so much as I saw him feebly controlling it. He’d be most accurately described as a bitter alcoholic.
No. No way. I’d never embarrass Holden or myself like that. We have our share of problems, but not to the extent I’d advertise my rocky relationship status on a dating site with provocative photographs he didn’t know about just to get back at him.
Our careers are
