“About Jeremy?”
Emma’s long pause warns me that I’m not going to like the answer.
“Someone tagged him in some photos online,” she eventually says. A long beat passes, then she adds, “It was another woman.”
My stomach drops. It has no right to, but my stomach freefalls, nonetheless. I shouldn’t be surprised. Jeremy slept with another woman before our relationship was even over. I wonder she’s the woman in the pictures, or if he’s already moved on from her as well. It doesn’t matter, but somehow it feels like it should.
“Oh” is the only word I manage to force past my lips. The rest are caught in my throat.
“Margot, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. I promise I’m fine,” I say in a hollow voice.
Somewhere deep down, I know it’s true. Every day I feel a little bit better. The little pinhole of light in the darkness opens up a little wider. But right now, I can feel it dimming inside my chest.
***
That night, I curl up on my bed with a glass of wine and wrestle with the urge to look at Jeremy’s social media, which I promptly unfollowed after our breakup. Part of me thinks that seeing him with another woman might give me closure. The other part suspects that it would obliterate any progress I’ve made, like picking at the edges of a scar that’s just begun to heal.
My finger hovers over the stupid little icon of Jeremy’s stupid face on my phone screen. If I don’t look, I’ll just keep obsessing over it. I take a huge swig from my wine glass and press my finger to the screen.
The first photo hits me like a brick straight to the chest, painfully stealing the air from my lungs. Jeremy is smiling widely at the camera, hair rumpled like he just got out of bed. Beside him, a blonde woman presses her smiling cheek to his. Her eyes are tired, but her makeup and hair are perfect.
My throat goes dry.
I recognize her.
We’ve only met a couple times, but I recognize her as one of Jeremy’s coworkers. The same coworker who “accidentally” sat on Jeremy’s lap at the Christmas party last year because she got a little too tipsy. Jeremy laughed it off, so I did too because I trusted him completely.
So much for that.
I take another gulp of wine and swipe to the next photo. Jeremy is kissing her temple while she poses for the camera.
Nope. That’s enough of that. I close out of the app and toss my phone down.
With my pulse still racing and my head starting to swim from the wine, I get an idea. A really bad idea, probably. If Jeremy is already moving on, then so will I.
Picking my phone back up, I search the app store for Sip, a popular dating app that promises to “quench your thirst” in theircheesy ads. While it’s downloading, I top off my wine. Then I settle in and start filling out my profile.
Name? Easy.
Location? Denver.
Interested in? Men.
Wow, I’m really good at this. Look at me go.
Picture? Um, we’ll come back to that. All of the photos on my phone include a certain Asshole Who Shall Not Be Named.
About me? Easy-peasy.
My thumbs fly across the keyboard, crafting a biography that is both earnest and charming. When I’m finished, I go back and read it out loud.
Fresh out of a long-term relationship that didn’t end very well, but still searching for my happy ending. I’m a bit introverted, bookish, and obsessed with cats, even though I don’t have one yet (working on it!). I’m looking for someone kind, smart, funny, and who will make a great cat-dad one day.
Okay…
So, maybe that’s a little too earnest.