He’s lying to me. I can feel it in my bones. It’s like a vague restlessness that won’t leave me the hell alone, slowly eating away at the blanket of half truths he’s spread over me. I can see him from my spot on the couch, hunched over his laptop with his white button down untucked and tie loosened. He’s handsome, with a mop of chestnut curls and a strong jawline cut like a razors edge. He really needs not risk the online dating profile to find other women, he could walk into any coffee shop this side of town and find someone. Charlie has never been known for his brains, though.

“I’m going to bed.” I tell him, ripping the blanket off my lap and walking over to him to give him a kiss on the head. His laptop shuts quickly and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

“I’ll be in shortly, love, just finishing up some shopping.” he says.

I give him a smile over my shoulder, and saunter into the bedroom, a plan already forming in my head.

The next morning, Charlie is already gone, his side of the bed long since warm. My fingers fumble for my phone on the nightstand. “Shopping” huh? I’m about to find out exactly what kind of shopping he has been doing.

I will admit, this isn’t the first time I’ve done something like this. Skepticism is in my nature and I’ve ruined many relationships because of it, but I usually just blame it on daddy issues and move on. This time though, I’m fairly certain I’d do the same thing even if I had a stable father.

I quickly log in to my fake tinder profile. Emmy Wood, a 5’8 lanky blonde with dimples on both cheeks has never failed me, and I know she won’t this time. I change her hobbies from “reading and lazy sundays,” the favorite hobbies of my most recent casualty, to hiking and travel, hobbies I know Charlie finds attractive. As soon as I hit post, I begin swiping to see if his profile comes up. A myrid of men appear, each less appealing than the last. “Angel in the street, a freak in the sheets” one profile reads. I suppress a gag. Men really are the bane of my existence.

Just as I’m getting ready to put my phone away and get on with my day, I get a match. Matthew Carter. My stomach sinks a little, and I kick myself at the feeling. “Single and ready to mingle” the profile reads. And it’s not “Matthew Carter.” It’s Charlie. Same Curly hair. Same eyes. Same smile that kissed me just yesterday.

Different emotions war inside me. There’s the familiar smug satisfaction of finding him out, but it’s dampened by an even more familiar drowning sensation. Okay so maybe I don’t have the best attachment style, but it’s men like this that make me that way.

I shake the feeling off and type a message. “Hey cutie :) grab a drink later?”

My finger hovers over the send button. I already know how this goes, and the life I’ve halfway built the last 2 years is about to crumble. I send the message and quickly lay my phone on the nightstand.

“Why me?” I ask the god I’m not totally sure exists but feel the need to reach out to more often than not.

The buzz of my phone is the only answer I get.

I reach for the phone.

“Hey cutie :) sure, when and where?”

“9pm, Reggie’s diner?” I type back and get a response almost immediately.

“See you there!”

I let out a heavy sigh that does little to release the crushing weight on my chest. We were supposed to go out for our anniversary tonight, and I can’t wait to see what excuse he comes up with. Probably something predictable like being stuck at work.

As if he had actually read my mind, his name lights up on my screen.

“Babe, I promise I’ll make it up to you, but I can’t make dinner tonight. Im going to be stuck at work a while. It’s a mess.”

Would it kill him to be at least a little more original?

“No worries” I quickly type back. But in reality, he should be very, very worried.

The parking lot of Reggie’s diner is nearly empty. The rain soaked pavement reflects the streetlights as my eyes search for Charlie’s car. He’s not here yet. Good.

I step out of my car in what I like to call my “revenge dress.” It’s a deep red that cuts low in the front and hugs my curves in all the right places. This dress, along with the black strapy heels that adorn my feet, have been with me during some of the worst nights of my life. Way more reliable than any man.

I pick out a booth in the corner of the diner and order a glass of red wine while messaging “Matthew Carter” the table number I’m at.

“Pulling in” he messages back as butterflies fill my stomach.

Taking a few deep breaths, I school my features into a stoney mask. My eyes watch his every movement as he gets out of his car and walks across the parking lot. If he noticed my car, he makes no show of it, his confident strides making me ache to hit him where it hurts. The bell on the door chimes as he enters and asks the hostess where our table is. I watch as she points in my direction and my heart pounds with wicked adrenaline as his face falls. Got ya, asshole.

I stand, extending my hand. Emmy Wood, lovely to meet you, Matthew.”