Page 44 of Match Me if You Can

“She left.”

I exhale silently. “Tori?”

“Yeah,” he says, “we fu—made love for the first time last night”—I close my eyes, hoping that this isn’t about to take a turn for the terrible—“and when I woke up this morning she was gone, along with my wallet.”

Shit.

“I’ll get in contact with her,” I say, “and call you back.”

“Thanks, Violet. I, uh, I’m sorry I⁠—”

“I’m not going to say it’s all right, but apology accepted.” I sigh quietly. “Let me get to work and I’ll circle back.”

We exchange our goodbyes and I hang up.

I’m sitting on the edge of Ace’s bed surrounded by photoshopped, big-boobed models, on a job I don’t want any part of, about to make a phone call I don’t want to.

Because sleeping together is a big step.

And it’s not a requirement in what I do. Not fucking ever.

If a couple matches and they both want it, great.

If not, no fucking way.

Same goes for kids.

And because of that, now I need to make a call, need to make sure that what happened between them was consensual⁠—

I exhale, tap my phone against my forehead.

Then immediately freeze because the worst of my migraine may be over, but my head still feels fragile and the last thing I need to do is push it over the edge.

“Stop stalling,” I mutter.

I pull up Tori’s contact info, hit the button to make the call, and listen to it ring.

“H-hello?” Her voice is watery and I immediately jab at my phone’s screen, changing the call to video.

“It’s me,” I say. “Violet. Answer the FaceTime.”

There’s a fumbling noise, a sniff, but then the video connects and I see Tori’s face.

Red and splotchy, swollen eyes, the tip of her nose turned pink—the result of tears.

Not violence.

Relief floods through me, so I’m able to calmly ask, “Want to clue me in to why you’re crying?”

“Oh, Violet,” she moans, the camera jostling as she scrubs a hand over her face. “I messed up.”

“Does this have to do with taking Tyler’s wallet?”

Her hand drops and she frowns. “What? I didn’t take his wallet. It’s on his kitchen counter, next to the coffee maker. I told him to start leaving it there because he never could find it.”

“That’s smart of you,” I say gently, minimizing the call and typing out a message to Tyler to look for his fucking wallet next to his fucking coffee maker, where he—fucking—apparently has started leaving it.

Phrased much nicer, of course.