The Boy Who Died
“They’re way more fun with friends, promise.”
That, too, makes sense. And Heather is basically the most normal person I know, so I should follow her lead on this. I pull my phone out of the purse trapped under my body and hand it over.
Setting up the profiles requires moving for a quick photoshoot after Heather declares all the pictures I have “not proof of my hotness,” and she helps me with a bio that hopefully doesn’t make me sound as pathetic as I am. Or maybe “introvert looking for someone to lie around with” is just dating-app for pathetic, and the trick is on other people. Then, the swiping begins.
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