Page 8 of My Unhinged Alphas
She leans back against the brick wall, sunglasses perched on her head. “You haven’t even looked at it.”
“I don’t need to look at it,” I say. “It’s a dating app. I know how this goes. It’s either gym selfies, fish photos, or men who describe themselves as ‘entrepreneurs’ with no further details.”
Jess spins her phone toward me anyway. “Kindred,” she says dramatically. “It’s curated. It’s algorithm-based. It’s not like the others.”
“They all say that,” I mutter. “So did my last situationship.”
Mara reaches over and steals one of my chips. “You need to go on a date.”
“I need to pay my rent,” I reply. “And maybe sleep.”
“You can do both,” Jess insists. “Multitasking. Very adult.”
I snort. “Dating is not multitasking. Dating is a full-time unpaid internship.”
They exchange a look.
This isn’t a random ambush. They’ve been circling this for weeks.
Jess met her girlfriend on a dating app two years ago and has been evangelical about them ever since. Mara dates like it’s a hobby she excels at. I, apparently, am the group charity case.
“You work too much,” Mara says, nudging my sneaker with hers. “You close almost every shift.”
“Because tips are better at night.”
“Because you volunteer for it,” Jess corrects.
I shrug. I do volunteer. The café is quieter at close. Less small talk. Less forced brightness. It’s easier to clean machines than to sit in my apartment listening to my neighbor argue with her cat.
“You’re twenty-something and hot,” Jess continues. “You should at least try.”
“I’m twenty-something and tired,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
Mara watches me carefully. She’s known me the longest. We started at Second Circle the same week three years ago, both pretending this job was temporary.
Temporary has a way of becoming permanent.
“You don’t even date casually,” she says.
“I’m busy.”
“With what?” Jess challenges lightly.
I hesitate for half a second too long. “With life,” I say.
Mara arches a brow. “You don’t even have family stuff to juggle.”
The words are casual. Not cruel. Just careless.
It still lands.
I pick at the crust of my sandwich. “True,” I say lightly. “No Thanksgiving drama. No awkward cousins. I’m tragically unburdened.”
Mara winces slightly, realizing too late. “Lena, that’s not?—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in with a small grin. “It’s actually one of my best features. Low emotional baggage. Limited backstory.”
They both look at me the way people look at a cracked mug they’re not sure they should still use.
