Chapter Text
He was on the porch that afternoon, boots up on the railing, scrolling through news headlines, when his phone buzzed.
Tinder — 1 new message.
He stared at it. That had to be a mistake. You couldn’t get messages unless you matched, and Nate didn’t match with anyone. He barely swiped. And nobody swiped back. He thumbed the notification open. And there she was.
Gwen — 6 miles away. Never seen her in town. Didn’t recognize the face, didn’t recognize the name.
Nate blinked at the screen.
…What?
He didn’t even remember which picture Caleb used. Probably the blurry one where half his face was hidden under the bill of his hat and he was holding a catfish.
He stared at the message again, like maybe it would turn into normal English if he waited long enough.
'could feed a hungry pussycat'
Was she talking about…
No.
Nope. Absolutely not.
He felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, like someone had turned the porch light into a spotlight.
For a long minute, he just sat there holding the phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard, brain refusing to produce a single intelligent reply.
Heat crawled up the back of his neck. His first thought was that she meant…
No. No absolutely not.
He spent five full minutes typing and deleting every possible response, until he finally landed on the safest, dumbest one possible:
Befor he cold he chrinched looking at the screeen, a new ping
Nate stared.
That one he understood, unfortunately. The worst part was that it made him snort—half laugh, half groan—before the secondhand embarrassment kicked in like a mule.
He rubbed a hand over his face. Jesus.
Was this actually happening?
He could feel the heat blooming behind his ears again, could imagine Caleb’s shit-eating grin like it was standing right in front of him.
Focus. Answer. Say something normal.
Something not about dicks in rivers.
He paused, then added:
He caught on the first two words.
'God, no.'
Like the idea of staying here any longer than necessary was unthinkable. Like this place was something you passed through with the windows up.
A minute passed. Then his phone buzzed again.
He stared at the phone, jaw tightening.
No way.
Absolutely no way this was real.
Caleb had pulled dumber pranks before. Fake numbers. Fake profiles. Letting things go on longer than they should’ve.
This had Caleb’s fingerprints all over it.
He lit up the screen and typed.
You don’t need anything special.
Just a regular fishing pole is fine.
He stared at it, already hating how stiff it sounded. Like instructions.
He deleted it and tried again.
Better. Normal. Safe.
He hit send.
The three dots appeared almost immediately. Too fast. Like she’d been waiting for it. Like she’d been ready to pounce.
Nate narrowed his eyes.
Caleb always wanted to use his stuff. Never took care of his own. Broke rods, lost knives, borrowed trucks and brought them back on fumes. Shithead.
Sharing your equipment already?
That sounded like him. Smug. Pleased with himself. The kind of line Caleb would toss out just to see Nate bristle.
And the timing. That was what really did it. She hadn’t hesitated. Not a second. She’d pounced the moment Nate offered anything even remotely generous.
Caleb loved that. Loved pushing until Nate snapped back, until he showed his hand.
So yeah. That’s when the thought settled in.
This wasn’t a woman six miles away.
This was Caleb on his couch, beer in hand, laughing his ass off.
He typed.
It’s just fishing gear.
Deleted it.
I didn’t mean it like that.
Gone even faster.
It’s not like that.
Now it sounded like it was like that.
He ran a hand down his face and blew out a breath. Silence felt safer than explaining. Instead, he went passive.
The moment he sent it, he hated himself. He sounded paranoid. He sounded guilty. Like a man caught defending himself against a crime he hadn’t even committed.
He stared at the screen after sending it, feeling stupid the second the message went out.
But he’d been burned before.
And this, this whole thing, felt too surreal to trust.
The three dots didn’t appear right away.
A minute passed.
Then two.
He started to think he’d offended her. Or that she’d disappeared entirely.
His phone buzzed.
A photo message.
He blinked at it, thumb hovering before he tapped.
The picture filled the screen.
A young woman standing on a gravel driveway, a wooden sign behind her that read: WELCOME TO DEAD END.
Tank top. Shorts. Sunlight on bare legs.
A real woman.
In his town.
His stomach didn’t flip with excitement.
It dropped with something worse.
Coincidences like this didn’t happen to him. Not without a punchline waiting.
His fingers hovered over the screen, then typed:
He hovered over the send button.
It felt mean.
But trusting her felt stupid.
He hit send.
Three dots blinked, then vanished. Came back. Vanished again.
Nate stared at the screen, stomach sinking.
He felt like he’d kicked a puppy. Or crushed something delicate that hadn’t even been his to touch. He hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. Not accusing. Not cruel. Just defensive.
He didn’t know how to do this without bracing for the punchline.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. I didn’t mean it like that.
The phone buzzed again.
A small square appeared in the chat.
A video.
His heart jumped straight into his throat.
“What in the goddamn…” he muttered.
He tapped it.
For half a second, the screen stayed black.
Then chaos detonated out of his phone speaker.
Laughter. Wild, shrieking, unmistakably plural. Drunk-girl laughter, coming in gasps and squeals, everyone already crying before the stupid part even happened. The camera swung wildly, porch light flaring as someone tried and failed to steady it.
And then there she was.
Gwen.
Or a Gwen.
Perched on a cabin deck railing like she’d signed a blood oath with gravity. One leg hitched up, the other dangling. Hair half wild, makeup mostly gone. She looked like a cowgirl abandoned by the rodeo. Boots. Cutoffs. A glittering tank top that read SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY. Eyes bright and unfocused. Wine bottle in one hand. Middle finger in the other.
“Oh my GOD, Gwen,” someone offscreen wheezed. “You’re gonna break your spine.”
“I WANNA SHOOT A BUCK AND FUCK HIM TOO!” Gwen howled, lifting the wine bottle like Excalibur, queen of Spring Break: Nowhere Edition.
More screaming.
“Realest bitch at Dead End!” someone shouted, breathless with laughter.
Gwen struck a pose. Duck face. Devil horns. Boots wobbling on a railing they had no business being on. Her cutoff shorts rode up. The tank top glittered under the porch light. Her whole body vibrated with the kind of energy that ended in either a hospital visit or a mugshot.
“YEE HAW, BITCHES! I’M A RANGERETTE IN HEAT!”
Then she started twerking on the railing. Badly.
“SPRING BREEEEAAAKKK!” she yelled. It came out more war cry than cheer.
She lunged.
Someone gasped.
An arm flashed past the lens.
A high, startled squeal—
The camera spun. Then came the unmistakable thump rustle crash of someone vanishing into a bush.
More screaming.
More hysterical laughter.
Someone yelling, “GWEN. GWEN. ARE YOU ALIVE?”
The video cut off.
Nate just stared.
Dragged a hand down his face, pulse hammering through him like he’d been sucker-punched.
He didn’t know whether to laugh, wince, or go find a drink.
“fuck…”
Because yeah.
Fake girls on Tinder didn’t usually hurl themselves into shrubbery to prove a point.
But that didn’t mean this woman had sent the video herself.
Didn’t mean it wasn’t borrowed, forwarded, ripped from somewhere else and dropped into his lap at exactly the right moment.
All it proved was that the girl in the video was real.
Whoever he was talking to?
That was still very much an open question.
He stared at the message box, thumb hovering.
Paused. Didn’t send it.
After a beat, he locked the screen, tossed the phone facedown on the table, and stood. He’d deal with it in the morning.
Maybe.