Swipe Right

4| It's a match!

In the kitchen, Mom is dancing to the radio with a wooden spoon in her hand. From the mix of spices tingling my nostrils, she's cooking spaghetti bolognese–my favorite.

My brother, Finn, sits quietly at the breakfast bar, his laptop in front of him, and a mocha by his side. He's nineteen and just started interning at some IT company, which means there's never a moment he's not typing away.

Mom looks at me from over her shoulder. Her dark hair is scooped into a messy bun this evening, but a few wild strands hang freely around her face, framing her angular jaw.

"Thought you were never coming home," she says, licking a sliver of sauce from the spoon. "You have a lot to do in Editorial Club?"

"Yeah," I say, praying she can't see the heat in my cheeks. "Loads. Mellissa's finally leaving, which means the position of Faculty Advisor is up for grabs."

Mom smiles. As a go-getter, lawyer-turned-business-owner who loves keeping busy, she adores the fact that I know exactly what I want in life. It means I am more like her and less like our indecisive father.

"About time that little dictator was shown the door," she says.

I take a seat at the table, and Finn looks up for a second to study my face. Out of all of us, he looks the most like Mom. His hair is darker–much straighter than mine–and his large brown eyes remind me of Grandma's.

"Why do you look so flustered?" he wants to know.

My fingers instinctively go to my cheeks, like I'll be able to wipe away the heat. "I'm not," I say. "I'm just hot. I thought you were supposed to be a computer technician, not a detective."

My sister, Gina, stumbles into the kitchen before Finn can interrogate me. She throws open the cupboards, pulling out a mug that has Not Today, Satan, written across the side.

"I," she says, turning to face us, "am exhausted."

You'd never know we are sisters to look at us. Gina inherited the majority of her features from Dad, which means she is small and wiry, with big hazel eyes, a small, upturned nose, and a sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks. Dad's genes didn't win out completely in the end, though. Gina's hair is the same honey color as his, but it is thick and curly, like Mom's.

"You're fourteen," Finn says, a thick eyebrow arched. "What have you got to be exhausted about?"

Gina gracefully ignores him and looks at me, clutching her cup of coffee with one hand while using the other to smooth down her hair. She gets her caffeine addiction from Mom, I think, who can chug back at least six cups in the space of a day. She says it's a requirement of owning your own business, but I'm not so sure.

"Where've you been?" Gina asks. "And did you forgo the deep conditioner again? The frizz in your hair right now is insane."

I narrow my eyes. "I had a lot to do at E.C."

Gina pulls an unfortunate face. If I am the go-getter, dream-chaser daughter, then Gina is the opposite–the one more like Dad. She's content with cruising through life in her own little world, not having any idea of what she wants. I don't exactly think it's a bad thing, but Mom wants everyone to have their future mapped out by the time they're eighteen.

"Oh, I might need your help at the bookstore next weekend, Nyla," Mom says. "Katie's got a wedding to go to and can't make her shift."

I roll my eyes. Mom's dream was always to open her very own bookstore, and after Dad left, she finally took the plunge. That means that whenever her staff calls in sick or something, she calls forth one of her kids.

I hate the bookstore. It's small and dark, with shelves so tightly stacked together it's like trying to navigate a maze. But Elora's Books is important to Mom and by default, it's important to me.

"Sure," I say, taking a seat. "Whatever you need."

"Thanks, ba–" Mom stops dead when the sound of 'Aint No Mountain High' Enough starts to trickle through the radio. Her body stiffens, and after a moment of hesitation, she yanks the radio cord straight from the power outlet and throws it aside.

The kitchen falls silent. Mom doesn't look up from the pot she is stirring, not even when our cat, Buffy, strolls in and rubs her head against Mom's leg. 'Aint No Mountain High Enough' was her favorite song before Dad left. The pair of them used to belt it out on Sunday mornings while they made us our breakfast. Now she hates it; it reminds her too much of him.

Later on, once I've eaten enough food to keep a small country going, I lie in bed with my phone out in front of me, swiping through various faces on the app. It feels so strange, so impersonal to be judging someone based on their appearance and a few lines in their profile. It feels even worse to know they're doing the same thing to me.

After a few minutes of swiping, my phone buzzes with a new notification. I click to open the message and stare at a picture of Dan, 18, with my stomach in knots.

My very first match.