That night, I can’t sleep. The TMZ video loops cruelly in my head, interspersed with my most romantic moments with Tyler. I see him hand-delivering a bouquet of two dozen white roses and lilies, just because it was Wednesday and he missed me. I flash to his eyes shut tight, head bopping to the beat of the club’s house music. I remember the sexy, sleepy way his hair stuck up in bed when he woke up on Sunday mornings, and the time he bought out an entire theater so I could see a showing of Stick It on my birthday. My brain cuts to the way he slipped his hand into Brianna’s as they exited the club, heads ducked from the flashing cameras. And then there’s Mom’s voice: You should have something to do. Something other than this: lying sweaty in a twin-sized bed in a room decorated by an eight-year-old.

Fuck it. If Tyler can move on, so can I. I download a dating app and throw together the bare bones: a full-body photo from my skinny days before the Freshman 15 set in; a close-up from Tyler’s cousin’s wedding, when my hair and makeup looked good; and no bio at all, because what’s there to say? I set my location radius to thirty miles. Even after all this time, my name is easy to recognize in this small town. People still think of me as that girl who almost made the Olympics.

It’s past 11 p.m.—probably too late to swipe without looking like I’m only here for hookups. But I feel a morosely intoxicating combination of sadness and loneliness, so I swipe anyway. I reject the first seven men right off the bat because once you’ve dated a pro football player on People’s 50 Most Beautiful list (number forty-one, but still), it’s tough to recalibrate your standards. But I find a groove eventually, indicating interest in a local firefighter, an accountant, and a middle school math teacher I vaguely recognize as someone who grew up in Greenwood a couple years ahead of me. I match with the teacher—Lucas—and involuntarily shudder. He’s not Tyler. It’s disorienting to actively seek out other men. I don’t know if I really feel ready for this.

hey, Lucas messages me. what’s up?

Not much, I write back. Just moved back here this week from LA, actually.

You grew up here? he asks.

I hold my breath. Yeah, I write.

But miraculously, he doesn’t seem to recognize me. Instead, he asks what I’m up to tomorrow. When I answer truthfully that I have nothing major going on, he invites me out for a drink tomorrow night. I hesitate, then swipe quickly through a few more potential matches. Nobody else stands out to me. So I say yes. It’s not like I have anything better to do.