I like to sing Irish ballads with candles lit. It’s just me and the camera in the bathroom because that’s where I get the best acoustics. I’ve learned that one-minute songs get the most views, but sometimes I post a three-minute piece if I get carried away.

I turn off the overhead light. In the glow of the candles, I press record and begin to sing about a love lost at sea. I turn up the Irish lilt just a bit, even though I don’t have any accent at all, and thirty seconds into the song, the phone stops recording, interrupted by a call.

“Bugger it,” I mutter, frustrated because that was going to be a great take.

I press the button to answer the call. “Hello?”

“Please don’t hang up,” a woman says, and I furrow my brow. I don’t recognize her voice.

“Who is this?”

“I’m Heather Fisher. I just—”

I hang up, ball my hands into fists, and back away until I hit the wall behind me.

My mouth is suddenly dry.

“Shit,” I whisper and clench my eyes closed. “Shit, shit, shit.”

I won’t be able to sing now, so I flip the light on, blow out the candles, and take my phone out of the stand. As I stomp out of the bathroom, I call my sister.

Maeve answers on the third ring. “Hey there. You have perfect timing. I was just leaving a showing down the street from you. What’s going on?”

“I just got a call.” I relay what happened and plop down on a chair in my living room.

“And you hung up?”

“Hell, yes, I did. I don’t want to know what she wants, Maeve. It’s been two years, and damn it, I’m moving on with my life. I don’t want to go back there.”

“Don’t you think you should at least hear what she has to say?”

“No. I don’t. Anyway, I need advice, and it has nothing to do with my philandering late husband.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“I’m going out with Cameron tonight, and I need outfit advice. He said it’s not fancy.”

“Okay, then I’d go with jeans and a cute top with a jacket or a wrap. Oh, wear those sexy brown boots you bought on sale. They’re perfect for fall.”

“But…do I like, tuck my jeans into the boots or wear the boots over the jeans?”

“They’re ankle boots.”

I pull the phone away to stare at it, then press it back to my ear. “The question stands.”

“Your jeans will probably fall over the boots. And that’ll be cute, too.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “I’m nervous.”

Maeve laughs in my ear. “Don’t be. Have fun. You know Cam, so there’s no need to worry that you’ve been catfished, that he’s still married, or anything else.”