Free Conflicting Hearts by J. D. Burrows

and I stare at
the confirm or ignore button. I could ignore it, but
then I’m dying of curiosity about his locked-down domain. Surely, it will
reveal more about this interesting man. There will be pictures of him, family,
and friends I can peruse, quirky statements, and who knows what else. With
trepidation, I hit confirm .
    The picture he uses as his header is a scene of the ocean.
It looks so peaceful. I hope to God his pictures aren’t locked down, but before
I get a chance to peek around, I see the red notice of “1” on the top of my
page. Dang! He’s posted on my wall already.
    “Had a terrific time today. Looking forward to seeing you
tomorrow. Now go ahead and snoop all you want, while I snoop over you!”
    I chuckle at his snoop comment. He knows darn well
I’m going to read every entry and check out every picture. Before I do, I write
a comment underneath his.
    “I’m looking forward to the snoop.”
    Suddenly, it dawns on me that he’s probably reading all of
my entries and looking at my pictures. I close my eyes and cringe. Like a
computer doing a check disk, my brain tries to remember what I’ve been posting
on my timeline for the last year.
    Of course, there have been a few off-colored comments. I’ve
posted a few pictures of hot models with six-pack abs. Moaned about a doctor or
dentist appointment. Most of my friends do the same. Then I remember a few
photos of myself, and I wince. There are some seriously lousy ones of me in
years past where I was overweight and more depressed than I am now. He’s going
to die when he sees those goodies.
    Since it’s too late to start deleting pictures left and
right, I leave it and pop on over to his page. I hit the picture album link,
and suddenly my tongue hangs out of my mouth. There’s a couple of him on the
beach, without a shirt, and damn does he look hot. He’s tan, toned, buffed, and
scrubbed, and everything else a woman could want. I open the picture, right
click, and save it on my computer. Me bad , I think to myself, but I
don’t care. I need visuals.
    His other pictures appear to be with friends or family, and
I can’t tell who is who. His page is as neat as his wallet. His friends are
kept at a minimum of one hundred and twenty-three. Nothing uncouth is written
in any of his comments, which are few and far between. Everything is perky and
upbeat. I hate him already.
    I check out all his friends, but don’t see any marked as
family. They’re probably too sophisticated to be on a social media site. The
perfect life, perfect family, and perfect past—he possesses everything I don’t.
The whole comparison stings me, and the usual loser feeling is back with a
vengeance. I know when he finds out everything about me, my heart is going to
be broken into a thousand pieces. Suddenly, I want to pick up the phone and
call tomorrow off.
    After a few more torturous minutes, I leave my computer and
walk into the bedroom and lie down on my bed. I curl my knees up to my chest
and bring my arms across my breasts. My head lowers to the pillow and my eyes
close. The feelings of dread and fear push me into the mattress like heavy
weights upon my body. My chest constricts, and the familiar sense as if I’m suffocating
takes over. I’m a mess again as I struggle with self-doubt, and my eyes well
with tears.
    “Why am I doing this?” I scold myself aloud. I know why.
It’s because I want to believe someone can love me, but I can’t believe. I’ve
never known unconditional love from a man. Frankly, I don’t even know if such a
thing exists.
    Do men genuinely love? No, I’ve convinced myself that they
don’t. They just want sex and have no emotions. The male race consists of
lust-driven robots that want to screw. All I know is that I’m never good
enough, and when Ian discovers my secrets, he’ll leave me after he’s gotten
what he wants. There’s no way around it.
    My head sinks deeper into the pillow. I want to sleep, so I
don’t have to think. When