Me: I am not a reporter.

Justin: That’s exactly what an undercover reporter would say.

I shook my head with a smile.

Me: I’m a nurse.

He sent me a narrow-eyed emoji.

I got an idea.

Me: Tell me how many fingers to hold up.

A few seconds passed.

Justin: Four

“Maddy, take a picture of me.”

She gawked. “You’re gonna send this dude a picture?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Uh, because he could be a serial killer?”

“A serial killer with a sense of humor, a rescue dog, lifelong friends, and a relationship with his mom?” I handed her my phone. “It’s no different than what he’d see if he’d matched with me on Tinder and anyway, we’ll be in Hawaii in a few weeks. He’s in Minnesota. Even if he could figure out who I am, he’d never track me down.”

“What if he’s some gross dude who doesn’t floss and now he’s got a picture for his spank bank?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh stop.”

I tilted my head so my braid fell to one side and held up four fingers. Maddy didn’t look happy, but she took the picture with my phone, then handed it back to me.

I was in scrubs and my hospital badge was clipped to my pocket. I opened the edit feature, scribbled out the identifying information, and sent the pic.

Me: I’m at work. Do reporters wear scrubs? And how many times have you been catfished by reporters?

Justin: This week? Or like, in total?

I sent a laughing emoji.

Justin: Now that we’ve established you are who you say you are, I will answer your question. I’ve been asked only once to be in a wedding for someone who benefited from my little streak. But I was best man and it was Beetlejuice themed.

I laughed and read it out loud to Maddy.

“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” she said.

I typed “Pictures or it didn’t happen. ”

I set my phone back down. “You’re right. This is fun.”

“I have good ideas,” she said.

I was almost done eating my sandwich when my DMs pinged.

“He just replied,” I said. “There’s a picture.”

Maddy jumped from her seat to stand over my shoulder.

When I clicked it, I started cracking up. The bride and groom were dressed as Beetlejuice and Lydia, in her red wedding dress from the movie. The maid of honor and best man were dressed like the Maitlands, only with the scary faces they put on in the beginning to frighten the new residents. He was wearing a long cone-shaped nose and buggy eyes. I sent a row of laughing emojis.

“You’re right, he does have a sense of humor,” Maddy said.

I tilted my head. “Too bad I can’t see his face.”

“Send me that.”

“Why?”

“I’ll reverse image search it.”

“Oh, good thinking. Okay, hold on.”

I sent it to her. She sat back down and started thumbing into her phone, and I went back to finish my food.

“Found him,” Maddy said, after about forty-five seconds.

I gawked. “That fast???”

“The FBI should hire more women. We’re natural investigators. It’s on his Instagram. And it’s definitely him, I see the billboard. I’ll send you the link.”

My phone chirped with the incoming text, but I paused. “Wait. Should we be looking at this? It feels like a violation of his privacy.”

She gave me a look over the top of her phone. “When men stop assaulting women they meet on the internet, we’ll stop creeping on them to make sure they pass the vibe check. And anyway, if he wanted privacy, his account would be private.”

I bobbed my head. “Okay. Good point.”

I clicked on the link, and we both pored over his wall at the same time from our respective phones. He had brown hair, brown eyes, he was clean-shaven. White, dimples. A nice smile, fit—and he was cute. Super cute.

“Are you seeing this?” Maddy said. “This guy definitely flosses.”

“Oh my God, the dog.”

She gasped. “Wow. He really is ugly. Like a tiny gargoyle.”

I tilted my head. “I don’t know. He’s so ugly he’s almost adorable.” The small brown dog was shaggy with floppy ears, a pushed-in snout, and a hard frown. His watery eyes bulged a little. In the picture, Justin was holding him and smiling like a kid who just got what he’d always wanted for Christmas. The caption read: Well, Dog Brad’s got a tapeworm, but at least he didn’t stiff me on rent.

“Brad?” I asked, looking up. “I thought his friend’s name was Chad.”