Usually, online dating means finding someone online and then dating them in person. For Conor and me, it meant that all of our dates could only be online because we live two thousand five hundred freaking miles apart with a time difference of three hours.

The second Tuesday in January

My phone screamed at me. Conor.

I’ll call you in a sec.

I hopped onto my couch, reached for the remote, and turned off my TV. Because no pre-recorded playoff game is as important as him. I lay back, holding the phone over my face, waiting for his name to appear.

But nothing. One minute. Two minutes. I sat back up. Six minutes. My legs needed to move.

You okay? I wrote. Only one grey checkmark appeared.

I wandered through my room, waiting for a response. Thirteen minutes. Still only one checkmark. Twenty-three minutes. I leaned my head onto the cold window and retreated immediately so my head wouldn’t freeze to the pane. Twenty-nine minutes. My phone finally rang—but an unknown number. I still swiped to the right.

Conor’s hair was disheveled. His hand hid his mouth. “Something happened,” I stated.

Conor’s only response was a burst of laughter that built up like a tsunami. This was a relief at first, but then, like a wave, the worry hit me even harder.

“Are you… okay?”

“Yes, but it’s embarrassing.” He let himself fall onto the floor, and the camera only filmed his eyes now. “I dropped…my phone… into the toilet.”

“Oh no.”

“It’s not turning on anymore. I’m using Mom’s phone now, and we put mine in a bowl of rice.”

That’s when my brain finally wired everything together.

“Wait. What exactly were you doing… when you texted me?”

—

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