The DMs

Nia had eighteen dollars and forty-two cents in her checking account and an Instagram page that suggested she was doing considerably better. Her last post had been taken at a rooftop restaurant in Midtown. Candlelight. Steak. Truffle fries. Champagne. A black YSL bag had been placed casually beside her chair, just visible enough to make her photo look effortless. The candlelight softened the sharpness of her features and caught the warmth of her skin perfectly; she didn’t even need to use a filter. She puckered her full lips, pushed up her breasts, flapped her heavy-lashed almond eyes, and snapped a few more pictures before finalizing her post. The caption: Soft life only #blessed

The picture looked like money… unfortunately, Nia didn’t have any. The steak, truffle fries, champagne, and purse belonged to her cousin Tasha. She had ordered a side salad and water because the menu prices had personally offended her. Her cousin laughed at her when she saw her rearranging the table.

“Girl, why is my purse over there?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as she returned from the ladies’ room.

“Because it looks better over here,” Nia smirked.

“You didn’t even order steak!” Tasha grabbed her meal from across the table.

“I know, I know. It’s in the picture. That’s all that matters.”

Tasha had stared at her. “You know you crazy, right?”

Nia had lifted the phone and angled it toward the candlelight. “No. Tash. I’m branding.”

“How are you branding broke?”

“Mind ya business!”

To her, social media wasn’t lying, exactly. It was editing, and she had become very, very good at editing.

Her phone vibrated against the headboard sometime after two in the morning. She rolled over and ignored it. A second vibration followed, then a third.

Somebody better be dying,” she muttered, reaching beneath the blanket.

The screen’s brightness hit her directly in the face as if someone had flicked on stadium lights two inches from her pupils.

“Ugh, 2:13?” she squinted, quickly turning her head away.

She sat up and rubbed her watering eyes, blinking several times until the room slowly came into focus. The glow from her phone painted the dark room in a pale blue haze, catching the edge of the eviction notice on her dresser. She hadn’t hidden it, just placed something pretty on top of it. Her rent was two months behind. The car note was nearly three weeks late, and the lender was threatening repossession. Two of her credit cards were maxed out, and a third had been closed after she missed too many payments. Those buy-now-pay-later apps had started declining her, as they had finally gotten tired of her shit. Her electric bill was sitting on a payment arrangement she had already broken twice. Phone bill was due in four days. She still owed Tasha eighty dollars from a brunch they had gone to nearly a month ago, and every time Nia opened her email, there was a new company politely demanding money she did not have.

Her phone buzzed again. Three notifications were waiting for her attention. The first was from her bank.

Your available balance is below $25.

Nia sighed. “Tell me something I don’t know…” She swiped it away.

The second notification was from her car lender.

FINAL NOTICE: Payment required to avoid repossession.

That message lingered on the screen longer. Four hundred eighty-seven dollars. Due Monday. Today was Thursday. Nia kept staring at the amount, waiting for the number to develop some compassion.

“Y’all want this car that bad, come get it,” she whispered. “Wait. No. Don’t come and get it!” She held her breath, quickly swiping that notification away too.

The third message came from Instagram…a DM request.

Normally, she wouldn’t have bothered opening a message request at two in the morning. Most of them were men saying things they would never have the balls to say to a woman in public, fake business coaches promising six figures in thirty days, or people asking her to become a brand ambassador for jewelry that would turn her neck green. Then there was her ex. He would reappear every few weeks, usually sometime after midnight and almost always after he had been drinking, with the confidence of a man who had forgotten every reason why they broke up. Sending dick pics nobody asks for, with a “Don’t act like you don’t miss this baby.”

Nia never responded. Well, almost never. There was one weak Tuesday in March she will never admit to. Since then, she learned that loneliness can make terrible ideas look reasonable, especially after midnight. Her ex understood that too, which was why he never texted her during respectable hours. He wasn’t looking for reconciliation, closure, or even conversation. Just checking to see if her standards were asleep.

How much do you charge to test somebody?

Nia’s eyes widened reading the message. “Ooooo. Money!”

She opened Instagram and switched accounts. Her main page was polished. Plants, brunch, outfits, motivational quotes, and carefully framed glimpses of an expensive life. Her second page had no pictures of her face. That one paid the bills. Or at least tried to.

Nia called her service Pressure Tests. Although she had never registered a business, built a website, or told anyone her real name, women still found her through referrals, anonymous pages, and the kinds of private group chats where nobody asked too many questions. The service was simple. A woman would send Nia her boyfriend’s Instagram handle. Sometimes it was a fiancé. Occasionally, a husband. Then, she would use one of several fake profiles she had created over the years, followed the man’s page, liked a few old pictures, responded to a story, and waited to see what he did. She had rules. No meeting men in person. No sending nudes. No threatening verbiage. No contacting family members. No trying to destroy relationships. If he ignored her, she sent screenshots. If he flirted back, she sent screenshots. If he claimed to be single while his girlfriend was sitting next to him on the couch, she sent screenshots. Either way, she got paid.

The message came from an account belonging to a woman named Imani Carter. Private page. Profile pic taken somewhere tropical. Oversized sunglasses. Long braids. Brown skin glowing in the sunlight. Her bio read: Wife. Mama. Realtor. God’s favorite.

Nia rolled her eyes. “Everybody’s God’s favorite…”

Depends on what you need. She typed back.

I need to know if my husband is cheating. The response came almost immediately.

“Ma’am, it’s two in the morning,” she sighed, leaning against her headboard.

Basic test is $100. She typed.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then reappeared moments later.

I’ll pay $500.

“What?” Nia’s eyes and mouth widened reading the message. “FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS?!?!”

Her car payment immediately came to mind. She took a deep breath and typed more seriously now.

What exactly are you wanting me to do?

I just need proof. Imani responded.

Women who didn’t know usually asked, Can you see if he responds? Or, Can you flirt with him and tell me what he says? But women asking for proof were usually well past suspicion. They already knew the truth. They needed evidence.

I don’t meet anyone in person. Nia typed.

You won’t have to. Just get him talking. Make him comfortable. I need him to say something he can’t explain away.

“Girl, what did this man do?” Nia frowned, thinking of all the women she helped in the past.

Sounds like you already think he’s cheating…

A pause…

I just know something is off.

So, why not just leave?

This time Imani took longer to answer. Nia tapped her French tips impatiently on the screen.

Because I don’t want to leave over a feeling. I want to leave over a fact.

Nia stared at her eviction notice as she thought of how to respond. Five hundred dollars wouldn’t fix everything…but it was a start.

Half upfront.

CashApp? Imani replied.

Nia sent the QR code. In less than thirty seconds, her phone chimed. +$250.

“Damn!” Nia jumped up. “Okay, Imani! You got my attention.”

No negotiation. No sob story. No promise to pay after payday. Just money. She opened CashApp to make sure it was real. It was. She quickly swiped back to Instagram.

Received. Send me his page.

Imani reacted with a heart and sent a profile. She tapped the social media page and waited for it to load. @DreMovesDifferent. Nia’s smile disappeared. A man sat behind the wheel of a black Mercedes wearing a white T-shirt and a gold chain. His head was tilted slightly toward the camera, beard freshly lined, wearing the same expression men used when they wanted the internet to know they had options. Her stomach dropped.

“No! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” She stared at the screen.

For a moment she thought, hoped, that maybe it was somebody who resembled him. I mean, Atlanta had plenty of men with beards, chains, and German cars…right? She frantically clicked another picture. Dre at a Hawks game! She clicked another. Dre at a cookout!. Another. Dre! Dre! Dre! Nia hurled herself back on her bed, the mattress bouncing beneath her. She knew that smile, that shirt, that small scar above his eyebrow! There was no mistaking him.

“Dre?” She sighed, lowering the phone slowly.

For a few minutes, Nia just lay there with the phone resting on her chest, trying to make sense of the situation at hand. She had known he was married; he had never hidden that part. What he had hidden was everything around it. According to him, the marriage was over in every way that mattered. They slept in separate rooms and barely spoke. He was only staying under the same roof for the kids. His wife was supposedly doing her own thing, and he was only waiting for the right time to make the separation final. That was the version he had been feeding her for the last six months.

She thought about all the late-night conversations, the lunches squeezed into the middle of the workday, the nights he stayed until one in the morning before suddenly remembering he had somewhere else to be. Dre always had a way of making every inconvenience sound temporary. Every excuse came wrapped in just enough truth to keep her from pressing to hard. If she asked when he was leaving, he told her soon. If she asked why he always kept his phone facedown, he laughed and accused her of being nosy. Nia let out a slow, heavy breath and rubbed her forehead. Now his wife was sitting somewhere in Atlanta, wide awake at two in the morning, paying a stranger five hundred dollars to find out if her husband was cheating.

“Well,” she muttered, scrolling through his page, “apparently things aren’t as over as you said they were.”

The thought should have made her feel guilty. Instead, she felt embarrassed. Not because he was married- she had already made her peace with that- but because she had believed every line he had handed her. Her phone buzzed, snapping her back into the present moment. A new message from Imani. Nia’s throat went dry.

Did you get it? Can you do it?

Nia stared at the screen and decided not to answer. She called Dre instead. The phone rang twice. Then his sleepy voice came through.

“Hello?”

Nia said nothing.

“Nia?”

She closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?” He yawned.

“Nothing.”

“You calling me at two in the morning for nothing? Something wrong.”

She flipped through his posts. “You asleep?”

“What it sound like, Nia?”

“Where you at?”

A pause.

“At home.”

“With your wife?”

Another pause…

…

“Nia…?”

“What?”

“You know the situation.”

And there it was. She almost laughed. The situation. It’s always “the situation.”

“You still leaving?”

Dre sighed. “Why we doing this right now?”

“Just answer me.”

“I told you, I’m handling it.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling. “You’ve been saying soon since February.”

“It ain’t that simple, Nia. You know this.”

“Nothing ever is with you.”

“What’s gotten into you? Did something happen?”

Nia almost told him. She really wanted to, but she decided not to.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

“Nia–”

She hung up.**