Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “We didn’t belong together.”
“We do.” I swallow another sip, but the mix of lime and sugar and quinine and gin fails to steady me. “According to the algo.”
“Is it always right?” he asks.
“Not exactly,” I say. There are factors we can’t measure yet. Maybe there are factors we’ll never be able to measure. It’s not as if any one match is guaranteed to work. It’s more that a person who has ten great matches is extremely likely to find a stable relationship with at least one of them. “Statistically, it’s likely we could have a great long-term relationship. There’s a very high chance. But there’s no such thing as a sure thing. That’s what the data says.”
“What if there’s more than data?” he asks.
“You sound like my”—whatever I call him—“like someone I know.”
“I probably shouldn’t admit it, if I’m going to be in the dating app business.” His voice shifts to a tone I recognize, a tone I know. Logic. “But there’s only so much we can do with an algorithm.”
I almost believe him.
No, I do believe him. Just not all the way. Not yet.
“There’s a lot we can’t explain,” he says. “The chemistry we feel when we look at someone. The way their scent affects us. The heat from their touch. The joy of their laugh. We can’t quantify that.”
“Not yet.”
“We can’t explain chemistry,” he says. “Two people could be a perfect match and feel nothing. Maybe they could feel something, under different circumstances—”
“But circumstances aren’t different.” I’m not ready. He’s not ready, either.
He nods. “The app pairs people who are likely to go together. That’s not destiny. It’s a possibility. And it’s not perfect. There must be people with low matches who work together well.”
Maybe. I don’t have any data that contradicts the claim. And, really, even if we’re 99 percent accurate, that means we’re wrong one out of a hundred times.
If we’re only 95 percent accurate—and that’s really accurate—that still leaves a lot of people who are supposedly not meant to be who work together.
Maybe there’s more to love than algorithms.
“There’s only so much we can do with logic,” he says.
“Is that how you want to sell the app?” I ask.
“Yes.” He takes a long sip. “I want to be honest with people. But I agree with what my sister said. I’m not investing because I want to launch MeetCute. I’m investing because I want to be in the Deanna Huntington business.”
“She said that?”
“You’re like Steve Jobs, only less of an asshole.” He smiles. “Exact quote.”
“It is not.”
“It is,” he says. “And it will be easier to work together, now that we know we’re not interested in a relationship.”
My laugh eases the tension in my chest. It’s not enough. I need more. I need someone who makes me laugh. Someone who challenges me. Someone who sees the world as a place of magic.
But even if I put aside the likelihood of failure, the logic doesn’t fit.
He belongs there. He has a job in the arts. A job that works best when he’s at the cultural epicenter of the country.
He has friends and a life.
And I have the same here. I have Lexi here. I belong here.
I can’t be the one holding him back. Now, I get it, why his grandma is so adamant about not wanting him to stay. Because it hurts, knowing you’re in someone’s way.
That’s love.
Wanting the best for someone, even if it doesn’t involve you.
It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t follow the normal rules of human psychology, but that’s what makes it love.
Love isn’t logical.
Love makes us stupid in the best and worst ways.
Chapter Forty
River
All night, I toss and turn. Grandma is right. This isn’t where I fit. Not anymore. My bed is too small, too soft, too confining. But it isn’t just the bed.
When the sun streaks through my windows, I rise. I run at the park. I shower. I fix breakfast and tea, and I lock myself in my room with a stack of graphic novels.
All my old favorites. Watchmen and I Kill Giants and even my old Archie comics. The classics of the genre and the adaptations that inspired my current gig. The mix of Grandma’s influence and mine. She’s a fixture in my life. And, as much as I hate it, she knows what I need, most of the time.
She’s right again.
She always is.
My sisters knock on my door, but I stay inside. Grandma, too. They give me space. Wait until I emerge.
It’s late afternoon, but the sun is still high in the blue sky. The house is still warm and bright. It feels like home, in a way it didn’t when I was younger. But just like when I was younger, I have that same sense that I don’t belong here.
Even though I want to be here, with Grandma.