Page 17 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

“And now he’s engaged,” Aiden says.

“Now he’s engaged. To someone named Audrey who is genuinely lovely, which is honestly worse than if she was terrible, because at least then I could hate her instead of just—” I trail off.

Instead of what?

Instead of comparing.

Audrey wasn’t prettier than me.

That would’ve been easier.

She just seemed like the kind of person whose life made sense. The kind of person who wasn’t one unexpected bill away from a panic attack.

I set the glass down. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because I asked.”

I inhale and wipe my hands on a towel. “Most people ask and don’t actually want the answer.”

“I wanted the answer.”

I look at him. He’s leaning against the opposite counter, arms at his sides—he hasn’t figured out casual leaning yet, so it looks slightly stiff, like a mannequin someone propped against a wall. But his face. His face is all attention. All focus. Aimed entirely at me with an intensity that should be uncomfortable and somehow isn’t.

“These clothes,” he says, and touches the hem of the henley. “They belonged to him.”

My stomach drops. “How did you—”

“There’s a residual scent that doesn’t match yours. Cologne, maybe. Old, but present. And when you handed them to me, your jaw tightened.” He pauses. “You kept his clothes. Why?”

“I kept a box of his stuff because returning it would’ve meant seeing him, and I kept finding reasons not to.” I hear how that sounds as I’m saying it, and I don’t love it. “It’s not—I’m not holding onto him. I just never got around to it.”

He nods once like he doesn’t entirely believe me and even I hear how thin the lie sounds.

I exhale slowly, the words leaking out. “The truth is, seeing him might crush whatever fragile boundary I’ve built around my heart.”

Aiden considers this. His hands go flat on the counter behind him. “Ruby.”

“Yeah. Pathetic, right?”

There’s something about him, about the quiet way he listens that gives me confidence—like I could say almost anything and not be judged for it.

“I’ve only known eleven people, if you count the lab technicians and your friends tonight, and I don’t have a comprehensive understanding of human relationships.” He pauses. “But I’ve been observing you since you found me, and I’ve cataloged a significant amount of data about who you are, and I can say with confidence that any person who stopped finding you interesting was not paying attention.”

The kitchen goes very quiet.

“That’s—” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because normal people don’t.”

“You’ve established that I’m not normal people.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “You’ve made that pretty clear.”

We stand there. Him against one counter, me against the other, the clean kitchen humming between us. His eyes are doing the glow—soft amber in the low light—and I’m looking at him, and he’s looking at me, and I’m feeling too many things at once, and none of them are simple, and all of them are warm.

I break first. I always break first.