Page 30 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

“We need to make a stop in the men’s basics section.”

“Why?”

“Because your boyfriend isn’t wearing underwear and apparently never has.”

There’s silence from the other side of the curtain.

“Ruby?”

“I’m processing.”

“Also—” Liv lowers her voice, but not nearly enough. “I just want to say, for the record, that whoever built him was very thorough.”

“Liv, I swear to—”

“I’m just saying. Like, anatomically? The attention to detail is—”

“I am not having this conversation.”

“—really impressive. Like, genuinely. Hats off to science.”

“LIV.”

“Fine, fine.” She turns back to me. “Put the jeans on. We’re buying everything and we’re getting you underwear so that you don’t give Ruby a heart attack. Boxer briefs, I think.”

I put the jeans on. They fit well. I don’t understand why I’d also need a second, smaller pair of pants underneath them, but I’ve learned that clothing customs are one of many human systems that operate on social logic rather than functional logic, and questioning them out loud tends to make Ruby’s face turn colors.

If she says I need underwear, then I must need it.

We go to the basics section. Liv holds up different styles and explains each one with more enthusiasm than the task seems to warrant. “Boxer briefs,” she says, tossing a pack into the cart. “Best of both worlds. Support and freedom.” I don’t ask what either of those means in this context.

Ruby stays six feet away during this entire process, looking at a display of socks with intense, unnecessary focus. Her neck is pink.

When we’re done with basics, we go back to the fitting rooms. This time, Ruby positions herself physically in front of the curtain so Liv can’t follow me in.

“I’ll come out when I’m dressed,” I say.

“Thank you,” Ruby says, at the same time Liv says, “That’s less fun.”

I try on combinations. Dark jeans, navy henley, charcoal blazer. White shirt, gray pants. A button-down that Liv calls “wedding-ready.” Each time I step out, Ruby’s eyes move to me before she can stop them, and she does the thing with her breathing—the slight catch—that I’ve cataloged enough times to know it’s involuntary.

She likes the blazer. She won’t say it. But I know.

“That’s the one,” Liv says, circling me. “Ruby? Thoughts?”

“It’s fine.”

“Fine? He looks like the cover of GQ, and you’re giving me ‘fine’?” She rolls her eyes at Ruby.

“It fits well. He looks nice.”

“Nice.” Liv turns to me. “She thinks you look nice. For the record, when Ruby says ‘nice,’ her ears turn red. Just so you know. And in my opinion? You look hot as fuck.”

Ruby’s ears are, in fact, red.

I slide the jacket off in case it’s somehow distressing for Ruby to see me in it.

“Okay.” Liv drops onto the bench next to Ruby, and the energy shifts. She pulls one knee up and wraps her arms around it—casual posture, but her eyes are sharper than usual. “I need to ask you some things. For, um, research purposes.”