Page 39 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

“Why not?”

“Because it implies there’s something wrong with me for being single.”

He tilts his head. “But there’s nothing wrong with you. That’s why I’m asking. The data doesn’t match.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. “I don’t know, Aiden. I dated Josh for three years, and he left, and I haven’t—I haven’t wanted to try again. It’s not that I’m opposed to it. I’m just tired. Dating is exhausting, and most men are—” I stop myself.

“Most men are what?”

“Most men are—” I stop. Regroup. “Josh wasn’t a bad boyfriend. He just wasn’t a present one. He’d ask me a question and check his phone while I was answering, and I don’t think he even noticed he was doing it. After a while, I stopped noticing too. And that was worse, honestly. When you stop expecting someone to pay attention. To care.”

The car is very quiet.

“I listen,” Aiden says.

“I know you do.”

“I would never check my phone while you’re talking.”

“You don’t have a phone.”

“If I had one, I wouldn’t check it.”

I laugh. It comes out watery, which is annoying, and I blink hard and focus on the road.

“Your turn,” I say. “I’ve been talking for an hour. Tell me something.”

“What would you like to know?”

“What’s your first memory? The earliest thing you can remember.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Light. A bright, white light, and a voice saying numbers. Calibration readings. And cold hands on my face, turning it, examining it. I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t have context for anything yet. I just knew I existed, and that the hands didn’t care that I existed. They were checking measurements.”

My chest aches.

“What do you think about during your shutdown cycles? When you’re on the couch at night.”

“I don’t think in the way you mean. It’s more like sorting. Organizing the day’s input, filing it, making space for tomorrow.” He pauses. “But lately, I don’t just sort. I replay things. Moments. Your laugh. The way you looked when you danced with me. The way your hand felt on my chest when you fell asleep.”

I tighten my grip on the wheel and keep my eyes very firmly on the road.

“Are you scared?” I ask. “Of being found?”

“Yes.”

The honesty of it—no hedging, no bravado—makes me glance at him. He’s looking at his hands.

“I’m scared of being taken back to the place I was before. I’m scared of the dark and the quiet and the nothing. But I’m more scared of—” He stops.

“Of what?”

“Of not being with you anymore.”

I stare at the road and don’t trust my voice for a minute.

“Aiden?”

“Yes?”