Page 57 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

She’s standing at the end of the aisle in a dress that probably cost more than my oven repair, and her face is doing the thing that faces do at weddings—the trembling chin, the wet eyes, the smile that’s trying to hold it all in and failing beautifully. The groom—Ethan, nice guy, once got lost on a hiking trail for six hours and called it “character building”—is already wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and the ceremony hasn’t even started.

I’m in the third row. Aiden is next to me. His hand is on my knee—not because I asked him to, not because someone’s watching, but because it’s where his hand goes now, and I’ve stopped redirecting it.

Mom is on my other side, already crying. She’s been crying since we sat down. She cried during the processional. She cried when the flower girl dropped half her petals in a clump and then waved at her mom. She’s going to cry through the entire ceremony and then deny it afterward, and I love her for it.

Ben is two seats down, sitting with his girlfriend, Sarah, looking like a man who is tolerating this under protest. His jaw is set the way it always is at family events—present, alert, scanning the room even now. Old habits.

Josh and Audrey are one row behind us and to the right. I know this because I can feel it. Not see it—feel it. The way you feel someone watching you. I haven’t turned around.

Aiden has, though. Once. Briefly. I saw his eyes move and come back, and his hand pressed slightly firmer on my knee, and that was it.

The officiant starts. The vows are traditional—love, honor, cherish, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live. Standard. I’ve heard them a dozen times at a dozen weddings, and they always hit the same way, a warm ache in the center of my chest that’s equal parts hope and grief.

I believe in this. That’s my problem. I believe in love and vows and two people standing in front of everyone they know and saying, “I choose you, permanently, on purpose.” I believe it even though Josh proved it can end in a fiery blaze, even though my dad died at fifty-seven and my mom has been carrying the weight of “til death” ever since. I believe it anyway, the way I believe the bakery will work and the oven will hold and tomorrow will be better. Not because the evidence supports it, but because the alternative is just too empty to accept.

Natalie says her vows. They’re personal—funny, tender, slightly rambling in a way that means they’re real. She talks about the hiking trail. About Ethan calling her from the woods, lost, calm, and saying, “I’m not worried because I know you’ll find me.” The guests laugh. My mother sobs. I press my lips together hard.

Then I look at Aiden.

He’s watching the ceremony with an intensity I’ve seen before—the music intensity, the dog intensity. Everything else has gone still. His eyes are on Natalie and Ethan, and he’s not performing any of the social responses you’re supposed to perform at a wedding—no polite smile, no misty eyes, no nodding along. He’s just watching. Taking it in. Trying to understand what he’s seeing.

Two people making a promise they can’t guarantee. I hate the feeling bubbling up inside of me.

He turns his head and looks at me. And whatever he’s processing—whatever calculation or question or unnamed response the vows generated—lands directly on my face. His eyes hold mine, and they’re asking questions he doesn’t say out loud. Something I can see but can’t translate, and my throat goes tight because whatever the question is, I think the answer might be yes.

I look away first. Wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. Mom notices and squeezes my arm.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, sweetheart?” she whispers.

“Yeah, Mom. It’s beautiful.” Beautifully painful to my wounded heart.

Cocktail hour happens on a stone patio overlooking the vineyard, and it’s the kind of setting that makes you want to post a photo so everyone knows you’re here. String lights. Wine stations. Cheese boards the size of coffee tables. A jazz trio playing something smooth in the corner.

Aiden is handling it. Better than handling it—he’s good at this. He shakes hands. He makes eye contact. He asks people about themselves and listens to their answers with a focus that makes them feel important, because to him, every interaction is novel and therefore interesting. He tells Mom’s friend that her necklace is “structurally impressive,” which the friend takes as a compliment. He tells Natalie she looks “statistically radiant,” which Natalie finds hilarious and repeats to three people.

The food situation is an ongoing operation. I’ve intercepted two plates from my mother, redirected a waiter offering canapés, and watched Aiden hold a glass of champagne for forty-five minutes without taking a sip. He’s figured out the trick—hold the glass, gesture with it occasionally, and set it down on a passing tray eventually. The champagne itself never touches his lips. Nobody notices.

I’m starting to relax—just barely, just the edge of it—when I see her.

Caroline Whitfield. Across the patio. Tall, silver-haired, looking confident and put together. She’s talking to the groom’s mother, wine in hand, and I recognize her from the food festival website, where her bio describes her as “a passionate advocate for local culinary talent,” which is a very polished way of saying she decides who gets a booth and who doesn’t.

My stomach flips.

This is it. This is the moment I’ve been prepping for, the talking points in the notebook, the capacity numbers, the customer retention data. I need to walk over there, introduce myself, be confident and charming and professional and not at all like a woman whose oven just broke and whose fake boyfriend is not even remotely human.

I don’t move.

“That’s Caroline Whitfield,” Aiden says. He’s appeared beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine. “Food festival organizer. Forty-seven vendors last year. Estimated attendance of twelve thousand.”

I stare at him. “How do you—”

“I researched the festival when you were preparing your talking points. I also reviewed her social media presence, her vendor selection patterns from the past three years, and two interviews she gave to a local business publication.”

“You researched her?”

“You were nervous about this meeting. I wanted to be prepared in case you needed support.”

Before I can respond, Caroline turns. Catches my eye. Smiles—the polite, networking kind. Starts walking toward us.