Page 69 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

“Aiden, I will leave this restaurant.”

“—improve for next time, but Ruby has declined to provide feedback, which I find counterproductive to—”

“OH MY GOD.” I drop my forehead to the table.

Liv is making a sound that might be crying or might be laughing. Gemma looks like someone kicked her. Avery hasn’t moved. She’s just watching me with that steady, knowing look, and when I lift my head, she raises her wine glass in my direction.

“Proud of you,” she says simply.

“I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” all three of them say simultaneously.

The French bulldog barks. Aiden’s head swivels instantly. The dog has jumped off its owner’s lap and is trotting across the patio, trailing its leash, heading in our general direction with the confident waddle of an animal who has never been denied anything.

“Ruby,” Aiden says, and his voice has shifted entirely—the sex conversation forgotten, replaced by something more urgent. “Ruby, the dog is approaching.”

“I can see that.”

“It’s a French bulldog. Brachycephalic breed. Average lifespan ten to twelve years. Prone to respiratory issues due to the compressed skull structure, but very affectionate and—”

“Aiden.”

“—and it’s coming toward our table.”

The dog arrives. It sniffs Aiden’s shoe, then his hand, then puts its front paws on his knee and looks up at him with the bulging, slightly manic eyes that French bulldogs are known for.

Aiden is gone. Completely gone. Whatever was happening in this conversation—the wedding debrief, the sex interrogation, the feedback he wants—all of it has been deprioritized in favor of this twelve-pound animal putting its paws on his leg.

He’s clearly enamored.

He reaches down and scratches behind its ears, and the dog’s entire body melts. It makes a grunting, snuffling sound of pure satisfaction, and Aiden looks at me with an expression of such raw, uncomplicated joy that my chest aches.

“His name tag says Kevin,” Aiden reports.

“That’s a great name,” Liv says, reaching over to pet Kevin’s back.

Kevin’s owner appears, apologetic, leash in hand. “Sorry about that, he just bolts—”

“It’s fine,” I say. “He’s very friendly.”

“He’s perfect,” Aiden says, because that’s what Aiden says about every dog, and Kevin licks his wrist, and the owner retrieves the dog, and Aiden watches them return to their table with the longing of a man watching a ship leave without him.

“Can we—” he starts.

“No.”

“I didn’t finish.”

“You were going to ask about getting a dog.”

“I was going to ask about getting a French bulldog specifically. They’re well-suited to apartment living. Kevin and I had a connection.”

“You knew Kevin for fifteen seconds.”

Gemma leans forward. “I think it’s cute that he wants a dog.”

“Don’t help him, Gemma.”