Page 72 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

“Yeah,” I say. “I think I am.”

“Good. Don’t overthink it.”

“That’s literally all I do.”

“I know. Stop.” She looks at Aiden, gives him a nod—the Avery nod, which means more than most people’s entire conversations—and follows Liv down the sidewalk.

Gemma is last. She shakes Aiden’s hand, because Gemma shakes hands goodbye like they’re concluding a business meeting, and then she turns to me.

“I still want to run that diagnostic,” she says.

“Next week.” Aiden nods.

“And Ruby?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s good for you.” She says it the way she says everything—precisely, clinically, like a diagnosis. “The data supports it.”

She walks away before I can respond.

Aiden and I stand on the sidewalk. The sun is setting, and the light is golden, and his hand finds the small of my back because that’s where it goes now.

“That was fun,” he says.

“That was a nightmare.”

“You’re smiling,” he points out.

“I’m grimacing.”

“Your grimace looks exactly like your smile.”

We walk home. His hand stays on my back. And somewhere between the bar and the bakery, his fingers lace through mine, and we walk like that—hand in hand, down the sidewalk, in the golden light—and nobody looks at us twice.

Just two people walking home.

That’s all anyone sees.

Chapter Nineteen

Ruby

Terms and Conditions May Apply

Here’s the thing about happiness: it has a sound.

It sounds like an alarm going off at 5:00 a.m. and not dreading it. Like eggs sizzling in a pan I didn’t put on the stove. Like a man who doesn’t sleep saying, “Good morning, Ruby,” from the kitchen in a voice that I’ve started hearing in my dreams.

Aiden makes me eggs every morning now. Not because I asked—because he decided, somewhere between the first batch and the fifteenth, that feeding me is a function he’s unwilling to relinquish. He’s gotten better at it. The eggs are perfectly salted now, the toast is timed to the second, and there’s coffee waiting by the time I stumble out of my bedroom in whatever oversized shirt I slept in.

He’s also started adding things. A sliced banana on Tuesday. Strawberries on Thursday. This morning there’s a small bowl of blueberries that I’m not going to ask about because the answer will either be, “I read that antioxidant-rich fruits improve cognitive function,” or something equally adorable.

“Thank you,” I say, sitting down.

“You’re welcome. You went to sleep at eleven forty-two and woke up once at two fifteen to use the bathroom. You slept on your left side for the majority of the night, which is an improvement from—”

“Aiden.”