Page 90 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

“Do you make her happy?”

“I try to. Every day.”

“Does he make you happy?” she asks me.

“Yeah, Mom.” My voice cracks. “He really does.”

My mother unfolds her hands. Refolds them. Picks up her tea again, puts it down without drinking. Then she does something I didn’t prepare for, something that isn’t in any of the scenarios I rehearsed.

She smiles.

“Well,” she says. “I knew something was different about him.”

I blink. “You did?”

“At the wedding. He never went to the bathroom. Not once. In three days. Your father, rest his soul, couldn’t go three hours.” She waves her hand. “And he never ate a thing. I did find that odd.” She pauses, choosing her next words carefully. “But you were happy, Ruby. For the first time in a long time, you were actually happy. I wasn’t going to interrogate that.” She looks at Aiden. “So. You’re a synthetic. What does that mean exactly? What’s different about you?”

“I have a mechanical framework under human skin,” Aiden says. “An access panel along my ribs for maintenance. No belly button, because I was never born. I don’t breathe autonomously—I simulate it. And I don’t eat.”

“You don’t eat,” Mom repeats. Slowly.

“No.”

“At all?”

“At all.”

Her expression shifts from curiosity to horror. “The wedding. All that delicious food from the caterer.” She picks up her tea and actually drinks it this time. Sets it down. Looks at me over the rim.

“Ruby, sweetheart. I’ve been praying for you to find someone who pays attention to you for three years. I don’t particularly care if he runs on batteries.”

Tears build behind my eyes. “He doesn’t run on batteries.”

“What does he run on?”

“I have a self-sustaining power core,” Aiden says. “The technical specifications are complex, but in simple terms—”

“He runs on love,” I say, because I will lose my mind if this becomes a technical briefing.

“Oh, honey.” Mom reaches across the table and takes my hand. Her eyes are wet. “You found someone.”

“I found someone.”

“I knew it. I told your aunt Carol at the wedding—I said, ‘That boy looks at Ruby like she hung the moon.’” She looks at Aiden. “You’re not pretending, are you? When you look at her like that?”

“I don’t know how to pretend,” Aiden says. “I’m very bad at it. Ruby can confirm.”

“He’s terrible at it,” I confirm.

Mom laughs—watery and genuine—and dabs her eyes with a napkin. Then she straightens up and puts on her I have questions face.

“Okay,” she says. “More questions.”

“Of course.”

“Can he get sick?”

“No,” Aiden says.