What if the algorithm was wrong?
Or, what if it was right?
What if Holly’s not interested?
But what if she is?
My stomach churned, feeling unsettled and anxious.
I took another sip of wine, immediately regretted the acid, and set my glass down on the windowsill.
I had never run my own data. I’d never even been tempted to. I didn’t need a number to tell me I was statisticallyincompatible with, well, just about the entire dating pool. My brain already reminded me daily.
I dragged a hand down my face again. “Jesus Christ. What am I doing?”
The answer came back depressingly clear:falling for a woman who thinks you’re a socially anxious oddball with a pathological fear of eye contact.
And the worst part? That wasn’t inaccurate.
But I was also other things. Things that really fucking mattered, even if they weren’t immediately obvious. I was dedicated—when I committed to a plan, I saw it through. Case in point: I’d bought five books on floral design after meeting Holly, and spent hours learning to identify flowers by sight and smell, memorizing their names and meanings like I was studying for an exam. Because if I was going to care about someone, I wanted to understand whattheycared about. I wanted to speak her language, even if I’d never be fluent.
I was kind, too, or at least I tried to be. And I was fiercely loyal—the kind of person who showed up when I said I would, who remembered the things people told me in passing, who’d drive through a snowstorm in the middle of the night if someone I cared about needed me.
I gave away most of my money because I didn’t need it, and other people did. I knew that Rosa’s back hurt after long shifts, so I’d hired a chair masseuse to come in once a week and give the whole staff massages. I knew Nate lived on terrible coffee and protein bars during long shifts, so I had a meal service deliver proper dinners to the station twice a week so that he and his deputy were well-fed. I’d spent six months restoring this house, not because I wanted to show off, but because beautiful things deserved to be preserved.
Holly wanted someone steady and present.
I could be that person.
Iwasthat person.
I just had to figure out how to show her without running away every time she looked at me.
I left the office, moving on autopilot down the hallway to the front parlor, where the largest windows faced the water. Mistletoe Harbor was visible in the distance, the soft glow of lights reflecting off the bay. Shops downtown stayed open late this time of year—residents prepping for the holidays, and tourists drifting through town looking for photo ops and a good time.
I rested my forehead against the cold glass and let out a slow, controlled breath. “You have to take a step back,” I whispered to myself. “You can’t build a relationship off a compatibility score.”
Except … couldn’t you?
Other people did. Thousands of them. Millions, even.
If the algorithm was right—and it always was—then I had a shot with Holly.
The thought made my palms sweat.
I turned from the window and started moving again, unable to stand still. My brain was going too fast—trying to calculate, trying to optimize, trying to identify the least humiliating path forward.
I’d see Holly a couple of days before the Candlelight Walk for setup, but I needed more time with her before then. More exposure therapy.
At midnight, I made coffee. I didn’t need the caffeine, but I knew if I didn’t do something to occupy my hands, I’d head back to my computer. I ground the beans manually, counting each turn of the handle. Twenty-three rotations. Exactly enough for a single cup.
The ritual calmed me, but just barely.
I drank my coffee standing at the counter in my kitchen—the same one Holly had leaned against—and pulled up herInstagram again, scrolling through each post with obsessive attention to detail. There was one from two days ago: a bouquet she’d made for someone’s anniversary. White roses, eucalyptus, and—I zoomed in—blue thistles.
Sea holly.
She’d used them after our conversation.
