His jaw locks up,
hating that he sidestepped the idea.
Then he swipes the air.
“Nah, you know what? Fuck it.
“You said no bars, no clubs.
“That’s straight-up forever-type shit.
“I ain’t walkin’ it back.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Good,” I say. “Stay there.”
He falls back again,
a short laugh slipping off his lips.
"What?" I say.
He lifts a shoulder.
"The fuckin' odds of us, huh?
"Think about it—" He gestures between us. “You? Don’t go out, barely talk to people. Me? Workin’ two jobs, always bouncin’ around. Yet somehow—" he laughs, "—we still crashed into each other. And thank fuck for that.”
I know the odds.
Not the horoscope shit,
but the actual numbers.
I sat up at three in the morning
and ran the math.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” I say, casual, cool, blasé. “I had better chances of getting struck by lightning while slow-dancing with Steven Tyler at a gas station.” I keep my eyes on the skyline, silhouettes and golden ghosts this time of night. “The odds of you and me are 1 in 3.75 quadrillion,” I confess.
At the corner of my eye, Andrew goes still.
“Yeah,” I say, spinning the stem of my glass between my fingers. “A number that says the universe rigged the system,rewrote the rules, cut some corners just to put you and me at Type that night.”
The look on his face is a little shaken.
He tilts his head, clearing his throat.
“You calculated the odds of us, Sonny?”
I sigh.“I know. I’m a nerd.”
“Don’t downplay it,” he says,
pointing at me. “That’s next-level romantic.”
He glances into the city, his voice faraway.
