“No.” He steadies himself. “I wanted to talk to you.”
My brow lifts. “About…?”
“I want to join your dating app.”
I freeze. “How do you know about OneDate?”
“Lach told me about it. He said it helps people with dates.”
My molars grind so hard I could pulverize a filling. My fingers curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms. Lach is a dead man. “No. Nope. Absolutely not.” I’m already shaking my head and walking away.
A stool scrapes across the floor behind me. A second later, Miles falls into step beside me as I move down the bar. “Please, Nora. I need your help.”
“No,” I fire back. “OneDate is not for finding the love of your life or hooking up or whatever nonsense Lach sold you.”
“That’s not the reason.”
The tone of his voice halts me in my tracks, and I pivot around. His whiskey-brown eyes are soft—earnest in a way that catches me off guard. His glasses have slipped down his nose, but he doesn’t notice. Both palms rest flat on the bar like he’s bracing himself. For one wildly unhelpful second, I want to reach across and push his glasses back into place. I cross my arms instead. “My answer is still no. You’re going to fall in love with the first girl you go out with.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Doubtful.”
“Please.” His voice dips. “I need help dating, and I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t want to keep waiting for something to happen.”
I’m sure he does need help, but I’m not the solution. “This isn’t PBS for dating,” I snap. “It’s for people who already know how to date.”
His shoulders slump. The defeat on his face hits me in the gut. He searches my expression one last time, then gently pushes his glasses up and turns to the exit. As I watch him leave, unease curls through me. I know that look. It’s the same one I wear every time I tell myself not yet—not yet with the app, not yet with my life, not yet with anything that could actually fail. I blow out a deep breath. I can’t imagine Miles on a OneDate date. His dating experience has to be hovering somewhere near zero.
I pull out my phone and text Lach.
Nora
You’re dead to me.
Before shoving my phone back into my pocket, a message pops up on the screen.
Match Queue Temporarily Unavailable. Please Try Again.
I blow out a deep breath. It’s the same glitch I’ve been working on for days. The one tiny broken section of code that’s more stubborn than me. It’s just another thing standing between the app existing and actually working in the real world. I lock the screen and slide my phone away.
Two days later, a notification pops up in my social media inbox.
Miles
Please, Nora. Give me a shot. I really think your app could help me.
My head drops back against the car’s headrest with a dull thud. I was hoping he’d forget. Out of sight. Out of mind. Clearly, that strategy failed. I slide my phone into my bag and head inside Mom’s townhouse. She’s at the sink washing dishes when I walk in.
“Hey, Mom. I brought groceries.” The paper bag lands on the counter with a soft thump. Cold air spills from the fridge as I open it. Apples knock together in the crisper drawer as I close it while a tub of yogurt sweats against my palm.
She turns, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Tell me you didn’t buy the sad avocados again.”
“Sad avocados need love too.”
“Like you.” She presses a kiss to my temple then pulls back and studies my face. “What’s wrong? You look tense.”
I hesitate. “It’s just this guy. Miles.”
