“You’re one year older?—”
“Shhh, don’t ruin my responsible adult moment.” He grins again. “But you have to admit, it’s pretty funny that we matched. Maybe we’re just destined to be really great friends. Ninety percent compatible friends who would apparently make beautiful, statistically probable babies together.”
“I’m going to delete you from the database.”
“You can’t delete destiny, Pip!” He checks his phone. “Hey, speaking of data—you should input some of my friends. They’re in disgustingly happy relationships. See if your app can retroactively predict their compatibility.”
“That’s... actually not a bad idea.”
“I have those occasionally.” He starts packing up his things, still chuckling. “But seriously, this is hilarious. See you next Tuesday? Have a great weekend. Wait until I tell Greg. He’s going to be so smug.”
“You cannot tell your plant?—”
“Too late, he knowseverything.” He stands, shouldering his bag. “I should get to class. This has been enlightening. Life-changing, even. Should we shake hands? Exchange friendship bracelets? Sign a platonic pre-nup?”
“Leave. Now.”
“Leaving!” He salutes. “See you Thursday for our completely professional, definitely-not-destined-by-science tutoring session.”
He’s halfway to the door when he turns back, walking backwards. “Hey, Pip? What was my second match?”
“Ashley Sails. Seventy-two percent.”
“Never heard of her. See? The app doesn’t know everything.”
“That’s the point! You haven’t met her yet. The app could introduce you to people you’re actually compatible with instead of?—”
“Psh. Amateur numbers. Why would I settle for a C+ when I’ve got an A+ right here?” He winks. “Academically speaking, of course. I’ll be totally professional. Sacred bond, remember?”
Then he’s gone.
I drop my head to the table.
Ninety percent compatible with the most dramatic man on campus.
I stare at the screen, at our names linked by that ridiculous percentage.
The worst part is I’ve been through the code three times.
There’s no error.
Which means maybe, possibly, terrifyingly... my algorithm is right.
And Ethan Prescott—football player turned game designer, plant dad, guy with abs that should be illegal—is my ninety percent match.
Maybe I should add a feature where the app can delete its own results. For emergencies.
Like when it tells you the guy you’re trying not to fall for is statistically perfect for you.
10
PIPER
The whole ninety percent compatible thing haunted me for days. Every shift at Dora’s, I’d catch myself pulling up his profile on my phone, rerunning our compatibility test. Same result every time. Ninety percent. I tried adjusting variables, tweaking the algorithm, even adding new parameters.
Ninety. Fucking. Percent.
Today’s tutoring session is torture. Ethan, being infuriatingly true to his word, hasn’t mentioned our match once. He’s being helpful, patient, appropriately distant. Everything a professional tutor should be.
