“Absolutely. Well, Pipes is. I can’t make it this time.” She pouts. “But it’s so nice to meet you guys,” Riya says, and Piper looks like she wants to argue but doesn't.
As they walk away, Piper glances back. Our eyes meet and something passes between us—anticipation, maybe.
“You're so fucked,” Troy says the second they're gone.
“What?”
“You're catching feelings.”
“I'm not catching feelings.”
“You so are. You kept checking if she was laughing,” Alfie says, not looking up from his book.
“I did not?—”
“Four times. She laughed four times, and each time you looked like someone gave you a present,” Freddie adds.
“Also, you kept finding excuses to touch her,” Tara contributes. “Very not subtle.”
“And you wanted to impress her with push-ups,” Troy says flatly.
Okay, that one's true.
“She's...” I run my hands through my hair. “Have you ever met someone who's exactly themselves? Like, she doesn't try to be anything else. She's just brilliantly, awkwardly, honestly herself. I just like her company.” I shrug.
“You've got it bad,” Freddie diagnoses.
“It's supposed to be just tutoring,” I protest, but even I hear how weak it sounds.
The truth is, I've been thinking about that ninety percent all week. She seemed pretty confident in it. Could it be true? And why did she look so panicked when she saw the results?
Part of me wants to believe it—that there's some scientific reason we fit. But the rational part knows better. You can't algorithm your way to love. You can't predict who's going to break your heart with data points and compatibility scores.
And smart, pretty girls with their theories and calculations? They're the most dangerous of all.
“It's complicated,” I finally say.
“It's really not,” Alfie says, finally looking up. “You like her. She clearly likes you?—”
“She doesn't?—”
“She's totally into you.”
But even if she is, I remind myself, I'm not dating right now. I'm focusing on graduating, on my game, on proving to my dad that I made the right choice. Not on girls who think they can solve love with code.
Even if their code says we're ninety percent compatible.
Even if I can't stop wondering what that means.
12
PIPER
Sushi Palace is humming—low jazz, conveyor-belt clatter, the soft whoosh of wasabi packets sliding past like tiny green meteors. I pick a corner booth, laptop in tow, intending to work on ClearMatch over a plate of salmon nigiri.
A flash of red catches my eye—someone in a football letterman jacket sliding into a booth across the restaurant. My pulse jumps. Is that Ethan? The broad shoulders look right, the way he sits with that casual confidence...
Then the guy turns and it's just some random freshman, probably trying to impress his date.
