Chapter 8 #2
I pulled in a breath and forced myself to meet her eyes.
“I ran our profiles through my app’s algorithm,” I said. “Before we really started getting to know each other. Right before I came to your workshop the other day.”
Holly blinked. “You what?”
“The dating app, the one I built? It has a compatibility algorithm—that’s the whole point of it.
And I…” I tunneled a hand through my hair, already feeling like this was going badly.
“I spent a couple of hours compiling information from your social media profiles, plus what’s available through public records.
And then I built a profile for you and ran it against mine. ”
She stared down at me, her expression unreadable. “Why would you do that?“
“Because I was curious,” I admitted. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I wanted to know if … if there was a reason for that. If it was just attraction or if there was something more.”
“And?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
“And we matched.” I swallowed hard. “At nearly 99 percent.”
The silence that followed this information felt like it lasted an eternity.
“Ninety-nine percent,” Holly repeated, setting her fork down carefully. “I’m assuming this is out of one hundred?”
“Yes,” I said. “And in the entire database, which includes hundreds of thousands of profiles, we’ve never seen a match that high between two people. The average is around 60 percent. Good matches are usually in the high 70s or low 80s. Anything over 90 percent is extremely rare.”
“And our percentage?”
“Statistically unprecedented. Historically, couples who match over 95 percent have a 94 percent chance of long-term relationship success. They almost always get engaged within a year. The data suggests that at that level of compatibility, you’re essentially looking at your optimal life partner.”
Holly took a step back, her hand coming up to rub at her temple. She bumped into the counter behind her and gripped the edge. “Let me make sure I understand this. You’re saying that after we’d met one time, you knew that we were … what? Soulmates? According to math?”
“According to a very sophisticated algorithm that accounts for thousands of data points related to compatibility, yes.”
“Jesus Christ, Luke.” She laughed, but it wasn’t a ‘haha’ laugh; it was slightly hysterical sounding. “That’s … that’s insane. You know that’s insane, right?”
“I know how it sounds,“ I said carefully. “But the algorithm works. That’s why the app was so successful. It predicts compatibility with shocking accuracy.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this to me at any point over the last several days? You just ... what? Decided to test the theory? See if the app was right?”
“No.”I started to move toward her, but she held up a hand and I froze in place. “Holly, no. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t approach you because of the algorithm. I approached you because I liked you. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. The algorithm just … confirmed what I already felt.”
“But you knew,” she said, her voice tight. “You knew there was a chance we’d end up together. You had all this information about me, about us, and I had nothing. I was going in blind while you were following some predetermined script.”
“It wasn’t a script,” I insisted. “Holly, everything that happened between us was real. The conversations, the kiss, last night—all of it was one hundred percent authentic. The algorithm doesn’t predict feelings.
It doesn’t tell you what to say or how to act.
It just measures compatibility based on values and preferences and—”
“And you used it on me without my permission.” She wrapped her arms around herself in a protective—defensive—position, and turned away to stare out the window over the sink. Her shoulders were rigid, her spine straight. Every line of her body screamed ‘stay away.’
“You took my data—my private information—and you analyzed it and you made decisions based on it, and you never thought to ask if that was okay?”
Guilt crashed over me in a wave. “You’re right. I should have told you. I meant to—I wanted to—but there never seemed to be a right time, and then things moved so fast, and I was scared that if I told you, you’d—”
“I’d what? Run? Leave?“ She laughed again, that same slightly unhinged sound. “Yeah, Luke. I probably would have. Because this is—” She gestured between us. “This is a lot. How would you feel if you found out that I’d basically been running an experiment on you this whole time?”
“It wasn’t an experiment.” My voice cracked. “Holly, please. I know I should have told you sooner. I know I fucked up. But my feelings for you are real. What happened last night was real. The algorithm didn’t make me fall in love with you. That happened all on its own.”
She went very still, then turned slowly to face me, her eyes wide.“You love me?”
I watched her chest rise and fall in quick, shallow breaths, like she couldn’t quite get enough air into her lungs.
Shit. That wasn’t how I’d meant to say that.
“Yes,” I said, because there was no point in backtracking now. “I love you. I’ve probably been in love with you since you kissed me on your porch. And I know that’s insane and you might argue that we barely know each other, and you probably think I’m some kind of stalker now.”
“I don’t think you’re a stalker,“ Holly interrupted quietly. “I do, however, think you’re a brilliant, socially awkward man who doesn’t think about how his actions might affect other people.”
I didn’t know if that was better or worse than being called a stalker.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you immediately. I should have asked permission before running your profile. I should have—”
“Yes, you should have.” She exhaled shakily.
“But I think I can also understand why you didn’t.
Sort of. You’re … you approach everything like it’s a problem to be solved.
Including relationships. And I get that.
I really do. But Luke, I’m not a problem; I’m a person. And I need you to see the difference.”
“I do see the difference,” I said, my throat tight. “I know you’re not a problem to solve. You’re …” I struggled for words that would be enough, all the while knowing none would be. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Holly pressed her hands to her face, breathing slowly. When she lowered them, her eyes were suspiciously bright.
“I need some time,” she said finally. “To think about this. To process.”
My heart sank. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
“I’m not angry,“ she added quickly. “I mean, I am. But mostly I’m just overwhelmed. This is a lot to take in, and I need some time to sit with my feelings and figure out how to handle it.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” She tilted her head, her eyes cataloguing every micro-expression on my face, reading me the way I usually read data.
“Because from where I’m standing, you just told me that some algorithm thinks we’re perfect for each other.
And yeah, I felt drawn to you from the start, but now I can never know if that’s because we actually have something real or if I’m always going to wonder if I only feel that way because an app told me that’s what’s supposed to happen. I need to figure that out.”
She moved past me toward the living room, and I watched as she gathered her clothes from where they’d been scattered the night before—her sweater draped over the couch arm, her leggings in a pile by the fireplace, her underwear half-hidden under a pillow.
Each piece of clothing she gathered carved out another piece of me.
The fear that had been lurking in my chest since I woke up crystallized into something sharp and painful. “Are you leaving?”
She stopped halfway across the living room, her shoulders sagging. When she turned back to me, her eyes were soft and her mouth was turned down at the corners—sad rather than angry. “I need space, Luke.”
“Your house doesn’t have power,” I reminded her in a last-ditch attempt to keep her here.
“I’ll figure it out.” She moved down the hallway toward the powder room—presumably to change out of my robe—then stopped, clutching her bundled clothes against her chest. “Can you drive me? Or should I call someone?“
“I’ll drive you,“ I said immediately. “Just … let me get dressed.” I glanced down at what I was wearing, flannel sleep pants and an old college t-shirt I’d thrown on when we came downstairs.“Give me five minutes.”
The drive to her house was silent.
Not the comfortable quiet we’d shared before, but something heavy and oppressive that made it hard to breathe. Holly stared out the window, her jaw tight, her hands twisted in her lap.
Every apology I formulated in my head sounded hollow. Every declaration of love felt like pressure. Every plea for another chance reeked of desperation.
When I pulled up in front of her house, Holly reached for the door handle but didn’t immediately get out.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For driving me. And for … for telling me. Even though it was hard to hear it.”
“I should have told you sooner.”
“Yeah. You should have.“ She turned to look at me, and her expression was a mixture of hurt and confusion and something else I couldn’t quite discern. “But I appreciate that you told me at all. That counts for something.”
“Does it count for enough?”
She didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know yet. I need … I just need time, Luke. Can you give me that?”
“As much as you need,” I said, even though the thought of waiting—of not knowing if she was going to come back to me—made my chest feel hollowed out, my lungs struggling to expand properly.
“Okay.” She opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air. “I’ll call you. Soon. I promise.”
And then she was gone, disappearing into her house without looking back.
I sat there in her driveway for a long time, staring at her closed door, waiting for … I didn’t know what. For her to change her mind and come back out? That was what would happen in the movies, right?
But the door stayed closed.
Finally, I put the car in drive and headed home to a house that echoed with her absence. Every room we’d spent time in felt too big, too quiet. The living room still smelled faintly of her perfume and our sex, which made it worse. I got hard again just standing there.
I moved to the kitchen, staring at the mess, and felt the full weight of what I’d done crash over me.
I’d had her. For one perfect night, I’d had everything I’d ever wanted. And then I opened my mouth and destroyed it.
The rational part of my brain tried to argue that I’d done the right thing. That honesty was always the best policy. That Holly deserved to know the truth. That building a relationship based on a lie—even a lie of omission—would have been worse in the long run.
But the irrational part—the part that was currently drowning in fear and regret—didn’t care about long-term relationship health. It just wanted her back.
She’d said she would call. That she just needed time to think.
But what if thinking led her to the conclusion that I was some kind of creep, that my behavior had been too invasive? That she couldn’t trust what the math had revealed? What if she decided that whatever we had wasn’t worth the complication?
What if I’d just ruined my one chance at happiness?
Desperation took hold of me, and I picked up my phone and pulled up her contact information, my thumb hovering over the call button.
Give her space, I told myself firmly. She asked for time. You have to respect that.
I set the phone back down and forced myself to walk away.
The afternoon crawled by. I tried to distract myself by pulling up the code I’d been tinkering with the other day but it couldn’t hold my attention for more than five minutes. I opened my email instead and scrolled through messages I didn’t care about from people who meant nothing to me.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of failed productivity and obsessive phone-checking. I’d set it face-down on my desk to avoid the temptation, then find myself picking it up thirty seconds later. Checking for a notification that never came.
By sunset, I’d convinced myself she was never going to call.
When my phone finally buzzed, I lunged for it so fast I nearly knocked it off the table.
Unfortunately, it was Nate thanking me for the donuts I’d had delivered to all the emergency service workers a couple of hours ago. A little too on the nose, perhaps, but there weren’t a lot of businesses open given the storm, and I wanted to make sure they had something to eat.
I stared at his message for a long moment, then set the phone down without responding.
The fire I’d built earlier had burned down to embers, so I added another log, watching the flames catch and build, and tried not to think about last night.
My phone buzzed again, but this time, I didn’t rush to check it. I just let it sit there on the table, the notification lighting up the darkness.
When I finally picked it up a few minutes later, my stomach dropped.
Holly
Can we talk tomorrow?
Are you free in the afternoon?
My hands shook as I typed back.
Me
Yes. Whatever time works for you.
Holly
Is 2 okay? I can come to your place.
Me
I’ll see you then.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again.
Holly
Luke?
Me
Yes?
Holly
I’m not running away.
I just had some things I needed to figure out.
Okay?
The knot of worry that had been sitting in my gut all day loosened just enough for me to breathe properly again.
Me
Okay.
Holly
See you tomorrow.
I stared at the phone for a long time after she stopped responding, reading and rereading those messages, trying to parse meaning from every word choice.
I’m not running away.
That was good. That was something.
But it also wasn’t a promise to stay.
Tomorrow, I’d find out which way this was going to go—whether the woman I’d fallen in love with was going to give me a chance to prove that what we had was real or whether I was about to lose the only person who’d ever made me feel like I might actually be capable of love, of partnership, of building something that lasted.
I sat down on the couch, in the spot where Holly had been just last night, and pulled one of the blankets that still smelled like her over my lap and waited for tomorrow to come.