Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRAVIS
There’s something unsettling about how easy this is.
Relationships aren’t supposed to feel frictionless. There should be an adjustment period, a calibration phase. Instead, Devin has slotted into my morning like a variable that was always supposed to be in the equation.
After I’ve given Ernest Hemingpaw his treat and he’s settled in his favorite spot on my couch to clean himself, I wash my hands and start to make Devin an omelet.
Devin’s humming while he drinks his sugar-contaminated coffee, scrolling through his phone, and I’m already mentally rearranging my kitchen to make room for his preferred cereal brands.
Which is insane. I don’t rearrange things for people.
I once ended a three-month relationship because someone kept shelving my books out of order, and I realized I’d rather have an organized bookcase than a boyfriend who couldn’t respect alphabetization.
But the cold light of day hasn’t changed this irrational certainty that Devin and I are inevitable. That my life before last night was just the rough draft, and now I’m finally working with the final specifications.
The scientific part of my brain can’t help running diagnostics: dopamine surge, serotonin elevation, oxytocin flooding the system. It’s the whole neurochemical cocktail evolution designed to trick humans into pair bonding. Biology cosplaying as destiny.
Except knowing the science doesn’t diminish the effect. If anything, it’s more alarming because I can see exactly which neurotransmitters are compromising my judgment, and I still can’t override them.
And every second I spend with him just makes the rational part of my brain quieter, like critical thinking is being gradually taken offline by something that doesn’t respond to logic-based countermeasures. And the terrifying part is, I have no interest in rebooting the system.
“So,” Devin says, watching me crack eggs into the pan, “do you believe in love at first sight? Or do you think it’s just…chemical delusion dressed up as destiny?”
I nearly drop the spatula. That’s almost word-for-word something I wrote in the moderating chat last month.
“That’s a very specific way to phrase it,” I say carefully.
He shrugs. “Just something I read somewhere. So? What’s your verdict?”
“I’m…reconsidering my position,” I admit.
His smile is blinding. “Good to know.”
As I’m plating the omelet, I hear my phone beep with a ShareYourGlow message. And not just any beep. It’s the special beep I’ve assigned to any messages from SunshineGuy.
My stomach hollows.
I need to tone down this flirtation thing that has been building between SunshineGuy and me. All those late-night messages that went beyond ShareYourGlow business, the inside jokes, the way my day feels incomplete if we haven’t sparred about something ridiculous.
Because now that I’ve met Devin, it’s not fair to have somewhere else I go to play.
Besides, I get the feeling Devin’s going to occupy every available space in my life. And for once, that idea doesn’t feel like an invasion. Instead, it feels like completion.
“Breakfast is served,” I announce, sliding the plate in front of him.
“I think you just got a message,” Devin says, nodding at my phone.
“I can check it later,” I say.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind if you check it now,” he says.
There’s something on his face that looks almost like…expectation. His eyes are bright, and he’s watching me a little too intently.
Does he suspect the message from another guy? Should I explain the truth to him?
I spent time chatting with this guy online to fill the gap in my life while I was waiting for you.
But I don’t know if I can easily articulate that sentiment without sounding pathetic. Or desperate. Or like I formed an emotional attachment to someone whose real name I don’t even know.
Instead, I obediently pick up my phone.
SunshineGuy’s message is sitting in my phone innocently enough.
Good morning. Hope your date went well last night.
I guess I should suck it up and reply that my date went exceptionally well, and that I’m probably going to pull back from moderating other people’s love stories because I’ve found one of my own.
SunshineGuy will mock me, of course, and I deserve it. After all my rants about statistical improbabilities, finding out I’ve been knocked sideways by a single date will amuse him endlessly.
But as I start to type back, an errant question sneaks into my head.
Wait, how does SunshineGuy know I went on a date? He told me he was going on a date, but I didn’t tell him I was going on one too, did I?
I stare down at the message, my forehead crinkling. I scroll back through my messages to check, and yes, I definitely didn’t mention going on a date anywhere in our conversation.
“What’s wrong? You’re looking at your phone like it just told you that spreadsheets have been outlawed.”
I snap my head up. Something about the way Devin’s looking at me makes me wary. It’s the kind of studied innocence that would make a golden retriever who definitely didn’t eat the couch cushions proud.
A hypothesis begins forming, one so improbable that I immediately want to dismiss it.
Except I’ve spent two years learning that improbable doesn’t mean impossible. SunshineGuy has taught me that much.
I slowly type my response.
My date was amazing, thank you for asking.
I press send.
Devin’s phone immediately pings.
“Oh, will you look at that. It appears I’ve got a message.” He takes a sip from the ShareYourGlow mug.
My brain is running calculations it can’t possibly complete. Every conversation, every joke, every late-night message is being cross-referenced against the person currently sitting in my kitchen wearing my shirt.
Devin picks up his phone. He smiles when he sees the message on his screen.
“Who is your message from?” I ask through numb lips.
“It’s from this guy I moderate a forum with. He’s quite a character. And I get the feeling that in real life, he’s incredibly hot and great in bed.” Devin gives me a saucy wink.
My breath whooshes out of me.
Oh my fucking god.
My mind feels like a processor hitting maximum capacity.
Every synapse is firing at once, trying to reconcile two separate datasets that were never supposed to overlap: SunshineGuy—my online sparring partner—with Devin, who’s sitting there with barely concealed delight while I undergo what can only be described as a complete system reconfiguration.
The same person. They’re the same fucking person.
“No way,” I manage to get out.
Devin gives me the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Way,” he replies.
It’s impossible to describe the feeling inside me.
Devin is SunshineGuy.
All those late-night debates about whether instant connection is real. All those times I rolled my eyes at his romantic optimism while secretly looking forward to his next message. That was Devin. It’s always been Devin.
It appears I’ve spent the last two years arguing with my soulmate about whether soulmates exist.
It’s like discovering that the two separate blueprints I’ve been studying were actually different views of the same structure all along, and now they’re snapping together into something so complete it should have been obvious from the start.
The feeling inside me bubbles out of me in two words. “Marry me.”
Oh my god, I can’t believe those words just exited my mouth without clearance from any rational part of my brain.
I’m horrified. Mortified. Completely fucking terrified of what I’ve just said aloud.
But Devin doesn’t seem at all fazed by me proposing to him the morning after our first date.
Instead, his smile spreads even further.
“One day,” he replies.
Of course we end up back in bed after breakfast. Because what else are we supposed to do with our discovery? Continue our endless chats about the feasibility of various love stories? Create a new spreadsheet?
No, we fall back into bed and let our bodies finish the arguments our brains have been having for years.
It’s round three of studying our intense sexual connection. I have a feeling that this particular subject might become the most well-investigated thesis of my entire life. Forget engineering. I want a PhD in the way Devin’s breathing changes when I kiss that spot just below his ear.
Now it’s almost lunchtime, and we’re just lying in bed gazing at each other. He’s stroking his hand along my forearms in lazy, hypnotic patterns that are shorting out my brain.
Yes, I, Travis Sinclair, am lying in bed with Devin, a.k.a.
SunshineGuy, the one person who could make me believe in every ridiculous love story I’ve ever debunked, because, apparently, we are one of those statistically impossible, completely illogical, absolutely perfect matches I’ve sworn don’t exist.
“So, I was just thinking I’ve got every incentive for this to work so I can prove I was right,” he says to me.
I clear my throat. “Luckily for you, I want you more than I want to prove you wrong.”
He smiles. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve said to me. Well, despite the proposal at breakfast.”
I flush.
“Don’t be embarrassed. Or maybe you should be. You’re cute when you blush,” he teases.
My phone beeps, and I pick it up, taking the opportunity to tamp down the level of heat radiating from my face right now.
I groan when I see the message is from my brother. Shit, another person I’m going to have to put up with gloating from for all of eternity.
Brocker
So…how did your date go?
Might as well get it over with.
Travis
Yeah, it turns out he’s my soulmate, so I guess I should thank you for your interfering ways.
Brocker
You don’t have to be sarcastic. Sorry it didn’t go well. I thought you guys would have a lot in common.
Travis
We do have a lot in common. And your comprehension skills appear to be failing you. Didn’t you read the part about him being my soulmate?
Brocker
Sure, because you, of all people, are going to tell me after one date, you’ve found your soulmate.
I glance up at Devin.
“You up for taking our first selfie together?”
“Sure.”
I pull him close to me, and he snuggles in, his head resting into the crook between my neck and my shoulder.
After I snapped it, Devin takes my phone off me to study it.
“We’re really cute together,” he declares.
I take it back to look at the photo. We’re both smiling. In fact, I almost don’t recognize myself because of the ridiculously large grin that’s hijacked my entire face. Our tousled hair and our naked chests mean Brocker won’t need to use much imagination to know exactly what we’ve just been doing.
“Are you okay with me sending this photo to Brocker?” I ask.
He’s grinning. “Sure.”
Travis
Here, because your comprehension skills seem to be failing you, a picture is supposed to be worth a thousand words. See if this helps you figure it out.
I attach the photo and press send.
There’s a delay of a minute before I see dots appear on the screen.
Brocker
WTF???
I literally just dropped my phone after seeing that photo.
Is he still with you?
Travis
Yes. I don’t think he’s going anywhere anytime soon.
Brocker
I repeat, WTF???
Are you being held against your will? Should I call Mom? The police? A priest? NASA to report this obvious body-snatching incident because clearly an alien has overtaken your brain?
Travis
I’m terminating this conversation because I have significantly better things to be doing right now.
Brocker
I’m making this photo my Christmas card. Travis finally got laid AND learned how to smile: It’s a holiday miracle.
I switch my phone off.