Seeds of Trust (University of Mountain Springs #4)

Chapter 1

PIPER

Objectively, a terrible time to receive bad news.

I'm revolutionizing human connection, solving the stable marriage problem with modifications that account for emotional intelligence.

No exceptions.

I know exactly what I need to do to save my future. So, why can't I pass this stupid Creative Writing class? I thought it would be an easy credit.

Clearly, I was wrong.

Instagram.

I shouldn't look.

I look.

Miles Carver posted a photo.

There he is, arms wrapped around a blonde girl in a sundress. Harper Briggs. The girl he was “definitely breaking up with” all summer last year.

So lucky to have this one

I roll my eyes.

I close Instagram and return to the email from Professor Long:

Ms. Renner, your current grade puts you at risk of losing your academic scholarship. If you cannot raise it to 68% by final assessments, I'm afraid we'll need to discuss your continued enrolment. I'm assigning you a mandatory tutor, whom you will see twice weekly. Details to follow.

Mandatory tutoring.

For Creative freakin’ Writing.

Because, apparently, my brain can process complex data structures but can't understand why fictional characters need “emotional arcs” and “meaningful growth.”

Someone clears their throat above me.

“Piper? Holy shit, you're alive.”

I jump, accidentally hitting three keys at once.

Who else is lame enough to spend their Friday evenings in the computer lab?

My code starts running an infinite loop, numbers cascading down the screen like digital rain.

“Shit, shit, shit—” I frantically hit Ctrl+C, but it's too late. The program's eating RAM like Pac-Man.

“Try force quit,” the familiar voice says. “Command-Option-Escape.”

My fingers move automatically, and the cascade stops. I finally look up.

Jay Garcia stands there with his signature messenger bag and earnest smile. Same tousled black hair, same Radiohead t-shirt he's worn every Thursday since freshman year. My stomach does a complicated twist.

“You just saved three hours of work.” I manage to breathe. “I forgot to set a break condition.”

“Rookie mistake, Renner.” He's grinning. “The girl who solved the Moretti conjecture for her freshman final forgot a break condition?”

“You remember that?”

“Everyone remembers that. Prof still talks about it. Says you're the brightest student he's had in a decade.” Jay slides into the chair across from me without invitation—that easy familiarity our study group always had. “Which raises the question, where've you been?”

“Just busy.” The lie sits heavy on my tongue. “Different schedule this semester.”

“Right.” He draws out the word, and I accidentally knock my pen off the desk reaching for my water bottle. It rolls toward him, and we both reach for it at the same time, nearly bumping heads.

“Sorry, I'm—sorry.” I pull back too fast, almost tipping my chair.

“Still graceful as ever.” But he says it warmly, like my clumsiness is endearing instead of embarrassing. “Sarah thinks you transferred. Mike's convinced you got recruited by the NSA.”

“The NSA wouldn't want me. I can't even write a proper story arc.” The admission slips out before I can stop it.

“You're struggling with something?” He looks genuinely shocked. “Piper Renner doesn't struggle. She just... solves things.”

“Yeah, well, turns out Creative Writing is a little more complicated apparently.” I minimize my code before he can see what I’m doing. “Professor Long says my stories read like instruction manuals.”

“Harsh.”

“Sort of accurate. I tried to use a flowchart for character development.”

Jay laughs—not at me, but like he's delighted. “Of course, you did. Remember when you tried to optimize the campus coffee shop queue with graph theory?”

“It would have worked if people had just followed the optimal path—”

“But people don't follow optimal paths. That's what makes them interesting.” He's leaning forward now, and I notice he has new glasses. They make him look older, more serious. “We miss you, you know. Group's not the same without our debugging queen.”

I force a laugh. “I'm sure you're managing.”

“Harper's been trying to fill your spot, but she doesn't have your patience for recursive loops.”

The name hits like ice water. Harper. In my study group. In my spot. Of course.

Jay must see something in my face because he quickly adds, “She's not—I mean, nobody could replace you. You know that, right? Just last month when Jonah’s entire final project crashed? He literally said 'We need Piper. She'd know what to do.'“

There's something in his voice, a weight to the words that makes me look up. He's leaning forward slightly, brown eyes serious behind his glasses. For a second, I think maybe—

“Anyway,” he continues, running a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that's kind of adorable. “We still meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Same room. You should come back.”

“Maybe next semester.” Another lie. We both know it.

He shifts in his seat, opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. “Piper, would you maybe want to—I mean, there's this new Korean place that opened, and I know you like kimchi fried rice, so I thought maybe—”

“I should go.” I'm already packing up, shoving my laptop into my bag with shaking hands. My charger gets tangled in my headphones, and I spend thirty seconds trying to separate them while Jay watches. “Professor Long wants to see me.”

“At 3 AM?”

“I mean—tomorrow. In the morning. First thing.” My face burns.

“Oh.” He deflates slightly. “Yeah, okay. But if you ever want to hang out, or need help with anything, or just want to get coffee—” He stops, restarts. “You know I'm TAing for Machine Learning, right? If you need any—”

“I got a 98 on the midterm.”

“Right. Of course, you did.” He laughs self-consciously. “I just meant—”

“Thanks, Jay. Really.” I manage something that might pass for a smile. “I'll see you around.”

I'm halfway to the door when he calls out, “I think Miles is an idiot, you know.”

I freeze, but don't turn around. Can't turn around. Because if I do, he'll see the truth written all over my face. That I still replay every interaction, looking for the moment I should have realized I was reading the situation all wrong.

“The whole group knows he's an ass,” Jay continues. “Nobody blames you for needing space. We just... we want you back. I want you back. In study group, I mean.”

“I really do have to go,” I manage, and flee before he can say anything else.

Outside the building, I lean against the brick wall and try to breathe normally. Jay Garcia almost asked me out. Sweet, stable, normal Jay who brings extra highlighters for everyone and explains algorithms with perfect patience.

Six months ago, I would have been thrilled.

But now? Now I know my judgment is broken. That whatever part of my brain interprets romantic signals is fundamentally malfunctioning.

Jay's nice, objectively attractive with his runner's build and easy smile. My mom would love him—pre-med with a computer science minor, parents who own a restaurant downtown.

But none of that matters because I can't trust myself to read the situation correctly. Can't trust that what feels like interest isn't just friendly concern. Can't trust that I won’t waste more years of my life misinterpreting every interaction.

That's why I need the algorithm. Cold, clean data that doesn't lie or mislead or let you believe in things that were never real.

My phone buzzes. A text from Jay.

Sorry if I made things weird. Door's always open if you change your mind. About study group or... anything else.

I delete it without responding and head home.

Back in my apartment, I sit in the dark kitchen, laptop screen the only light.

Professor Jenkins’ offer letter sits in my inbox, waiting for acceptance.

“Pending final transcript review,” it says.

Like everything good in my life, it's conditional on me being perfect in school.

The thing is, I've always been perfect academically.

Perfect grades, perfect code, perfect ability to solve any logical problem.

That's my entire identity—the smart girl.

The one who gets into exclusive programs. The one professors recommend without hesitation.

Without that, I'm nothing. Just another girl who waited years for someone who was never going to love her back.

I pull up Jenkins' offer letter again, even though I've memorized every word:

"Pending final transcript review with minimum 3.5 GPA maintained."

My hands shake as I calculate for the hundredth time tonight. With a 42% in Creative Writing, my GPA drops to 3.3. The offer gets rescinded. No supercomputer access. No published papers. No PhD pipeline to MIT or Stanford.

Without Jenkins' lab, my graduate applications are worthless. "Promising but ultimately unremarkable," they'll say. Another competent coder in a sea of competent coders. My parents will pretend to be supportive while exchanging those looks—we knew she wasn't as special as she thought.

Jackson will laugh. "See, Pipes? Not everyone can be exceptional."

And Miles. God, Miles will hear about it through the CS grapevine. "Remember Piper? The one who was so sure she'd make it to MIT? Yeah, she couldn't even pass a basic writing class."

My chest tightens. I can't breathe properly. The walls of my apartment feel like they're closing in.

68%. That's all I need. Twenty-six percentage points between now and finals.

Statistically improbable for someone who fundamentally doesn't understand how humans work.

My last assignment came back with Long's comment: "Technically proficient but emotionally vacant.

Your characters read like variables, not people. "

Variables. That's what I understand. Not the messy, illogical disaster of human emotion.

I open my algorithm one last time tonight, staring at the elegant code that can predict romantic compatibility with 87% accuracy. It's brilliant. Logical. Everything love should be if people weren't so fundamentally broken.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Just to test something. Just to see.

I input my own data, then start adding theoretical matches from memory. Every guy in my classes. Every one I can think of.

The results are merciless:

Compatibility too low for recommendation. Compatibility too low for recommendation. Compatibility too low for recommendation.

According to my own algorithm, I'm incompatible with literally everyone. The code I wrote to save myself from heartbreak just confirmed what I already knew—I'm too broken to love properly. Too analytical. Too cold. A computer who happens to look like a girl, just like Miles said.

The irony chokes me. I'm going to fail at love with mathematical certainty, fail at storytelling because I don't understand people, lose my scholarship, lose Jenkins' lab, and prove to everyone—my parents, Jackson, Miles, myself—that I was never as smart as I pretended to be.

All because I can't write a stupid story about feelings I don't understand.

My phone buzzes. Mom again: "Jackson just got promoted! Youngest VP in his firm's history! Hope your semester is going well too, sweetie."

I turn the phone face down.

Tomorrow I'll meet whatever tutor Professor Long has assigned.

I'll pretend I'm capable of learning something that should be instinctive.

I'll act like my entire future isn't collapsing because I'm exactly what Miles said—someone who processes data but can't understand the first thing about being human.

The algorithm glows on my screen, mocking me with its precision. At least when I fail, I'll have the data to prove it was inevitable.

That's something, right?

Even if it's the worst thing imaginable.