Chapter 9 #2
“I usually get Piper, obviously. Or Pipes from some people.” I wrinkle my nose. “Which always makes me think of plumbing.”
He scrunches his eyebrows, considering me. “Nah, you're definitely not a Pipes. Way more of a Pip.”
“A Pip?” I raise an eyebrow. “Like what, apple seeds?”
“Like someone small but mighty. Concentrated awesome.” He grins at what must be my skeptical expression. “Plus, it's fun to say. Pip. Pip pip pip.”
“You're ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
I shrug, fighting the smile that wants to break free. “Okay, fine. Pip it is.”
“Really?”
“Why not? It's... different. And when you say it, it sounds kind of nice.”
“Nice?”
“Don't get weird about it.”
“Too late,” he says cheerfully, and somehow the awkwardness from earlier completely dissolves.
We go back to work, but something’s shifted. The ghost of Paige still lingers, but it feels less heavy now. Less like something he’s facing alone.
And when she and the IPA guy finally leave, Ethan’s shoulders drop with relief.
“She really did a number on you, huh?” I say quietly.
“Yeah.” No bravado now, just honesty. “Made me feel like I was auditioning for a role I was never going to get.”
I think about years of auditioning for Miles’s attention. “I know the feeling.”
He looks at me then, really looks, and there’s understanding in his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We don’t say anything else about it for a moment. Then Ethan starts fidgeting with his coffee cup, not meeting my eyes.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks suddenly. “Something I haven’t told anyone?”
“Of course.”
“My dad called last week. After he saw my midterm grades.” He’s still not looking at me. “Started going on about how I’m ‘finally facing reality’ about my choices. How maybe now I’ll consider something practical.”
“That’s awful.”
“The thing is... part of me wonders if he’s right.” His voice drops. “I submitted my senior project for beta testing, and some of the feedback has been... rough.”
My stomach tightens, I wonder if Zarah thinks the same. “Rough how?”
“One reviewer just... tore it apart.” He laughs, but it’s hollow. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Like maybe they saw what my dad sees—that I’m just fooling myself about being good at this.”
“One review doesn’t define your work.”
“But what if it’s the honest one? What if everyone else is just being nice?” He finally looks up. “My dad texted me after that review came in, like he could sense it. Said he’s ‘concerned about my future’ and wants to discuss ‘backup plans’ over spring break.”
“Ethan—” I take his hand across the table. “Your dad’s wrong.”
His eyes flick down to my hand on his.
I jerk it away.
“Is he though? Because sometimes I wonder if I gave up everything just to prove I could. Like maybe this whole game design thing is just me being stubborn.” His eyebrows crease together. “What if that’s all I am? Some ex-jock pretending to be an artist?”
“Stop. You’re not pretending anything.”
“You sound sure.”
“I am sure. The way you talk about storytelling, the way you see the world... that’s real talent.”
He squeezes my hand. “This is why I need honesty, Pip. Even when it hurts. Because the not knowing, the secrets—that’s what really messes with my head. Makes me doubt everything.”
“I get that.”
“Do you?” His eyes search mine. “Because after Paige, after realizing everyone knew the truth but me... I can’t do that again. I’d rather have brutal honesty than comfortable lies. At least, that way I know what’s real.”
I understand what he means.
“My dad wants me to know I can still come home. Work at the hardware store. ‘Learn the value of honest work,’” he quotes bitterly. “Like what I’m doing isn’t honest. Like creating something from nothing isn’t real work just because it might fail.”
“You’re not going to fail.” I am so sure of it.
“That reviewer seemed pretty sure I already had.” He tries for a smile. “Sorry. I’m being too heavy. Just... sometimes, I feel like I’m constantly trying to prove I made the right choice, and everyone’s just waiting for me to admit I didn’t.”
“I promise,” I say. “You can trust me. No comfortable lies.”
“Thank you.” He brings my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles gently. “I know I’m probably too sensitive about this stuff. But when you’ve spent your whole life being told you’re one thing, trying to be something else feels like... like betraying everyone who believed in you.”
“Or like finally being honest about who you are.”
“Maybe.” He looks at me with such vulnerability. “I just hope I’m good enough at this to make it worth disappointing him.”
The weight of his confession hangs between us for a moment too long. I can see him starting to retreat, that vulnerability shuttering behind his usual defenses.
“Wow,” he says suddenly, forcing a grin. “Way to make coffee traumatic. Next I’ll be telling you about my recurring nightmare where Greg leaves me for a succulent.”
“Ethan—”
“No, seriously. He packs his little plant bags, says something about needing ‘less needy foliage,’ and just walks out. Roots and all.” He’s fully committed to the bit now, hands gesturing wildly. “I wake up in a cold sweat every time.”
I want to call him on the deflection, but I can see he needs this. Needs to retreat from that raw place he just showed me. So I play along.
“Greg would never. You’re clearly his soulmate.”
“You think?” His grin turns more genuine. “Even though I sometimes forget to rotate him so he grows evenly?”
“Especially then.”
“I am very lovable,” he agrees, but his eyes are saying thank you for letting him dodge.
We go back to our work, but I can’t stop thinking about what he shared. About the reviewer who tore his project apart.
My stomach churns with guilt about my own harsh review of Zarah’s game.
What if she felt like this? What if my words made someone else doubt their talent?
“Anyway… that was heavy talk for a coffee break,” he says, shaking his head like he’s physically dispersing the ghosts. “What’re you working on? Please tell me it’s something that’ll make me feel smart again.”
“My app.” I turn my laptop so he can see, grateful for safer ground. “It’ll probably be what I submit for my senior showcase next year.”
“Already planning ahead? Overachiever.” He leans in, genuinely interested. “What’s it do?”
“It’s a compatibility matching system for dating or well…life partners.”
“Like Tinder?”
“No.” The word comes out sharp. “Nothing like that. It matches based on actual compatibility metrics, not just... photos and pickup lines.”
“So like eHarmony but sadder?”
“More scientific.” I pull up my reference folder, warming to the topic despite his teasing. “I’ve analyzed data from over a thousand psychological studies on relationship success factors. The algorithm factors in everything—attachment theory, communication patterns, life goals, values...”
“You’re trying to program love?” He clutches his chest dramatically. “Pip, you beautiful genius, you’re going to put romance novels out of business!”
“Not love. Compatibility. There’s a difference.”
“Right, right.” He waves his hand. “Didn’t Shakespeare say that?”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m delightful. Now explain how your app saves humanity from bad dates.”
I roll my eyes but continue. “Humans are terrible at choosing partners. Over forty percent divorce rate. We let emotions override logic, get distracted by chemistry instead of compatibility.”
“But chemistry’s the fun part!” He leans back, gesturing wildly. “Butterflies! Sparks! That whole ‘I-forgot-how-to-form-sentences-because-they-smiled’ thing!”
“Chemistry lies.” I think of Miles. “It floods your system with dopamine and norepinephrine until you’re making stupid decisions.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Maybe.” Heat crawls up my neck. I don’t want Ethan to know about Miles yet. I want him to think I’m at least a little cool before he finds out I waited for a guy who didn’t even want me.
“Ah.” He drums his fingers on the table, then brightens. “So your app is like... romantic training wheels! Cold hard data.”
“No, my app just removes the guesswork. Pure data. No lies, no mixed signals, no waiting for someone to maybe possibly notice you exist.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“Sounds safe.”
We stare at each other across the table. He’s the first to look away.
“Can I try it?” He’s already reaching for the laptop. “I want to meet my algorithmically determined soulmate. Bet she likes plants.”
My stomach drops. “It’s still in beta—”
“Perfect! I love breaking things.” He’s pulling the laptop toward him with grabby hands. “Come on, Pip. Let me find my one true love. Or at least my ‘statistically probable life partner.’”
“Ok, but the database only has like fifty people—”
“Excellent odds! Less competition.” He starts typing, answering questions with surprising speed. “Ooh, this is thorough. ‘How do you handle conflict?’ Easy—I make increasingly terrible jokes until everyone forgets what we were fighting about.”
“Please take this seriously.”
“I am! Look, I’m answering honestly.” He shows me the screen. “See? ‘Communication style: Humor as a defense mechanism.’ That’s growth, Pip. Self-awareness.”
I watch nervously as he continues. He’s actually being honest, despite the commentary. When he finally reaches the end, he cracks his knuckles like he’s about to perform.
“Ready to meet my future ex-wife?” He hovers over submit.
“It doesn’t predict divorce—”
“Drum roll, please!” He starts drumming his hands on the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Who will capture the heart of this dashingly handsome plant father?”
He clicks submit with a flourish.
The screen loads. His results appear.
Top Match: Piper Renner - 90% Compatibility
Silence.
Then Ethan explodes. “Ninety percent?!” He jumps up, pointing at the screen. “Pip! Pip! We’re destined!”
“Sit down, you’re making a scene—”
“We’re soulmates! According to science!” He’s gesturing wildly, other coffee shop patrons staring. “This is better than astrology! Better than fortune cookies! Your app just proved we’re—”
“It’s obviously broken.” I snatch the laptop back, face burning. “A bug in the algorithm—”
“A bug?” He clutches his chest again. “You wound me! Here I thought we had something special!”
“Ethan, please—”
“Wait, wait.” He sits back down, still grinning like a maniac. “Let me see the breakdown. I need to know exactly how perfect we are for each other. Do we get matching tattoos now? Should I tell my mom?”
With shaking hands, I show him the analysis, hoping he’ll stop making a scene.
“Compatible life goals, shared values, complementary personalities...” He’s reading dramatically, like it’s Shakespeare. “Pip, this is beautiful. We’re like... peanut butter and jelly! Bert and Ernie! Greg and adequate sunlight!”
“And ten percent incompatible,” I point out desperately.
“Only ten percent! That’s nothing! What’s our tragic flaw?”
I mumble through the incompatibilities, but he’s not discouraged.
“So I’m impulsive and you’re cautious? That’s perfect! I’ll make sure we have fun, you’ll make sure we don’t die!” He’s practically bouncing. “This is amazing. We should frame this. Put it on the wedding invitations.”
“Stop.” I bury my face in my hands. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
“Ninety percent, Piper!” He pulls my hands away from my face, still grinning. “Your life’s work just declared us scientifically compatible! We could name our kids Binary and Algorithm!”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You ninety percent love me. It’s right there in black and white!”
Despite everything, I’m fighting a smile. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being scientifically validated!” But then his expression shifts, becomes slightly more serious. “Okay, okay. Look, Pip, I’m joking around. You’re my tutee and I take that very seriously. Sacred student-teacher bond and all that. I’m older and wiser too.”
“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 knows everything.” 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.