Chapter 29 #2
Michaela catches my eye and gives me a look that says, very clearly: See? Stars.
“I…I should go check on the other presentations,” Principal Harrison says, composing herself.
“But it was wonderful to meet all of you. Michaela, excellent work tonight—I’ll be recommending your project for the Lower School showcase at the spring assembly.
And Mr. Kingsley—” She pauses, something flickering in her expression.
“Perhaps we could schedule a meeting to discuss Michaela’s placement in the accelerated program?
I have some thoughts I’d like to share.”
“Of course,” David manages. “I’ll call your office.”
“I look forward to it.” She walks away, and the entire group turns to stare at David.
“What?” he asks defensively.
“Nothing,” Caleb says, grinning. “Nothing at all.”
“I look forward to it,” Dominic mimics in a dreamy voice. “Oh, Principal Harrison, I’ll call your office—”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Michaela tugs on my sleeve. “This is why I need more girls in the family. Way too many sausages.”
“I told you to stop using that term. You don’t even know what it means,” David says.
“I know it’s something to do with boys’ rude bits,” Michaela says.
David lets out an exasperated sigh as he turns to Dominic. “Do you see what you did?”
“I can,” Dominic says, nodding sagely. “And I’m going to fix it right away—Michaela, honey, don’t say ‘sausages’. The technical term for a group of guys is a ‘sausage party’.”
“Dominic!”
The Italian restaurant is loud. Not unpleasantly so, but the noise level requires constant recalibration.
We end up at a farm-to-table place in Lincoln Park that Layla knows, crammed around a table meant for eight with Michaela somehow commanding the head position like a tiny mob boss.
She’s shed the blazer and is currently constructing a tower out of artisanal breadsticks while simultaneously interrogating Jenna about her job.
“So you’re like a secretary?”
“Executive assistant,” Jenna corrects coolly.
“What’s the difference?”
“About six figures and a corner office.”
Michaela considers this. “Respect. I like that. Never let people diminish your title.”
“I never do.”
“We should do business together sometime.”
“I’ll have my people call your people.”
“I don’t have people yet. But I’m working on it. My school has an excellent entrepreneurship program starting in fourth grade.”
I watch Audrey laugh at something Serena said, her whole face bright.
I like seeing her like this—her laugh ringing bright like a melody that’s been tuned perfectly for my ears.
The way she leans forward, genuinely engaged in whatever conversation is unfolding, reminds me why I fell for her in the first place.
“I can’t get over the change in you.” Dominic interrupts my reverie, dropping into the seat next to me and flicking his gaze toward Audrey. “You’re less...”
“Less what?”
“Less like you’re running on a separate operating system from the rest of humanity.” He takes a drink. “More like you’re actually here.”
I consider this. “Is that an improvement?”
“Yeah, man. It really is.”
Audrey catches me looking and smiles. I smile back, and for once, my face does what I want it to without conscious intervention.
“So,” Michaela announces, turning her attention from Jenna to scan the table with the air of a general surveying her troops. “Now that we’re all here, I have an important question.”
“Should we be worried?” Caleb asks.
“You should always be worried. It keeps you sharp.” She folds her hands on the table. “My question is: who’s getting married next?”
David chokes on his water. “Michaela—”
“What? Bennett and Layla are engaged. That means someone else has to be next. It’s just math.” She points at Caleb and Serena. “You two have been together for a while. What’s the holdup?”
“We’re taking our time,” Serena says, admirably composed. “There’s no rush.”
“There’s always a rush. Life is short. Dolphins only live thirty to fifty years, and they’re smarter than us.”
“That’s not—” Caleb starts.
“And dogs only live ten to thirteen years. What if you were a dog, Uncle Caleb? You’d already be dead. Would you want to die unmarried?”
“I’m not a dog.”
“But if you were.”
“I’m not.”
Michaela sighs heavily and turns to Dominic. “What about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”
Dominic grins. “I’m working on it.”
“Working on it, how? Do you have a plan? Plans are important.”
“I have... strategies.”
“That’s not the same thing.” Michaela shakes her head with clear disappointment. “You need a five-year plan. That’s what they teach us at my ‘Future Leaders’ club. Where do you want to be in five years?”
“Probably still annoying Jenna,” Dominic says, shooting a look down the table.
Jenna doesn’t look up from her menu. “You’re already exceeding expectations in that department.”
“See? I’m ahead of schedule.”
Michaela considers this exchange with narrowed eyes. “Jenna, do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Do you want one?”
“Not particularly.”
“What about a husband?”
“Even less.”
Michaela nods slowly, then looks at Dominic, then back at Jenna, then at Dominic again. I can almost see the calculations running behind her eyes.
“Interesting,” she says finally.
“What’s interesting?” Dominic asks.
“Nothing. Just compiling evidence.” She picks up a breadstick and takes a deliberate bite. “I’ll let you know my conclusions when I’ve finished my analysis.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Probably.”
The conversation fractures after that—Bennett and Layla discussing wedding planning updates, Caleb and Serena debating whether they have time to care for a cat or if they should stick to goldfish, David trying to pretend he isn’t checking his phone to see if Principal Harrison’s school email is in his contacts.
I let it wash over me, the noise and warmth, and chaos of it all.
Audrey leans into my shoulder. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Quieter than usual quiet.” She tilts her head to look at me. “Where’d you go?”
Nowhere, I want to say. I’m right here. That’s the remarkable thing.
I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I was observing from behind glass—present but not participating, analyzing but not experiencing.
Social situations were puzzles to be solved, conversations were algorithms to be optimized, and connection was something other people seemed to do effortlessly while I stood on the outside, trying to figure out an in.
But right now, with her warmth against my side and the sound of our friends arguing about whether Michaela can legally be a flower girl at multiple weddings, I don’t feel like I’m observing.
I feel like I’m home.
“I was just thinking,” I say slowly, “about probability.”
“Of course you were.” She’s smiling. “What kind of probability?”
“The kind that involves finding someone whose weird matches your weird.” I turn to face her fully. “The statistical likelihood of that is vanishingly small. And yet.”
“And yet?”
“Here you are.”
Her expression softens. “Here I am.”
I don’t say the rest. I don’t tell her that somewhere between the dolphin presentation and the breadstick architecture, something clicked into place. A decision I didn’t know I was making until it was already made.
I’m going to ask her to marry me.
Not tonight. Not with an audience. Not without a ring and a plan and an entire research project comparing proposal locations and optimal timing.
But I’m going to marry her.
Because she’s not just someone I want to be with. She’s the person who makes being myself feel like enough. The person who looks at my weird and raises me her own. The person who makes this room full of noise and chaos feel like somewhere I actually want to be.
She’s my forever human.
The phrase surfaces from somewhere deep, a term I don’t remember learning but that fits perfectly. Not soulmate—too imprecise. Not partner—too clinical. Forever human. The one person whose presence makes all the other humans bearable. The anchor in every room. The constant in every equation.
“Logan?” She’s looking at me curiously, and I realize I’m grinning. I probably look like a golden retriever who’s just been told ‘walk.’ It’s embarrassing, but I can’t stop.
“Hmm?” I ask, taking her hand. “Did I miss something?”
“Not really. You were just looking at me like you’re solving a very complicated equation.”
“Maybe I am.”
“And? What’s the solution?”
I kiss her forehead, which is not something I normally do in public, but the math supports it.
“You,” I say simply. “The solution is always you.”