Page 8 of What If It's You?

“I’m fine, just…” The room went spinny around me and I gasped,reallypanicking now. Was I so scared of commitment that it could literally knock me out cold? Jesus, how messed up was I?

“Fuck. I should have warned you, the first time you use the program can be a little disorienting. Here, just put your head between your knees.”

I bent over as instructed while Drew dashed off, returning a few seconds later with a cup of water.

“Small sips. Just breathe. I promise it will go away soon.” He moved his chair next to mine, hand moving over my back in slow, soothing circles. After a few seconds I could feel my heart rate returning to normal, my vision unblurring…and the gentle pressure of his hand on me. I breathed in sharply and pushed myself upright, trying to ignore the pang I felt as Drew’s hand fell away.He’s just a friend. An attractive, incredibly intelligent, caring friend.

“Thanks. Sorry about that, usually I have a pretty strong constitution.”

“I should be the one apologizing,” Drew said.

He was close, worry in his gaze, and the pull in my chest was so deep it felt almost physical, like a hook under my ribs.

“I should go,” I murmured, rooted to the spot.

“Right. I’m sure you have a ton on your plate,” Drew said, eyes drifting to my mouth.

We sat there, held in each other’s orbits for a long moment, until the door creaked open and his staff started streaming back in. Finally I managed to stand up.

“Let me know when you want to run through things, we can book a conference room.”

“Awesome. Thank you. And if you ever want to play around with the program again, just say the word. Or even just pop by when you have a spare minute. We’re always happy for a new user to train the AI on.”

I nodded and, before I could get sucked into those soulful eyes again, hurried out the door and down the hall.

All afternoon I kept returning to the strange experience, trying to understand the complexity and immensity of the program Drew was building behind the frosted doors of the Lightning division. I should have been focusing on the broader implications, thinking of ways to market it as a product, or even just how to link it to our existing suite of services, anything that might be useful to me, or to my friend.

But the only thing that I could think of, the thing running through my head on repeat, waswhat if…

What if the reason I was so terrified of the ring was that some part of me knew Ollie and I weren’t meant to go the distance?

What if I should have given Drew a chance all those years ago?

What would my life be like if I’d made a different choice?

The interior of Mother Hen was homey, with stained glass pendant lamps throwing warm yellow light over the tables, a hodgepodge of dog-eared vintage cookbooks and old kitchen tools perched on floating reclaimed wood shelves, and dark beams crisscrossing the ceiling. As soon as I stepped inside, the scent of sage cooking in butter hit me, making my mouth water.

It was where Ollie had taken me for our first “real” date, one I’d only learned much later he paid for by taskrabbiting as a bike courier between shifts at the liquor store where he’d been working back then. A lot had changed for both of us since—Ollie made a much more comfortable income teaching guitar, bass, and violin to Cambridge’s elite offspring, and I’d snagged the job at Pixel—but Ollie insisted on having every anniversary dinner here, at the same tiny table in the far corner of the room, the rattle of the air conditioner overhead drowning out the voices of the other diners. And he always insisted on paying, no matter how much I reminded him about the Pixel money stacking up in my bank account. Someday maybe I’d buy a place with it, but I wasn’t ready to commit to Bostonforever—sure, I liked it now, but who knew if I’d want to be here in five years?

At least Ollie had started letting me put a little more toward our vacations than he did. I knew hecouldhave split the cost with me right down the middle, but it just felt silly, especially when I was the one insisting we spend at least a few nights somewhere fancy.

Ollie was already seated at “our” table, and he flashed his lopsided smile as he saw me walking over, lifting a near-empty pint glass in my direction.

He’s already made it through most of a drink.Did that mean he was working up his nerve to propose? Or just that I was late again?

I ignored my flip-flopping stomach and made an effort to return his smile as I slid into my seat.

“Hey, stranger,” Ollie said, leaning across the table to press a single soft kiss to my lips. “How was your day?”

“Good. Busy.” I shrugged, glancing out at the restaurant, anxiety making my skin feel too tight. Usually Ollie’s mellow, empathetic presence was an immediate balm for that feeling—it was one of the things that I most valued about Ollie, the way he balanced me, helped me to at least recognize my catastrophizing for what it was. But then usually the prospect of what Ollie might do or say at any moment wasn’t thecauseof my anxiety.

“I hope you’re hungry, I put in for the squash blossoms already.”

“Okaaay…” Annoyance flared through me, though I couldn’t say why. I loved the squash blossoms. They were such a crowd favorite that the restaurant kept them on the menu almost year-round, while practically every other dish rotated out regularly. And Ollie loved that we’d ordered them every year, another of the traditions that he clearly cherished.

But are we going to do it every year forever?Even things I loved cast exaggerated, monstrous shadows when I lit them with the overwhelming wattage offorever.

“Sorry, did you not want them? I only just ordered, I’m sure we can get something else instead.”

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