Page 19 of The Comeback Summer

My sister looks up at me, and I can see her trying to put her thoughts into words. I know people can be sentimental about their first love—and that’s what terrifies me.

If Hannah won’t protect her heart, I’ll have to do it for her. Starting with finding her a tall, handsome drink of water to make Josh look like the pathetic piece of shit he is.

“Meet me in the conference room in ten minutes,” I say, and walk back out of the office.

•••

HANNAH IS RIGHTon time, of course. Scott—nosy as ever—has joined us, too. I stand at the head of the table and clear my throat as the presentation I prepared comes to life on the flat-screen TV. My sister groans at the title of the cover slide: “Project Find Hannah a HEA.”

“According to my research,” I say, “there are seventeen different dating apps on the market—and three matchmaking services, which are irrelevant since we can’t afford them.”

I flip through several slides featuring apps I researched and rejected, pausing for a beat on the Jdate logo. While Hannah and I are both Jewish, she was never as into it as I was. Our one summer at Camp Sabra was life changing for me; I loved everything from singing thehamotzibefore meals to making tie-dye challah covers at arts and crafts. But my sister was miserable and homesick from the start.

“I considered this one to help you find yourbeshert,” I continue, “before deciding on the perfect app that really speaks your love language. And the winner is...”

Scott humors me and does a drumroll on the table as I click to the next slide for the big reveal.

“One+One,” I say. The logo has two blue number ones on either side of a pink heart with a plus sign at the center. “This app collects a ton of data and makes the matches based on math and science, not just the luck of a swipe.”

Hannah leans forward, and I can tell she’s intrigued.

“They have an eighty-seven percent success rate,” I tell her. “And when you go to people’s profiles, you can see how theiranswers compare to yours and how compatible you are with each other based on the app’s custom formula. Cool, right?”

My sister doesn’t respond.

“Come on, Han. You’ve got to take this seriously.”

“I am,” she says. “I seriously trust you.”

The smile she gives me softens the blow, and I suppose it’s not all bad that she’s leaving this in my hands. It would be decidedly less fun if she was micromanaging my every decision. And her reaction is more mature than mine was yesterday, when she showed me the training schedule she put together for us. (There may have been tears.)

“Okay,” I say, clicking to the last slide. “Next steps.”

I show her the to-do list for us to get her profile up and running before the check-in next week with Lou: a “fun and flirty” photo shoot, and answering the personality, lifestyle, and demographic questions the app uses for its data points.

Since I know organization relaxes my sister, I even mapped out the timeline with a different first date each week. For fun (and maybe a little bit of manifesting... ), I added a final date—a wedding—next summer.

“There is no way in hell I’m getting married next summer,” Hannah says.

“You could be engaged,” I say, arching my eyebrows. My sister rolls her eyes, but I can see it now. Me, standing by Hannah’s side as she marches down the aisle toward her leading man, whose name does not start with aJ.

Ten

HANNAH

It’s Sunday morning.theSunday morning. The day I see Josh again.

To combat the jitters, I start the day with my run, focusing on speed work while listening to a particularly gruesome murder podcast. After showering, I do my Crush Your Comfort Zone journaling, spending way too much time ruminating over the questionIf your comfort zone was a tree, what kind would it be?because... weird.

After, I spend a good hour debating what to wear, until Libby, who somehow knows what I’m doing through her big-sister telepathy, calls out that I don’t need to look cute if it isn’t a date.

And it isn’t. So I hang the pretty sundress back in the closet, put on shorts and a sleeveless shirt, and ignore the identical side-eyes from Libby and her devil cat as I head out the door.

Stan’s donut and coffee shop is just a few blocks from where we live, so I’ll be early, which is typical for me. Josh was always the opposite. The night of our senior prom, he was two hours late. He’d gotten distracted by an emergency with his hermitcrab, and he apologized so profusely that I couldn’t hold it against him. I thought it was sweet he cared so much about little Edward Scissorhands (who was fine, just molting).

That’s the thing with Josh: he doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body. As much as my sister likes to paint him as a villain, he’d never harm a living creature on purpose, including me. His last words to me the day he dumped me wereI’m so sorry, Hannah. I really am.And I believe he was.

Didn’t make it any easier for me, though.

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