Page 82 of Miss Matched

I toss the spoon onto the counter and sit back. “I told him it was a bad idea from the start. He’s the one who pushed it. Who made me think maybe I was actually capable of—well, you know. But that’s what I get for letting my guard down.”

“You loved him?” Monica asks. And it’s not her hopeless romantic excitement. It’s dead-serious shock.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Is love like a live grenade in your chest, except it explodes over and over again? And when you think you’re finally moving on, you smell him on a pillow, or you find his towel in the dryer, and just like that, it blows up whatever is left?”

Monica’s lips purse, and Luce tips her head to the side.

“Yeah, kinda like that,” Monica says with a distant look in her eyes that makes me wonder if the first boy who broke her heart left shrapnel inside her.

I’m not sure why people get so worked up about falling in love if this is the result of it. I barely remember what my eyes looked like before I unleashed a river out of them. Then there’s the dull throb in my chest that won’t go away. I tried sleep, food, alcohol, and still it pounds inside me.

“I wanted to be wrong,” I say with a deep breath.

“About him?” Luce asks.

“Maybe. Or about me.”

For years I’d thought that love was something that happened to other people. That when it came to me, everyone always left. And it never mattered. I was content. I built my own way, I had friends, I was happy. I didn’t need anything or anyone.

Until Zac.

He burrowed in like a splinter I couldn’t pick loose. And just when it stopped hurting and I felt like maybe I could live with it, it got infected.

Monica rounds the counter and wraps her arm around my shoulders. “What do you mean, you? You’re capable of great love; just look at what an incredible friend you are.”

She gives me a squeeze and releases.

“Don’t let him make you doubt your worth, honey,” Luce says, pointing a spoon at me.

“I’m not,” I say. “But maybe I’m just not built for it.”

“I don’t believe it.” Monica stands tall, shaking her head.

“It’s scientifically proven,” I say, piling a bite of ice cream on my tongue that shoots daggers to my brain. “I didn’t tell you guys, but I ran Zac through my database a couple weeks ago, and a match popped up.” I pause. “It was me.”

“You?” Luce’s forehead crinkles.

“I forgot I was in there from the calibration phase. And apparently I matched with Zac—ninety-six percent compatibility.” I dive back into the ice cream. “I thought it had to be a glitch, but Sam confirmed it wasn’t. And so basically, I’m just unlovable. Because if a man who is ninety-six percent compatible with me still leaves, then what hope do I have left? One hundred percent isn’t going to happen.”

Luce and Monica pause on that, looking from me to each other.

“That’s not how it works.” Monica shakes her head.

“It’s facts.”

“It’s numbers,” Monica argues. “Love isn’t a formula, or an equation. And it never makes sense, no matter how much you want it to.”

“Ninety-six percent.”

“Just a number.” She dips her chin at me. “Besides, maybe you’ll work it out.”

I shake my head. “No, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Turn this into one of your books,” Luce cuts in with a hard gaze in Monica’s direction.

“I’m not.”

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