Page 45 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

We leave the room. And somewhere between the door and the elevator, his hand finds the small of my back—not because anyone is watching, not because we’ve entered the performance zone, just because he likes doing it—and the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of my dress stays with me all the way down to the lobby.

Chapter Twelve

Aiden

Meet the Parents

Ruby’s mother is a force of nature in coral lipstick.

She sees us the moment we walk into the rehearsal dinner—a stone-walled room with low lighting and too many candles and people holding wine glasses like accessories. Karen Hart crosses the room at a speed that defies the heels she’s wearing, and before I can prepare, she has both hands on my arms and is looking up at me with an expression I can only describe as delighted verification.

“You must be Aiden.” She squeezes my arms. Tests them, almost. “Oh, Ruby, you didn’t tell me he was so tall.”

“Mom—”

“And handsome! Look at you.” She’s still holding my arms. She hasn’t let go. She’s examining me the way Gemma examined me, except Gemma was looking for circuit pathways and Karen is looking for son-in-law potential, and I’m not sure which is more intense. “Sweetheart, where have you been hiding him?”

“He’s been, uh—busy. With work. He’s a software consultant.”

“A consultant!” Karen releases my arms only to grab my hand instead, pulling me further into the room. “Tell me everything. Where are you from? What do your parents do? Do you like gardening? I’ve just put in a new hydrangea border and nobody in my life cares.”

“I’d like to hear about your hydrangeas,” I say, and I mean it, because I’ve never seen a hydrangea and the botanical data suggests they’re remarkable—over seventy-five species, color determined by soil pH, which means you can change a flower’s appearance by changing its environment. I find this relevant to my own situation.

Karen’s face transforms. She turns to Ruby with the expression of a woman who has just won an argument she’s been having for eight months.

“Ruby. He wants to hear about my hydrangeas.”

“Mom, please don’t—”

“Nobody wants to hear about my hydrangeas, Ruby. Nobody. Not Ben, not your father when he was alive—rest his soul—and certainly not Josh, who thought a perennial was a type of bird.”

“That’s incorrect,” I say. “A perennial is a plant that lives for more than two years.”

Karen squeezes my hand so hard I register it as notable pressure. “I love him already.”

Ruby, standing behind her mother, mouths help me in my direction. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to help with. Karen is being very warm and very welcoming and her hydrangea questions are genuinely interesting. I don’t see the problem.

The problem arrives eleven minutes later—when the food is brought out.

Karen returns from the appetizer table carrying a plate she has assembled personally—small pastries, cheese, crackers, something wrapped in prosciutto. She sets it in front of me with the authority of a woman who has never accepted “I’m not hungry” as an answer.

“Eat,” she says. “You’re too thin.”

Ruby steps in immediately. “Mom, he just had a huge lunch. We ate on the way.”

“A man needs to eat, Ruby.” Karen pushes the plate closer to me. “Try the brie. Natalie’s caterer is wonderful.”

I look at the plate. I look at Ruby. Ruby’s eyes are wide with a panic I recognize as, “Do not eat that, you cannot eat that, we discussed this.”

“I actually have allergies,” I say. This is the line Ruby coached me on. “Stay vague,” she said. “Don’t elaborate.”

“Oh no.” Karen’s face falls. “To what?”

“Many things.”

“Like what? Dairy? Gluten? I can find you something—”

“It’s a broad sensitivity,” I say, because Ruby told me broad sounds medical enough to stop questions. “I need to be careful with most foods in social settings.”