Page 68 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

“Yes.”

“Ruby.” Liv leans so far across the table her margarita is in danger. “I have known you for twelve years. I was there when you threw up on Chad Lowenhall’s shoes at that frat party. I held your hair. You owe me the truth.”

I take a very long sip of my drink. The ice rattles against the glass. Aiden is watching the French bulldog again. It’s chewing on a toy, and he’s tracking its jaw movements with genuine fascination and a wry smile that I find way too handsome.

“I can’t tell you what happened in the hotel room,” I say.

Liv’s mouth falls open. Gemma’s pen is now fully on the page. Avery sets her wine down and leans back in her chair with her arms crossed and a look on her face that says she already knows everything and is just enjoying watching me squirm.

“You can’t tell us,” Liv repeats.

“No.”

“Because nothing happened.”

“I didn’t say nothing happened. I said I can’t tell you.”

“Those are two very different statements, Ruby.”

“I’m aware.”

Gemma looks at Aiden. “Aiden, would you say that the events of the next evening involved a significant escalation in your physical relationship with Ruby?”

“Gemma,” I hiss.

“I’m asking a clinical question.”

“There is nothing clinical about this conversation!”

Aiden turns back from the dog. He looks at Gemma with the same earnest, direct expression he gives every question. “I would say that the second evening involved—”

I put my hand over his mouth.

His eyes move to mine. He’s not offended. He’s confused. I can feel his lips against my palm—warm, soft—and I’m suddenly remembering what those lips did on the second evening, and I pull my hand back too fast.

“We’re not discussing the second evening,” I say. “Ever. In any context. At any volume.”

“Ruby,” Liv says, and her voice has dropped into the low, serious register she uses when she’s about to say something that will change the conversation permanently. “Did you sleep with your synthetic boyfriend?”

The table is very quiet. The patio noise continues around us—other conversations, clinking glasses, the French bulldog yapping at a pigeon—but at our table, nothing.

I don’t answer. Which is an answer.

Liv puts both hands flat on the table. Takes a breath. Looks at the sky. Looks back at me.

“Was he—” She stops. Recalibrates. “Was the situation anatomically comprehensive—”

“I’m not answering that.”

“You don’t have to.” Liv looks at my face. “Your ears are doing the thing.”

My hands fly to my ears. They’re hot. Traitors.

“Ruby seems reluctant to discuss this,” Aiden says, “but I want it noted that the experience was—”

“Don’t you dare.”

“—extremely significant to me, and I have questions about how to—”