The Soulmate Equation

Fizzy settled in her seat and adjusted her screen. “What’s that expression?”

“Probably my mom’s bank accepting the—” Jess paused, and bent to look closer. A chill ran through her. “Um, no. This is me reacting to ten thousand dollars being deposited into my account.”

“Tax refund?” Fizzy screwed her face up, not understanding.

Had Jamie refused the money? Jess tapped open the app and felt her heart drop. “Oh. It’s a GeneticAlly payment.”

Fizzy went quiet on the other side of the screen, eyes wide. “Yikes.” And then her brow cleared. “But … convenient timing?”

Looking up at her, Jess winced. “I can’t keep this.”

“The hell you can’t,” Fizzy responded. “You kept up your end of the deal.”

Jess knew Fizzy was right, but she wasn’t sure it mattered. At least to her. “I wonder if River knows that the company is still paying me?”

“Maybe that detail got lost in the scandal,” Fizzy mumbled, blowing on her hot coffee.

“How awkward would that conversation be?” she asked. “‘I realize you’re ghosting me but I just wanted to send one more note to thank you for continuing to pay me to be your girlfriend. It’s nice to be just heartbroken, instead of heartbroken and broke.’”

What could her best friend say to that? So, the heartbroken to the heartbroken said only, “I’m sorry, honey.”

Jess nearly startled out of her chair when a sharp knock rapped on the screen door, jarringly loud, followed by a deep, smoke-scraped voice. “Hey-ho, Jess.”

“Oh my God,” she hissed. “UPS is here for a pickup, and I don’t have any pants on.”

Fizzy reached for her notebook, quietly whispering as she jotted down: “UPS guy … no … pants.” Jess yanked her shirt as far down her thighs as it would go, grabbed the shipping envelope from the table, and shuffled to the door.

Pat—midfifties now, kind eyes, and deep wrinkles from years of sun exposure—was the same delivery guy they’d had for nearly a decade. He averted his gaze as soon as he registered the way Jess was hiding her lower half behind the door, and Jess handed him the envelope with signed contracts for Kenneth Marshall. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Let’s pretend this never happened.”

“Deal.” He turned and made his way down the path to the gate.

“Maybe being away from Twiggs isn’t so bad for my writing mojo,” Fizzy said when Jess returned to the table. “That might be the best start to a story I’ve had in a couple weeks. Maybe I’ll finally be able to write something other than sex scenes that transition into aggressive and intentional penile injury.”

“Please don’t write a romance starring me and UPS Pat.”

“Do you know that penises can be fractured and strangled?” Fizzy paused. “But don’t Google it.”

“Fizzy, I swear to Go—”

If possible, Jess startled even harder when the second knock came. Did I forget to tape the label on? Defeated, she called out, “Pat, hold on, I need to go put on pants.”

A low, quiet voice resonated down her spine. “Who’s Pat?”

Jess’s eyes went wide, and she turned to gape at Fizzy on the screen.

“What?” Fizz whispered, angling as if she could see through her screen to the door, moving so close that her nose and mouth loomed. “Who is it?”

“River!” Jess whisper-yelled.

Fizzy leaned back and made a shooing motion with her hand, whispering, “Go!”

“What do I say?” Jess hissed.

“Make him do the talking!” She shadowboxed in her chair and forgot to whisper the rest: “Fuck him! Tell him I said so!”

River cleared his throat and offered a dry “Hi, Fizzy” through the screen door.

“Oh, great.” Growling at her, Jess stood, stomped over to the door, and jerked it open.

River stared at her face and then dropped his eyes before immediately looking back up. A hot blush crawled up his neck. Right. Pants. And as they stood facing each other, River made a valiant effort to not let his eyes drop below her shoulders again.

Or … maybe it wasn’t valiant. Maybe it wasn’t hard at all. Maybe for him, turning off feelings was like flicking the switch off at the end of an experiment.

Score over ninety: interest on.

Score unknown: interest off.

“Hi,” Jess said. Well, even if he could shut off his feelings, the same was certainly not true for her. If anything, her love for River had somehow solidified into a brick in her chest: If she wasn’t truly in love with him, then why did she cry herself to sleep every night? Why was he the first person she’d wanted to hold when she finally got home from dropping Jamie off the other night?

But at the sight of him—how Jess could immediately tell he’d gotten a haircut recently, how he was still the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, even with the dark circles under his eyes, and how being this close to him still made a cord of longing pull tight from her throat to her stomach—the sadness melted away and she was angry. More than angry, Jess was livid. It had been eight days. Eight days of complete silence from someone who’d told her he hadn’t felt like he’d been home in forever until he met her. Who’d kissed her like he needed her to breathe. Who said “I love you” out of the blue and didn’t try to take it back. And then he left.