I squeeze my eyes shut, and toss and turn for a few more minutes before I finally give up and pull my phone out of my night table drawer, power it on.
The only text is one from Dad, saying he went into work for a few hours and didn’t want to wake me before he left. That I looked like I needed some sleep after last night and he hoped everything was okay. Can we talk over dinner? I’ll pick something up on the way home. Text me later and let me know what you want.
When he’d picked me up from the dance last night, I’d gotten in his car and refused to say a word the entire ride home. Dad asked if I’d had fun, and then, when I didn’t answer, he asked if something was wrong. I’d just shrugged and looked out the window, not wanting to discuss any of it with him, worried if I did, I’d scream—or worse, cry. Finally, he pulled into the garage. I told him I was really tired, and I’d gone straight upstairs and gotten into bed. It had taken me hours to fall asleep, as every time I closed my eyes I kept seeing Hannah’s bright, excited face as she was dancing, and George’s red, angry one looming over me.
I glance at the time now, and it’s after eleven. I never stay in bed this late, not even on Sundays, and I do have a calculus test and a Spanish quiz tomorrow. I need to practice piano today, too. I force myself to get out of bed and get some work done.
I go into the kitchen, brew some coffee for a mocha. Then I sip it at the kitchen table, and pick up my phone, glancing at it again. I think about texting Hannah, but I’m not sure what to say to her. Should I apologize? She was having a great time at the dance when I saw her, and I only gave her what she asked for: a match. Still, I can’t help feeling this is all my fault and that she might hate me right now. Maybe instead I should text Phillip and yell at him for ruining everything? He’d seemed genuinely upset when we’d lost states last year. How could he do this to us now?
I’m still considering what to do when the doorbell rings. I walk toward it slowly, wondering whether or not to actually answer it. It would be just like George to storm over here if he was still angry. But also, part of me hopes it is him, because then he can help me figure out what I’m supposed to do next.
I look through the peephole, and it’s not George. It’s Sam. He’s standing there on my porch, looking down at his sneakers, a paper bag in his hands. I have never felt happier to see anyone, and I open the door quickly before I realize that I’m still in the clothes I slept in, and that my hair is a total mess. I quickly pull it back into a ponytail with the hair tie on my wrist.
“Did I wake you?” Sam asks, taking in my outfit—my old stretched-out gray sweatpants and my Stanford sweatshirt.
“No, no. I got up a little while ago.”
He holds up the paper bag. “I brought donuts.”
I open the door wider. “Come on in. You want a mocha?” Then I clarify that it’s just half coffee, half milk, with a packet of Swiss Miss mixed in.
“Sure, sounds great.” He follows me into the kitchen where I make him his own cup, hand it to him and then invite him to come sit with me on the couch. I curl up on one end, tucking my feet underneath me, sipping on my mocha. Sam sits next to me, puts his cup down on Dad’s Phillies coaster on the coffee table and leans his elbows on his knees, turning his head to look at me. He offers me a half smile before opening the paper bag. “Glazed or chocolate?” he asks me.
I consider it for a moment, because really you can’t go wrong with either one. “Glazed,” I finally decide. He hands me a donut, and I take a bite, chewing around the edges, letting the sweetness of the glaze melt in my mouth, soothe me a little.
“I am a firm believer that donuts fix all things,” Sam says.
I laugh a little, but the donut catches in my throat and then I almost feel like I might start to cry. “I made a mess out of everything, didn’t I?” I don’t know what it is that lets me feel comfortable enough to speak honestly with Sam in a way I couldn’t with Dad last night. Maybe it’s just that he’s been on my side with this app the whole time. Or maybe it’s that he’s here right now, that he brought me donuts. Or maybe it’s the sweet half smile on his face, the kind way he’s looking at me now like he truly wants to help, wants to make everything better. “Does Hannah hate me?” I ask as I finish off my donut and lick the glaze off my fingers. He holds out the bag to offer me another one but I shake my head. The first is already settling as a nervous lump in my stomach, and I feel a little sick, imagining Hannah hating me.
“Hannah was upset last night when we drove her home,” Sam says. “But I don’t think she hates you, E.” Poor Hannah. She was so happy earlier in the day, in the evening, laughing and dancing. “You’ll make her another match and she can forget all about this.” Sam is still talking.
“Oh, no way. I’m done,” I say quickly. George was right, Izzy was right. Phillip was right when he laughed at me. I’m not equipped to match people, not even using math. “We can all go recycle now and get our karma points.”
Sam laughs and shakes his head. “First of all, we already submitted The Code for Love in our competition application, and Friday was the deadline. We can’t change it now. I double-checked with George on that this morning.” I sigh, realizing he’s right. The deadline has passed—we can’t change our application. We either go forward or we drop out. “And second of all,” Sam continues, “this still has tons of potential. We just need to reconfigure it to account for the Phillips of the school somehow. You really shouldn’t feel bad, E. You had no way to know what those guys were thinking.”
But I can’t help but wonder, if I were more like Izzy, would I have known? My whole life I’ve had a hard time understanding other people; why did I think this was going to be any different? Because this wasn’t really being social, this was supposed to be all about math. Numbers don’t lie. Except guys like Phillip do. I sigh again, and bury my face in my hands. “It doesn’t matter...this is still my fault. I can always count on math, but this time it failed me. And everyone is mad at me now.”
“Hey.” He reaches across the couch cushion and pats my knee gently. “I’m not mad at you.” His hand lingers on my knee for a few seconds, so I can feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin fabric of my sweatpants, and I move in a little closer to him. If math has failed me in this particular situation, failed Hannah, then was it wrong about Sam and Laura, too?
I look up again and his face is closer to mine. I get this weird feeling that it might be enjoyable to kiss him, that the pressure of his lips against mine might feel thrilling, not disgusting, and I move my face in even closer to him, so our lips are almost touching but not quite. But we’re close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my face. If I moved just the smallest bit closer, my lips and his lips would touch.
“E,” he says softly, extracting his hand from my leg, moving back. “I had a good time with Laura last night. I like her. Math didn’t fail you at all. Phillip and his friends are just jerks.”