Devi's raspberry-red pen left a trail of markings along our study proposal, but she might as well have been using a scalpel to tick and underline my bare flesh. That's how I felt during mine and Ivy's first feedback session—like me, not just my work, was being judged.
And it truly was my work. Ivy, bless her, hadn't contributed any more than a font change five minutes before our session. She was an Arial girl, apparently, whereas I'd always made like the Romans. And, like Caesar himself, I was eyeing Devi's all-black pantsuit and glimmering gold watch, wondering how on earth to attain that amount of effortless togetherness for myself. Her dark ponytail was high and bouncy, her blazer tailored to such excruciating detail that it made me want to run out of the room, throw off my oversized sweats, and get my life together.
It was people like Devi who pulverized the myth that one can't be both fabulous and smart.
"I think it's an interesting topic," she said, pen hovering above my paper. Tick. "It's unique." Another tick. "It's clearly quite personal to you." Okay, that one stung... "It's not something that I expected to see, which I suppose is exactly what I asked for." Her eyes drifted up to meet mine. "You're showing that the idea of a soulmate is a construct?"
"Yes—"
"Right," Ivy interrupted, and I closed my mouth.
Our feedback session with Devi was the first time we'd met up face-to-face since being paired up for the assignment, and I was quickly reminded of how domineering a force my lab partner was. It was easy to forget how bold and headstrong Ivy was when she was merely a phantom who existed on my phone. But sitting next to her again, side-by-side, I once again found myself playing Ron to her Harry.
Although in our black-on-black ensembles, maybe I was more the Draco to her Snape.
Devi studied me for a second longer before fixing her attention on Ivy.
Ivy explained, her lips painted the same shade of mulberry as her nails, "We're showing that, in the digital age, love can be manufactured. It can be forged, based on the data available about a person alone." Ivy kicked up her shoulders in a shrug, turning to me as if waiting for validation. She wasn't. "Anyone can turn themselves into the perfect boyfriend or girlfriend, which eliminates the idea of a perfect match in its classic form."
Something inside of me sizzled as she spoke—spoke the words that I had written. Then again, we were partners. I supposed I was going to have to get used to sharing credit for my work. But maybe I wouldn't have minded so much if Ivy was making more of a contribution than just saying my words out loud.
Devi cocked her head as she took Ivy in, her eyes moving between her and our proposal. She had a unique habit of opening and closing her mouth when she thought, as though she were breathing the words that danced through her mind before speaking them aloud.
Finally, she cleared her throat, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her. "Neither of you is majoring in philosophy, I take it?" It was a question, but she said it like a statement.
"Gender studies," Ivy said.
Devi looked at me, and I was finally able to speak without interruption.
I shook my head. "Biology."
Devi nodded, confirming the supposition in her head. "Like me when I was an undergraduate. It makes sense. It's why this reads like an experiment, more so than like a hypothesis. It's why you speak of data, and why you view your subjects as lab rats."
I felt slightly taken aback by the remark.
"But I don't think that the experiment portion is the most interesting part of what you're trying to do here," she continued, removing her glasses so that they dangled on an emerald green string around her slender neck. "I mean, yes. Showing that you can bring any two individuals together—even polar opposites like Declan and Hallee—by transforming one into the other's ideal partner is one thing. But what comes after?"
Ivy furrowed her thick eyebrows, her wine-colored lips scrunching into a frown. "After?"
"Can that kind of relationship be sustained?" Devi prompted. "Or, do Declan and Hallee's inherent differences, those qualities that made them so distinct in the first place, resurface? Do they eventually overpower their constructed relationship? Is the fact that a relationship was built on total fabrication detrimental to its longevity?"
She fired her questions rapidly, with barely any space left in between for her to breathe, let alone for us to answer. Even Ivy seemed stumped as she peered back at our professor, her eyes glazing over as the gears turned in her head.
My head was also spinning. How could I know the answer to any of that without actually conducting the experiment first?
"I don't think it makes much of a difference," I heard myself mumble instead.
Devi's stare left Ivy's, swinging back to mine. "What do you mean by that? A 'difference'?"
Great. Was the inevitability of heartbreak something that I wanted to discuss with my professor? Not particularly. But considering she'd put us on the spot, and considering Ivy had decided to use the opportunity to take a spontaneous vow of silence, I didn't exactly have a choice.
"I think that all relationships end," I stated as plainly as I could. "Organic and manufactured ones alike. Couples break up, one person cheats, they fall out of love. Hell, one of them has to die eventually. It doesn't matter how they start." I shrugged. "Relationships all end the same way. In pain."
It was quiet enough to hear an atom drop.
But then Devi smiled. Her brown eyes sparkled, and she looked almost ... zealous. I'd seen that look only once before; back in eighth grade, when I'd solved a math problem that had stumped the rest of the class, including my teacher, who'd promptly had me moved into senior algebra. Now, just like then, that small, quiet smile left me feeling ... excited?
I hadn't felt excited. Hadn't felt much of anything. Not for a long time.
It was about then that I realized—that Ivy was staring at me. That she was uncharacteristically silent. She turned to peer at Devi, who turned to peer right back.
They smiled at each other.
"I think," our professor uttered, "that you just found your hypothesis."
It was an uncomfortably cool walk to the library from Devi's class, and I secured my coat tighter to escape the ripe afternoon chill, scented like the olive trees peppered around campus. My cheeks stung as if they were being pricked with hundreds of tiny needles filled with ice water, and I could see my breath rising as mist in the air. Winter fashion was so much cuter than summer fashion, but boy, did I hate the cold.
I had half a mind to risk public humiliation and sprint across the quad, eager to escape into some warmth. But just as I was about to duck into the reception, the sight of a colorful silhouette across the way stopped me right in my tracks.
The coffee shop Holly worked at was directly opposite the library—but Holly herself was perched out the front. Sitting at one of the small, refurbished tables, sipping on a vibrant pink drink that matched the faded streaks of color in her black hair, she was hunched over a book as she scribbled something on the page. How anyone could hack it in that fresh afternoon air was beyond me. Although Dex had always said that Holly wasn't like other girls. He might have had a point. Maybe Holly was part ice sculpture.
She certainly had the bone structure.
They say you shouldn't judge a person by what they post on social media. Holly's socials certainly were perfect; a perfectly organized Instagram feed, an equally professional and fun looking Facebook profile, an immaculate LinkedIn page detailing her volunteer work since eighth grade. And, as much as I truly wanted to believe that it was all for show, that no one could be that perfect all the time, there was something about Holly that just screamed 'put together'. Even in person.
Maybe it was her shoulder-length black hair, perfectly coiffed, tinted with just the right amount of caramel to flatter her glowing skin. It could have been her ability to style and pull off a bold outfit; on a day where every other student had opted for oversized sweats and comfy trainers, Holly had gone with a figure-hugging burnt orange sweater, bell-bottom jeans, and red suede boots. Not only did she match up perfectly with her online persona, but she looked as though she had stepped right out of the Instagram explore page.
I flicked my long hair out over my shoulders—as though that alone would add the perfect touch to my black-as-night outfit—and strutted across the frost-bitten quad to greet her.
"Holly!"
Her head shot up. She scanned the quad—and found me. Sparkling eyes widened beneath thick lashes as I approached, and I could tell by the way she searched my face that she hadn't yet placed it. It was at that moment that I remembered something: I'd studied Holly's social media so much that I felt like I knew her. But I didn't. Not really.
More to the point, she didn't know me at all.
It was an odd position to find myself in.
"You probably don't remember me." How naïve to think that she would. "I'm Madison, Dex's friend—"
"The girl who hates Violet Apex."
My head jolted back. "Oh, I don't ... I mean, I barely know them—"
Holly's coral lips spread into a pretty grin, and she waved a bangle-adorned hand in the air as she giggled. "I'm totally messing with you!"
I loosed a shaky breath. "Right." God, you'd think I of all people would recognize sarcasm when I saw it. I shook my head, returning her kind smile. "I was just on my way to the library. Thought I'd come over and say hi, and ... um, and say thank you—for the invite to the Art mixer." Nice save.
Not.
"That's so lovely." She pointed to the pile of textbooks in my hands, sipping her drink. "What are you working on?"
Twin buds of heat bloomed on my cheeks, a stark contrast to the ice that had danced on them seconds earlier. I'd never been a great liar, but there was no well in hell I could fess up to the truth—that the project I was working on was Holly and Dex's relationship.
Or, rather, its inevitable demise.
"Nothing in particular," I said quickly. Probably too quickly. I couldn't stop myself. Words poured from my tongue like water from a broken faucet. "I study science. Math, too. Boring stuff, really. Elements, atoms. Blah, blah, blah..." Where was a nice cement block to slam my head into when I needed one?
But Holly laughed again, the sound as sweet as syrup on pancakes. "Boring? You're my parents' dream!"
"I don't know about that." If the radio silence from my mother since I'd hung up on her days before was any indication, I wasn't even her dream. Clearing my throat, I worked to recollect any traces of composure I had left. "What about you?" Her pink drink and half-eaten blueberry muffin were set down next to a huge, black notebook.
No, not a notebook. A portfolio?
"You're an artist, right?"
There was that laugh again, Holly's whole face lighting up with it. She really was a bundle of contagious joy.
Unfortunately, I was immunized.
"Not yet. But that's the plan." She opened the portfolio, turning it around so that I could see the sketch she'd been working on. "I just can't quite crack the nose, though."
I peered down at the page, studying the ... face? I reined in the urge to tilt my head as I frantically searched the drawing to find said nose, but all I saw was a mural of whorls and swirls in shades of lilac and peach. A very pretty mural, but ... I was totally lost.
"What do you think?" she prodded.
"I ..." Had no idea about art. No creative bone in my body. Clearly. My mind ... it was strictly made for absorbing numbers and equations, and Holly's drawing really was just lines and shading to me.
"I like it," I admitted, raising my eyebrows just enough to convey admiration. "Though I'm not quite sure how much my opinion counts for."
She giggled again. Gosh, she truly was a breath of fresh air. Even me—pessimistic, down-and-out, highly-strung Madison—could see it. There was a part of me that even envied that naivety, that felt a deep yearning for it in the pit of my stomach. Had I once been that innocent, too?
And still, I felt bad for her. Because no one was safe from life's firing line. She would feel its sting eventually.
A reminder, that pessimism; my project. Dex and Holly had been texting on and off since I'd helped him the first time, with the former inundating me with screenshots of their conversations and—not so patiently—requesting me to formulate the 'perfect' reply. I'd tried to convince him to take the next step and ask Holly out; she had to have been at least somewhat interested in him to text him so much. Furthermore, we needed to get the relationship ball rolling before it landed in strict friendzone territory.
But there was one problem with my protege. He was a human being. A human being governed by free will and not predetermined, predictable code. There I was, wanting Dex to put on his big boy panties and take the next step, yet his stubborn, insecure feet were firmly tied to the ground.
But that didn't mean that I couldn't get the ball rolling on my own. After all, there was only one person better than a woman to do a man's job. A wingwoman.
A flurry of students spilled into the quad, signaling that it was ten to the hour. I needed to get my butt into gear if I had any hope of securing a good table in the library, but I wasn't backing out of my conversation with Holly without making some kind of progress on the project front. That meant one thing.
It was time to crank up the wingwoman-ing a notch.
"Listen," I finally said, nerves brewing in my stomach like herbs in a witch's cauldron. Gosh, was this how guys felt when they asked girls out? Not cute. "A couple of us are going out to dinner on Friday. Nothing crazy, just me and a group of friends."
I had to stop, coughing away a laugh. Friends. Like I had any of those at Camden. Or anywhere anymore.
I pushed the morbid thought aside. "I was wondering whether you'd like to join us? If you're not doing anything, of course."
Holly tapped her burnt orange nails on the table, something new lancing across her eyes like a star across the night sky. It was too quick for me to dissect properly, but it looked like ... hope? "Anyone I know?" she asked coyly.
"My friends," I offered, "Dex and James. You met them at the coffee shop the other day. And Noah, the guy who came with us to the mixer."
"That could be fun. Are you sure they won't mind me tagging along?"
A sly smirk tugged on my lips. "I'm sure."
"Okay, I'll keep it in mind. Where are you going?"
Shit.
I hadn't thought that far ahead.
"I'm not sure actually." I racked my brain for a valid reason as to why I wouldn't know such vital information. It didn't help that I was yet to venture out of campus to frequent one of the many restaurants downtown, meaning that I didn't have a single name of a local establishment to fall back on. "Dex usually chooses. He's got a knack for finding these little off-the-grid places that serve the best food."
A lie. A total, big fat lie. But Holly had described herself as a foodie in her Instagram bio, and I felt like the detail would impress her.
"I'll get him to text you the place and time," I told her. Smooth. Give him a reason to have to text her again.
I wasn't half that bad at the whole wingwoman thing, if I did say so myself.
"Sounds good," Holly confirmed. "I'll let you know if I can make it. Or Dex. I'll let Dex know."
Was that ... nerves that I sensed in her tone?
I felt a triumphant pep in my step as I crossed back over to the other side of the quad, a rose-scented breeze whipping my hair behind me. Holly was nice; there was no question about that. And the fact that we were only a few weeks into our very first semester certainly benefited my mission. It was perhaps the only time in our university lives that we'd be so open and receptive to meeting new people, to mingling and networking until we found a friendship group that stuck. The last words that Devi had said during our meeting raced through my mind, and with that look of approval that had lit up Ivy's face practically etched in my memory, I finally felt empowered enough to believe that I could actually pull off what she'd suggested.
That constructing a perfect boyfriend, a perfect relationship, is your experiment. That heartbreak is inevitable is your hypothesis.
Devi and Ivy were right. Our project didn't end with bringing Dex and Holly together; that was a simple matchmaking experiment, something that had been done countless times before. But what happened after? What always happened after?
Turning to give Holly one final wave before ducking into the library, I made myself a new promise. I vowed to put my all into helping Dex get the girl, into turning him into Holly's perfect match. I would pull out all the stops so that no stone was left unturned, so that every opportunity was given for a real, everlasting, fairy-tale-like love to blossom, just like Dex had asked me to do.
But then I would show how everything crumbled. How everything always crumbles.
My experiment was to craft Dex and Holly into the perfect couple, yes—but only to prove that even the most perfect relationships are doomed to fall apart in the end. No interfering. No sabotage.
Just science.
Devi (aka my spirit animal) certainly rocked the boat in this chapter! My professors/tutors always did this to me — forced me to rethink the crux of my assignment despite me thinking that they were perfect as they were. Was Madi right to take Devi's advice & reframe her project in the way she suggested? 🤔
This time last year I was knees deep in my thesis about the UN's role (or lack thereof) in the Syrian Crisis. Little did I know that I'd basically rewrite the whole thing two weeks before my deadline 😂🤦🏼♀️ Gotta love university! Are you guys working on any interesting projects for school or work at the moment?
Please remember to vote 🌟
- D