Page 68 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Maybe that means we should partner.

ISLA

Maybe not. I think our methods are very different.

Isetmyphoneface down on the couch and turn back to my laptop.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, tweaking my matchmaking algorithm. Fresh from a shower, hair still damp, I’ve been hunched over this laptop since we got back from the flambé disaster.

Asher might be right. Just because Diane’s method works for her doesn’t mean mine doesn’t work, too.

My stomach growls in protest. I barely ate on the date, and dessert mostly ended up airborne. But fixing the algorithm feels more urgent than feeding myself.

After Asher’s failed matches and my failed date with Eric, I’m starting to think I should go back to using my original method. Finding someone who looks perfect on paper clearly isn’t helping me find anyone a good match.

I need to be better, but my matches don’t have to be perfect.

My phone blares at full volume, making me jump so high I nearly knock my laptop off my legs. I fumble around the couch cushions, finally locating my phone wedged between two throw pillows (the story of my life. Everything important ends up in couch crevices).

“Hello?” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder as I save my work.

“Izzy?” Conner’s voice comes through clearly. “How’s your date?”

“If you’re calling to gloat about my disaster date, I’m going to hang up and then tell Mom who really broke her favorite vase when we were ten.”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “As much as I’d love to hear about Asher’s heroic date crash, that’s not why I called.” He clears his throat, his tone shifting. “Did you get a weird text recently? From someone claiming to be Dad?”

My stomach drops. For a second, I’m transported back to being seven years old, curled up on the couch with Dad, belting out “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid at the top of our lungs. Mom’s in the kitchen, laughing as she makes popcorn. Conner’s building a blanket fort, complaining that we’re too loud.

One of the last happy memories I have of us all together.

For a few years after, I dreamed about Dad showing up with strawberry ice cream after school, sitting beside me at the kitchen table, helping me color inside the lines. We’d talk about my teddy bears, naming each one and making up their adventures. Just like he used to, before everything changed.

I wanted my dad. The way other kids had theirs.

But eventually, I learned tostophoping.

“Isla?” Conner’s voice snaps me back to reality. “You there?”

“Yeah,” I shake my head, clearing the memory. “I . . . I got it too.”

“Mom confirmed it. It’s really him. He’s . . . he’s living in Boston now. Has been for a while, apparently.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “He wants to make amends or whatever because he’s done some self-help workshops about healing or something.”

I press my thumb into the edge of my nail, trying to focus on the sting instead of the ache building in my chest.

“What do you think?” Conner asks, his voice tight. “Should we respond?”

Respond? To the man who walked out on us without a backward glance? Who missed every birthday, every school play, every scraped knee? Who couldn’t even be bothered to send a card?

“I . . .” My throat tightens. “I don’t know. What right does he have to do this now?”

Mochi nudges my hand with his cold nose, tail wagging hopefully as he tries to cheer me up.

“We don’t have to decide anything now,” Conner says softly. “I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll think about it.”

We say goodbye, and I lower the phone, staring at it like it personally offended me.

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