Chapter 15: BRITTANY
The yoga studio in Chelsea had become uncomfortably familiar.
I'd stationed myself at the coffee shop across the street—a different one from my previous reconnaissance mission, with better sightlines and marginally better coffee. The morning rush had faded, leaving me alone with my laptop and my growing sense of dread.
Brittany Torres was scheduled to teach a 10 AM class. I'd found her schedule on the studio's website, cross-referenced it with her Instagram posts about "morning flow energy," and confirmed that Tuesdays were her regular teaching days.
At 10:47, she emerged.
Phone already at her ear. Already yelling.
"No, Kevin, I told you—the launch has to be after the new moon. The new moon, not the full moon. Do you want the website to crash again? Because that's how you get Mercury retrograde energy all over your backend."
She was wearing yoga pants that probably cost more than my weekly grocery budget and a crop top that said "MANIFEST" in rhinestones. Her hair was still damp from class, pulled into a messy bun that somehow looked intentional.
I activated Dealbreaker Detection.
[Dealbreaker Scan: Brittany Torres]
[Scanning... complete]
[Surface Dealbreakers Detected: 3]
[1. Chronic Lateness: Subject demonstrates consistent pattern of tardiness (average 12-15 minutes across observed instances)]
[2. Financial Instability: Credit card debt detected, inconsistent income from freelance work]
[3. Astrology-Based Decision Making: Subject makes significant life choices based on planetary positions]
[Note: These are SURFACE dealbreakers only. Deep compatibility issues may exist but require higher skill level to detect.]
I stared at the readout.
Chronic lateness. Financial instability. Astrology-based decisions.
Mike was a software developer who wrote code in precise increments and scheduled everything to the minute. He had a 401(k) and a savings account and probably a spreadsheet tracking his monthly expenses.
These two people were going to destroy each other.
Or maybe—maybe—they'd balance each other out. The system said sixty-one percent compatibility. That wasn't nothing. Some of the greatest love stories started with people who had no business being together.
But some of the greatest disasters did too.
Brittany ended her call, pocketed her phone, and headed directly toward my coffee shop.
I ducked behind my laptop screen, which was a ridiculous move that probably made me look more suspicious, not less. But she wasn't paying attention to me. She was paying attention to the counter, where a barista I recognized from my previous visit was already bracing for impact.
"Hi, yes, I need a large oat milk matcha with honey—but only raw honey, not that processed stuff—and can you make sure Mercury isn't in retrograde before you steam the milk? The energy gets weird when Mercury's doing its thing."
The barista's eye twitched.
"Mercury is... in retrograde?" She said it like a question, like she was hoping Brittany would clarify that this was a joke.
"Not right now, but you can never be too careful. Also, I need it in a cup that hasn't been used before today. Fresh cup energy is important."
"All our cups are clean."
"Clean isn't the same as fresh. Clean is physical. Fresh is spiritual."
The barista looked at me. I looked at her. We shared a moment of profound solidarity.
"I'll... do my best," she said finally.
Brittany nodded like this was a reasonable response, then reached into her bag for her wallet. Her phone rang. She answered immediately, turning away from the counter.
"Hello? Oh my god, Sarah, you won't believe what Kevin just—"
She walked away. Still talking. Without paying.
The barista stared at the empty space where Brittany had been standing.
"Does she... is she coming back?"
"Give it five minutes."
Sure enough, four minutes and thirty seconds later, Brittany returned mid-conversation, still on the phone, fumbling for her credit card with one hand while gesturing emphatically with the other.
"No, I'm just saying, if he'd listened to me about the Mercury thing in the first place— sorry, what's my total?"
"Five seventy-five."
"Can you put that on my card? The universe will handle the tip."
The universe did not, in fact, handle the tip. Brittany took her matcha—which the barista had made with evident resignation—and walked out the door without breaking stride in her phone conversation.
I approached the counter.
"Ten dollars," I said, pulling out cash. "For your suffering."
The barista pocketed it. "You're the first person today who gets it."
"I come bearing the wisdom of experience."
"Friend of hers?"
"Observer. Professional capacity."
She gave me a look that suggested she didn't want to know more. I didn't blame her.
I returned to my table and pulled up Mike's file.
Mike Donovan. Twenty-eight years old. Software developer at a fintech startup. Organized. Methodical. So anxious around women that he'd developed a stutter whenever he found someone attractive.
And his string—his destined string, the one that led to his best chance at love—pointed directly at Brittany Torres.
[Match Analysis: Mike Donovan ↔ Brittany Torres]
[Compatibility: 61%]
[Bond Type: High Passion, High Conflict]
[Prediction: Intense initial attraction. Frequent disagreements. Potential for either lasting partnership or spectacular failure.]
[Note: System cannot predict outcome. Human choice determines trajectory.]
Human choice. That was the key phrase, wasn't it?
I couldn't force Brittany to be less chaotic. I couldn't make Mike more flexible. All I could do was put them in a room together and see what happened.
But was that enough? Was it ethical to introduce two people knowing they'd probably fight, knowing their relationship would be difficult, knowing the dealbreakers I'd just documented?
The system said they were destined. The system said sixty-one percent.
The system also said it couldn't predict the outcome.
I thought about Karen and Daniel, currently planning their third week of dates. I thought about Janet and Rachel, exchanging numbers at a charity gala. I thought about Sarah and Carlos, whose strings had brightened the moment they reached for the same sugar caddy.
Those matches had been clean. Clear. Obvious.
This one was different.
I finished my coffee, tipped the barista again for good measure, and headed for the subway. My phone buzzed—Mike, again.
"Bro you there?"
"Did you find her or not?"
"I'm starting to think this whole thing is a scam."
I typed back: "Found her. We should talk before I arrange anything."
His response was immediate: "Why?"
"Because you need to know what you're getting into."
A pause. Then:
"That sounds ominous."
"It's honest. Come to my apartment tomorrow at two. I'll explain everything."
"Everything everything?"
"Everything you need to know to make an informed decision."
He didn't respond right away. I imagined him sitting in some sleek startup office, staring at his phone, trying to figure out if his matchmaker had lost his mind.
Finally:
"Fine. Tomorrow at two."
I pocketed my phone and descended into the subway.
The strings around me pulsed with their usual chaos—connections leading in every direction, futures waiting to be written. Somewhere in this city, Brittany Torres was probably yelling at someone about lunar cycles. Somewhere else, Mike Donovan was probably organizing his desktop icons by color.
Tomorrow, I'd tell him the truth. About Brittany's dealbreakers. About the system's predictions. About the high-passion-high-conflict nature of what he was asking for.
And then I'd let him choose.
Because that's what a matchmaker did, right? Not force connections. Not manufacture love. Just show people the doors and let them decide whether to walk through.
The train arrived. I found a seat, closed my eyes, and let the motion rock me toward home.
Through my mind, unbidden, came the memory of Marshall's voice through the thin walls: "I think he might actually know something."
Maybe I did.
Or maybe I was just getting better at pretending.
Either way, tomorrow I had a conversation to have and a decision to help make. Mike deserved honesty. Brittany deserved a chance.
And the strings—the strings would do what they always did.
Connect.
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