Love wasn’t hard. It wasn’t complicated. They didn’t have to talk about monogamy or commitment. “I want to see you again as soon as possible,” he said on their first date, so forthright and unguarded that she felt a rush of protectiveness.

She would take such good care of him. He was so pure, and she would make a beautiful life with him. For him. Because of him.

And he took care of her, too. He admired her work and understood its complexity, unlike most people, who thought she was an interior decorator or landscaper, rather than the designer of how space would be used. He was so focused on her as she talked about it that, at first, she felt shy. This guy saved lives with his brain, and it was kinda sorta hard to compete with that. But he asked for her perspective on things, readily admitting he didn’t know anything about what made a park pretty or what purpose a public square had or what pedestrian flow meant. And he listened to her answers about how public spaces could be the soul of a city or college, how they could transform the bleakest industrial park or poorest neighborhood.

His attention, so focused and singular, made her feel bathed in warm, golden sun. No guy she’d dated had ever been so interested in her. Most had just waited for their turn to talk, or interrupted her or mansplained till she cut them off. Other guys bided their time (generally fifteen minutes) until they could see if she’d put out that night.

Josh saw her, heard every word, and made her feel . . . important. The most important person in the world.

Which, to be fair, was not the most common experience for Lauren. Jen was the superior sister, a fact Lauren would not dispute. Growing up, her mom always assumed her second daughter was fine, which Lauren was. Her mom had been a teacher, and her patience for kids dried up before she came home. Jen was fabulous, and Lauren was her biggest fan. Her dad had thought both his girls had hung the moon.

Men Lauren’s age . . . most of them were still teenagers, no matter what age their driver’s licenses showed.

So to have this beautiful, brilliant man tilting his head when she talked, his brows drawn together, not missing a single word she said . . .

To have this kind, gentle man asking her if he could hold her hand and later, kiss her, and later after that, unbutton her blouse . . .

To have him ask if she’d like to have dinner with his mother, because “she’s dying to meet you” . . . it was like the best dream she’d ever had. No hipster pretentiousness, no millennial cynicism, no mansplaining superiority even though he was a bona fide genius who was making the world a better place.