“I hate men,” I say, before taking a long swig of my juice.

“Tell me about it.” She types something on her phone. “But also...” She looks up, clicking lock. “I know more than a few girls who have hooked up with a friend of a guy they started having feelings for, just to prove they’re not that into him.”

“That makes no sense.” I lean against the cabinet, suddenly too tired to hold myself up.

“It makes perfect sense...you have a group of super driven, super competitive people. So if they can say, this person thinks I’m the best person in the world and they have already decided to spend the rest of their life with me, it’s like, check.” She makes a squishing movement with her hand. “They accomplished that, and they’re happy.”

I open my mouth to speak, but she doesn’t let me get a word in.

“Or, if they can say, ‘Yeah I hooked up with that person but I don’t care about them as much as they care about me, in fact I don’t care about them at all,’ they win that little game—they have proven they are desirable and avoided the embarrassment of possibly pining after someone who doesn’t want them.

“But to say,” she continues, “‘I like them a lot, and will see how it goes, we hopefully will go on a sixth date...’” She clutches her chest. “That is waaaay too much vulnerability for people who are used to winning everything.”

“But caring about someone isn’t about winning,” I say. “Love isn’t a competition.”

“Sara...” She narrows her eyes, as if trying to tell if I’m joking. “I got an email from your app today basically saying I was in tenth place in the love competition.”

Chapter Nineteen

Roberto

“Hola, mijo, how are you?” My mother’s voice rings with warmth. She has more of an accent than me or my father. She speaks almost perfect English now, but her words always sound smoother, in a singsong way, like they are rounded at the edges.

I have this hazy memory from when I was young that almost seems like a dream when I try to remember it now. I am eight years old, wearing cowboy pajamas, and have woken from a dream I cannot remember. My room is quiet and cool and a sort of blue color. A sliver of orange light shines between my door and the floor. Down the hall I could hear my mother’s voice, louder than the radio in the kitchen that is playing the Luis Miguel she always put on during three-glasses-of-wine nights, but not loud enough for me to hear what she is talking about. I cuddle my blanket closer and go back to sleep smiling. It sounds safe; it sounds like home.