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“There’s nothing on this guy’s profile that suggests he’s ever had a friend in his life.” His neck hinged forward. “He literally put n/a in the hobbies section.”
“He’s probably always been too busy studying to have hobbies.”
Finn scrunched his face. “Don’t you want a well-adjusted kid who leaves his room once in a while?”
“There’s no saying the Texan’s sperm wouldn’t make that kind of kid.”
“He’s obviously a serial killer.”
“Doubtful,” I said, wishing he would take this more seriously. “If he were, he would’ve listed that under hobbies.”
“You want my opinion?”
I hesitated a moment before nodding.
“This guy’s worse than Brad.”
I groaned, letting my head fall back.
“Think Otis wants some attention.”
I glanced down beside the couch to find my favorite furball sitting tall, his tan tail wagging against the floor like a windshield wiper. I straightened my legs and patted my lap to invite him up, and two seconds later, he’d nestled in and rested his chin on my thigh. When I looked up, Finn was scowling at the next profile. “Now what?” I asked, fearing the worst.
“Nothing,” he said, turning the page.
“Wait, go back. Don’t you have anything to say about guy number three?”
“No,” Finn said. “He’s fine.”
“Which one is he?”
“The military pilot who graduated from Dartmouth and likes to play guitar,” he said, not looking at me.
“You like him?” I asked, scratching Otis behind the ear.
“Doesn’t matter if I like him,” he said, his eyes on the next profile.
But he was so wrong. It did matter. I don’t know why, but it mattered so, so much.
