Chapter 1: Matched With My Worst Nightmare

“Excuse me, hey, let me through. I’m your official government-issued girlfriend.” The moment I realized my match was Professor Ethan Caldwell—the very same Professor Caldwell who’d failed me in my interview just days ago—I messaged him right away.

As I typed out the message, my heart thudded so hard I was half-convinced he could hear it through the app. God, was I really doing this? The absurdity of it all made me want to laugh and scream at the same time. Only in America, right? Well, maybe not, but here we are.

*Ms. Lila Brooks, please arrive at the County Clerk’s Office at 5:21 p.m. today to meet your assigned partner. Please download the ‘Matchmaker’ app in advance. Best wishes for your marriage!*

It was so official, so chipper. Like the DMV had started running a dating service. I snorted. My tax dollars at work, I guess. I screenshotted it, mostly so I could prove to my mom later that I wasn’t making this up.

Lately there’s a new thing: the state uses big data to pair up singles. If your compatibility score is high, you have to do a three-month adjustment period. If, after three months, you both feel compatible, you get married. If not, you can opt out. Wild, right? Basically a state-run matchmaking program.

It sounds crazy, but with birth rates dropping and everyone glued to their phones, honestly, who was I to argue with the data? My friends joked about it, but I never thought I’d end up in the middle of the experiment. Yet here I was, government-matched and about to meet my assigned partner like some kind of reality show contestant.

Normally, it’s hard to imagine how far the government will go to boost marriage and birth rates. Turns out, pretty far.

The place was decked out like a cross between a Vegas wedding chapel and a pop-up photo booth—like a Pinterest board exploded in here. Fake flowers, a white arch, and a banner that read “Love, Data, and You!” The staff wore matching polo shirts with the county seal and greeted everyone like they were hosting a morning talk show.

One woman with a clipboard and a headset beamed at me, like she’d just stepped off a cruise ship. “Hello, Ms. Brooks. I’m your relationship coordinator for this session.”

She handed me a glossy folder, all smiles. “If you have any issues during your time with your assigned partner—including, you know, the private stuff—I can offer professional advice.”

I nearly choked on my water—water went up my nose. Did she have to say it so loud? I wiped my mouth, trying not to make a scene. My cheeks burned, and I ducked my head, pretending to be fascinated by the pamphlet on marital communication skills.

As I awkwardly wiped away my spilled water, Ethan Caldwell walked over with a suited attendant.

He looked as out of place as I felt, posture stiff and gaze fixed somewhere over my head. The attendant beside him had the air of someone who’d rather be anywhere else but here, determined to see this through with maximum professionalism, minimum enthusiasm.

Suddenly, the whole scene snapped into focus: wedding chapel, suited emcee, Ethan Caldwell!

My stomach did a backflip. This couldn’t be real. Of all the people in Ann Arbor, I get paired with the one man who’d just told me I wasn’t cut out for research. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.

Of all people. I never expected my match to be him.

Ethan Caldwell was a prodigy. In his early twenties, he became a rising-star professor in the University of Michigan’s Department of Geology. Before thirty, his research was already cited in textbooks.

Rumor had it he’d been a child genius, skipping grades, making the local news for winning science fairs. His lectures were legendary—equal parts brilliant and intimidating. The kind of guy who made you want to take notes just from the way he walked into a room. What chance did I ever have?

But none of that was the point.

The point was, this year, Ethan Caldwell was the lead examiner at the research institute. During my first-round interview, we got into a heated academic debate. He told me I wasn’t cut out for research. I argued with him until we went from discussing rock types to planetary origins. If it hadn’t been for several security guards holding me back, I swear, I was ready to throw hands.

I still remembered the heat of that argument—the way my voice shook, the way he stayed maddeningly calm. Security had to step in, and I left with my pride in tatters and my future in limbo.

After failing the interview, I turned around and took a job as a security guard at the institute. The same guys who stopped me became my colleagues.

Not gonna lie, the job had its perks: flexible hours, a steady paycheck, and a front-row seat to all the research drama I was missing out on. Plus, the security team was a decent bunch—blue-collar, no-nonsense, and always up for a laugh in the break room.

Ethan Caldwell clearly recognized me, too. He stared at me, trying to recall my name. I only cursed him out in my head. Outwardly, I had to stay polite to this big shot.

My inner monologue was a string of unprintable words. Mentally, I was flipping him off. But I forced a smile and straightened my badge. “I’m Lila Brooks—the one you interviewed before. Second in my major at the University of Michigan, Department of Geology.”

He blinked, then nodded, as if slotting a puzzle piece into place. “You’re Lila Brooks, right? The new security guard at the institute?”

Ethan Caldwell and I sat facing each other in the reception room. The attendant thoughtfully closed the door behind us.

The silence stretched out, awkward enough to cut with a plastic knife. I fiddled with the folder, trying to look composed. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the faint scent of Lysol filled the air.

Before I could speak, Ethan Caldwell apologized.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Brooks. I don’t know why the matching system paired me with you, but my focus is on research right now. I’m not in a hurry to get married.”

His tone was clinical, like he was discussing a failed experiment. Classic Caldwell. The kind of apology that’s more about logistics than feelings.

“So, after the three-month adaptation period, I hope we can opt out. I hope you understand.”

He pushed his glasses up, looking every bit the serious academic. His voice was calm, but his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the table.

Ethan Caldwell looked scholarly, especially with those gold-rimmed glasses.

I studied him for a beat. Those glasses caught the light just so, making him look like the cover model for “Geology Today.”

If only he weren’t so infuriatingly by-the-book.

Handsome or not, he’s still stuck with me!

I smiled sweetly at him. Let’s see how smoothly your life goes now, Mr. Perfect.

I put on a shy act and pitched my voice higher: “Actually, I’ve always liked you. Ever since I saw your photo in a textbook four years ago, it was love at first sight. I stayed at the institute as a security guard just to see you more often.”

I batted my lashes for good measure. I went full rom-com heroine. If he was going to be all business, I could play the lovesick fool just as well.

If I had to guess, a research guy like Ethan Caldwell would never catch onto a girl’s little tricks.

He looked like I’d just told him the periodic table was a hoax. His face went pale, mouth opening and closing like he was trying to recalibrate his entire worldview. Did I break him?

He said seriously, “Ms. Brooks, I don’t think that’s reasonable.”

His voice was flat, but I caught a flicker of panic in his eyes. The man could handle tectonic plates, but not a confession.

I kept up the act: “Mr. Caldwell, you can deny my academic abilities, but you can’t deny my love for you.”

I secretly pinched my leg and squeezed out two big tears. Worked like a charm.

The sting worked, and I let the tears well up, blinking dramatically. I could almost hear my high school drama teacher applauding from afar.

Ethan Caldwell looked flustered and confused.

“But according to biology, love is a result of hormones—mainly phenylethylamine. This hormone stimulates the central nervous system…”

He started spouting scientific jargon, as if he could logic his way out of this. Oh boy, here we go again. I nearly rolled my eyes. Classic Ethan.

I clutched my chest and cut him off, sounding aggrieved.

“Mr. Caldwell, I know it’s hard for you to accept me, but love doesn’t follow logic. You’re not a biological expert on love, are you? Why don’t you check my pulse and see if my heart races for you?”

I scooted closer, grabbing his hand to put it on my chest.

He jerked his hand back like I was radioactive. Mission accomplished.

His ears turned pink, and he stared out the window, pretending to study the landscaping.

I turned my head, putting on a pitiful look but sneaking a triumphant smile.

That night at home, my mom crouched by my door, asking who the handsome guy was who’d brought me back.

She was peeking through the crack, trying to act casual, but her curiosity was obvious. I could practically feel her mom-radar pinging. She gave me the look.

“My boyfriend,” I lied without missing a beat.

She rolled her eyes and immediately roasted me:

“Oh, please. You’ve been single for over twenty years, and now you go out once and bring back a perfect guy? Did you run into Cupid at the grocery store or something?”

Her sarcasm was Olympic-level. She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe like a sitcom mom waiting for the laugh track.

I pulled out my phone and read her the County Clerk’s Office message, word for word. I also bragged about how amazing Ethan Caldwell was.

I read it with dramatic flair, as if I’d just won the lottery. Then I launched into a monologue about Ethan’s academic achievements, not-so-subtly angling for some maternal approval.

See? I’m not just quietly excellent—I’m so outstanding the government assigned me a boyfriend.

My mom stared at the message, looking me up and down, muttering,

“How does this big data thing work? How did you get matched?”

She squinted at me, as if she could spot the algorithm’s logic in my haircut. Then she sighed and started pacing.

Then she started worrying. Even if the algorithm says you’re compatible, you and him are worlds apart—can you really be happy?

She started listing all the reasons why a genius professor and a security guard might not make it. I could tell she was already picturing Thanksgiving dinners full of awkward silences.

Hey, I’ve got a temper, too.

“We studied the same major, and we both work at the institute,” I protested.

I puffed out my chest, trying to sound confident. I wasn’t about to let her write me off as a hopeless case.

She sighed, “That’s not how Hallmark movies end, honey.”

Her words stung, but I shrugged it off. Moms always think they know best, don’t they?