The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight

by Jennifer E. Smith

That’s the thing about flying: You could talk to someone for hours and never even know his name, share your deepest secrets and then never see him again.

In the end, it’s not the changes that will break your heart; it’s that tug of familiarity.

Is it possible not to ever know your type—not to even know you have a type—until quite suddenly you do?

“I like how you’re neither here nor there. And how there’s nowhere else you’re meant to be while waiting. You’re just sort of… suspended.”

he gets it

There’s always a gap between the burn and the sting of it, the pain and the realization.

Oliver laughs. “You say mind games, I say research.”

It was his fault, all of it, and yet her hatred for him was the worst kind of love, a tortured longing, a misguided wish that made her heart hammer in her chest. She couldn’t ignore the disjointed sensation that they were now two different pieces of two different puzzles, and nothing in the world could make them fit together again.

She wanted all or nothing, illogically, irrationally, even though something inside of her knew that nothing would be too hard, and all was impossible.

“Is it better to have had a good thing and lost it, or never to have had it?”

It’s something about the way he’s looking at her, his eyes punching a neat little hole in her heart. She’s knows it’s not real: It’s the illusion of closeness, the false confidence of a hushed and darkened plane, but she doesn’t mind. For the moment, at least, it feels real.

She wishes they could turn around again and fly back in the other direction, circling the globe backward, chasing the night they left behind.

Because that’s what you do on planes. You share an armrest with someone for a few hours. You exchange stories about your life, an amusing anecdote or two, maybe even a joke. You comment on the weather and remark about the terrible food. You listen to him snore. And then you say good-bye.

He’s like a song she can’t get out of her head. Hard as she tries, the melody of their meeting runs through her mind on an endless loop, each time as surprisingly sweet as the last, like a lullaby, like a hymn, and she doesn’t think she could ever get tired of hearing it.

But now, standing here in the basement of a church with shaking hands and a hammering heart, she’s struck by what this day actually means, by all that she’ll lose and gain with it, by how much has already changed. And something inside of her begins to hurt.

Like any survivor of chance, she feels a quick rush of thankfulness, part adrenaline and part hope.

this except it’s not chance—it’s Yah’s plan.

There’s a pattern to this kind of coping, like a dream repeated night after night, always the same image: a few wispy clouds like a streak of paint across a blue canvas.

But now she’s surprised to find something new in the picture that’s forming on the backs of her eyelids, something cutting across the blue sky of her imagination: an airplane.

The stories had become a part of her by then; they stuck to her bones like a good meal, bloomed inside of her like a garden. They were as deep and meaningful as any other trait Dad had passed along to her:

He was a professor, a lover of stories, and he was building her a library in the same way other men might build their daughters houses.

“And O there are days in this life, worth life and worth death,”

The clouds are thick as cotton and laced in silver from the sun, and she thinks back to what Oliver said on the plane, the word taking shape in her mind: cumulus. The one cloud that seems both imaginary and true all at once.

He looks at her and smiles. “You’re sort of dangerous, you know?” She stares at him. “Me?” “Yeah,” he says, sitting back. “I’m way too honest with you.”

“You say you can be honest with me?” Hadley asks after a moment, addressing Oliver’s rounded shoulders, and he twists to look at her. “Fine. Then talk to me. Be honest.” “About what?” “Anything you want.” To her surprise, he kisses her then.

OMG

“No one is useless in this world,” it reads, “who lightens the burden of it for any one else.”

“Love isn’t supposed to make sense. It’s completely illogical.”

The whole place is transfixed by the couple on the floor—the way they lean into each other, laughing each time they pull apart again—yet they might as well be dancing in an empty room. It’s as if nobody is watching at all; there’s something utterly unselfconscious about the way they’re looking at each other.

Hadley realizes that even though everything else is different, even though there’s still an ocean between them, nothing really important has changed at all. He’s still her dad. The rest is just geography.

And you’re not lost.” Hadley’s voice is very small. “What if I am?” “Then it’s just a matter of time before you get found.”

“I have no idea how to dance like this.” “I’ll show you,” he says, but they still haven’t moved an inch. They’re just standing there, poised and ready, as if waiting for the music to begin, both of them unable to stop smiling. His hand on her back is like something electric, and being here like this, so suddenly close to him, is enough to make her lightheaded. It’s a feeling like falling, like forgetting the words to a song.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says, her voice soft. “I can’t believe you found me.” “You found me first,” he says, and when he leans to kiss her, it’s slow and sweet and she knows that this will be the one she always remembers. Because while the other two kisses felt like endings, this one is unquestionably a beginning.

SOBBING

“What are you really studying?” He leans back to look at her. “The statistical probability of love at first sight.”

😭😭😭😭

He laughs, then lowers his mouth so that it’s close to her ear. “People who meet in airports are seventy-two percent more likely to fall for each other than people who meet anywhere else.”

Oliver smiles. “Did you know that people who meet at least three different times within a twenty-four hour period are ninety-eight percent more likely to meet again?”