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.

But it seemed to Hadley that he was, that all he did was ask: for her forgiveness, for more time together, for her to give Charlotte a chance. He asked and he asked and he asked, and he never gave a thing.

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

“When you’re on the other side of it,” she says, “fifty-two years can seem like about fifty-two minutes.” She tips her head back and swallows the pill. “Just like when you’re young and in love, a seven-hour plane ride can seem like a lifetime.”

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.

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

Beside her, Oliver is craning his neck to read the signs for customs, already thinking about the next thing, already moving on. 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. So why does she feel so completely unprepared for this next part?

Someone once told her there’s a formula for how long it takes to get over someone, that it’s half as long as the time you’ve been together.

“You know what they say,” Dad said. “If you love something, set it free.” “What if he doesn’t come back?” “Some things do, some things don’t,” he said, reaching over to tweak her nose. “I’ll always come back to you anyway.” “You don’t light up,” Hadley pointed out, but Dad only smiled. “I do when I’m with you.”

But it isn’t just about Charlotte anymore. In nine months, he’ll have a new baby, too, maybe even another daughter. And he hadn’t even bothered to tell her. She’s stung by this in the same place that had been hurt by his leaving, the same tender spot that had ached when she’d first heard about Charlotte. But this time, almost without realizing, Hadley finds herself leaning into it rather than away. After all, it’s one thing to run away when someone’s chasing you. It’s entirely another to be running all alone.

How odd that things turned out this way, especially since he’d been so close to staying home. Dream job or not, four months had seemed like such a long time to be away, and if it hadn’t been for Mom—who urged him to go, who said it was his dream, who insisted he’d regret passing up such an opportunity—Dad would never even have met Charlotte in the first place.

It’s one thing to be the guy who calls on Christmas; it’s another to have to discipline your teenage daughter in front of everyone you know, especially when you’re no longer quite sure of the rules.

People talk about books being an escape, but here on the tube, this one feels more like a lifeline.

And this was the most unfair part of it all: What Dad had done, he hadn’t just done to him and Mom, and he hadn’t just done to him and Hadley. He’d done it to Hadley and Mom, too, had turned the easy rhythms between them into something brittle and complicated, something that could shatter at any moment.

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

but when she finally steps out into the sunlight again at the Kensington stop, she’s struck by the uncomfortable sensation of having skipped through time like a stone.

She doesn’t need pictures to know that she’s not part of his life anymore.

Hadley didn’t know it was possible to miss someone who’s only a few feet away, but there it is: She misses him so much it nearly flattens her. Because all of a sudden it all seems so horribly senseless, how much time she’s spent trying to push him out of her life. Seeing

“That’s the way these things work, kiddo,” he says. “Love isn’t supposed to make sense. It’s completely illogical.”

She wonders now if that could possibly be true. It’s hard to imagine what their life would be like if he’d only just come home like he was supposed to that Christmas and left Charlotte behind. Would things have been better that way? Or would they have been like Oliver’s family, the weight of their unhappiness heavy as a blanket over each of them, stifling and oppressive and so very silent?

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.

“Oh, honey,” Mom jokes. “You’re more like a whole suitcase. 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.”

“He loves you,” Hadley says simply. “And you love him.” “It’s a little bit more complicated than that.” “It’s not, actually. All you have to do is say yes.”

“When did you get so grown-up?” Hadley shrugs. “You and Dad must have done a good job.”

Imagine if it had been someone else, Hadley is thinking, her heart rattling at the idea of it. But here they are: A boy walks up with a book in his hands. A boy walks up with a crooked tie. A boy walks up and sits down beside her. There’s a star in the sky that refuses to stay put, and Hadley realizes it’s actually a plane, that just last night, that star was them.

“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.

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

“People who meet in airports are seventy-two percent more likely to fall for each other than people who meet anywhere else.”

“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?”