The Rosie Project (Don Tillman, #1)

by Graeme Simsion

it dawned on me that I had not designed the questionnaire to find a woman I could accept but to find someone who might accept me.

“Rosie identified three faults. Fault number one was the inability to feel love. There are only two left to rectify.” “And they would be?” “Social protocols and adherence to schedules. Trivial.”

All this unaccustomed social interaction, plus that with Rosie, had dramatically improved my skills. “You don’t need to try with Gene and me, because you’re not out to impress us or make friends with us.” While Claudia was right about the value of practice, I learn better from reading and observation. My next task was to download some educational material.

“Don. I’m impressed, but… changing to meet someone else’s expectations may not be a good idea. You may end up resenting it.” I didn’t think this was likely. I was learning some new protocols, that was all. “If you really love someone,” Claudia continued, “you have to be prepared to accept them as they are. Maybe you hope that one day they get a wake-up call and make the changes for their own reasons.” This last statement connected with the fidelity rule that I had in my mind at the beginning of the discussion. I did not need to raise the subject now. I had the answer to my question. Claudia was surely talking about Gene.

My schedule and social skills had now been brought into line with conventional practice, to the best of my ability within the time I had allocated. The Don Project was complete.

“You think people see you as a Casanova. You know what? I don’t care what other people think of you, but if you want to know, they think you’re a jerk. And they’re right, Gene. You’re fifty-six years old with a wife and two kids, though for how much longer I don’t know. Time you grew up. I’m telling you that as a friend.”

Had the flounder demonstration been an instance of bullying as heinous as the one committed by my religious education teacher, even though I was right?

“Come on,” he said. “Try to hurt me.” He asked for it. “Your stepdaughter is trying to locate her real father because she’s dissatisfied with you.” Phil dropped his guard. Very poor form. I could have landed a punch unimpeded if we were in a real bout.

“I decided to reform myself.” I liked the sound of the word: re-form.

“I asked you here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

“Whatever behavioral modifications you require from me are a trivial price to pay for having you as my partner.”

“You are the world’s most perfect woman. All other women are irrelevant. Permanently. No Botox or implants will be required.”

“I thought my behavior would make you happy, and instead it’s made you sad.” “I’m upset because you can’t love me. Okay?” This was worse! She wanted me to love her. And I was incapable.

It had taken me until tonight, approximately halfway, to see myself reasonably clearly. I had Rosie, and the Rosie Project, to thank for that. Now it was over, what had I learned?

I need not be visibly odd. I could engage in the protocols that others followed and move undetected among them. And how could I be sure that other people were not doing the same—playing the game to be accepted but suspecting all the time that they were different?

I had skills that others didn’t. My memory and ability to focus had given me an advantage in baseball statistics, cocktail making, and genetics. People...

I could enjoy friendship and good times. It was my lack of skills, not lack of motivation, that had held me back. Now I was competent enough socially to open my life to a wider range of people. I could have more f...

I had told Gene and Claudia that I was incompatible with women. This was an exaggeration. I could enjoy their company, as proven by my joint activities with Rosie and Daphne. Realistically, it was ...

The idea behind the Wife Project was still sound. In many cultures a matchmaker would routinely have done what I did, with less technology, reach, and rigor, but the same assumption—that compatibi...

I was not wired to feel love. And faking it was not acceptable. Not to me. I had feared that Rosie would not love me. Instead...

I had a great deal of valuable knowledge—about genetics, computers, aikido, karate, hardware, chess, wine, cocktails, dancing, sexual positions, social protocols, and the probability of a fifty-six-game hitting streak occurring in the history ...

An inability (or reduced ability) to empathize is not the same as an inability to love. Love is a powerful feeling for another person, often defying logic.

I want to spend my life with you even though it’s totally irrational. And you have short earlobes. Socially and genetically there’s no reason for me to be attracted to you. The only logical conclusion is that I must be in love with you.”

what was important for me was to be able to make a new start with my new skills, new approach, and new partner, without being held back by others’ perceptions of me—perceptions that I had not only deserved but encouraged.

If Rosie’s mother had known that eye color was not a reliable indicator of paternity and organized a DNA test to confirm her suspicions, there would have been no Father Project, no Great Cocktail Night, no New York Adventure, no Reform Don Project—and no Rosie Project. Had it not been for this unscheduled series of events, her daughter and I would not have fallen in love. And I would still be eating lobster every Tuesday night. Incredible.