Kids, when I was younger, I had this fixed picture in my head of how life would look at 28:
Architect
Married
Tiny house in Westchester
A dog that wore bandanas
Maybe a baby that also wore bandanas
Instead, when I turned 28, I had:
A tiny apartment in Brooklyn
A failed long-distance relationship
A job that was "promising" instead of impressive
A best friend planning a wedding
A brother who was richer than God and insufferably correct about everything
And zero bandana babies.
---
The Birthday, The Algorithm, and The Envelope
The day it all happened was my 28th birthday.
The day I thought I'd get proof the universe still had a plan for me.
Instead, I got something else entirely.
---
1. The List vs. Reality
That morning, I woke up to:
An alarm
A hangover
And a Post-it on my bedside lamp that said:
> "28: Married, Architect, Kids? – T."
You know those notes you leave yourself when you're 22?
Yeah.
Future me hated Past me that morning.
I shuffled into the living room, hair sticking up, eyes barely open.
Nox was already up, sitting cross-legged on the couch with a laptop balanced on his knees, hoodie on, mug of coffee in hand like some kind of chaotic tech monk.
He glanced up.
"Birthday zombie," he said. "Nice."
"You didn't have to write the Post-it," I grumbled, holding it up. "That was cruel."
He snorted.
"That wasn't me," he said. "That was you. I found it on your desk last night and taped it where I knew it'd hurt the most."
"That makes it worse," I said.
"Consider it exposure therapy," he replied. "So. Twenty-eight. How's the master plan going?"
I dropped into the armchair.
"Statistically dead," I said. "No wife. No kids. No townhouse. Just student loans and my architect boss telling me my ideas are 'too ambitious' for someone who isn't licensed yet."
Nox closed the laptop halfway.
"Let's take inventory," he said. "You've got:
Friends who love you
Work that's trending upward
Decent hair
One idiot brother who can bankroll your mid-life crisis later
You're not failing. You're just… off-script."
"It feels like everyone else is on-script," I muttered. "Marshall and Lily are getting married. You and Bryce are… whatever this annoyingly perfect thing is. Robin's career is climbing. I'm… the guy who just broke up with the bakery girl and still talks to his kids about destiny 20 years later."
He smirked.
"Happy birthday," he said dryly. "Want a muffin with that self-pity?"
I sighed.
"Do you ever just… want a sign?" I asked. "Something that says, 'Hey, you're not completely screwing this up. You're heading toward your person. Chill.'"
"Yes," he said. "Frequently. Then I remember the universe is terrible at email. So I go with probability instead."
I frowned.
"Probability?" I asked.
"You want a sign," he said. "I want numbers. Find enough data and eventually you can pretend your love life is math."
I stared.
"You're such a romance killer," I said.
"Or the only one here being honest about how humans work," he countered. "Speaking of which—Barney left something for you."
He tossed me a business card.
LOVE SOLUTIONS – Perfect Matches, Scientifically Guaranteed
I groaned.
"Oh no," I said. "Absolutely not. I'm not letting Barney outsource my love life to an algorithm."
Nox shrugged.
"He said you'd say that," he said. "He also said, and I quote, 'Tell Schmosby that if he doesn't have the balls to let science show him the truth, he should go buy more cats.'"
"I don't even have one cat," I said.
"Exactly," Nox replied. "You're behind schedule. Call them."
I flipped the card over.
On the back, in Barney's handwriting:
> "Happy birthday, Ted. Let the nerds find you The One so you'll stop trying to date the whole Eastern Seaboard. – B."
I sighed.
"You really think this isn't insane?" I asked.
"Of course it's insane," Nox said. "So is love. Think of it as an experiment. Worst case, you get a funny story. Best case, you get 50 pages of compatibility charts and someone to make out with at New Year's."
"I hate that you make this sound reasonable," I said.
"Great," he said. "Now call. Before you talk yourself out of it and into writing another Post-it."
---
2. Love Solutions
A few hours later, I found myself sitting in a sleek, over-scented office downtown, sipping cucumber water, wondering when my life turned into a rom-com B-plot.
The door opened.
A woman in her 40s, sharp suit, sharper eyes.
"Mr. Mosby?" she asked.
"That's me," I said, standing too fast.
"I'm Lana," she said, shaking my hand. "Welcome to Love Solutions. Barney speaks very highly of your… romantic history."
"That's terrifying," I said.
She smiled.
"We specialize in finding patterns," she said. "My job is to match you with someone you're statistically compatible with, using a proprietary algorithm."
Barney had written "SHE'S LIKE CUPID WITH A SCIENCE DEGREE" on my appointment card.
I'd scratched it out.
We sat.
She slid a thick questionnaire toward me.
"Answer as honestly as you can," she said. "Favorite books, dealbreakers, secret fears, religious beliefs, kids, politics, whether you will or will not tolerate Nickelback…"
"That's on here?" I asked.
"You'd be surprised how much it matters," she said.
I started filling it out.
Twenty minutes later, my entire personality was in checkboxes and short answers.
She typed, paused, frowned, then looked at me.
"You're… interesting," she said.
"Good interesting?" I asked.
"Complicated interesting," she replied. "You have a strong romantic idealism, but also a deep need for control and reassurance."
"So I'm a control-freak romantic," I said. "Great."
She hesitated.
"Full disclosure," she said. "We've never found a perfect match for you before."
My stomach sank.
"So I'm… unmatchable?" I asked.
"Not necessarily," she said. "But your combination of preferences is… rare. We've had you in the system for a while thanks to Barney's earlier referral. This is the first time I've seen something like this."
She typed more.
Then froze.
Her eyes widened slightly.
"What?" I asked. "Did I break your computer with my emotional neediness?"
She turned the screen so I could see.
My profile was on one side.
On the other: another profile.
At the bottom: Compatibility Score: 9.6 / 10
Nox's voice in my head: Probability.
"What does that mean?" I asked, pulse picking up.
"It means," she said slowly, "that our algorithm has found one person in the entire tri-state area who matches you at 9.6. Our previous highest for you was a 7.1."
"Is… that good?" I asked.
"For you?" she said. "It's a miracle."
She tapped the screen.
"Her name is… withheld," Lana said. "Client privacy. But I can tell you: she's 27, lives in Manhattan, loves architecture, dogs, old movies, wants kids, no smoking, politically compatible with you, similar values. It's… eerie."
I stared.
This was the sign I'd been begging the universe for.
Except it was coming from a very expensive spreadsheet.
"So… what now?" I asked. "You set us up? Where do I sign?"
Lana's smile faltered.
"There's… a small complication," she said.
My stomach dropped.
"Of course there is," I said.
"She terminated her contract with us two months ago," Lana said. "New relationship. She asked to be removed from the system. We're not legally allowed to contact her or give out her information without her consent."
I just stared.
"So you're telling me the universe finally matched me," I said slowly, "with someone almost perfect… and she quit your service two months ago?"
"Yes," Lana said gently.
"Two months ago," I repeated. "Around the time I was chasing a girl in a wedding dress to a bakery."
Victoria.
Germany.
I rubbed my eyes.
"Is there… anything you can do?" I asked. "Call her? Email?"
"I've reached out once already," she said. "As a courtesy. She didn't respond. That's all I can ethically do. I'm sorry."
"So that's it?" I said. "I get to see the numbers and then go home and… hope she stumbles into MacLaren's one day?"
Lana considered me.
"You're one of the few clients I actually worry about," she said. "You believe in destiny, which can be beautiful… or paralyzing."
"That's… comforting," I said.
She slid a printout across the desk.
"This," she said, "is a general profile. No name, no address, nothing identifying. Just her… outline. Proof she exists. You can keep it if you want. But I'd advise you not to build your life around a ghost."
I looked down.
It was bullet points.
Loves architecture and city skylines
Volunteers with kids
Grew up in the Midwest
Favorite book: To Kill a Mockingbird
Wants a big family
Favorite drink: scotch, neat
Scotch.
Robin's drink.
I shook that thought away.
"Why tell me at all?" I asked quietly. "If you can't set it up?"
"Because you asked for the truth," she said. "And because I don't think your problem is that there's no one for you, Ted. I think your problem is you keep waiting for relationships to show up with a sign that says 'No Risk.'"
She leaned forward.
"Here's your sign," she said. "You're not unlovable. You're not unmatchable. The numbers say so. Now go make messy choices with real people instead of waiting for a woman in a file to come knock on your door with bandanas."
I swallowed.
"That's… a lot," I said.
She smiled.
"Happy birthday," she said. "We'll keep your profile active. But try not to treat this like a prophecy. Treat it like… encouragement."
I walked out with the paper in my pocket and a head full of static.
---
3. The Birthday That Wasn't
Back at MacLaren's, the gang was already in the booth.
Barney, Marshall, Lily, Robin, Nox, Bryce.
They all went weirdly quiet when I walked in.
"Hey," I said. "What's… going on?"
"Nothing," Barney said too fast. "Regular night. Totally normal. No reason to look at the back room."
I turned.
Above the back section: a hastily taped banner.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TED
("28 IS THE NEW 18" – BARNEY)
"Subtle," I said.
Everyone yelled "Surprise!" half-heartedly, like they'd forgotten and thrown it together last minute.
Because they had.
Lily hugged me.
"Sorry it's not a big thing," she said. "School's been insane. Wedding stuff. I literally just remembered your birthday when Marshall showed me the binder's calendar."
"It's okay," I said. "I've been… distracted too."
Robin stepped up.
"I got you something," she said, a little shy.
She handed me a wrapped box.
Inside: a blue French horn.
Not the French horn.
A mini version.
Desk size.
"Figured you could use a smaller, less felony-adjacent reminder," she said.
My chest did that annoying squeeze.
"Thank you," I said. "It's… perfect."
We shared a look.
Soft.
Careful.
Nox cleared his throat.
"I got you something too," he said, sliding an envelope across.
I opened it.
Inside: a printout.
TED'S 28+ LIST
Architect license
Publish a design
Visit Barcelona
One long, healthy relationship (minimum 2 years, no cheating, no ghosting)
I stared.
"You made me a… new life list?" I asked.
"Version 2.0," he said. "One that doesn't assume you have kids tomorrow. One that's about you instead of some imaginary sitcom timeline."
Barney scoffed.
"I got you something way better," he said. "Proof that science thinks you're dateable."
He slapped my Love Solutions profile down on the table.
"You told them?" I asked Lana in my head, then realized he'd obviously just pestered her.
"I called Lana," Barney said. "She confirmed there's a woman out there who matches you 9.6. That means you can officially stop whining about being broken."
"Barney," Robin said, "that's not how feelings work."
"It's exactly how feelings work," he said. "He now has empirical evidence that there is at least one woman out there who can stand him. Checkmate, crippling self-doubt."
I took a breath.
"I met with Lana," I said. "She can't give me the woman's name. She already quit the service. She might be dating someone, engaged, moved. It's a… dead end."
Lily squeezed my arm.
"But she exists," she said. "That's something."
"Besides," Bryce added, "9.6 doesn't mean perfect. It means someone the computer likes for you. You might meet someone the algorithm hates and still fall in love."
"Spoken like a true chaos agent," Nox said, kissing her temple.
I looked at all of them.
At Robin's face across from me.
At my brother's nonchalant wisdom.
At Lily's tired smile and Marshall's hopeful eyes.
At Barney, who genuinely thought this was his gift to me.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do with this," I admitted, tapping the page. "It feels like the universe dangling something and then yanking it away."
"Or," Nox said, "it's the universe saying, 'Stop assuming you're defective just because Victoria didn't work out.' It's not a promise. It's a nudge."
Robin clinked her glass against mine.
"Maybe the real birthday present," she said, "is realizing you don't need a perfect match to be happy. Just a good one. At the right time. Who doesn't live on another continent."
"Low bar," I said.
"Realistic bar," she replied.
We drank.
We laughed.
For a couple of hours, I almost forgot about the printout in my pocket.
Almost.
---
4. The Envelope
Across town, while we were shouting over birthday shots and Barney's terrible toast ("To Ted's 28th year: may it contain fewer bakeries and more boobs"), something else was happening.
In Lily and Marshall's apartment, an envelope sat on the dresser.
Lily had hidden it under sweaters for days.
Tonight, she'd taken it out.
Now she was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at it like it might explode.
SAN FRANCISCO ART INSTITUTE
ATTN: LILY ALDRIN
She'd opened it earlier that week.
Read the words three times.
"Dear Ms. Aldrin, we are pleased to inform you…"
Scholarship.
Fellowship.
A once-in-a-lifetime program.
Three months in San Francisco.
Painting.
Living.
No kindergarten lesson plans.
No wedding binders.
No Marshall.
Her hands shook.
She heard the front door.
"Lil?" Marshall called. "You ready? Ted's at the bar. Nox said he's spiraling again. We should get going—"
She shoved the letter back into the envelope.
Stuffed it into the drawer.
Plastered on a smile.
"Coming!" she yelled.
She stepped out of the bedroom, heart pounding, lips stretched.
Marshall beamed at her.
"You look beautiful," he said.
"I'm in jeans," she replied.
"Exactly," he said.
She kissed him.
Harder than usual.
Like she was trying to memorize it.
They walked out to go celebrate my birthday.
The envelope waited in the drawer.
Like a ticking clock.
---
5. The Call
Later that night, after too much beer and one ill-advised attempt at karaoke (Barney, "Milkshake," never speak of it again), the party thinned.
Marshall dragged a pleasantly tipsy Lily home.
Barney went hunting for "after-hours adventure."
Nox and Bryce headed back to their place, arguing about whether existentialist cinema was "good for dates" (it isn't).
Which left me and Robin outside MacLaren's, standing on the sidewalk, the city humming around us.
"Happy birthday, Mosby," she said, hugging her coat tighter.
"Thanks for the horn," I said, holding up the box. "And for not bailing halfway through Barney's speech."
"I considered it," she admitted. "But then who would've recorded it for blackmail purposes?"
We fell into step, walking.
Her apartment was on the way to mine.
For once, it felt… peaceful.
No 2 a.m. crisis.
No big questions.
Just two people walking home.
"You okay?" I asked her.
"Job's insane," she said. "Sandy's being Sandy. I'm chasing stories that get cut for segments about ferrets. But… tonight was good."
"Tonight was good," I agreed.
We reached her building.
She turned to me.
"Goodnight, Ted," she said.
"Goodnight, Robin," I replied.
She went inside.
I kept walking.
For a second, I imagined a different version of the night:
Me, asking her up.
Her, saying yes.
A repeat of all the dangerous maybes we'd already barely survived.
Instead, I went home.
Alone.
Proud of myself.
Three blocks from our apartment, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Answered anyway.
"Hello?" I said.
A familiar, polished voice:
"Hi, Ted. It's Lana from Love Solutions."
My stomach tightened.
"Hey," I said. "Everything okay? Did your computer decide I'm actually only a 4.2?"
"Quite the opposite," she said. "I know I said there was nothing I could do… but I may have spoken too soon."
I stopped walking.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Your match," she said. "The 9.6. She called me back."
My heart did a backflip.
"She… did?" I asked.
"Yes," Lana said. "She was… curious. I told her there was a man she scored incredibly high with. She hesitated, but… she agreed to let me arrange a meeting. Tonight. If you want it."
"Tonight?" I repeated, stunned.
"We don't normally do this so fast," she said. "But she's on a tight schedule. She's leaving town soon. If you're interested, you can meet her at 2 a.m. at a diner on 82nd and Lexington. She'll be at the counter. Red coat. Reading To Kill a Mockingbird."
She paused.
"I know it's late," she said. "But I thought… if you want this sign, this might be it."
I looked up at the streetlight.
At my reflection in a darkened shop window.
At the version of me who still believed in big gestures and perfect timing.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "I'll go."
"Good," Lana said. "One last thing: don't overthink it. She's a person. Not a prediction. Talk to her like one."
We hung up.
I stood there.
Breath clouding in the cold.
In my pocket?
A profile for a 9.6 match.
In my hand?
The box holding a tiny blue French horn.
Back at home?
Friends who loved me.
In a drawer across town?
An envelope that could blow up the Eriksen–Aldrin wedding.
And on 82nd and Lexington, in a couple of hours?
A stranger in a red coat who might be, statistically speaking, the closest thing to destiny I'd ever see.
Kids, that's where I was when the night really began:
Halfway between the person I thought I was supposed to be…
…and the messier, braver, more honest person I still had to grow into.
Because right as I started to head for that diner—
someone else's crisis was brewing.
One that was going to make me choose, again, between "perfect on paper" and "the people right in front of me."
Kids, if there's one thing you should know about turning 28, it's this:
The universe loves giving you multiple-choice questions…
…with no right answers.
When I hung up with Lana, I stood there on the sidewalk like an idiot.
Phone in one hand.
Blue French horn box in the other.
Printout of my "perfect match" in my pocket.
A girl in a red coat.
Reading To Kill a Mockingbird.
Waiting at a diner at 2 a.m.
This was it, right?
The sign.
The "See, Ted? You're not crazy to believe in destiny" moment.
I started walking.
---
1. Pre-Game with Nox
On the way back to our building to change, I called Nox.
He picked up on the second ring.
"You either drunk-dialed me," he said, "or something statistically improbable happened."
"Both, kind of," I said. "Lana called. The 9.6 match? She called back. She wants to meet. Tonight. 2 a.m. Diner on 82nd."
He whistled low.
"Well damn," he said. "The ghost turned out to be real. That's… something."
"Is it insane to go?" I asked. "Like, it's a computer match. I don't even know her name."
"Of course it's insane," he said. "Welcome to love. But you wanted a sign. Probability delivered. You should go. Just—"
He paused.
"Just what?" I pushed.
"Just remember she's a person, not a prophecy," he said. "If you meet her, talk like a human, not like a guy who thinks the closing credits will roll if the date goes well."
I snorted.
"Can't promise that," I said. "I'm very committed to my imaginary soundtrack."
"Yeah, I know," he said. "Try anyway. And Ted?"
"Yeah?"
"If something else comes up tonight," he added, "something that's actually yours—your people, your life—don't ignore that because of a number on a page."
"I'm not gonna ditch my friends for a stranger," I said.
"Good," he said. "Now go shower. You smell like beer and unmet expectations."
He hung up.
I went upstairs.
Changed.
Put on a decent shirt.
Looked in the mirror.
"28," I told my reflection. "Tonight could be the night you meet the woman you marry."
He did not look convinced.
---
2. The Call from Nowhere
I was halfway to the subway when my phone rang again.
Lily.
The screen said 1:32 a.m.
My stomach dropped.
Lily never called that late.
I answered fast.
"Hey, Lil," I said. "You okay?"
There was wind on the line.
And panic.
"Ted," she said, voice shaking. "I'm… I'm in trouble."
Every instinct I had shifted.
"What? Where are you?" I asked. "What happened?"
"I'm—" she sniffed, voice wobbling, "I don't even know. Some town past Queens? The bus broke down and the driver just… left? There's like one streetlight and a creepy gas station and I tried to get a cab but they laughed at me and I don't know how to get home and I—"
"Okay," I cut in gently. "Hey. Breathe. It's okay. I've got you. Tell me the last sign you saw."
She gulped.
"Uh… I think… Maplewood?" she said. "There was a sign for Maplewood."
I did some quick mental geography.
So: far enough that walking was a bad idea, close enough that a car could get there.
"Why are you in Maplewood?" I asked. "What are you doing out there at 1:30 a.m.?"
There was a long pause.
She sniffed again.
"I went to see an apartment," she admitted. "A tiny studio above a laundromat. I thought… if I liked it, maybe I'd… move there for a while. Just me. No Marshall. Do art. Figure myself out before the wedding. And then I realized I was insane, tried to come home, and now I'm stranded in a horror movie."
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Of course tonight wasn't just about me.
"It's okay," I said again. "You're okay. Stay somewhere well-lit. Don't talk to strangers. I'll come get you."
"You will?" she asked, small.
"Of course," I said. "I'm not gonna let you get murdered by a B-list slasher villain at a gas station."
She laughed weakly.
"I didn't know who else to call," she said. "I couldn't call Marshall. I can't explain to him why I'm here. I can barely explain it to myself."
I glanced at the time.
1:36 a.m.
Diner at 2:00.
Red coat.
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Nox's voice in my head: If something actually yours comes up tonight, don't ignore it for a number.
Lana's voice: She's leaving town soon…
Lily sniffed on the line.
"Ted?" she asked. "Are you there?"
Kids, that was the moment.
Right there.
The fork in the road.
One path went uptown to a diner and a maybe-perfect stranger.
The other went out of the city, to a gas station and a sobbing friend who was about to blow up her entire life.
I took a breath.
And made the only choice I could live with later.
"I'm here," I said. "Text me the name of the gas station. I'm coming."
---
3. The Call I Didn't Take
Before I got in a cab, I called Lana.
She answered on the second ring.
"Change of heart?" she asked. "Cold feet?"
"Not exactly," I said, already walking fast. "Something came up. Friend emergency. I can't make it."
She sighed softly.
"I figured that might happen," she said. "You sounded… torn."
"Can you tell her I'm sorry?" I asked. "The girl in the red coat. Tell her something… came up. Something important. That it wasn't about her."
"I'll leave a message," Lana said. "Whether she listens is up to her."
I swallowed.
"Thank you," I said. "For… everything. Even if I never meet her."
"The point was never the girl," Lana said gently. "It was proving to you that she could exist. Take that with you, Ted. Not the regret."
We hung up.
And just like that, the 9.6 became what most near-misses become:
A story I'd never get to live.
A diner.
A red coat.
A book.
And an empty seat across from mine.
---
4. The Girl in the Red Coat
Kids, I wasn't there.
But I've pictured it.
The silver bell over the diner door jingling at 2 a.m.
The hum of the fluorescent lights.
The clink of plates.
A woman in a red coat sitting at the counter, book open.
Waiting.
She checks the door every time it opens.
Drinks her coffee.
Reads the same sentence five times.
Thinks about leaving.
Doesn't.
The waitress asks if she wants anything else.
She says no.
At some point, her phone buzzes.
A voicemail.
From Lana.
She listens.
We don't know what her face did.
Maybe she was annoyed.
Maybe she was relieved.
Maybe she thought, "Of course he didn't show. Why would he?"
She closed the book.
Paid her bill.
Walked back out into the city.
We never met.
That girl—whoever she was—kept living her life.
And me?
I got in a cab going the other way.
Toward a scared bride-to-be.
Toward the life I actually had.
---
5. The Gas Station Confessional
The cab driver gave me a look when I climbed in.
"Where to?" he asked.
I gave him the gas station address Lily had texted.
He double-took.
"That's out past everything," he said. "You sure?"
"Yeah," I said. "I'm sure."
We drove.
The city thinned.
Lights got farther apart.
My phone buzzed once—Nox.
I texted back:
> Going to get Lily.
Tell you later.
He sent back:
> Knew you would.
Good.
with a thumbs-up emoji he absolutely denies ever using now.
We pulled into the gas station twenty-five minutes later.
It was exactly as depressing as you'd imagine:
Flickering sign
Closed convenience store
One sad vending machine
And there, on the curb under the one working light, was Lily.
Hunched.
Arms wrapped around herself.
Tiny suitcase at her feet like a guilty secret.
When she saw me, relief washed over her face so hard she almost fell.
"Ted!" she said, running over and hugging me so tightly I wheezed.
"You okay?" I asked into her hair.
"No," she said honestly. "Yes. I don't know."
I pulled back.
"Come on," I said. "Let's get you into the cab. Then you can have your breakdown in a moving vehicle, which is more efficient."
She laughed wetly.
We piled in.
She gave the driver our address.
We pulled back onto the dark road.
For a while, we just sat.
Her head on my shoulder.
The hum of the tires.
Finally, she spoke.
"I got in," she said quietly. "San Francisco. The art program. The one I told you about once and then pretended I forgot."
I turned toward her.
"Lil," I said. "That's huge. That's… incredible."
She let out a teary laugh.
"Yeah," she said. "It's incredible. And terrifying. And I didn't tell Marshall. I just… got the letter and hid it. And then tonight, I thought, 'What if I went? What if I lived alone for a while and painted and figured out who I am before I'm somebody's wife?'"
"That's… not a crazy thought," I said carefully.
"I know," she said. "But the second I got on that bus, I felt like I was cheating on him. Like every mile was me… leaving our life without telling him."
She scrubbed at her face.
"So I panicked," she said. "I went to see the studio anyway. It was… tiny. Noisy. Kinda gross. And all I could think was, 'I could love this. I could hate this. I could be here.'"
"And then?" I prompted.
"And then I pictured Marshall alone in our apartment, alphabetizing the spice rack, planning our future," she said. "And I thought, 'If I stay here alone… I might never go back.' That scared me more than anything. So I ran to the bus. And the bus broke down. And the driver said there weren't any more until morning. And I realized I was stuck—outside the life I have, not yet in the one I might want—and I just… lost it."
She looked at me, eyes red.
"I'm a terrible person," she whispered.
"You're not," I said immediately.
"I kissed some random guitarist," she said. "I hid an acceptance letter. I ran away from my own wedding to look at a crappy studio. I'm absolutely the villain here."
"You're scared," I said. "That's different."
She shook her head.
"What kind of person doubts their wedding this much?" she demanded. "What kind of person loves someone this much and still wonders if they're supposed to do something else first?"
I thought about that.
"An honest one," I said.
She blinked.
"That's… not the answer I expected," she said.
"You love Marshall," I said. "That's obvious. Anyone who's seen you two knows that. But you also love your art. And you're finally being offered a life where people take that seriously. That's… a big choice. You're allowed to freak out."
She slumped back.
"I called you," she admitted, "because I thought… if I told you first, maybe you'd tell me I'm being ridiculous. That I should just forget San Francisco. That wanting more than Marshall and a house and kids makes me selfish and I should get over it."
I stared out the window.
Dark trees.
Empty road.
The in-between.
"What if I don't think that?" I asked.
She looked at me.
"What if I think," I said slowly, "that if you don't at least consider San Francisco… you'll resent Marshall for the rest of your life?"
She swallowed.
"That's… what I'm afraid of," she whispered.
"Lily," I said gently, "if you marry him without ever giving yourself a shot at this, a real shot, not just a panicked visit to a gross studio, then one day—maybe five years from now, maybe twenty—you'll be rocking a baby to sleep, or grading papers, and you'll look at him and think, 'You're the reason I never tried.'"
She flinched like I'd hit her.
"And that won't be true," I added quickly. "It won't. But you won't be able to stop the thought. And it'll kill you. And it'll kill him. And you both deserve better than that."
Tears spilled down her cheeks again.
"So what do I do?" she asked, small. "Call it off? Run away? Stay and hope the feeling goes away?"
I took a breath.
"None of those," I said. "You tell him. Everything. About the letter. The studio. The kiss. The panic. You give him the chance to love all of you. The bride and the scared artist and the woman who might need to go to San Francisco for a while."
"And if he says no?" she whispered. "If he says he can't handle it? That it's him or San Francisco?"
"Then you'll know," I said quietly. "And you'll decide. But at least you'll both be deciding with the truth on the table, not secrets."
She stared at me for a long time.
"You… gave up something tonight, didn't you?" she said suddenly.
I blinked.
"What?" I asked.
She squinted.
"The way you answered the phone," she said. "You sounded… busy. Like you were going somewhere. Somewhere important."
I hesitated.
"Lana called," I admitted. "The matchmaking lady. She found my 9.6. The girl. We were supposed to meet at 2 a.m. at a diner."
Lily's jaw dropped.
"And you came for me instead?" she asked.
"Of course I did," I said. "You're Lily."
"That could've been your future wife," she said, aghast. "Your babies' mother. The reason you stop telling long stories about destiny."
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe she would've been a bad kisser who hated Star Wars. Point is—tonight, you needed me. She's a statistical maybe. You're my friend."
She wiped at her eyes again.
"You're a good guy, Ted," she said softly.
I shrugged.
"I'm trying to be," I said. "Nox keeps grading me."
She smiled through tears.
"Thank you," she said. "For coming. For not… making me feel like a monster."
"You're not a monster," I repeated. "You're a person who wants the life she's always dreamed of and the life she never let herself dream of. And maybe, with some pain and a lot of talking and a terrifying plane ride… you can have both."
She exhaled shakily.
"I'm so scared," she whispered.
"I know," I said. "But you're also brave. Brave enough to call me. Now be brave enough to call Marshall."
She nodded, biting her lip.
"Not tonight," I added. "You're exhausted. He's asleep. You need a shower and eight hours and maybe three pancakes first. Then talk."
She let out a watery laugh.
"Okay," she said. "Pancakes, then honesty."
"Best order," I said.
---
6. The Hardest Good Thing
We dropped Lily off first.
At her and Marshall's door, she turned back.
"You're sure I'm not evil?" she asked.
"Positive," I said. "If you were evil, you'd have taken the studio and texted me from San Francisco with a picture of a new tattoo."
She snorted.
"Don't tempt me," she said.
She hugged me.
"Love you, Ted," she murmured.
"Love you too, Lil," I said.
She went inside.
Closed the door softly.
I stood there for a second, listening to the quiet.
Then went home.
Nox was still awake, of course.
Laptop open.
Glasses on.
Some spreadsheet on the screen.
He looked up.
"How's Maplewood?" he asked.
"Creepy," I said, dropping onto the couch. "And full of feelings."
He raised an eyebrow.
"She okay?" he asked.
"Eventually," I said. "She has to tell Marshall about San Francisco. About almost running. About everything. But… yeah. I think she will. They're… them."
He nodded.
"And the girl in the red coat?" he asked.
I smiled sadly.
"She got stood up," I said. "By a guy who chose his almost-sister over his almost-soulmate."
"You don't know she's your soulmate," he said. "You don't even know her name. All you know is a number on a page and that she likes good books and bad timing."
"Still," I said. "Feels like I… closed a door."
He leaned back.
"Ted," he said. "You didn't close a door. You picked one. That's what grown-ups do."
I stared at the ceiling.
"You think I made the right choice?" I asked.
"I think there isn't a universe where you leave Lily crying at a gas station to go meet a stranger," he said. "Not if you're you. And if you weren't you, that girl in the red coat wouldn't be a 9.6 anyway."
That actually… helped.
"Also," he added, "destiny isn't a one-time offer. You didn't miss your only shot at love. You missed a shot. There will be others. Statistically guaranteed."
"You and your statistics," I said.
He shrugged.
"Somebody has to balance out your French horn nonsense," he said.
We sat there in comfortable silence for a minute.
"Happy birthday, by the way," he added. "Again."
"Yeah," I said. "Weird birthday."
"The best ones usually are," he said.
---
7. What That Night Really Was
Kids, I never met the girl in the red coat.
I don't know where she is now.
Maybe she got married.
Maybe she moved.
Maybe she still hates a guy named Ted Mosby who never showed.
But that night?
Wasn't actually about her.
It wasn't even about Love Solutions, or 9.6s, or whether the universe uses algorithms.
It was about this:
Your Aunt Lily getting a letter that could change her life
Being brave enough to admit she wanted it
Being even braver when she told your Uncle Marshall
And me, realizing that sometimes the most important night of your love story…
…isn't the night you meet someone.
It's the night you choose the people you already have.
I didn't walk into that diner and see your mother.
I got in a cab and saw Lily on a curb instead.
Cold.
Scared.
Holding a suitcase full of questions.
And if I've done anything right in my life, it was this:
I showed up.
For her.
For Marshall.
For the messy, honest, imperfect family that would eventually lead me to you.
So yeah, "Milk" could've been the story of how I met a perfect match.
Instead?
It's the story of how I helped your Aunt Lily take her first step toward becoming the woman she needed to be…
…so she could stand up in a dress, someday soon, and promise your Uncle Marshall forever—
and actually mean it.