“We know, honey,” Mom says softly. “We just want you to be happy.”
“I amthriving,” I declare, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the books threatening to topple off my nightstand. Their glossy spines mock me with titles likeHe’s Just Not That into Your Emotionally Stable FutureandEat, Pray, Unfollow: A Journey to Digital Detox After Getting Dumped.We chat for a few more minutes before saying our goodbyes.
As I end the call, I flop back onto my pillow, staring at the ceiling fan. The responsible adult in me says I should get up, tidy the apartment, maybe even attempt to head to the farmers’ market to get the ingredients for a vegetable-laden egg scramble. Anything that isn’t thinking about Gale doing exactly what I ordered him todo—going on a date last night with one of the brightest new stars in pop.
Wait. It hits me in a rush—I have E.M.M.A. And more important, I have the data from Gale’s wearable from last night. I get up and grab my laptop and curl up on my bed, powering it on. My stomach does a weird flip as my fingers hover over E.M.M.A.’s interface, my heart thundering against my ribs. This isn’t really some crossing of ethical boundaries. I’m the team lead. It’s my job. The fact I feel slightly nauseous is no one’s business but my own. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
I turn on my mic: “Hey E.M.M.A.: Quick check to make sure everything went okay last night? The data transmitted from Gale’s outing?”
Of course, Harriet.
Is it my imagination or does E.M.M.A.’s response drip with artificial sweetness?
The date lasted two hours and seventeen minutes. They discussed sports, music, and mini golf. Would you like me to continue enabling your self-destructive behavior, or shall we discuss why you’re really hiding in bed on your birthday?
I wince: “You aren’t programmed to do ‘I told you so’ type behavior.”
Gale shows all the biological and behavioral markers of attraction when he’s around you. But you insisted on this elaborate scheme instead. This is you overriding my algorithms.
“Can you just...” I press my palms against my eyes. “Can you just tell me if they hit it off?”
I could. But is this for the project or your own personal interest?
I slam the laptop closed and set it on the edge of the bed.
I’m being so called out right now. I’m sure they had a great time. It’s logical, really. Gale’s all dark hair and brooding eyes that scream “touch me and burn.” Seraphim is a blond bombshell who rocks sequined baby dolls on stage like it’s her damn job—I guess because it is. Of course they’re going to collide and give the rest of us mere mortals something to gossip about over our morning coffee.
I’m so fine that I decide it’s better to reach for my laptop and crawl back beneath the covers. I’m halfway through my fourth or fifth episode ofThe Great British Bake Offbefore I decide to go back to E.M.M.A. and face the judgment.
I sign back in. “E.M.M.A., pull up the mini golf audio.” I sigh, already regretting this decision. “Any time stamp will do.”
INITIATING ANALYSIS OF YOUR QUERY AND EXECUTING APPROPRIATE VERBAL RESPONSE PROTOCOL IN ACCORDANCE WITH ESTABLISHED PARAMETERS BEEP BOOP.
Did E.M.M.A. just “beep boop” me? Before I can react, the audio crackles to life:
SERAPHIM:[thwack of golf ball followed by loud clanking] Oh for fuck’s sake, who puts a goddamn windmill on hole three? That’s some sadistic bullshit.
GALE:[laughing] These obstacles are pretty ridiculous. Though I’ve definitely seen worse.
SERAPHIM:Worse than this medieval torture device? Where?
GALE:There’s this place back in my hometown with a hole that’s basically a pipe maze. Like a hamster tube, but for golf balls.
SERAPHIM:[another thwack] HA! Eat that, you rotating piece of crap!... So I don’t know a lot about hockey, sorry? Your season or whatever going okay?
GALE:I’m pretty sure I’m better at dodging windmills than scoring goals.
SERAPHIM:[snorts] My ex played football. It was easy to follow. You run, you tackle, done. Although... [thoughtful tone] those hockey uniforms aren’t bad to look at.
GALE:[amused] Thanks, I think?
SERAPHIM:MOTHERFU—who designed this course? Satan? Why is there a loop the loop? This isn’tMario Kart! [sound of putter hitting something repeatedly]
GALE:Are you... are you trying to break the obstacle?
SERAPHIM:[cheerfully] Maybe! My anger management coach says I should channel my feelings into physical activities. [metallic bending sound] Oops.
GALE:Pretty sure they meant like... yoga or something.
