“I had to hide myself,” I explained. “What I mean by that is I hid who I am and what I wanted because none of it fit into their plan for me.”
I stood up, too agitated to sit still. The low chair had been making my legs cramp, and I needed to stretch. I paced to the window with a polarized surface that showed Andrek’s reflection but revealed the alien sky to me. Two moons hung in the purple-green twilight, one large and silver, one small and rust-red.
“My parents had my whole life mapped out,” I continued, my voice steadier now that I wasn’t looking at him. “They sent me to the right schools, which meant the ones with the best surveillance integration and the highest compliance scores. They planned what they considered the right career path for me, which meant something in data management or social optimization, something that fed the system. I dealt with all that, but the worst was when they told me they planned the right marriage.”
“Arranged?” I caught the hint of disapproval in Andrek’s question.
“Not officially or legally, because the government frowns upon it, but it’s very common. But…” I turned to face him. “When your parents have been best friends with another couple since university, when they’ve been planning since you were children that their kids would ‘make such a perfect match,’ when every family gathering includes comments about how good you look together, how compatible your metrics are…” I shrugged. “It’s not forced. It’s inevitable and expected. And if you resist, if you try to say no, you become the problem. They labeled me ‘the difficult one’ and ‘the ungrateful daughter who can’t see what’s best for her.’” I shrugged again. “But they went too far and had a lawyer draft a formal contract because that’s what his parents wanted. Proof I wouldn’t destroy their business once I married into it.”
Andrek’s expression shifted, something in the set of his jaw, the angle of his ears. “They didn’t.”
“Oh, they did. No one wanted me, a veritable nobody from a middle-class family, to mess up the Fitzsimmons family name.” Their surname tasted sour in my mouth. “They’re a good family, with good scores and better prospects.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “He didn’t even propose to me.”
“He didn’t?”
“No. He signed a piece of paper and sent it by courier to us. I had three days to sign it. That would be the whole proposal. A piece of paper!”
“A female should have the proposal of her dreams.”
I wiped a tear streaking down my cheek. “Well, my dream was a proposal where my future spouse got down on one knee in front of everyone: our families and friends, and everyone applauded. I wanted my mother to cry happy tears, and then I…”
“You would say yes,” Andrek finished.
“I wanted the moment with everyone watching, expecting, celebrating?” I sank back into the uncomfortable chair. “But, I would have said yes, smiled and worn his ring with pride. Instead, I got a piece of paper with his signature scrawled at the bottom and a ring in a clear bag, not even a box.”
Andrek looked horrified.
“I wore the ring for a day. Its weight felt like a shackle rather than a promise. For my family, I tried wearing it, but Anthony Louis chose it without asking me. He picked a traditional design approved by the Matrimonial Standards Board. It was tasteful and beautiful, but it wasn’t something I would have picked for myself.”
“A Matrimonial Standards Board?”
I laughed. “There’s a board for everything.”
“Did you love him?”
“No. He saw me as an asset,” I murmured. “On paper, we are a good match. I could be someone who would look right at his side during company events and produce children on the approved timeline. When I tried to talk to him about my feelings, about wanting something different, he’d get this confused look. Like I was speaking a language he didn’t understand. He’d say things like, ‘but we’re compatible,’ and ‘the metrics don’t lie,’ and ‘our parents see our relationship as beneficial.’ As if love could be reduced to data points and compatibility scores.” I sighed. “If I loved someone, even the age-gap between us would not have been a problem. But I don’t love him, and in the few meetings I had with him, he acted either aloof or too much like my father than a potential partner.”
Andrek’s tail stilled. “And your family supported this?”
“Supported it? They orchestrated it.” The anger I suppressed for so long bubbled up. “My mother kept sending me articles about wedding planning and optimal child-spacing. My father talked about Anthony Louis’s career prospects as if he werediscussing a stock investment. All my friends told me I was lucky to have such a ‘stable match.’ One night, I broke down and told my mother I couldn’t do it, that I didn’t love Anthony Louis and didn’t think I ever could.”
I stopped. My mother’s disappointment weighed heavy in my chest. “My mother,” I paused, “she promised not to tell my father, but the next day, he looked at me like I was a stranger, someone who was betraying everything they’d raised me to be. They told me I was being selfish,” I finished, my voice a whisper. “That love was a luxury, not a requirement. That I needed to think about my responsibilities, my family’s reputation, and the social contract. I asked for a few more days before I signed it. That night, I heard my parents talking about intervention programs and counseling to ‘adjust my perspective.’ My father wanted to put me on medication from the Fitzsimmons company to ‘stabilize my mood.’” My hands shook. “They were going to fix me, Andrek. Make me compliant.”
Andrek sat in silence, and I couldn’t read his expression. I’d never said all of this out loud before, not even to myself in the privacy of my own thoughts. “So I ran,” I said. “I found a loophole in the emigration protocols, forged some compliance documents, and applied to every off-world position I could find. Most of them rejected me outright. I had the wrong skills, the wrong background, wrong everything. But your posting…” I met his eyes. “Your posting sounded desperate enough to take a chance on someone with no experience.”
Andrek stood, his movements slow, to stand by the window beside me. Up close, I could see the slight scarring along his jawline, the tired lines around his eyes. In person, he wasn’t the successful, put-together professional I’d imagined when I’d read his listing. This was someone who was also struggling.
“I was desperate,” he admitted, his voice rough. “No one else applied. Yxian childcare specialists won’t work for someonewho’s already raising a child,” he continued, staring out at the twin moons. “They view it as improper. A male raising a child without a partner is already suspect. Humans with actual childcare training took one look at my situation and moved on to easier positions.” He turned to look at me. “You were the only one who applied, Danielle. The only one willing to take this chance.”
I didn’t know whether to feel validated or terrified by his admission.
“I need help with Pip," he said flatly. “I’m trying, but I’m failing. I can’t give her what she needs while also maintaining the work that keeps us housed and fed. And if I can’t provide adequate care, the social services board will remove her from my custody even though I have signed formal adoption papers.” His jaw tightened. “I will not let that happen.”
“So we’re both running,” I said. “Just in different directions.”
“Perhaps.” He studied me with those unnerving gold eyes. “But I have one question remaining.”
“Ask.”
