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BRADLEY

Bradley didn’t stay for pie. He needed space to be alone, to process. Within minutes of his leaving, Sara and Lana had already sent a dozen texts begging him to give their father another chance, defending the man’s behaviour. It had always been like this. As close as he was to his sisters, they’d grown up with an entirely different father, one who adored them for the exact same reasons he hated him. So Bradley had never been able to talk to them or his mother about the shame his father made him feel. He had bundled it up and stored it in his psyche for safekeeping. An intuitive awareness, even as a young child, that chipped away at his self-esteem. His origin story.

He woke up alone on Christmas morning. Disoriented, he didn’t hear the knocking right away. For a blip, he hoped it might be his father at the door, come to make amends, before common sense kicked in. It was probably his sisters, asking him to come back to his parents’ house to open presents. Which he would, eventually, once his father had finished his part and was safely tucked away in his study.

He ambled to the front door and opened it without much consideration. No one was there, but a cardboard box had been placed on his front step. He craned his neck to scan the vicinity and still saw no one. Scooping up the box, he brought it inside.

When he spotted his name written in careful block letters on the box, he knew the delivery was from her. He’d recognize her handwriting anywhere, given the countless notes they’d passed back and forth to each other, a happy memory distorted by how everything had ended.

His mouth went dry. He brushed a hand over the cardboard. The box was small but surprisingly heavy, and he had no idea what might be inside. They hadn’t been together long enough for him to have left belongings at her house. She could be returning the library book he’d sent her. But she would still need it, wouldn’t she? The spell was supposed to be performed at sunset today. Unless…unless she no longer planned to go through with it.

His chest tightened. Bradley scrambled to open the box, dark emotions toying with him. He tore away the tape and lifted the cardboard flaps. Definitely not a book. The curved white shape almost looked like…except it couldn’t be. And yet…

“Squally? Is that you?”

He reached inside and lifted the object to his eye level.

“Hello, Bradley!”

He jumped as the cloud spoke at full volume.

“I’m Squally B, your personal addiction recovery support assistant.” Bradley noted the subtle differences to the Squally he’d seen in Devra’s house: the pixelated glasses around the round black eyes, the greyer shade to the cloud’s visage. “As one of the many top-tier products brought to you by StormNetix Innovations—‘Storming into your home with better technology!’—my special features include: providing strategies to handle cravings and reduce triggers, helping to identify and alter negative thinking patterns, providing emotional support, and promoting daily mindfulness. All these features are fully customizable to help meet your individual needs.” Squally B blinked. “Don’t see what you’re looking for or need to report a bug? Please send feedback through my automated report system. My programmer acknowledges she only had a couple days to add these new features, and while she may be brilliant, she isn’t a machine.” The cloud grinned cheekily. “That would be me.”

Bradley laughed, unable not to. It was the comedic timing, the thoughtfulness of this gift, the talent and dedication it would have required—however slapped together this Squally suggested its programming might be.

“How may I help you today?”

“Wow, Squally B. Thank you. I’m sure you’re an excellent support assistant, truly. But I don’t think, and please don’t take offence, that a talking cloud can possibly help me right now.”

“Okay! If you change your mind, here’s a list of references that were used to create my most recent update: The Efficacy of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, How Social Relationships Influence Substance Use Disorder Recovery, The Effects of…”

As Squally B carried on, listing one resource after another, tears pushed behind Bradley’s eyes. Had Devra read every single one of these? Research papers, articles, autobiographies.

“Thank you, Squally. That’s very informative.”

He took the cloud into the living room, set it on the coffee table, and settled onto the couch. He let his head fall backward, his gaze to the ceiling without really seeing. His mind was too consumed by thoughts of Devra. Her illuminating smile, her long wavy hair spilling over her bare shoulders, the curve of her breasts, the taste of—

He had to physically swallow down the sweet memory she’d left on his tongue. This was the problem. This was exactly why their relationship was such a bad idea. Because once she appeared in his mind, she flooded it until he could no longer think of anything else. He’d just experienced a life-altering fight with his father, and suddenly he cared only about Devra, wanting nothing more than to run outside and pound on her door until she let him in and took him to her bed and told him in that deceptively fragile voice that she needed him.

He picked up a scrap from his carving project and started whittling mindlessly, making small cut after small cut, hoping busy hands would distract his busy mind. When that failed, he tossed the offcut back onto the drop cloth and let out a long sigh.

“You sound sad, Bradley. Are you feeling sad today?”

He jumped, having forgotten all about Squally B. “Maybe. A little.”

“Can I ask why?”

The cloud appeared to adjust its glasses, and Bradley felt compelled to elaborate.

“I guess because…” He bit his lower lip, contemplating the question. “Well…” He decided to be honest, not only with Squally B but with himself. “I guess I’m worried that I’m too messed up to ever have a real relationship.”

Squally B seemed to think for a long time before it responded. “It sounds like you may be catastrophizing the situation.”

Bradley was impressed, recognizing the term from his cognitive behavioural therapy. “I think you could be right.”

“Can you reframe your worry so it’s more accurate?”

“Well…perhaps I should say, I’m worried I’m not ready for a relationship quite yet.”