Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6)

by Penny Reid

  Something about my expression must’ve been funny, because Matt laughed. “Don’t look so afraid.”

  “I can’t help it. I never know what to expect with you.”

  “But that keeps things interesting, right?” He gave me a saucy and over-exaggerated wink that had me rolling my eyes.

  “Just tell me what it is.”

  “Okay. I propose that, in return for your help next weekend with Kerry and Marcus . . .”

  Matt paused, his eyes holding mine with an unsmiling, unwavering stare. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he almost looked nervous. But before I could consider this as a possibility, he finished his thought on a rush. “I’ll go—as your date—to your ex’s engagement party.”

  18

  Cyc

  A “thinking” artificial intelligence project that attempts to assemble a comprehensive ontology and knowledge base of everyday common sense knowledge, with the goal of enabling AI applications to perform human-like reasoning.

  Source: Cycorp

  I turned Matt down.

  He told me to reconsider, both his offer to escort me to David’s party and my trip to New York to engage a professional dry humper.

  And that’s where we left it because I had a conference call to prepare for.

  At least, I thought that was where we left it.

  But then Friday morning, as I was waiting outside the gate for my flight to New York, who should I see but Matt Simmons.

  Walking toward me.

  With an effervescent smile, entirely too effervescent for 6:00 AM.

  Wearing black dress pants, a sky-blue button-down shirt, and Converse.

  I glared at him, irritated with myself for noticing how breathtakingly hot he looked.

  The days apart since our last interaction had been good. Positive. I’d felt better about him, about us. Maybe it was possible to salvage our friendship. Maybe I really could roll back the crazy, suppress the urges, and recalibrate my expectations to platonic.

  But seeing him now, feeling the involuntary but familiar surge of bittersweet anticipation, pissed me off.

  He was holding a drink tray with two coffees and grasping a paper sleeve with some sort of pastry, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. His stride was easy, confident. And his hair was crazy, unbrushed, like he’d run out of time getting ready this morning. I loved his crazy hair.

  As my gaze devoured the sight of him, I felt a pang of despair.

  Despair because I was beyond attracted to him. I was so far beyond platonic, I’d jumped head first into the deep, dark waters of desire. Yet, thanks to witnessing his snogfest down the hall from Fiona and Greg’s apartment, I was also at peace with the fact that he was never going to return my feelings, not in any meaningful way.

  Even if what Abram had said was true, that Matt didn’t feel worthy of me—and I wasn’t convinced this idea held any merit—it changed nothing. Matt wasn’t a car that needed to be fixed. He wasn’t a robot needing reprogramming; he was a person. He was ultimately responsible for fixing himself, and only if he wanted to.

  You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink the water that will allow it to enter into a happy, fulfilling relationship. Maybe the horse likes being dehydrated. Or maybe you weren’t that horse’s type.

  Step back from the stupid dehydrated horse . . .

  Coming to a stop in front of me, he kissed me on the corner of my mouth. “Valkyrie.”

  “Matt.” I imbued his name with all the exasperation I felt.

  He handed me the sleeve, ignoring my tone, smiling persistently. “This is for you.”

  “Thank you.” I accepted the pastry, my rumbling stomach reminding me that I’d skipped dinner the night before. “What are you doing here?”

  “Flying to New York.” He blinked at me, like I was the nutty one.

  “Oh, really? Do you have a work trip?”

  “Not this weekend. This weekend, I’m going to help a friend. My best friend.”

  “Help her how?”

  “Save her from being leg-humped by a horny murderer.”

  I rolled my eyes but laughed despite my ire. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “And you’re sassy in the morning. Here, have some coffee. Maybe it’ll help you de-sassify.” He gave me the entire drink tray, with both coffees, leaving him empty-handed.

  “Thank you for the coffee, and the food. But may I say, you’re overreacting.”

  “No, you may not say.” Matt picked up my bag and placed his free hand on the small of my back. “Come on, let’s find a place to sit so you can tell me what the plan of attack is.”

  “What do you mean, plan of attack?”

  Matt guided me to a row of empty chairs, lowering our bags to one while I sat in another. “You know, exit strategy, escape routes, and so forth.”

  “Again, you’re being ridiculous. This is not a scam. This is for a story. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Why does it have to be you?” He claimed the spot next to mine and took the drink tray, discarding it once we’d both removed our coffees.

  “Because I’m the one writing about it. And don’t forget about my co-author, Tommy. He’s already done the deed with a humper in LA.”

  “Humper in LA,” he said derisively, glaring around at the airport. “You make it sound like it’s the sequel to Bambi. Except not the deer Bambi, the hooker Bambi.”

  I pressed my lips together because I didn’t want to laugh at his joke. He really was overreacting. “It’s safe, Matt. Completely safe.”

  “I guess we’ll see.” He was glowering now, grinding his teeth, still not looking at me.

  “I’m telling you,” I placed my hand on his leg and squeezed, “this guy is legit. He has celebrity clients.”

  “I don’t care about celebrity clients,” Matt said, picking up my hand and tangling our fingers together. He continued to scan the airport and I thought I heard him mumble under his breath, “I only care about you.”

  It was at this point—with Matt being thoughtful, holding my hand, caring enough to act—that my feelings would usually squeal with delight at the possibilities of what he might mean, what these words might mean for a future between us.

  But not this time.

  No.

  This time I took him at face value, and endeavored to focus on being grateful for having a friend who cared so much about my well-being.

  The flight was half empty; therefore, Matt had no trouble talking the gentleman in the aisle seat next to me into switching his seat with Matt’s exit-row seat. Matt took the aisle, and when no one appeared to take the window seat, I scootched over and buckled in, leaving the middle empty.

  He eyed me as I did this, but said nothing. He seemed preoccupied by something or someone a few rows in front of us.

  I opened my laptop, scrolling through my questions for Roger, my professional dry humper, and the research I’d already done on dry humping as a paid service.

  Meanwhile, Matt had opened his laptop as well. He’d been staring at the screen for the better part of fifteen minutes, a tight frown on his features, his fingers in his hair, when I decided to interrupt him with a question that had been bothering me since we spoke about the issue last.

  I tapped him on his shoulder, drawing his eyes to mine. “When does something man-made cease being synthetic, and become real?”

  Matt peered, looking concerned. “Have you been talking this whole time?”

  I scowled at him. “No. I just asked the question. Just now.”

  “I know. I was teasing you.” He closed his computer, leaning an elbow on the armrest. “Your question. What are we talking about?”

  “Your Compassion AI, I guess.”

  His eyebrows ticked up and he glanced away, back down the aisle toward whatever kept drawing his interest. “You’re still concerned about it being mistreated?”

  I nodded, trying to steal a glance over the seats in front of us to see what had him preoccupied, but I was too short.
“So, I read I, Robot—the book you brought me a few months ago—and it got me thinking. I know you believe wanting protections for AI doesn’t make any sense, but—”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” he said tiredly. “If it made sense, we would have laws protecting toasters.”

  “Just listen.”

  “Why no advocacy for ceiling fans?” He faced me again, lifting a teasing eyebrow, but the effect was ruined by the grim set of his mouth. “Or is this just your binary systems prejudice showing?”

  That made me smile, but I persisted. “What if the protections and regulations aren’t really about the AI, but more about preserving the essence of what it means to be human?”

  That made him pause. “Meaning?”

  “We have laws for protecting animals, right? Why not allow cruelty to animals? Where is the scientific evidence that we need to protect animals?”

  “Animals are alive.”

  “Yes, but so are trees. And we eat animals, but we have very specific rules about how animals must be treated before we eat them. Why do we do that? For the record, I agree with protections for animals. But why does society have animal protection laws to begin with? Maybe it’s a reflection of how we see ourselves. We have protections for animals because we—humans—see ourselves as good, as incapable of injury to those less powerful, or at the very least we see that behavior as evil and unacceptable.”

  Matt gathered a deep breath, his frown persisting. He glanced away from me, back down the aisle. “There’s a kid up there, just a few rows in front of us, and he’s traveling with his nanny.”

  I craned my neck, but it was still no use. I was too short. “How do you know it’s his nanny and not his mother? Or an older sister?”

  Matt’s attention focused on the back of the seat in front of him. “Because his parents are also on the plane. They’re in first class. The kid and the nanny are in coach. And I overheard the caretaker ask the parents something as we were waiting to board. The father said, ‘We’re paying you to take care of it, take care of it.’”

  My heart constricted and before I realized I was doing so, I reached out and took Matt’s hand. He turned his palm up and lowered his eyes to study our entwined fingers.

  “I can’t see the value in a set of ethics for the treatment of machines when we, as humans, don’t even treat our children ethically.” His tone was quiet, but sounded tightly controlled.

  “Matt—”

  “I truly believe machines can help us become better humans. There’s already initiatives to use artificial intelligence to analyze data collected from the body cameras worn by police officers. The AI determines if a cop is likely to use force inappropriately, or is experiencing too much job-related stress, and then intervenes. The officers are taken off duty, provided resources, support, and counseling, before citizens are hurt. Everyone wins. And then there’s the justice data initiative, which would take sentencing out of the hands of judges. Some believe an AI would provide fairer decisions about the length of prison sentences than highly trained humans, because research conclusively shows even highly trained humans are riddled with bias and prejudice.”

  He bit his bottom lip, chewed on it distractedly, and shook his head. “Paying a person to care for you isn’t going to work, because people are inherently flawed. Without a paycheck, that kid won’t see that nanny ever again. But an AI, one who’s entire purpose is to give compassion, I think it would change the world.”

  The vulnerability in his tone drove me to unbuckle my seatbelt and switch to the middle seat. I wrapped my arms around him and rubbed soothing circles on his back.

  “You’re a good person, Matt.” I pulled away, trying to snag his gaze.

  His eyes lifted to mine, brittle with sorrow and determination. “Or, if it doesn’t change the world, then at least it might give that little boy up there some consistency. And something of his own to love.”

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  “Yes.”

  “But are you sure?”

  I heaved a sigh, maybe my hundredth since the plane landed.

  We’d already checked into the hotel, but our rooms weren’t ready. Leaving our bags with the concierge, we’d grabbed lunch at a nearby café. We sat next to each other in a booth so we could both look out the window.

  I couldn’t seem to stop giving him hugs. His heartfelt speech on the plane hadn’t precisely made me see him, or his struggles, or his research in a new light; but rather it brought everything about Matt Simmons into focus.

  And I wanted to hug that Matt Simmons. I wanted to hug all his hurts away.

  Matt had dawdled during lunch, accepting my affection cheerfully, and ordering more and more food. Finally, when I’d threatened to leave without him, he paid the check and dragged his feet, walking with the adroit liveliness of a one-hundred-ten-year-old.

  My residual feelings of sympathy for my friend began to wear thin as soon as Roger’s building came into sight.

  Roger being the professional dry humper.

  “Matt. I didn’t invite you along. You don’t need to be here.” We caught the door of the building, entering just as someone was exiting and negating the need to buzz Roger’s apartment. “If this freaks you out so much, go to the Met and grab a coffee. I’ll come find you after.”

  “No. I’ll be moral support.” His hand was once again on the small of my back and, though he was walking next to me, it felt like he was hovering.

  “Just as long as you’re not the morality police.” I gave him a stern look.

  “Think of me as your bodyguard.” He swallowed with effort, looking incredibly tense. “If at any point you feel uncomfortable, just say Turing test, and I’ll beat the shit out of him.”

  We stopped at Roger’s door and I turned to face Matt; he wouldn’t look at me, giving me only his profile. “If you’re going to be throwing all this testosterone around in there, you can’t come in.”

  He made a scoffing sound, but I saw the muscle jump at his jaw, like he was grinding his teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No,” he said stubbornly, the single word deep and foreboding.

  Studying him for a moment, I shook my head and sighed. Again. Deciding that short of asking him to leave, there was nothing I could do about his mood. And if I asked him to leave, I got the sense that we’d end up arguing. And I really didn’t want to argue in the hallway outside the dry humper’s apartment where I was supposed to have been ten minutes ago.

  So I knocked.

  Matt flinched at the sound, saying nothing.

  We waited.

  Nothing happened.

  I knocked again.

  Eventually, I heard a shuffling sound coming from the apartment. I saw that Matt’s hands were curled into fists.

  Then the door opened and a sick man was revealed. A very, very sick man.

  “Can I help you?” he groaned, leaning against the door, looking like death.

  Both Matt and I frowned at him, then at each other.

  “Uh, Roger?” I asked.

  “Yes?” he croaked, his eyes barely open. He was dressed in a bathrobe, flannel pajama pants, and a white T-shirt. And he was shivering.

  “I’m Marie, from the—”

  “Oh no! I’m so sorry. I didn’t call you to cancel.” He coughed, and then groaned. “As you can see, I have the flu.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” I winced on his behalf. Truly, he looked like he was ready to pass out and his breathing was labored. “Are you okay?”

  “Thank God,” Matt muttered next to me and I could physically feel the waves of relief coming off him as he leaned against the doorjamb, apparently unable to support his own weight under the burden of this reprieve.

  I had to fight my urge to glare daggers at him. Stupid dehydrated horse.

  “I’m so terribly sorry,” Roger croaked. “You flew all the way out here. I’m so, so sorry.” He clutched his forehead
, looking dismayed.

  “No, no. Don’t worry about—” My nurturing instincts kicked in and I glanced over Roger’s shoulder to his apartment beyond. “Do you have anyone to help you? Are you by yourself?”

  “My boyfriend and I split up last month; he moved out.” Roger coughed, weaving a little on his feet. “I’m by myself, but I’ll be fine.” He only had one eye open, like using both required too much energy.

  Matt and I shared another look and I could see that he was just as concerned as I was.

  “Let me at least get you some soup,” I offered.

  Roger shook his head again, his pallor decidedly green, his eyes half blinking.

  Before I could think better of it, I turned to Matt. “We can’t leave him. Please. Help him. Let him lean on you. Take him to the couch.”

  Matt nodded at once and jumped into action, immediately stepping forward and encouraging the sick man to use him as a crutch.

  Roger made a motion as though to wave us off, but clearly he lacked the physical energy—or mental focus—to do so. As Matt took Roger to the sofa, I crossed to the kitchen and began searching for tea, honey, and lemon.

  What are you doing? I asked myself as I rifled through Roger’s kitchen, this stranger’s kitchen.

  What was I doing?

  I only felt a moment’s worth of hesitation before I committed fully to helping this man.

  Helping someone in need. That’s what.

  I didn’t know him. But ostensibly, he was completely alone and terribly ill. And that was unacceptable.

  I’d never been very good at witnessing the suffering of others without wanting to do something about it.

  I changed Roger’s bed, asking Matt to drop the old sheets, plus a pile of dirty clothes, at a laundry down the block. As well, after convincing him that Roger was not a threat to me, especially not in his current weakened condition, I was able to talk Matt into grabbing some supplies while he was out: aloe tissues, chicken soup, chicken broth, bread, applesauce, bananas, medicine, and mint tea.

  Roger dozed on the couch fitfully, shivering, and I cleaned, starting with the kitchen then moving on to the rest of the studio apartment, the size of which made my place in Chicago seem palatial in comparison.