Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6)

by Penny Reid

  He nodded, swallowing, committing my instruction to memory.

  I scanned the room, dropping my hands from his face, looking for what Elizabeth meant when she said suit up, and found a folded pile of blue hospital garments on a chair by the door. Picking it up, I helped Quinn into the gown, giving up on the buttons in the back. He was simply too big, so I did my best with the ties at the top and waist.

  “Bend down,” I ordered, stretching the elastic of the hair covering wide so I could fit it over his head. He did as instructed, his face a stunned mask of disbelief and wonder.

  Not three seconds later, Elizabeth appeared again and motioned for Quinn to enter. “Come on, come on. She’s got three pushes left.”

  Quinn nodded numbly as he moved to the door, his usually steely blues now wide and rimmed with a plethora of emotions that looked completely alien to his typically stoic façade. Anxiety, excitement, wonder, fear, and the anticipation of joy.

  Folding my hands under my chin, I had to roll my lips between my teeth to keep from crying, not quite understanding the impulse. Desmond put his arm around my shoulders as we watched him go. And just as the door closed behind him, the other door burst open, Kat and Dan swiftly walking through it.

  “We got the text and we hurried back. Is it over?” Dan came to a stop next to me, looking and sounding hopeful.

  “No.” I shook my head, a happy tear spilling onto my cheek. “It’s just beginning.”

  “It’s true. She planned the entire wedding.” Greg stood in the corner of Fiona’s hospital room, rocking from side to side, patting the bottom of his third child in a gentle rhythm. He was telling Matt the story of Janie’s wedding. Everyone was.

  We—Greg, Fiona, their new baby, Dan, Kat, Katherine, Desmond, Matt, and I—were all crowded together in Fiona’s room. It wasn’t huge, but it was surprisingly large, with plenty of places to sit. When I’d remarked on its size, Greg told me it was the second of the two VIP postpartum maternity rooms. Quinn had arranged it, wanting Janie to have Fiona close by.

  Janie, Quinn, and Desmond Sullivan III—their new son, named after both Quinn’s father and Quinn’s deceased brother—were next door, getting to know each other. Fiona, who looked more refreshed than anyone who’d just had a baby had a right to look, had invited everyone into her room for lunch.

  The woman was a super ninja.

  I swear.

  Super. Ninja.

  I was sitting in the chair next to Fiona’s bed. Dan, Kat, Desmond, and Katherine were sitting on the long couch under the window, and Matt was standing next to Greg, arms crossed, sneaking glances at the baby as though it were the ultimate curiosity. Or about to explode. One or the other.

  Every time it moved or made a noise, Matt would ask, “Is it okay? What’s wrong?”

  To which Greg would reply, “She can smell your fear.”

  “How long did you have to plan that wedding, Marie? Two months? Something like that. A huge Boston wedding. Insanity.” Fiona shook her head at me.

  “Hey. Katherine did a lot of the work,” I pointed out, avoiding Matt’s gaze. My feelings in chaos, I was barely treading water. I’d been avoiding him—his gaze, and just him in general—since I’d entered the room. “And Quinn’s ex-girlfriend helped find Janie’s dress.”

  Dan snorted, shaking his head. “That lady wasn’t his girlfriend, they just used to fu—”

  Fiona cleared her throat loudly, lifting her eyebrows meaningfully at Dan.

  “Sorry. Sorry.” He held a hand up as though he surrendered and peeked sheepishly at Katherine.

  Quinn’s mother smiled at Dan; Dan and Quinn had grown up together, therefore Katherine had known Dan his entire life. “It’s okay, Daniel. I think Des and I are ready for a nap. Come on.”

  As she stood, she pulled her husband up as well. They made their rounds to each of us: Katherine handing out hugs—even to Matt, I noticed—and Desmond shaking hands with everyone but Fiona, Kat, and me.

  After Quinn’s parents shut the door behind them, Dan said, “They were acquaintances. At best. I don’t think he even remembered her name.”

  Kat was looking at him like he was hilarious, shaking her head.

  His eyes slid to hers. “What?”

  “Nothing.” She shrugged.

  “Didn’t you ladies used to call Quinn’s ladies slamps or something? I think I remember that.”

  “That was Elizabeth’s shorthand for describing the dynamic between men and women who have lots of sexual partners. And she called Quinn a Wendell. She reads a lot of Urban Dictionary entries, I think.” Fiona, who was knitting, said all of this without glancing up.

  Kat’s smile slipped and she glanced at her fingers, then pulled her left hand through her hair, something glinting off her third finger. “Where is Elizabeth, anyway?”

  I squinted at Kat, my attention dropping to her left hand where it rested on her lap, and I had to suppress a gasp.

  “Hopefully taking a nap.” Greg switched the babe from one shoulder to the other. “She worked a full shift yesterday and was up all night checking on us and Janie. I was going to have Matt take a look at her.”

  “Why?” Kat asked.

  “I suspect she’s a robot.”

  “You think everyone is a robot.” Fiona shook her head at her husband.

  “Matt should create a robot test,” Greg persisted. “You all have to take the test before you can hold the baby.”

  “Is anyone thirsty?” Kat stood, picking up her empty soda can. “I’m going to go get another drink.”

  Dan stood too. “I’ll help.”

  “No.” I stood, walked to Kat and looped our arms together as I pulled her out of the room. “I’ll help.”

  She gave me a startled look, but didn’t argue or ask why she needed help buying another soda. As soon as the door shut behind us, I spun on her.

  “Kat.”

  “Yes?” Her eyes were wide, bracing, even though she was smiling.

  “Why are you wearing a wedding ring?”

  She stiffened, her smile growing similarly hard, less natural. Sighing, her smile completely dissolved, leaving her eyes anxious and the corners of her mouth pinched.

  “I had to,” she whispered.

  “You had to?”

  She nodded, swallowing. “I had to.”

  I attempted to parse through what I had to might mean. “Did your family make you marry someone?”

  She shook her head, but said, “Yes. But it’s not like you think.”

  Giving her a hard stare, I stepped closer, holding her shoulders, and tried to keep the worry out of my voice. “What’s it like, then? And why didn’t you come to me for help? Or if not me, then Fiona? Or Sandra and Alex? Or—”

  “I went to Dan for help,” she admitted on a rushed whisper, closing her eyes and releasing a shaky breath. “Dan helped me.”

  “Dan?” I searched her face, looking for a clue as to what she could possibly mean. “Helped you how?”

  Kat opened her eyes, ripe with tension and guilt, and said, “He married me.”

  Kat filled me in on her predicament. The story had been . . . concerning. I was concerned for her and Dan. I’d also pledged to help however I could. What she needed was my support, and that’s what I would give her.

  Selfishly, I appreciated the distraction from my own worries, which felt small and silly in comparison.

  I left the hospital around 3:00 PM, feeling worn out. Matt left with me, giving me the impression he’d been waiting until I was ready to depart. We found one of Quinn’s SUVs ready to take us home, our luggage in the back.

  Matt said nothing until we were in the car and on our way. Then he pressed the button for the privacy window, closing the barrier between the driver and us, and drawing my attention to him.

  “Why do women give men blowjobs?” he asked, staring forward, his tone curious and conversational.

  I blinked at him, my lips parting in surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “Hear me out.” H
e glanced at me. “Answer the question. I have a point.”

  “Uh, I guess . . . maybe some women like it.”

  “Do you like it?”

  A rush of feeling masked as heat flared over my cheeks, making my neck hot. “Matt.”

  “Humor me.” He turned more completely in his seat. “Do you like it?”

  “I mean, I guess. It’s not my favorite thing, but I guess I like doing it.” I crossed my arms, realizing that this was the kind of conversation we used to have all the time. And I never felt uncomfortable about it until I’d seen him kissing someone else.

  “I like going down on women.”

  I huffed, closing my eyes. “Good for you?” And good for the women you deem fuckable.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, my internal thought process was bitter and snide. So sue me.

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Because you’re hungry all the time?” My voice was carefully deadpan. I couldn’t do this with him. Not anymore.

  “Be serious.”

  “Fine.” I clenched my teeth. “Because you like that it’s sexual.”

  “Yes, that’s part of it. But it’s not the main reason. I think women like giving head and men like cunnilingus because of the giving part.”

  “That’s an interesting theory.” My heart was beating erratically, and I was unsure how I was feeling. I was leaning toward mad, but that wasn’t quite right.

  “You know, Elon Musk thinks life is a simulation. That humanity is really just a computer simulation controlled by an advanced society.”

  “Elon Musk thinks too much.”

  “What is life?” Matt asked quietly.

  “I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question.”

  “Life is a struggle for relevancy.” Emotion poured from his words—emotion that had been absent up until now—and had me opening my eyes to peek at him. His stare was on me, trapping mine, making it impossible for me to look away as he continued. “And you can’t be relevant, you absolutely cannot be relevant, if you contribute nothing. If you take without giving. What is a relationship if not a microcosm of life?”

  “You think being relevant is an essential part of a relationship?” I didn’t like how that sounded.

  “Yes. But I can tell from how you asked the question you’re misunderstanding my meaning.” He moved like he was going to reach for my hand, but then pulled back, setting his teeth. “Theoretically, for the sake of this discussion, let’s say—as an example—you and I were in a relationship. I would be concerned about my relevancy to you. But rarely, if ever, would I be concerned about your relevancy to me. I wouldn’t be thinking, what has Marie done for me lately? I think good people struggle more with their own relevancy—am I contributing, am I important, am I needed—than they do with the world, or with their partner.”

  “So how do you make a person relevant to a robot?” Most of my earlier anger had dissipated, replaced with sincere interest in the topic of discussion. This was a gift of his, distracting me by being fascinating.

  “Unless the robot is sentient,” his attention moved over my shoulder, growing hazy, “capable of making its own decisions and possessing free will, I don’t think you can. No human will ever look at a robot and think, It needs me, it wants me because of who I am. And even if it did, so what?” His gaze moved back to mine. “What is the value of being needed by an artificial intelligence?”

  I swallowed, caught by the animated intelligence in his gaze. “What is the value of being needed by another person?” I asked quietly.

  “Pride.”

  “Pride?”

  “Yes.” His breathing changed, taking larger and larger breaths. “Admitting that you need another person is relinquishing pride. What if that person rejects you? What if they don’t need you? It’s a big risk for a person, but for an AI? Where’s the risk? With no risk, no true sacrifice or vulnerability, there is no value.”

  “What are you saying? You’re giving up on your Compassion AI?”

  “No . . .” He bit his lip, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “No. I’m not giving up. I’m changing my aims, though.”

  “Because you think people need to be needed?”

  “I know it.” He swallowed, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, his eyes darting over my face, and then he blurted, “Have I ruined our friendship?”

  I stiffened, wincing at the vulnerability behind the question. This was one of the times where he looked so earnest, I wanted to wrap him in a hug and kiss any trace of hurt from his memory.

  I considered asking him about the kiss back at the hospital, about what it meant or why he did it, because I hoped it meant he’d changed his mind about long-term relationships. But then I reminded myself that my hopes were responsible for the current state of my heart. It was time for me to be pragmatic instead of hopeful.

  I already knew the answer, it was time for me to believe him. Hadn’t he said over dinner the night before, “Some people don’t want to be fixed”?

  He’s attracted to you, that’s why he kissed you, that’s why he made a pass at you in New York, and that’s why he’s wondering if he’s ruined our friendship now.

  Asking about the kiss wouldn’t help make things any clearer. Things between us were already clear, I’d been blind. I didn’t need him to say it. My heart could not handle another rejection of my hopes. Nor did I think our friendship would survive if I laid myself bare and told him I wanted a forever with him.

  I knew what he’d do and what he’d say. He’d let me down gently and try to salvage some sort of friendship. Or he’d try. He’d try to love me. And how devastating would that be? I didn’t want someone to try to love me.

  No. Nothing of our friendship will survive if I ask him about the kiss. So instead, with a lump in my throat, I said, “No. Of course not.” And gave him a reassuring smile that felt both too big and too small. It was and wasn’t a lie. I was the one who’d ruined our friendship. I ruined it by wanting much more of him than he’d ever be willing to give.

  As awful as that was, I had to own it.

  He inspected me, as though endeavoring to read my thoughts, and the weight of his gorgeous dark eyes felt unbearable. “Don’t lie to me. Please.”

  Dropping my gaze to the seat between us, I gathered a steadying breath. I had to. His words, his voice, and his watchful glare made me feel unsteady.

  “I’m not lying, Matt. I think what’s between us isn’t really a friendship. Not anymore. It’s grown into an anomalous dependency, one that I believe is not what either of us want. Or deserve. And it’s not something you’ve ruined. It just is.”

  Lifting my gaze, I found him staring at my neck. His features were devoid of all expression, but eventually he nodded.

  I swallowed past a thickening lump in my throat, adding, “I care about you, Matt. I always will.”

  He closed his eyes, turning away from me, giving me his profile. Yet I could tell his features were still blank.

  Compelled, I continued, “But I also think we both need to return to our own lives and stop using each other as a crutch.”

  Matt’s eyelids opened, but he kept his gaze studiously forward. “Am I going to see you again? After today? Or are you planning on avoiding me?”

  A sharp, cutting pain originated in my chest and sliced outward, up my neck, down to my stomach, and along my arms.

  Gripping my forehead, I struggled to speak coherently. “We’re supposed to see each other next week. When your friends are in town. I’m still planning on being there, as long as I’m still invited.”

  “Yes. Of course you’re still invited.” He nodded slowly, clearing his throat.

  I turned my attention to the window at my side, not looking at my reflection or the streets of Chicago, but rather turning my deliberations inward. The day had been a crazy one—crazy happy, crazy worrying, crazy concerning, and now crazy sad—and I wished I could live it all over again. I didn’t know if I would have done anything differently, but so many of the
moments were worth treasuring and holding on to.

  “I want you to know,” his deep voice, roughened with emotion, broke the silence and drew my eyes back to his profile, “that any part of yourself you’re willing to share with me—any time, any energy, any thought—I exist as a ready audience.”

  A genuine—albeit small and wobbly—smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “This also goes for food? You’ll also be open to accepting food?” I tried to tease, infuse some lightness into this bleak moment.

  His answering smile was just as genuine, but it was also desolate. So terribly, terribly sad. “Of course, Marie. That’s a given. Food always goes without saying.”

  22

  Relay

  A robot that can be used by hotels (such as The M Social Singapore hotel) to deliver room service to guests. It navigates using 3D cameras, can negotiate elevators, and maneuver around people wandering down the corridors.

  Source: Savioke

  Matt didn’t text me over the next five days.

  The lack of communication made life seem somehow both louder and muted. I zoned out frequently, staring out windows, at random objects. I also went on a lot of walks, all over the city, at all times of the day.

  I felt . . . mournful. Like I’d lost something essential.

  Someone essential.

  But he’d never really been mine, so I struggled to push those thoughts away and buried myself in work.

  Losing myself in a story was one of my favorite things about my job. The act of researching for writing was usually a minefield of rabbit holes for me, where I’d misplace hours of my life chasing the threads of interconnected topics. I loved it, but it was hard to stop. However, now I gave in to it; the time spent researching felt like a reprieve, the only time I wasn’t thinking about him.

  Staring into space. Researching. Having no appetite. Going to bed early.

  Basically, if you add political activism and woodworking to that list, I was becoming my grandfather.

  Presently, it was Thursday afternoon, and I was staring at the nonexistence of particles in my water glass, wondering for the first time in over a week if I should message him. I’d wanted to message him many times, but didn’t, because I knew it wasn’t a good idea.