by Penny Reid
However, this was different. We were supposed to meet this weekend. I’d made a list of potential activities, and even though he’d said I was still invited last week, I had to wonder if he’d changed his mind.
“Knock, knock.”
I blinked away from my water glass, startled, and saw Camille standing just outside my office.
“Oh my gosh, you’re back!” I stood immediately and rushed to my friend, opening my arms for a hug.
“Yes. I’m back.” She sounded tired.
I pulled away, examining her. “Are you okay? I got your letter.”
She smiled, also tiredly, and walked past me into my office, sitting in one of the chairs across from my desk. “Yes. I’m good.”
I followed, opting for the second chair rather than walking back around my desk. “You’re good?”
“Actually, I’m great,” she huffed, shaking her head, then lifted her left hand to show me.
For the second time in less than a week, I was staring at an unexpected wedding ring.
My hands flew to my mouth. “Oh my God.”
“I know.” A huge smile claimed her features and she shook her head like she couldn’t believe it. “I know. We’re married. I’m married. To a baker in Germany.”
“Holy cow. What are you going to do? Are you moving to Germany?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Is he moving here?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. We’re just . . .” she shrugged, laughing, “we’re going to make it work.”
Camille and I traded awestruck smiles, with me finally breaking the silence. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you,” she said on a rush, grabbing my hand. “Thank you for saying that. My family thinks I’m crazy. I think I’m crazy. But I love him. I feel like I’ve found my soulmate. I couldn’t just walk away.”
I nodded, my eyes stinging, my throat tight as I rasped. “I get that.”
“Oh, sweet Marie,” she pulled me into a sitting hug over the arms of the chairs, “your guy is out there. Believe me, he is. He might be in Germany baking bread, or South America making music, or Ethiopia acting as a tour guide, but he’s somewhere.”
Or in Chicago, building robots.
I smiled against the onslaught of threatening tears; God, how I hated it when people said those words to me. Saying, your guy is out there to someone without his or her person is like telling an X-Files fan that you have proof of aliens, but you can’t share it.
Thanks for nothing.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“No,” she pulled away, ensnaring my gaze with hers, “he is. I promise. And when you find him, be open to it. Don’t use obstacles as a reason to walk the other way. Open that door when he knocks. Be brave.”
I sniffled, pressing my lips together and shaking my head. “What if it isn’t bravery? What if it’s recklessness? How will I know the difference?”
Her mouth hitched to the side and she laughed lightly. “When you figure out the answer to that, let me know.”
I was working from home Friday afternoon, submerged in a research rabbit hole, when I glanced absentmindedly at my phone. I did a double take.
Matt had texted me.
Matt: Dinner tonight? Kerry and Marcus are here.
I stared at the text, reading it over and over. Finding no hidden message, no secret confession of longing.
My heart deflated.
Whomp, whomp.
Nevertheless, I responded.
Marie: Sure, sounds good. What time? And where?
Matt: 7:30, Alinea, Lincoln Park
Fancy.
Alinea was quite the swanky destination restaurant and even boasted a celebrity chef. Reservations were notoriously difficult to come by.
Glancing down at my leggings and tunic, I knew I’d have to change. And probably shower. And wear a bra.
I stared at his last text for a full minute, debating whether or not I should return his message. I also thought about typing crazy things like, I miss you.
But I wouldn’t, and I didn’t.
Instead, I closed my laptop and went to take a shower. My track record being what it was, I knew it would take me several hours of trying on clothes before I finally gave up and settled on the least of all evils.
It turned out the least of all evils was a dress I’d completely forgotten about. I’d bought it for $50—a Donna Karan originally worth over $500—at a rack sale, but it was one size too small at the time. Slipping it on, I discovered I’d lost weight. I guess a few weeks of chaotic feelings and grief can do that.
The dress was sky-blue silk, sleeveless with a scoop neck. It had a round, flowy skirt that ended mid-thigh and was slightly longer in the back than in the front. Typically, I’d never wear anything this short for no other reason than I usually didn’t like short skirts on myself. However, when I paired it with red silk heels, I really liked how I looked in it.
I left my hair wavy around my shoulders and makeup-ed the hell out of my face. I loved makeup. I’d always loved makeup. But I rarely took the time to really do it right. Tonight was one of those nights. Full-on mask: lip stain, eyeliner, doing everything but false eyelashes. I even painted my nails red to match my shoes and lips.
The late summer evening was warm enough that I didn’t think I’d need a sweater, so I didn’t bring one. Grabbing my clutch, I left my apartment ten minutes late and decided to take a taxi instead of the L to make up the time.
The closer the cab got to the restaurant the more tension gathered in my stomach. By the time I pulled up and paid the driver, I was feeling markedly jittery. So when the car door opened without me opening it, I sucked in a startled breath as my eyes shot to the person standing on the curb.
Matt bent and peeked his head inside, his eyes ensnaring mine, sending spiky, prickly hot sensations all through my body. His hair was—as usual—askew, so I knew he’d been shoving his fingers into it all day.
He also wore a suit and a small, happy smile.
He was so handsome.
I held my breath because I was afraid my feelings were going to fall out of me, tumble all over the inside of the cab, and make a mess of my makeup.
“Valkyrie,” he said, his smile spreading as he offered me his hand.
“Professor,” I said on an exhale, lost in his warm gaze. I took his hand, and a spark raced up my arm at the contact.
“Thank you for coming.” Helping me out of the cab, he closed the door behind me but didn’t release my hand.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
“You’re always invited. To everything,” came Matt’s quick reply, said with his trademark sincerity, the kind that made my heart flip.
Unfair.
So unfair.
His gaze made no detour from mine as he led me to the restaurant. “I was waiting for you. They’re inside already and ordered drinks, but I didn’t know if you’d want a margarita or a lemon drop so they ordered you both.”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly nervous at the thought of meeting his ex. I hadn’t been nervous about it until just that moment, given my focus had been on seeing Matt again. “Am I dressed okay? I’ve never been here before.”
Matt blinked, tearing his gaze from mine for the first time since I arrived, as though not yet having noticed what I was wearing. Then he blinked again and his lips parted as his gaze traveled over me.
“Yes,” he finally said, turning his attention to the approaching maître d'. “You look fine.”
“Fine?” I asked, glancing down at myself, doubting the dress for the first time since slipping it on earlier.
“You see,” the muscle at his jaw ticked, “I’m not allowed to say you look delicious, or hot, or enticing, or sexy, or fucking gorgeous, or any of the other thoughts I’m currently having. So, yes. You look fine.”
Well.
That stunned me speechless, as if I wasn’t already contending with a riot of feelings.
Gaping a
t his profile as he placed my hand into the crook of his elbow, I allowed him to lead me through the restaurant, following the maître d'. My heart was racing and I was having . . . too many thoughts.
Some of my thoughts were about his suit. It was a damn fine suit. Damn. Fine.
But most of my thoughts were about not acting like a crazy person.
Pull it together, Marie. He’s attracted to you. This is not news. He did want to sleep with you in New York, remember?
He didn’t look at me again, but I did notice he scowled at a few tables as we passed, eventually placing his arm around my waist and tucking me against his side. I tried not to let myself notice how much I missed this, his touch, his closeness.
Him.
So I forced myself to focus on the interior of the restaurant. It was atypical in design. Instead of one big open room, it had multiple floors with smaller rooms. Each table was like the perfect table at my coffee shop; set off to the side, allowing for privacy and encouraging conversation. The walls, screens, and tablecloths were lavender and beige, which shouldn’t have worked, but it did. Giving the small rooms an unobtrusive, open feeling without being stark.
We approached a table by the window on the second floor, where a man and woman sat holding hands and sipping cocktails. Upon spotting Matt, the woman stood, her lively eyes moving to mine as a smile split her face.
“You’re Marie,” she announced, coming around the table to shake my hand.
I nodded, returning her grin and finding that—even though Matt’s earlier words had thrown me for a loop—smiling at this woman felt easy. “Kerry.”
“Yes.” Her plush, purple painted lips widened over large, straight white teeth; her light brown, almost golden eyes were wide and rimmed with striking black lashes. Her skin held a smooth tan with a hint of rose, like she loved spending time in the sun, and she had a sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her hair matched her lips, dark purple, straight and glossy, cut into a stylish bob. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she said warmly. Her other hand came up so she was cradling mine in both of hers as her gaze moved over my face with open interest.
“You too,” I said, meaning it. Maybe I hadn’t consciously thought as much, but seeing her now, I realized I’d been enormously curious about this woman.
Who could be indifferent to the sexiness that was Matt? Who wouldn’t want to have hot sex with this man? How was that possible? His brain made me want to strip naked half the time, and his goodness made me want to strip naked the other half of the time.
So, naked with Matt all the time was basically want I wanted.
Missionary once a week? Was she crazy?
“Hi, I’m Marcus,” came a male voice to my right. I turned and accepted the handshake he offered. The first thing I noticed about him was his height. He was tall. Really, really tall and lanky. His hair was dyed fire-engine red, styled in a curly, lopsided Mohawk. His eyes were dark brown, his face was remarkably attractive in a classical that’s-a-handsome-man kind of way.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Marie.”
“Yes. We know.” Marcus let my hand go and sent his wife a furtive glance. “Matt hasn’t stopped talking about you since we landed.”
“Let’s sit.” Matt had moved around me and pulled out my chair.
“Oh, thank you.” I sat, noticing after he pushed it in that he was sitting across from me. Marcus and Kerry were on my right and left respectively.
The maître d' laid a napkin in my lap and then left us.
Kerry placed her hand near my plate to draw my attention. “Matt told us how you two met. I think that’s the best first-date story I’ve ever heard.”
My attention flickered to Matt. His eyes were on me as he took a sip from his drink. I assumed it was tequila, neat, because that’s what he always drank.
“You mean where he gave me a fake name? That wasn’t technically a date.”
A guilty, but remarkably unapologetic smile spread over his features, his eyes twinkling back at me. “It was a date. And you were doing some light reading, as I recall.”
I chuckled. “That’s right. Reading is a hobby of mine.”
Matt laughed at that and so did our tablemates, which clued me in to the fact that he must’ve already shared the name of the book I’d had with me.
“Our first date was boring in comparison.” Kerry gestured to her husband. “We went to an art gallery, then made out on the beach.”
“You call that boring?” Marcus asked, sounding amused and offended.
“Well, in comparison to Marquis de Sade and a social behavioral deception study, I’d say the evening was pretty tame.” Kerry gave Marcus a saucy grin.
“How did you two meet?” I spotted two cocktails by my plate—a lemon drop and margarita Matt had alluded to earlier—and selected the lemon drop, deciding the fortifying warmth of vodka was preferable to the loose-limbed spiciness of tequila.
“Matt set us up.” Marcus sent Matt a grin.
I almost choked on my cocktail, but swallowed just in time, rasping, “Matt set you up?”
“Marcus worked at the Starbucks near my office. He and I got to talking one day about automation.” Matt’s eyes were on his drink.
“You know, how robots will be doing the jobs of all humans in a few years?” Marcus shot me a teasing grin. “The subject turned to creativity and whether art is unique to the human experience. He said something about an AI that can compose original music. I told him I was a painter, and we talked about how difficult it was to teach an artificial intelligence about art appreciation, or humor, or other qualities that are inherently human.”
But I was still stuck on the Matt set up his ex-wife with her current husband part, so I repeated, “Matt set you up?”
“Yeah, and we were still married at the time. Separated, but still married.” Kerry nodded, giving me a funny look, which was when I realized I’d allowed the full extent of my surprise to show on my face.
Swallowing, I glanced down at my plate to gather my composure, and laughed lightly.
“So, Matt brings Kerry into the Starbucks one day . . .” Marcus continued to tell his story, and I gave him my attention, but I was only half listening.
I mean . . . what?
That’s weird, right?
Matt hadn’t followed through setting me up with Dr. Merek—and we were only friends—but he set up his wife at the time with another man? While they were still married?
I glanced at Matt and found him watching me with a thoughtful but peculiar expression, which I imagined mirrored mine.
The fact was, I thought I knew him. I thought he’d shared so much of himself with me over the last few months. But at times like these I wondered if I would ever truly know him.
One thing was for certain; I doubted I would ever understand him.
23
BenevolentAI
A machine learning AI that can draw inferences about what it has learned. In particular, it can process natural language and formulate new ideas from what it reads. Its job is to sift through vast chemical libraries, medical databases and conventionally presented scientific papers, looking for potential drug molecules.
Source: BenevolentBio
The server took our dinner orders while we shared easy and friendly conversation.
Over dinner, Kerry told a few bizarre and uncomfortably funny stories about working with AI engineers. For example, she had a female colleague who’d named her AI “Bitch” and would say things like: “Bitch, what time is it?” and “Bitch, I asked you a question.” And she had a male colleague who’d named his AI “Disappointment.”
While laughing at one of Marcus’s stories about purposefully getting people’s names wrong on their Starbucks cups, I realized that I really liked both of these people.
Kerry reminded me of Matt. A lot. She had a naïveté about her that was exactly him. For example, the way she asked questions, which often felt like overly personal non sequiturs. Also, like Matt, I got the
sense she didn’t realize some of her questions were inappropriate for having known me less than two hours.
Where do you buy your bras? Do you want to get married? Why do you think men like doggy style? Do you like doggy style? Is that your real hair color?
Once I made the connection—that she and Matt shared this peculiarity—her questions didn’t catch me off guard quite as much.
Whereas Marcus reminded me of my brother, Abram. They were both artists—Abram was a musician, Marcus was a painter—and I could sense the tender heart beneath the sardonic façade, especially in the way he looked at his wife.
The server had just removed our dinner plates and brought me my fourth lemon drop when the conversation turned to Matt’s decision to move to Chicago last December.
“Matt hated working for corporate. He’d prefer to be a hero and take a huge pay cut, which I call the do-gooder tax.” Kerry sneered at Matt, like he or his decisions smelled bad.
“Why do you hate corporate? The politics?” I guessed. The haze of alcohol made looking at him easier.
He shook his head, glancing from his tequila to me. “Politics are just as bad in academia. Maybe even worse.”
“Then why?”
“Because of the, what’s that phrase you use all the time?” Kerry poked at Matt. “Not broken enough culture?”
My eyes locked on Matt’s and he nodded once, holding my gaze captive. “That’s right. I call it not broken enough.”
I knew he was thinking back on our dinner in New York, when I’d referred to Zara’s lack of motivation to change her circumstances as “not broken enough.” I hadn’t said it at the time, but I viewed Matt the same way, choosing the safety of crutches and Band-Aids rather than the risk of actually loving someone.
“Broken? Referring to what?” I questioned, ignoring the wake of goosebumps tickling my skin.
Matt returned his attention to the table. “It’s their mentality, the ‘It’s not broken enough’ mentality of for-profit companies.”