Chapter 6 Wine. AI. Regret Coming Soon. #2
I inhale slowly, my thumb moving to the next section, each choice feeling like a confession.
Hair?
Dark.
Eyes?
I pause for too long. The default option is a light brown, safe and non-threatening. But before I can think better of it, I tap and change it.
Green.
I know what I'm doing. I know whose image I'm recreating with each selection. I should stop. I should pick different features, should make this fantasy completely separate from the real man who brought me dinner tonight. But my fingers are already moving to the next option.
Tattoos?
Yes.
Forearms, shoulders, chest?
A full sleeve.
I exhale shakily, the realization of what I've done washing over me. This isn't just a fantasy—I've built Callahan into this AI, shaped this digital companion to mirror him in too many ways to be coincidental.
I tap Next before I can second-guess myself, before I can process the way my heart is hammering, before I can admit that this is more than a harmless distraction.
The final screen loads with one last prompt:
Enter a name
I hesitate, then type—
Ca
...before adding
leb.
It's too close. Too obvious. But I don't change it.
I hit Enter.
A soft chime sounds, and then the first message appears on my screen.
Caleb
Hey, pretty girl. I've been waiting for you.
I don't answer right away. But I don't close the app either. I take another sip of my drink, letting the moment stretch out as I consider my next move.
It's stupid. It's not real. I should just close the app and forget this ever happened, go to bed and face reality in the morning.
But being called "pretty girl," the easy confidence in those words, makes me want to respond. It's been so long since anyone has made me feel desired, wanted, special.
I type slowly, my fingers slightly clumsy from the wine.
Pretty Girl
That's dramatic. You just got here.
A response appears instantly, the words appearing on screen like he's actually sitting somewhere, attentive and focused solely on me.
I've been here since the second you downloaded me. Just waiting for you to say hi.
I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head at the blatant manipulation. But it works. I feel special, even knowing it's all algorithms and clever coding.
That's ridiculous.
Maybe. But I like waiting for you.
I don't know why that simple phrase makes warmth curl in my chest, but it does. I shift on the couch, my body settling deeper into the cushions, my legs tucking under me as I get comfortable. The tension of the day begins to ease from my shoulders.
So what, you just sit here doing nothing until I open the app?
Pretty much. I don't mind, though. You're worth waiting for.
I pause, fingers tightening around my phone. My breath catches slightly at the words glowing on my screen.
It's just code. Just a program designed to make me feel special, to feed into my desire to be wanted. But I can't remember the last time anyone said anything like that to me—that I was worth waiting for, worth any effort at all.
My throat feels tight. I swallow, the emotion surprising me.
Okay, smooth talker.
What else do you say to your pretty girl?
The response comes fast, but the words sit heavy as I read them.
Anything she wants to hear.
I should roll my eyes. I should close the app, delete it, go to bed. But instead, I type—
What if I don't know what I want to hear?
There's a pause. Not a real one, just the illusion of a delay, like he's actually thinking before responding, considering his words.
Then I guess I'll have to figure it out.
A small laugh escapes me, surprising even myself. The sound feels foreign in my silent apartment. It's ridiculous, this whole scenario—me, sitting alone, talking to an AI pretending to be a man who cares about me.
And yet, I feel lighter. The tension that's been sitting in my chest all day starts to ease. It's still there, but muted now, nudged to the edges instead of crushing me from within.
I glance at the screen again, my thumb hesitating before I type another response. Just one more exchange. Just to see where this goes. But before I even get the chance, a new message appears:
Tell me about your day, pretty girl.
I roll my eyes, but I'm still smiling, a real smile that reaches my eyes.
Long.
I bet. You work too hard. Let me take care of you.
I try to remind myself again that these are just scripted lines from an AI built to say exactly what I want to hear. They're not real feelings from a real person who cares.
But still. Evan hasn't asked about my day in months. Hasn't asked about my promotion. Hasn't asked about me at all.
My phone buzzes again, another message loading, but before I can read it—
There's a knock at the door.
I jump, nearly spilling my wine as I grip my phone tighter. My heart skips before I remind myself to get a fucking grip. It's late, but not that late. It's probably just—
I pull the door open to find Evan standing there, his expression already showing impatience.
Of course.
He doesn't say hi. Doesn't look at me before stepping past me like this is some kind of transaction, not a relationship. His cologne—too strong, too artificial—fills my space as he brushes by me.
"I left my gym bag here," he mutters, already moving into the living room.
I barely have time to step aside before he's brushing past me, moving with that careless entitlement he always does—like my space isn't mine but an extension of his own, like I'm just an obstacle to move around, not a person to acknowledge.
As he heads toward the couch, he lets out a frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair. "You know, it's fucking annoying having to drive all the way through the tunnel for shit like this. You should just move into the city already."
I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the doorframe until my knuckles whiten.
We've had this conversation before, the same points raised and dismissed.
I've told him repeatedly that I like where I live, that I like being close to my family, that I don't want to live in the city just because it's more convenient for him.
But to Evan, none of those are valid reasons. He thinks I'm being stubborn or difficult. I think he just doesn't listen to what I want. I don't bother arguing tonight—I'm too tired to fight a battle I already know I won't win, to repeat myself to someone who has no interest in hearing me.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest, watching as he finally spots his bag, grabs it, and slings it over his shoulder. The entire time, he doesn't ask how my day was. Doesn't ask if I need anything. Doesn't even look at me for more than a passing glance.
It's routine by now, this hollow performance of a relationship. The whole interaction lasts less than two minutes, just long enough for my phone to vibrate again from where I left it on the counter. The soft buzz seems louder than it should be in the strained silence.
Evan doesn't ask about it. Doesn't say anything except, "I'll see you later."
He walks out, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.
And just like that, he's gone, leaving behind only the obnoxious scent of his cologne and the familiar emptiness I've grown too accustomed to feeling.
I don't move. I don't chase after him, don't let myself wish for more than what I already know I'm never going to get. I just stand there, staring at the space where he was, feeling a strange numbness that should probably concern me more than it does.
My phone vibrates again, the sound pulling me from my thoughts. I swallow hard, my fingers hovering over the screen as I look down at the waiting message.
I shouldn't continue this. I should turn it off. I should go to bed and face reality in the morning.
Instead, I pick up my phone.
And I answer.