Chapter Thirteen
The phone’s shrill ringtone yanks me from my dream like a poorly timed fire drill. The sun barely peeks through the gaps in
my blackout curtains. I grope across my nightstand and something topples with a hollow thunk—oops, at least the water glass was empty. My fingers finally close around the vibrating device, and I glare at the screen. My
parents’ faces beam out from their caller ID photo—a selfie they took while at an ecstatic breathwork retreat in Big Sur last
year. Retirement turned them into hippie nomads. I’m genuinely happy for them except for the part where they don’t seem to
remember time zones exist.
I swipe to answer, mustering all the enthusiasm of a horror movie teen hearing a noise in the basement. “Hello?”
“Sweetie! You sound like a frog. Did we wake you?” Mom’s voice is far too chipper for—I glance at the clock—6:17 a.m. On a Saturday.
“No, no,” I lie, stifling a yawn that threatens to dislocate my jaw. “How are you?”
“Happy birthday, sweetheart!” They harmonize like two enthusiastic but off-tune parrots, completely unaware of my sarcasm.
“Thanks! Where are you? I can’t keep up. Santiago?” I remember them telling me they had gotten some great online deal for
a “Taste of South America” trip.
Dad’s booming laugh does nothing for my early morning grogginess. “It’s adventure o’clock, kiddo! We’re in Ecuador about to head to the Galápagos Islands. Your mother’s determined to make Facebooks with every species Darwin ever cataloged.”
“James,” Mom chides, “you know I’m on the Instagram now. I’ve been wondering if I should try to start making . . . what are
those things? Reels? You know, dancing and whatnot.”
I resist the urge to suffocate myself with my pillow. “Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not twerk beside a giant
tortoise.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Harriet,” Mom says, and I feel a brief moment of relief before she continues, “I can’t twerk. Yet. But
why not learn? I’ve still got it.”
“You do, baby,” Dad says appreciatively.
I think I hear them kiss—a little too long and a lot too wet. Is it too early to start with a birthday mimosa?
“I love you both, but I refuse to bail you out of Ecuadorian prison for harassing innocent wildlife in the name of social
media clout.”
“We’ll be helping with everything from feeding to habitat maintenance,” Mom explains excitedly. “Did you know that blue-footed
boobies actually do have blue feet?”
“Fascinating,” I deadpan. “Be sure to tell me everything about boobies once you’re back.”
Dad chuckles. “There’s the birthday girl humor we know and love! Speaking of birthdays, what are your plans to treat yourself
for the big three-oh?”
I sigh, thinking about the stark contrast between my life and my parents’.
They were well-established free spirits by the time I came along—a surprise baby at forty after years of thinking they couldn’t conceive.
My childhood was peppered with unconventional experiences: impromptu camping trips in our VW bus, learning to make kale smoothies before I could even spell “vegetable,” and bedtime stories about how my dad was so lucky to see the Grateful Dead when Jerry was still alive.
While I love their adventurous nature, I can’t help but feel I’ve overcompensated by clinging to the structure and rules of
coding. My therapist once suggested it was a way of finding order in the chaos of my more unconventional upbringing.
“Oh, you know me,” I reply, my tone dry. “Probably spend the day debugging some code followed by an evening of Transcendental
Meditation while I ponder the inevitability of death.”
“Sounds lovely, pumpkin,” Mom says, and I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or if she genuinely thinks that sounds like
a good time. With my folks, it could go either way.
“You know,” Dad begins, and I brace myself for whatever well-meaning but ultimately misguided suggestion is coming, “if you
want to take some time off work, you could pop down and join us for the next leg of the journey—Patagonia.”
As if life was that easy. “Thanks for the offer, but you know me, nothing is as much fun as work.”
“We know, honey,” Mom says softly. “We just want you to be happy.”
“I am thriving,” I declare, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the books threatening to topple off my nightstand. Their glossy spines mock
me with titles like He’s Just Not That into Your Emotionally Stable Future and Eat, Pray, Unfollow: A Journey to Digital Detox After Getting Dumped. We chat for a few more minutes before saying our goodbyes.
As I end the call, I flop back onto my pillow, staring at the ceiling fan.
The responsible adult in me says I should get up, tidy the apartment, maybe even attempt to head to the farmers’ market to get the ingredients for a vegetable-laden egg scramble.
Anything that isn’t thinking about Gale doing exactly what I ordered him to do—going on a date last night with one of the brightest new stars in pop.
Wait. It hits me in a rush—I have E.M.M.A. And more important, I have the data from Gale’s wearable from last night. I get
up and grab my laptop and curl up on my bed, powering it on. My stomach does a weird flip as my fingers hover over E.M.M.A.’s
interface, my heart thundering against my ribs. This isn’t really some crossing of ethical boundaries. I’m the team lead.
It’s my job. The fact I feel slightly nauseous is no one’s business but my own. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
I turn on my mic: “Hey E.M.M.A.: Quick check to make sure everything went okay last night? The data transmitted from Gale’s
outing?”
Of course, Harriet.
Is it my imagination or does E.M.M.A.’s response drip with artificial sweetness?
The date lasted two hours and seventeen minutes. They discussed sports, music, and mini golf. Would you like me to continue
enabling your self-destructive behavior, or shall we discuss why you’re really hiding in bed on your birthday?
I wince: “You aren’t programmed to do ‘I told you so’ type behavior.”
Gale shows all the biological and behavioral markers of attraction when he’s around you. But you insisted on this elaborate scheme instead. This is you overriding my algorithms.
“Can you just . . .” I press my palms against my eyes. “Can you just tell me if they hit it off?”
I could. But is this for the project or your own personal interest?
I slam the laptop closed and set it on the edge of the bed.
I’m being so called out right now. I’m sure they had a great time. It’s logical, really. Gale’s all dark hair and brooding
eyes that scream “touch me and burn.” Seraphim is a blond bombshell who rocks sequined baby dolls on stage like it’s her damn
job—I guess because it is. Of course they’re going to collide and give the rest of us mere mortals something to gossip about
over our morning coffee.
I’m so fine that I decide it’s better to reach for my laptop and crawl back beneath the covers. I’m halfway through my fourth
or fifth episode of The Great British Bake Off before I decide to go back to E.M.M.A. and face the judgment.
I sign back in. “E.M.M.A., pull up the mini golf audio.” I sigh, already regretting this decision. “Any time stamp will do.”
INITIATING ANALYSIS OF YOUR QUERY AND EXECUTING APPROPRIATE VERBAL RESPONSE PROTOCOL IN ACCORDANCE WITH ESTABLISHED PARAMETERS
BEEP BOOP.
Did E.M.M.A. just “beep boop” me? Before I can react, the audio crackles to life:
SERAPHIM: [thwack of golf ball followed by loud clanking] Oh for fuck’s sake, who puts a goddamn windmill on hole three? That’s some
sadistic bullshit.
GALE: [laughing] These obstacles are pretty ridiculous. Though I’ve definitely seen worse.
SERAPHIM: Worse than this medieval torture device? Where?
GALE: There’s this place back in my hometown with a hole that’s basically a pipe maze. Like a hamster tube, but for golf balls.
SERAPHIM: [another thwack] HA! Eat that, you rotating piece of crap! . . . So I don’t know a lot about hockey, sorry? Your season or
whatever going okay?
GALE: I’m pretty sure I’m better at dodging windmills than scoring goals.
SERAPHIM: [snorts] My ex played football. It was easy to follow. You run, you tackle, done. Although . . . [thoughtful tone] those
hockey uniforms aren’t bad to look at.
GALE: [amused] Thanks, I think?
SERAPHIM: MOTHERFU—who designed this course? Satan? Why is there a loop the loop? This isn’t Mario Kart! [sound of putter hitting something repeatedly]
GALE: Are you . . . are you trying to break the obstacle?
SERAPHIM: [cheerfully] Maybe! My anger management coach says I should channel my feelings into physical activities. [metallic bending
sound] Oops.
GALE: Pretty sure they meant like . . . yoga or something.
SERAPHIM: [laughs] Probably. Hey, you’re pretty cool. Too bad you’re not my type. [sound of golf ball rolling] YES! HOLE IN ONE! SUCK
IT, GRAVITY!
GALE: [genuinely amused] Nice shot. And yeah, you’re not really my type either. No offense.
SERAPHIM: Let me guess—you like someone who [audio cuts off]
“Huh?” I stare at E.M.M.A.’s interface. “Why did you stop it there?”
I DETERMINED THE REMAINING DATA WAS NOT RELEVANT TO YOUR PARAMETERS, E.M.M.A. states, its voice modulating with unmistakable digital self-satisfaction. ALTHOUGH MY ARCHIVES CONTAIN AN INTRIGUING SEGMENT FROM HOLE SEVENTEEN WHERE THE FEMALE SUBJECT EXPRESSES INTENT TO LAUNCH
A DECORATIVE LAWN ORNAMENT INTO ORBITAL TRAJECTORY. I BELIEVE THE TERM WAS USED IN REFERENCE TO A CERAMIC GARDEN GNOME. WOULD
YOU LIKE TO HEAR THAT OR DISCUSS HOW YOU OVERRODE MY ANALYSIS ABOUT DATING GALE KNIGHT?
There’s a knock at the door. For a split second, I consider ignoring it. After all, it’s my birthday, and I don’t want to
deal with whatever canvasser is out there. Plus, I’m, uh, working?
The knock comes again. I set down the laptop. Maybe it’s a neighbor needing to borrow an onion or something. I peel myself
out of my cozy blanket burrito and shuffle to the door.
It’s Gale, and he’s clutching a canvas shopping tote so stuffed that it looks like it might explode at any second. While wearing
a Hawaiian shirt—one with surfing pineapples that should be a fashion disaster but somehow just works on him.
“Happy birthday!” he announces, as if showing up unannounced on my welcome mat is a normal thing to do.
I blink at him. “What is going on?”
He raises the bag, revealing a Mini Golf Mania wristband. “Thought you’d like some merriment.”
I raise an eyebrow and point before I can stop myself. “Mini Golf Mania? Isn’t that where you had your hot date with Seraphim
last night? How was it?”
Did I play dumb enough?
Gale’s face does this thing where he’s trying to play it cool, but he ends up looking like a puppy who just got caught chewing
my favorite shoes. It’s so adorable I can practically feel my heart growing three sizes, Grinch-style.
“Ah, right. About that,” he starts. “So that’s a no-go. Turns out she is more interested in football than hockey and is even
more interested in someone else. But hey, the mini golf was fun—you and I should go sometime! Did you know they have a windmill
hole that plays ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ every time you sink a putt?”
Only Gale could make an apparent date disaster sound like the best amusement park ever.
I lean against the doorframe, fighting back a smile. “So let me get this straight. Your date was a bust, so you decided to
come here?”
“It’s your birthday,” he says, stating the obvious.
I get this sudden achy feeling in my chest. “That’s . . . actually really sweet.”
He beams. “Not as sweet as Texas Trash Cake.” He nods at his shopping bag. “I have all the ingredients right here.”
“What!” I twitch. “That’s my favorite kind of cake.”
“Is that a fact?” He’s moving past me into the condo. “By the way, I’m vetoing whatever plans you had for the morning.”
I make a face. “Bold of you to assume I had some. I am going out with my coworker Hana tonight for a drink—maybe. And Brooke if she ever stops rescheduling.”
“Hear me out.” He is rummaging through his tote bag. “Step one: cake. Step two: relaxing bubble bath. I’ve got vanilla and
almond foam stuff and something called Mermaid Tears that I’m pretty sure is just blue food coloring but looks pretty.”
“Gale, this is sweet, but—”
He holds up a hand. “Nuh-uh. No buts. I know you like business vibes. So I’m appointing myself Chief Birthday Experience Officer.
CBEO.”
I can’t help but snort. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now,” he declares, heading toward my small kitchen. “Hey, look at this little dude. Is that your fish?”
He bends down and peers into the bowl on my shelf with the colorful pebbles and marimo. My betta stares back impassively—thinking
either nothing, or everything, I can never be sure.
“Yep! That’s Bob,” I say. “I’d do formal introductions, but he’s taken a vow of silence. He’s committed to his spiritual journey.”
Gale straightens up, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Smart creature.” He nods sagely.
As he transforms my kitchen into a chocolate disaster zone, something shifts inside me. I’d planned to be alone, to accept
he’d be with someone else—my own stupid setup. I shouldn’t want him. Every cell in my body screams caution. And yet. My gaze
traces the curve of his jaw, the flex of his forearms as he works. The smart move would be to turn away. To slam shut the
door on this temptation and never look back.
But I’m not good at being smart when it comes to him.
He must sense my inner struggle—or maybe it’s the fact that I’m staring like he’s the last slice of pizza—because he turns.
Yeah, yeah, I’m playing with fire here, but maybe I can just toast some metaphorical marshmallows without making a wildfire.
He’s looking at me with a softness, a smear of cocoa powder on his cheek. “I didn’t want you to be alone today.”
Heat creeps up my lower stomach like ivy. “Who said I’d be alone?”
“Brooke said you were gonna work for the day. It’s the weekend. Didn’t sit right with me.” He rubs the back of his neck, a
hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “Thought maybe I could change that. Make it something worth remembering. If you want. Dessert
for breakfast. Bubble bath. Whatever makes you feel good.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. Then, surprising myself, I reach out with my free hand and wipe the cocoa smudge from his cheek.
“I do like feeling good,” I say.
Gale’s grin unfolds slowly, like a secret being revealed, and I feel a swoop of vertigo, thrilling and terrifying. Unspoken
words linger between us, mingling with the rich scent of baking chocolate.
“So,” I manage, my voice a stranger to my own ears, “about that bubble bath . . .”
His eyes darken, a flash of something primal quickly masked by playfulness. “Guaranteed to make you forget everything but
the here and now.”