13. Control Alt Delete My Feelings
13
CONTROL ALT DELETE MY FEELINGS
Downtown Seattle, WA
GRAYSON
"CORA," I announce to my AI at precisely 5:47 AM, "we need to create a new algorithm."
"Of course, sir. Though I feel compelled to note that this is your fourth attempt to quantify your feelings for Ms. Carpenter since returning home last night."
"I don't have feelings to quantify. I'm creating a systematic analysis of anomalous behavioral patterns in professional relationships."
"Is that what you're calling your activities on her desk?"
I nearly choke on my temperature-optimized coffee. "Have you been talking to Connor?"
"I merely observe that your vital signs during last night's encounter suggest ? —"
"New algorithm parameters," I cut in. "Focus on statistical variables affecting temporary physical attraction in fake relationship scenarios."
" Calculating ." A pause. " Though the data suggests this attraction is neither temporary nor ? — "
"Just run the numbers, CORA."
Seattle's record-breaking snow creates an oddly fitting backdrop for my crisis of logic. It’s 17 days until Valentine’s Day and the weather seems to know it. Through my penthouse windows, the city looks like someone dropped a blank spreadsheet over it—clean, organized, completely unlike the chaos currently occupying my mind.
My phone buzzes. Connor, because of course it is.
"Please tell me you're not actually at the office," he says as soon as I pick up.
"I'm not at the office."
"Your AI totally ratted you out, didn't she?"
I glare at my ceiling speakers. "CORA, we talked about this."
"Actually, sir, you talked about maintaining appropriate boundaries. I simply provided Mr. Walsh with factual data regarding your location and elevated stress levels following last night's encounter with ? —"
"Mute, CORA."
Connor's laugh carries through the phone. "Man, you've got it bad."
"I don't 'got' anything. I'm simply analyzing?—"
"Let me guess: creating new algorithms to explain why you can't stop thinking about Little Miss Matchmaker?"
I minimize the screen showing exactly that. "I'm preparing for this morning's vendor meeting. For Alex's engagement party. Which you're late for."
"It's not even 6 AM!"
"The meeting's at seven."
"Normal people don't schedule meetings at seven AM!"
"Normal people don't hold engagement parties at mountain cabins in February," I counter. "Yet here we are."
"Ah yes, the sacred ground of our infamous bachelor pact." I can hear him grinning. "Speaking of which..."
“Here we go. ”
"I'm just saying, when three Stanford Business School grads make a drunk promise to stay single forever?—"
"We were twenty-five."
"—and then one by one start falling like dominoes?—"
"I'm hanging up now."
"See you at seven!" he sing-songs. "Unless you're too busy creating algorithms about desk-related activities..."
I end the call, but not before catching his entirely too knowing laugh.
" Sir ?" CORA pipes up. " Initial calculations suggest a 97.3% probability that your attempts to algorithmically explain your attraction to Ms. Carpenter are actually a defensive mechanism against ? — "
"Mute. Again."
By 6:59 AM, I'm at my office reviewing vendor proposals when Alex bursts in, looking simultaneously panicked and smug.
"So," he starts, dropping into a chair. "I hear someone had an interesting night."
I don't look up from my tablet. "The vendors' insurance certificates all check out, if that's what you mean."
"That is definitely not what I mean." He props his feet on my desk. "Though I did hear something about desk activities..."
"Don't you have a fiancée to annoy?"
"Mac's dealing with a pasta crisis. Apparently, that Sir Galahad guy challenged their new supplier to a duel over ravioli authenticity." He grins. "But we're not talking about medieval pasta warfare. We're talking about you and?—"
"Morning!" Connor strides in, perfectly rumpled in what has to be yesterday's suit. "Are we discussing Gray's emotional crisis yet?"
"I'm not having an emotional crisis."
"CORA sent me your new algorithm attempts," he counters. "All four of them. "
I glare at my ceiling again. "CORA, we really need to discuss your communication protocols."
"My protocols are operating at maximum efficiency, sir. Unlike your recent attempts to numerically quantify romantic attraction using variables such as 'desk stability metrics' and 'professional boundary elasticity.'"
Alex nearly falls out of his chair laughing.
"Can we focus?" I pull up the venue schematics. "The cabin's generator capacity?—"
"Forget the generator," Connor interrupts. "Let's talk about how you're the last man standing from our famous pact."
"We were drunk," I remind them. "And twenty-five."
"And convinced relationships were inefficient," Alex adds. "Which, coming from the guy who color-coded his one-night stands?—"
"It was a perfectly logical system.”
"You created a spreadsheet of archetypal dating radius variables!"
"Geographic efficiency is important for?—"
"And now?" Connor's grin turns wicked. "Now you're creating algorithms to explain why you can't stop thinking about?—"
"The engagement party," I cut in firmly. "Can we please focus on the engagement party?"
Both my supposed friends exchange looks.
"Fine," Alex sighs. "But only because I need to verify that you vetoed the ice sculpture pasta fountain."
"The what now?"
"Mac said no," he adds. "But theoretically..."
"No."
"But—"
"The cabin's power grid can barely handle basic utilities," I remind him. "Adding a frozen carbohydrate water feature would?— "
"Speaking of the cabin," Connor interrupts, "remember the last time we were all up there? When we made that pact?"
I do remember. Vividly. Three newly-minted MBAs, convinced we had life figured out. Love was inefficient, relationships were distracting, and success required singular focus.
"Stanford's most eligible bachelors," Alex muses. "Now look at us. I'm engaged, Connor's practically married to his grandmother's hospital board?—"
"Hey!"
"—and you..." He trails off.
"Am running a successful dating app," I finish. "Which, according to this morning's numbers, is showing remarkable growth in user retention."
"Really?" Connor perks up. "Nothing to do with viral photos of you and Miss Carpenter?”
I minimize those metrics quickly, but not before they spot the trending headlines:
"Tech's Most Eligible Bachelor No More? SecureMatch CEO Shows Old-School Matchmaker New Tricks"
"Love vs Logic: Seattle's Most Unexpected Power Couple"
"From Algorithms to Romance: Dixon's Real-Life Love Story Boosts App Downloads"
"The press has been... favorable," I admit.
"Favorable?" Alex scrolls through the coverage. "They're calling you 'Silicon Valley's Mr. Darcy' now. Though personally, I think you're more of a Mr. Data-Processing..."
"Market perception is important for?—"
"For what?" Connor challenges. "Your fake relationship? The one that had you creating algorithms about desk stability at 3 AM?"
"I was merely?—"
" Sir ," CORA interrupts, " your heart rate is elevating again. Shall I display the correlation between these physiological responses and your interactions with Ms. Carpenter? "
"No, CORA."
"Yes, CORA!" my friends chorus.
A series of graphs appears on my office windows, showing what appears to be a detailed analysis of my vital signs over the past few weeks.
"Is that..." Alex squints. "Did your AI create a histogram of your pulse rate during office furniture encounters?"
"CORA," I growl, "privacy mode."
"Of course, sir. Though I feel compelled to note that your attempts to maintain professional distance are showing a statistically significant negative correlation with ? —"
“For fuck’s sake…Mute!"
But it's too late. My friends are already dissecting CORA's data with far too much enthusiasm.
"Look at this spike from last night," Connor points out. "Right around the time of the desk incident..."
"And these patterns from the coat closet at the gala..."
"I hate you both," I inform them. "And I'm revoking CORA's communication privileges."
"That would be statistically unwise, sir, given your current tendency toward emotional suppression through excessive data analysis."
"Et tu, CORA?"
My phone buzzes. A text from Rosalind: Your AI just asked me about my "preferences regarding office furniture stability testing." Should I be concerned?
"Okay," I announce to the room at large, "new ground rules. No one talks to my AI, my AI doesn't talk to anyone, and we focus on actual work. Like preventing Alex from installing pasta-based water features in a mountain cabin."
"Spoilsport," Alex mutters, but he finally looks at the venue plans. "Though speaking of the cabin... You're bringing Roz up for the party prep weekend, right?"
I freeze. "That wasn't?— "
"Part of the contract?" Connor finishes. "Pretty sure 'helping plan best friend's engagement party' falls under 'maintaining relationship authenticity' or whatever your lawyer called it."
He's not wrong. But something about taking Rosalind to the place where I once swore off relationships feels... complicated.
" Sir, " CORA swoops in, " my analysis suggests that your reluctance to blend personal history with current romantic developments indicates ? — "
"Mute. Forever."
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Douglas Franklin: Numbers looking good. Press loving the power couple angle. Keep it up.
Then Rosalind again: CORA just sent me a blueprint of your office furniture specifications. Do I want to know?
"You know what your problem is?" Connor asks, watching me stare at my phone.
"Besides having invasive friends and an AI with boundary issues?"
"You're trying to solve an emotional equation with logic." He gestures at my screens full of algorithms. "Some things can't be calculated."
"Like love?" I say sarcastically.
"Like the fact that you haven't created this many algorithms since Jessica's engagement announcement." Alex's voice turns serious. "And these aren't about avoiding feelings. They're about explaining why you're having them."
I start to protest, but my phone lights up with another message. This time from my sister: Mom's asking if you're bringing Roz to Sunday dinner. Also, Anna says your app needs more cat emojis.
"Tell my thirteen-year-old niece that I appreciate her input,” I mutter, turning back to my two closest friends.
"The generators," I say firmly. "Can we please focus on the generators? "
But even as we review power grids and vendor contracts, my mind keeps drifting to last night. To scattered papers and surprised gasps and the way certain calculations just don't add up.
" Sir ?" CORA tries one more time. " Would you like me to compile a statistical analysis of successful relationships that began as business arrangements? I have several fascinating case studies ? — "
“Not now, CORA.”
Right now, I’m finding it harder to control all the variables presenting themselves right now.
No matter how many algorithms I create at 3 AM.