15. Error 404 Love Not Found
15
ERROR 404: LOVE NOT FOUND
Dixon Family Home, Seattle, WA
GRAYSON
Ten days until Valentine's Day, and I'm watching the woman I'm supposedly just pretending to date charm my entire family over my mother's famous pot roast.
"So then," Rosalind tells my thirteen-year-old niece Anna, "your uncle's AI tried to calculate the statistical probability of successful dinner conversation topics."
"Did CORA factor in the likelihood of embarrassing childhood stories?" my sister Natasha asks, grinning in a way that suggests I'm about to regret several life choices.
"Actually," I start, but Rosalind's hand finds my knee under the table, and suddenly basic vocabulary becomes statistically improbable.
"Please tell me there are photos," she says, and I fight the urge to cover her hand with mine.
"Oh, honey." My mother disappears into the living room, returning with what appears to be every embarrassing moment of my childhood carefully preserved in leather-bound albums. "Wait until you see him at his robot-themed bar mitzvah... "
"Mom."
"He programmed the automated music system to play 'Mr. Roboto' during his Torah reading."
" Mom ."
"Complete with choreographed dance moves," Natasha adds helpfully. "I have video."
"I was thirteen!"
"And already optimizing everything." Rosalind's thumb traces small circles on my knee. "Why am I not surprised?"
Outside, Seattle's record snowfall creates a cozy backdrop, the kind that makes family dinners feel intimate and warm and definitely not like an elaborate deception that's becoming increasingly complicated.
My phone buzzes. Another message from Douglas Franklin: Latest numbers looking fantastic. Not to be flippant, my boy, but your romance with Roz is gold for the brand. Time to capitalize?
I silence it just as my mother produces what appears to be photographic evidence of my brief stint as Junior Math Olympics champion.
"Oh my God," Rosalind breathes, leaning closer. "Is that a calculator-shaped medal?"
"It was very prestigious," I mutter, but my protest is drowned out by Anna's delighted giggle.
“Uncle Gray, you're blushing!"
"I am not. I'm simply experiencing elevated blood flow due to?—"
"Speaking of elevation," Natasha's fiancé Mark cuts in, "how's that new coding club you started at the community center?"
I shoot him a grateful look. Mark's been around long enough to recognize my sister's "embarrass Gray" spiral, even if this is only his second dinner as her official fiancé.
"It's going well," I start, but Anna interrupts :
"We're teaching kids to make apps! I designed one that turns all your texts into cat memes."
"Very practical," I say dryly.
"More practical than alphabetizing your dates in college," Natasha points out.
Rosalind turns to me slowly. "I'm sorry, you did what now?"
"It was a perfectly logical system for?—"
"Geographic optimization," my family choruses.
"I hate all of you."
"Even me?" Rosalind asks innocently, her hand still warm on my knee.
"You're on thin ice."
"Speaking of ice," my mother interjects, "how are the wedding plans coming along?" She looks at Natasha and Mark. "Still set for June?"
"Assuming we can find a venue that hasn't been scared off by my first wedding's... incident." Natasha grimaces.
"The fire department said the fountain damage was minimal," Mark assures her.
"Fire department?" Rosalind echoes.
"Don't ask," I advise. "Though statistically speaking?—"
"If you say 'statistically speaking' one more time," Natasha threatens, "I'm showing Roz your high school yearbook photos. Including the robotics club formal."
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Connor: Grandmother's hospital board wants you and Roz at their Valentine's gala. Says you're "better than Lifetime movies for entertainment."
Another message arrives before I can respond. Emily Hanning: Sources say your relationship inspired SecureMatch's latest algorithm updates. Care to comment?
I silence them both just as my mother starts telling Rosalind about the time I tried to create a scientific formula for the perfect chocolate chip cookie.
"In my defense," I say, "the results were excellent. "
"Until the kitchen renovation," Natasha adds.
"Minor setback."
"The contractor had to replace three walls!"
"The point is," I continue, "the final algorithm produced the perfect cookie consistency."
"Of course it did." Rosalind's smile does something to my chest that absolutely isn’t written in our agreement clauses. "Though I prefer Nonna Flora's method – a little of this, a pinch of that..."
"Chaos," I mutter.
"Character," she corrects, squeezing my knee.
“Uncle Gray's girlfriend is funny," Anna announces to the table at large. "Way better than the actress from the Christmas party."
Rosalind's hand stills. "I'm sorry, the what now?"
"Connor's idea.” I clear my throat. "Two years ago. It was all very professional."
"He hired someone from my theater company," Natasha explains, because apparently everyone is determined to destroy me tonight. "Though she broke character when Mom started showing baby photos..."
"Which reminds me!" My mother stands. "I have the most adorable pictures of Gray's first science fair..."
As she disappears toward the living room again, Rosalind leans closer.
"An actress?" she whispers.
"It was Connor's idea," I repeat. "And it was one time."
"Very efficient of you."
"Says the woman who crashed her ex's engagement party."
"Technically, I was invited. Eventually."
Her smile suggests she's not really angry, but something in her eyes makes me want to explain anyway.
"It was right after Jessica's first interview about the startup she founded with, um…him,” I find myself saying. "The press was... persistent."
Understanding crosses her face. "Ah. Like they are now?"
As if on cue, my phone lights up with another message from Emily Hanning: Interesting correlation between SecureMatch's user growth and your public appearances with Ms. Carpenter...
"Gray's always been goal-oriented," Natasha observes, watching our exchange with too-knowing eyes. "Though lately he seems more interested in actual connections than statistical outcomes."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I say, just as Rosalind shifts closer to reach for the bread basket, her thigh pressing against mine in a way that makes basic cognitive functions statistically unlikely.
"Really?" My sister's grin grow wider. "Because you haven't checked SecureMatch's metrics once during dinner. Usually you're monitoring user engagement patterns between courses."
"I monitor lots of things," I protest, but Rosalind's doing that thing with her thumb again, and suddenly engagement patterns seem far less interesting than the way her perfume mingles with my mother's pot roast.
“Uncle Gray's being mushy," Anna stage-whispers to Mark. "It's weird."
"It's nice," my mother corrects, returning with what appears to be my entire childhood in photograph form. "Much better than that time he tried to optimize Thanksgiving dinner with a spreadsheet."
"The spreadsheet was perfectly?—"
"You priority-tagged the serving preferences, dear."
"It was an efficient system for?—"
"You created a statistical model for gravy distribution!"
"Which worked perfectly until?—"
"Until Aunt Sarah's dog ate the printed schedule," Natasha finishes. "Poor thing had algorithm-induced indigestion for days."
My phone buzzes yet again. Douglas Franklin: Also, got a meeting with my board tomorrow. Need to discuss capitalizing on your relationship's public appeal. Time to take things to the next level?
I start to respond, but Rosalind chooses that moment to laugh at something Anna's saying, her whole face lighting up in a way that make my mouth go dry.
"You're staring," Natasha murmurs from the seat next to mine.
"I'm observing. Professionally."
"Uh-huh." She glances at where Rosalind's hand still rests on my knee. "Very professional."
"It's just for show," I whisper. "Part of the agreement."
"Really?" She raises one eyebrow in a way that reminds me uncomfortably of our mother. "Because you haven't looked at your phone once since she started asking about your robotics club days."
"I—"
"And you haven't created a single algorithm all evening."
"That's not?—"
"And you smile more." She says this softly, like it's important. “Not that intellectually superior half-smirk you use on your own employees…but your real smile.” She blinks, her smile faltering. “We’ve all missed that smile.”
Before I can respond, my mother starts passing around dessert – her famous apple pie, the one recipe I've never been able to optimize despite years of trying.
"The secret ingredient is love," she always says, which is exactly the kind of unquantifiable variable that drives me crazy.
"This is incredible," Rosalind says after her first bite. "Though I bet someone tried to calculate the perfect ratio of cinnamon to apples... "
"Three attempts," Natasha confirms. "The last one ended with the fire department's first visit."
"Minor technical difficulties," I mutter.
"You set off the sprinkler system!"
"A statistical anomaly."
"The pie was blue!"
"I was testing a theory about oxidation rates."
Rosalind's laugh carries no judgment, just warmth. Her shoulder brushes mine as she reaches for her water, and I find myself cataloging the point of contact like data I want to remember.
"Speaking of theories," my mother says with deceptive casualness, "any thoughts about the mountain cabin this weekend? I heard that of all the people he could have hired or brought in, Alex tapped you to head to the cabin for his engagement party prep?"
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. "How did you?—"
"Connor's grandmother might have mentioned it at bridge club."
"Of course she did." I glance at Rosalind, who's suddenly very interested in her pie. “I’m helping Alex out, of course. But, uh, we haven't really discussed?—"
"I'd love to help," she says, surprising me. "Very... professional of me."
"Extremely logical," I agree, but something in her smile makes me think we're both remembering coat closets and office furniture and other distinctly unprofessional moments.
My phone lights up again. This time it's Connor: Also, Grams says to remind you the cabin has excellent acoustics for romantic declarations. Also, pack snow chains.
I silence it just as Anna asks, "Can you optimize love, Uncle Gray? "
The table goes quiet except for the soft tick of my mother's antique clock and the steady fall of snow outside.
"That's what SecureMatch does, right?" she continues. "Makes love logical?"
I open my mouth to explain algorithms and compatibility metrics, but Rosalind beats me to it.
"I think," she says carefully, "some things can't be optimized. Like your grandmother's pie recipe."
"Or Gray's attempts at normal human interaction," Natasha adds.
"Or Marvin the Magnificent's dove manifestations," Rosalind continues, and suddenly we're both laughing at the absurdity of everything – fake relationships and real feelings, algorithms and intuition, professional distance and the way her hand feels on my knee.
"You two are weird," Anna declares, but she's smiling.
My phone buzzes one final time. Emily Hanning: It would be best to get your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Dixon. Don’t you want to clear the air about the real story behind Seattle's most logical romance?
I turn it off completely, choosing instead to watch Rosalind charm my family with stories about Sir Galahad's latest dueling challenges and William's several baking experiments.
She fits here, I realize with a jolt. Not just as part of our carefully crafted narrative, but really fits. Like my mother's pie recipe – perfect without refining, precisely because it can't be measured.
"Statistically speaking," Natasha whispers, catching my expression, "you're in trouble, big brother."
For once, I don't argue with her analysis.