20. The Uninstall
20
THE UNINSTALL
The Collective on Yale, Seattle, WA
ROSALIND
Three days until Valentine's Day, and I'm watching Grayson Dixon navigate Seattle's tech elite in a converted warehouse space turned wedding shower for the smug and rich.
The Collective's industrial-chic aesthetic somehow makes him look even more devastating – all clean lines and perfect tailoring against exposed brick and steel beams. String lights crisscross the soaring ceiling, casting everything in a warm glow that I’m 87.2% sure isn’t helping my attempt to maintain emotional distance.
Joel and Samantha’s wedding shower has spared no expense. And neither have I.
Using Olivia as my emotional crash-airbag, I try not to count down until the minutes until we can leave this shin-dig for the shittily betrothed.
"Your face is doing that thing again," Olivia observes, appearing beside me with two glasses of champagne. "The one where you pretend you're not watching him."
"I'm not watching anyone." I accept one of the glasses, definitely not tracking how Grayson's laugh carries across the room. "I'm appreciating the architecture."
"Right. The 'architecture' in that custom suit." She studies me with the kind of focus that comes from fifteen years of friendship. "You know what's interesting?"
"The way William's sourdough starter is apparently experiencing past life trauma?"
"The way you can't seem to finish a sentence without mentioning him somehow." She nods toward where Grayson's charming investors. "Three conversations today - you've brought up the cabin, his AI, and that thing he apparently does with his hands when he's thinking?—"
"I did not?—"
"You did. Twice." Her smile softens. "I haven't seen you like this since... well, ever."
"Like what?"
"Like you've finally met someone who matches you. Who challenges you and supports you and makes you forget about being careful."
"We're just?—"
"If you say 'maintaining a professional image' I'm telling Derek about the time you tried to tweak his proposal to me.”
“It worked, didn't it?"
"Because I locked you alone in the supply closet until you promised to let love be messy." She squeezes my arm. "Maybe it's time to take your own advice."
Before I can respond, Joel's voice cuts through the ambient chatter...
"Roz." Joel's voice cuts through the ambient chatter. "Can we talk?"
I turn to find my carefully coiffed ex-husband looking exactly like the kind of person who thinks love can be charted out like a business plan.
"Of course." I aim for polite indifference .
Olivia squeezes my arm before disappearing, leaving me alone with the man who once promised forever then traded up for a newer model.
"You look different," Joel observes, studying me like I'm a quarterly report. "More... current."
"Amazing what happiness will do." The half-truth tastes strange on my tongue. "Though I'm sure Samantha's thrilled you approve."
"Still so defensive." He sighs. "I meant it as a compliment. You've finally started embracing modern approaches. Moving past all that intuition nonsense."
"Nonsense?"
"The whole 'love is magic' philosophy that made scaling impossible." He gestures toward where Grayson stands. "Though I have to admit, I never expected you to actually date someone like Dixon. Always thought you'd stick to your... limited perspective."
The champagne turns sour in my stomach. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that it's nice to see you finally understanding what I tried to tell you years ago – that relationships are ultimately about strategic advantage. Publicity, resources..." His smile doesn't reach his blue eyes. "Though I suppose that's what drew you to Dixon. All those algorithms to compensate for your questionable judgment."
Something in my chest cracks. "You don't know anything about?—"
"I know you're finally acting like a real businesswoman instead of a romantic idealist." He glances toward where Samantha's holding court by the gift table. "Some of us figured that out sooner than others."
"Right." I set down my champagne before I'm tempted to throw it. "Because Samantha's such a brilliant strategist."
"She understands her place." His voice carries that patronizing edge I used to mistake for confidence. "Unlike some people who never quite grasped the bigger picture."
I'm moving before I realize it, pushing through clusters of Seattle's tech elite with their startup pitches and venture funds. The Collective's massive windows blur as I search for escape.
The rooftop garden is mercifully empty, string lights reflecting off rain-slicked surfaces like stars. Seattle's skyline spreads out below, a glittering reminder of how far I've come from the woman who once thought Joel understood real connection.
"Running away?"
I close my eyes at Grayson's voice. "Just needed air."
He moves closer, his presence somehow filling all the empty spaces. "Want to tell me what went down in there?”
I open my eyes. “In there?”
His dark brows fold together on his gorgeous face. “In there. With Joel.”
"It's fine.”
"It's not fine." He keeps marching forward, radiating barely contained fury.
"Grayson—"
"I mean it, Rosalind." His hands flex at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from storming back inside. "I watched that smug bastard corner you, watched your whole body language change—" He breaks off, jaw clenching. "Tell me what he said."
When I hesitate, he steps closer, framing my face with hands that gentle instantly despite the anger still scorched into his expression. “Come on. I need to know what he said to make you look like that."
"Like what?"
"Like someone just questioned everything you believe in." His hand finds my shoulder, warm through vintage silk. "I know that look. I used to see it in the mirror after Jessica. "
The honesty in his voice makes my carefully constructed walls crack. "He said I'm finally being sensible. Finally understanding that love is just another business transaction." The laugh I give comes out shaky. "That I'm dating you because your algorithms can compensate for my poor judgment."
Grayson’s whiskey-brown gaze grows even more heated. “There’s not a fucking algorithm in this world that could calculate exactly how wrong that bastard is.”
It’s a rare flare of anger from my even-tempered CEO. But I hate to admit: the fire in his voice puts a pulse between my legs.
I lick my suddenly dry bottom lip.
“Is that true?” I turn to face him, pulse pounding, my heart now dancing on my tongue. "Because lately I can't calculate anything. Can't predict or plan or... breathe properly, “ I pause, “when you look at me like that."
He blinks. “Like what?"
"Like you're seeing past all my safeguards. Like maybe you're tired of pretending too."
"Rosalind." Just my name, but the way he says it makes my pulse race. "I haven't been pretending since that night in the cabin. Maybe even before that."
"The coat closet?" I manage.
"The wine stain." His other hand cups my face. "The moment you broke every pattern I thought I understood."
Then he's kissing me, his body pressing mine against the pillar as my hands find his hair, messing up his perfect appearance in a way that feels symbolically important.
He makes a sound against my mouth that short-circuits my brain as his hands slide lower, lifting me slightly. I wrap my legs around his waist as he trails kisses down my neck, and suddenly all those careful boundaries seem very far away.
"Wait," I gasp as his teeth graze my collarbone. "Someone could?— "
"Let them." But he gentles his touch, pressing softer kisses along my jaw. "Though if you want to stop..."
I answer by pulling him back to my mouth, kissing him like I'm done pretending this is anything but real.
His hands find the zip of my dress just as the rooftop door bursts open.
"Gray?" Douglas Franklin's voice carries across the garden. "The tech reporters are asking for a few photos with you and— oh!"
We spring apart like startled teenagers, though I suspect our appearance leaves little doubt about what we've been doing. My dress is askew, Grayson's perfect hair thoroughly messed up, and we're both breathing like we've run a marathon.
"I'll just..." Douglas clears his throat. "Tell them you'll be down shortly. Though you might want to..." He gestures at our general dishevelment.
The door closes behind him, leaving us in charged silence.
After a few seconds, I decide to speak.
“I think I might want to…”
"Fix your lipstick?" Grayson's smile holds an edge of something new. "Among other things."
"All of it." But neither of us moves. "Though I'm not sure I remember how to pretend anymore."
"Me neither." He brushes his thumb across my lower lip, smudging what's left of my carefully applied lipstick. "Maybe we should stop trying."
Before I can process that, my phone buzzes with updates about traumatized sourdough and shower logistics and all the reasons this isn't supposed to be real.
"The reporters are waiting," I manage.
“I can’t tell you how much I’d like to give them something to wait for.” But he steps back, though it visibly costs him. “But you’re right. We should probably see tonight through.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. He helps me straighten my dress while I attempt to fix his hair, our touches lingering longer than necessary.
When we rejoin the party moments later, I catch Olivia's knowing look across the room. She raises her champagne in a silent toast as Grayson's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through Seattle's tech elite like we've been doing this forever.
Maybe we have been. Maybe all those careful patterns were just preparing us for this moment – for string lights and rain mist and the way some things can't be controlled.
No matter how hard we try.