21. Letting Go of Ctrl Command
21
LETTING GO OF CTRL + COMMAND
Alex's Penthouse, Seattle, WA
GRAYSON
Two days until Valentine's Day, and I've been staring at the same engagement party supply spreadsheet for approximately two hours while actually thinking about how Rosalind felt in my arms at the wedding shower.
Seattle's winter twilight comes early, casting Alex's penthouse in that particular shade of grey that all Pacific Northwesters have to know. Heavy snow threatens again, but all I can focus on is the way Roz looked when I left her last night – slightly disheveled, thoroughly kissed, and more distant than ever.
"Earth to robot boy," Connor waves a hand in front of my face. "Your circuits are showing."
I minimize the spreadsheet, but not before Alex spots my distraction. "Dude, you've been rearranging the same row for twenty minutes."
"I'm analyzing placement strategies for?—"
"For someone who isn't even here?" Connor's grin turns wicked. "Someone who maybe messed up your perfect hair at last night’s wedding shower?"
"Douglas has a big mouth."
"Douglas has a group chat with my grandmother." He scrolls through his phone. "Apparently you and Roz gave quite the performance on the rooftop."
"Speaking of performance," Alex cuts in before I can strangle Connor, "thanks for helping with all this. I know engagement parties are usually more the bride's thing, but Mac's already done the whole production once, and I just... want to make it special. Different."
"Different like synchronized swimming different?" Connor asks. "Or different like actual human emotions different?"
"Different like I actually care about getting it right." Alex runs hands through his already chaotic hair. "Which is why I need you two idiots to help me not screw it up."
"Pretty sure your fiancée would marry you in a dumpster," I point out.
"Pretty sure you're just projecting your own romantic crisis onto my party planning."
"I'm not having a romantic crisis."
"Really?" Connor pulls up what appears to be a series of screenshots. "Because CORA sent my grandmother some very interesting data about your recent behavioral patterns..."
"I need to reprogram my AI's communication protocols," I mutter.
"You need to admit you're in love with Roz."
The sudden statement makes me blink. “That's not?—"
"What this is?" Alex finishes. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've spent more time thinking about Valentine's Day than my actual engagement party."
I glance guiltily at the minimized browser showing local florists .
"Oh God." Connor leans forward. "You're actually planning something, aren't you?"
"It's just research. For business purposes."
"Using CORA?"
"I..." I stop, realizing I haven't consulted my AI once. Haven't created a single algorithm or optimization protocol.
"Holy shit." Alex's grin could power Seattle. "You're going analog, dude?”
"I am not?—"
"You totally goddamned are." Connor pulls up more screenshots. "CORA's been complaining to my grandmother about your 'concerning lack of data requests' regarding romantic planning."
"Your grandmother needs a hobby."
"She has one. Everything grandmother does. It's called meddling in your love life." He studies me. "What did you usually do for Valentine's Day? With Jessica?"
The question catches me off guard. "I... had CORA analyze previous successful celebrations and create an maximum experience matrix."
"In English?"
"The AI planned everything." I clear my throat. "Calculated the perfect restaurant based on ambient noise levels and menu options. Ordered flowers according to color psychology studies. Once it even composed a statistically romantic poem..."
"Please tell me you didn't actually use AI-generated poetry," Alex groans.
"It was very efficient."
"It was very robot," Connor corrects. "But that's not who you are anymore, is it?"
I think about rooftops and string lights, about messy kisses and soft laugher and the scent of vanilla.
"No," I admit finally. "It's not."
"So what are you going to do about it? "
"I don't?—"
My phone buzzes. A message from Douglas: The board members at the shower were thoroughly impressed with you and Roz. Though maybe keep rooftop activities more discrete next time.
"You know what your problem is?" Alex asks, reading over my shoulder.
"Besides having friends who don't give a damn about privacy settings?"
"You're still trying to organize something that's meant to be messy." He grabs his phone, typing rapidly. "Mac says Roz loves this little speakeasy place in her neighborhood. They do this thing on Valentine's Day where?—"
"No." I stand, suddenly certain. "I mean, thank you, but... no."
"No?"
"I need to figure this out myself. Without codes or AI or well-meaning friends with questionable boundaries."
Connor whistles. "Look who's finally growing emotional processors."
"Shut up." But I'm already calling my house manager. "Talia? I need your help with something..."
An hour later, we three stooges actually manages to focus on engagement party plans. Mostly. Sort of.
"All I'm saying," Connor argues, "is that if you're going to go all out, it should reflect who you are now, not who you were trying to be."
"I'm not ‘going all out’.”
"Right. You're just having Talia transform your sterile penthouse into something Roz would actually want to spend time in." He scrolls through the extensive list of changes I just ordered. "Including, and I quote, 'replacing all smart home features with actual human-controlled switches.'"
"It's just an upgrade. "
"It's you finally admitting that some things are better without computational analysis.” Alex grins.
"That's very profound coming from someone who wanted to hire pasta acrobats."
"Hey, Mac vetoed the acrobats. She can't veto me trying to make our engagement party special."
"Speaking of special," Connor cuts in, "want to tell us what really happened on that rooftop?"
I hesitate, my mind wrapping around last night’s rooftop garden, the warm string lights and Roz.
"I think," I say slowly, "I might have forgotten about data entirely."
"Good." Alex claps my shoulder. "Because if you try to data analyze Valentine's Day, we're officially disowning you."
"Pretty sure that's not how friendship works."
"Pretty sure that's exactly how friendship works." Connor starts gathering his coat. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go prevent my grandmother from reprogramming CORA to play love songs every time you enter your office."
"She wouldn't."
"She absolutely would." He pauses at the door. "Though personally, I'm more interested in how you're going to handle the fact that Roz—like you—is probably overthinking everything right now."
He's not wrong. I check my phone again, but there's nothing from Rosalind except a carefully worded text about engagement party logistics.
"You know what Jessica's problem was?" Alex asks once Connor's gone.
"Besides falling in love with her co-founder?"
"She made sense." At my look, he clarifies: "On paper, in spreadsheets, in all your numbers. But she never made you forget about the data. Roz makes you human." He starts gathering party supplies. "Which is exactly why you're terrified. "
"I'm not?—"
“Dude, you’re scared shitless of anything you can't predict? You’re glitching right now. But at least, you know what you have to do," Alex says.
I do know. I just hope I can pull it off without any of my normal systems in place.
Through his windows, Seattle's eternal grey has taken on that particular quality that means more snow is coming. Like the universe is trying to tell me something about perfect timing and unpredictable patterns.
My phone buzzes one final time. CORA: Sir, might I suggest a comprehensive analysis of romantic gesture protocols?
"No, CORA,” I bark. “I’ve got it handled.”
I grab my own coat, preparing to head out into the winter weather, hoping that last part’s not a lie.