25. Have You Tried Turning Love Off and On Again?
25
HAVE YOU TRIED TURNING LOVE OFF AND ON AGAIN?
Mountain Cabin, Outside Seattle, WA
GRAYSON
The day after Valentine's Day dawns like a system crash – cold, unforgiving, and impossible to ignore.
Seattle's record snowfall has transformed the mountain roads into something from a disaster simulation, which feels appropriate for the fucked-up way I feel.
" Sir ," CORA announces as I adjust my tie for the fourteenth time, " your heart rate suggests elevated stress levels. Would you like me to calculate the probability of successful social interaction given your current biological metrics ?"
"Mute, CORA."
" Though I feel compelled to note that your playlist choices since yesterday morning indicate concerning patterns of ? — "
"Mute. Forever."
The AI falls silent, though I swear I can feel judgment radiating from my phone. Then again, maybe that's just the countless messages I'm trying to ignore:
Connor: Grandmother says that damn CORA's been playing nothing but Taylor Swift breakup songs for her. Should we stage an intervention?
Alex: Whatever's going on with you and Roz, please don't let it affect tonight. Mac's really excited about the party.
Douglas Franklin: Press already speculating about your absence from SecureMatch's Valentine's events. Time for damage control?
I silence them all, adjusting my suit jacket with the kind of precision that probably betrays exactly how not-fine I am. The mirror reflects back a perfect image – dark suit, crisp white shirt, silver tie that completes the polished look.
Everything exactly as calculated, except for the slightly manic look in my eyes.
The car service arrives exactly on schedule because of course it does. I've optimized every variable of this evening except the one that matters…
How to handle seeing Rosalind again after yesterday's disaster.
The drive to her place feels eternal, each turn bringing fresh memories of her soft skin and raspy laughs and amber eyes.
When we finally arrive, she's already waiting outside her building, looking devastatingly beautiful in a deep blue gown that definitely isn't corporate-approved.
Her auburn hair catches the winter sunset, and I have to remind myself how to goddamned breathe.
"Mr. Dixon," she says as I help her into the car, her voice carrying that particular tone that suggests she's aiming for professional but missing by approximately 3.7 degrees.
"Ms. Carpenter." I settle beside her, maintaining careful distance. "Very prompt of you."
"Very efficient," she agrees, but there's an edge to her voice that makes my fingers twitch .
The drive starts in silence, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional buzz of our phones. Through the windows, Seattle's usual grey has deepened into early evening, the lingering snow creating strange patterns against darkening skies.
"About yesterday—" she starts.
“I’d say it was unexpected and very unprofessional,” I cut in, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "Though I suppose that's becoming a pattern."
She flinches slightly, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her dress. "That's not fair."
"Neither is finding out about Jessica through TechCast."
"I tried to tell you. Last night, at dinner?—"
"After four glasses of wine and months of weeks of keeping it quiet?" The laugh I give sounds bitter even to me. "Very strategic of you, Ms. Carpenter. Really.”
"You want to talk strategy?" She turns to face me fully, and suddenly the backseat seems to shrink. "How about building an entire company on the idea that love can be reduced to data points? That relationships are just algorithms waiting to be iterated?”
"At least I'm honest about my methods."
"Are you?" Her amber eyes flash. "Because lately it seems like you've been forgetting your own rules. Or was that just another optimization protocol? Get close enough to study the competition?"
I flinch. "You really think that's what this was?"
"I don't know what this was," she says softly. "But I do know you're a lot better at calculating variables than feeling them."
The car falls into tense silence as we wind our way up to the mountain cabin. Fresh snow blankets everything, transforming the familiar road into something almost unrecognizable. Kind of like us .
My phone buzzes. Connor again: Your AI just asked my grandmother for breakup playlist recommendations. Intervention definitely needed.
Then Alex: Mac says the snow's perfect for tonight. Like a fairy tale. Please don't turn it into a Greek tragedy
I silence them both just as we pull up to the cabin. Through the massive windows, warm light spills onto the snow, and I can already hear music and laughter floating out into the evening air.
"Ready?" I ask, though I'm not sure which of us I'm really asking.
“As I’ll ever be,” Rosalind mutters, but she takes my offered arm as we navigate the slippery path to the door.
The party is, objectively speaking, perfect. Exactly as planned, every variable accounted for except the way Rosalind feels pressed against my side as we make our entrance.
"There you are!" Dark-haired and gorgeous, Mac appears like a particularly festive ghost, beaming in white and gold. "The snow's like magic, isn't it? Like the universe knew exactly what we needed!"
"Very optimal of it," I manage, earning a small snort from Rosalind.
Before either of us can say more, Connor materializes with suspicious speed. "Gray! Need your help with something. Something urgent. Something… technical."
"Should I be concerned that your tie matches your grandmother's curtains?" I ask as he drags me toward what appears to be an impromptu bar setup.
"Should I be concerned that CORA's been cyber-stalking sad playlist compilations?" He hands me something that definitely isn't just club soda. "Alex!"
Our friend appears with the kind of timing that suggests this is a coordinated attack. "Everything okay? You look like you're about to ‘optimize’ someone's existence right out of reality."
"I'm fine."
"Right." Connor takes a pointed sip of his drink. "That's why CORA's been DMing my grandmother about emotional processing protocols."
“I should have never given her access.”
"And you need to tell us what happened," Alex cuts in. "Because Mac's been low-key stressing out all day, and if this party turns into another Franklin family drama?—"
“Roz matched Jessica." The words come out sharp as knives. "With James. While we were still engaged."
Silence falls, broken only by the distant sound of what appears to be William teaching party guests about sourdough's spiritual properties.
"Well," Connor says finally. "That's... unexpected."
"Is it?" I gesture toward where Rosalind stands with Mac, her vintage-inspired dress making her look like she stepped out of another era entirely. "She's been playing all of us. The whole time."
"Has she?" Alex's voice carries that particular tone that seems to say I'm missing something obvious. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like she's been exactly who she is – someone who believes in real connection over calculation."
"She kept it quiet for business advantage?—"
"Or maybe," Connor interrupts, "she kept it quiet because she was falling for you,” he leans in, “like we all know you’ve been falling for her, and maybe she didn't know how to handle it."
Before I can process that, my phone buzzes with an unknown number. Probably Douglas Franklin calling about more damage control?—
"Mr. Dixon?" A female voice I don't immediately recognize carries through the line. "Emily Hanning from TechCast. I've been trying to reach you about?—"
Something in me snaps.
"About what?" I cut in, my voice carrying an edge that makes both my friends step back. "About how you turned my personal life into clickbait? About how you used my relationship—my fake relationship—to drive engagement metrics?"
“I-“
"Or maybe about how you waited until Valentine's Day to publish, because nothing says 'journalistic integrity' like maximizing emotional impact for page views?"
"Mr. Dixon…”
"You want a story?" I'm practically vibrating with suppressed fury now. "Here's one: Tech CEO Realizes Everything He Built Is Based on Lies. Man Who Thought He Could Calculate Love Discovers He Can't Even Predict His Own Heart. How's that for your feature?"
The line goes silent for a moment. Then: "That's... actually better than what I had."
I end the call, suddenly aware of what I've just done. Of all the precise planning, the cultivated facade, not to mention the reputation that I’ve shattered in one minute of pure stupidity.
"Well," Connor says after a moment. "That was..."
“Certifiably fucking insane?” Alex suggests.
"I was going to say 'exactly what he needed to do,' but sure, let's go with that."
I look across the room to where Rosalind stands with Mac, her auburn hair catching the firelight in a way that makes focusing difficult. Something must show on my face because Connor sighs loudly.
"You're going to do something else stupid, aren't you?"
"I prefer 'strategically sound.’”
"You prefer opting out,” Alex corrects. "Like you did with Jessica. Like you're about to do now. "
"I'm not?—"
"What's your AI's favorite saying?" Connor remarks. "'Past behavior predicts future outcomes'?"
Before I can argue, William appears with what appears to be a tray of very concerned-looking pastries.
"The bread knows," he announces with the kind of certainty that shows he's been communing with sourdough again. "It senses uncalibrated energy patterns!"
"That bread needs therapy," I mutter, but I'm already moving toward Rosalind.
She sees me coming, her amber eyes widening slightly as I approach. The blue of her dress makes her skin glow under the haze of the fireplace, and for a moment, all my well-built walls threaten to crumble.
"Can we talk?" I gesture toward the balcony, and she follows me outside, the snow creating a natural sound barrier between us and the party.
Against the white backdrop, she looks like the stuff of fantasies, like something from the dreams I’ve been having ever since she stepped into my life. “If this is about the article—" she begins.
"It's about everything,” I say. “About algorithms and intuition and how I can't calculate anything when you're around."
"Grayson—"
"I built SecureMatch because I thought I could make love logical. That if I had enough data, enough variables, I could predict the perfect match." I laugh, but the sound comes out wrong. "And then you crashed into my life. Literally.”
"I'm sensing a 'but' coming.”
"But maybe that's the problem." I step back, putting careful distance between us. "Maybe some systems need to stay intact. Need to be protected from... emotional variables."
She's quiet for a moment, snow gathering in her hair like stars. "Is that what I am? An emotional variable? "
"You're an outlier, Roz.” The words taste bitter. "One that's making me forget everything I built my life on."
"Heaven forbid you feel something you can't quantify."
"This isn't about?—"
"Yes, it is." She steps closer, and suddenly breathing becomes a conscious effort. "It's about being scared. About avoiding things because you can't control what's happening."
"I'm not avoiding. I'm being logical."
"No, you're being a coward." Her voice carries an edge I've never heard before. “I know you are. Because I’ve been one, too. I hid behind my business. And now you’re hiding behind your ‘systems’ because you're so afraid of feeling something genuine. You'd rather hide behind algorithms and AI assistants than admit maybe, just maybe, love isn't something you can control.”
“Coming from the woman who kept quiet about Jessica for months?"
"I kept quiet because I was falling in love with you!" The words echo across the snow-covered balcony.
The silence that follows feels heavy enough to crack the mountain.
There are tears in her eyes now.
I swallow.
"I can't," I say finally. "I can't be what you need. Can't forget about my rules and protocols and?—"
"Can't feel something you can't control?"
"Exactly." I step back again, the cold air between us feeling symbolic. "This needs to end. Properly this time."
She's quiet for so long I almost think she won't respond. Then: "You know what your problem is?" She brushes snow from her dress with shaking hands. "Love isn't supposed to make sense. It's supposed to disrupt everything you thought you knew."
Through the windows, I can see our friends watching with varying degrees of subtlety .
"Goodbye, Grayson," Rosalind says softly. "I hope you find what you're looking for. Though personally, I think you already had it."
She leaves me there in the snow, taking all the warmth with her. Through my phone, I can hear CORA starting to play what sounds suspiciously like "All By Myself."