26. System Restore Point Heart
26
SYSTEM RESTORE POINT: HEART
SecureMatch Headquarters, Seattle, WA
GRAYSON
Three days after the engagement party, and I'm attempting to optimize my way back to normal. Seattle's perpetual February grey provides a fitting backdrop as I fall into familiar patterns.
Gym at 5 AM. Office by 7.
Meetings scheduled with exacting precision. Down to the minute.
Everything exactly as predicted, except for how I keep expecting to see golden-brown eyes and loud belly laughs around every corner.
" Sir ," CORA announces as I finish my third boxing session of the day, " your cortisol levels suggest elevated stress. Would you like me to compile a statistical analysis of healthy coping mechanisms ?"
"No, CORA."
" Perhaps a comparison study of post-breakup recovery timelines ?"
"Definitely not. "
" Then might I suggest reviewing your playlist? Studies indicate that repeated listening to 'All By Myself' correlates with ? — "
"Mute, CORA."
The AI falls silent just as my phone buzzes.
Connor: Your robot keeps sending my grandmother links to relationship counseling services. What kind of monster have you created?
I can’t tell if he’s talking about CORA. Or his grams.
Then Alex: Mac says Nonna Flora's cooking has reached critical mass. Something about your "disrupted energy" affecting her Sunday gravy's emotional stability. Pretty sure she's planning an intervention via cannoli.
I silence them both, focusing instead on the punching bag with probably more force than necessary. The gym's early morning quiet feels almost meditative.
There’s no algorithms, no AI assistants. Just the steady rhythm of my combos. Over and over again.
"Your form's off."
I turn to find Douglas Franklin watching me, looking dapper and half-bored.
"I wasn't aware you boxed," I say, unwrapping my hands.
"I don't. But I do read TechCast." He holds up his tablet, where Emily Hanning's article practically glows: " Tech's Most Eligible Bachelor Discovers Love Can't Be Coded: An Exclusive Look at Silicon Valley's Most Fascinating Romance ."
"Douglas—"
"It's actually quite good." He scrolls through the piece. "Especially the part where you apparently had an emotional breakdown about the limitations of algorithmic matching. Very... humanizing."
"I can explain?—"
"No need." He puts away the tablet. "Though you might want to explain why you're destroying perfectly good boxing equipment instead of fixing what's actually bothering you."
"Nothing's bothering me." I grab my water bottle, definitely not thinking about auburn hair in firelight. "Everything's operating at optimal efficiency."
"Right. That's why your AI has been sending my entire board meditation app recommendations."
Before I can defend CORA's increasingly concerning communication habits, my phone buzzes with another message. This time from Emily Hanning herself: Sources say Heart & Soul's client numbers have doubled since the article. Care to comment on the impact of emotional authenticity in modern matchmaking?
By the way, you were right last night. I made some edits to the feature, if you haven’t noticed.
Good luck.
"You know," Douglas says, reading over my shoulder with impressive stealth, “the article was actually really good. Shows that maybe there’s more to SecureMatch’s matches than number or statistics. In fact…there's a tech investor soirée tonight at The Metropolitan. Perfect opportunity to show everyone that SecureMatch's CEO hasn't completely lost his emotional processors.
“Douglas, I’m not sure?—“
"Seven o'clock." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Grayson? Maybe try optimizing something besides your misery."
I stare after him for a moment, then pull out my phone.
Me: Tech investor thing tonight. Need backup.
Alex: Can't. Helping Mac prevent William from sage-cleansing the entire restaurant. Apparently your "aura of heartbreak" is affecting his starter's chi.
Connor: Only if I can bring Grams. She has OPINIONS about you and that article
Perfect. An evening of Seattle's tech elite plus Connor's grandmother's relationship advice.
My phone buzzes again. CORA: Sir, I've compiled a comprehensive analysis of rebound relationship success rates. Would you like me to cross-reference with current dating app metrics?
"No, CORA," I mutter, heading for the showers. "Just... no."
The Metropolitan's elegant space fills with Seattle's tech elite by the time I arrive, everyone dressed in the kind of understated wealth that suggests their startups have survived at least two funding rounds.
"There's my favorite emotional disaster!" Connor waves from near the bar, where his grandmother appears to be holding court with what looks like half the venture capital community. "We were just discussing your AI's weird ass playlist choices."
"Wonderful." I accept the drink he hands me. "Any other aspects of my personal life you'd like to broadcast?"
"Oh honey," his grandmother pats my arm. "Everyone's already reading about that in TechCast."
I resist the urge to groan out loud. The next hour passes in a blur of startup pitches and insufferable small talk. I'm nodding through what feels like my fortieth conversation about blockchain optimization when Connor appears at my elbow.
"Incoming," he mutters. "Douglas Franklin at two o'clock, looking suspiciously determined."
"Mr. Dixon." Douglas's voice carries over the space. "A moment?"
He guides me toward a quieter corner, though not before I catch Connor's grandmother brushing dark blond stands of hair from his forehead.
"Your numbers are up," Douglas starts, which is not what I expected. "Way up. Turns out, people love the idea that even tech's most logical bachelor can't quite optimize love."
"That's... good? "
"It's excellent." He studies me over his whiskey. "Though I have to admit, I'm curious about something."
"Just one thing?"
"Why did you really break it off with Rosalind?"
I swallow at the question. "To tell you the truth, Douglas, it was just... business. A publicity arrangement that got, um, complicated."
"Right." He takes another sip. "That's why you're destroying gym equipment at 5 AM while your AI plays Céline Dion."
Before I can defend my workout choices, the room's lighting dims. A spotlight hits the stage as the MC steps up to the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next presenter, Samantha Carpenter, introducing this year's recipient of the 'Excellence in Tech Investment Strategy' award..."
"Oh God," Connor mutters. "Speaking of complicated."
I’d figured Joel and Samantha would be here. What I hadn’t figured is that this event would be a round of ass-kissing for Joel as well.
I’d been to events like this before—with rich donors. Each one was determined to stroke the ego of narcissists like Joel Franklin, men and women who relished in receiving faux awards that made them feel like the wanna-be masters of the universe they believed they were.
Right now, Samantha Carpenter AKA Soon-to-be Mrs. Wannabe-Master of the Universe #17 takes the stage wearing the exact shade of blue that I recognize from too many investor meetings - the color Joel's research suggests projects "optimal spouse success probability." Everything about her is measured, calculated, optimized. Just like...
Just like I used to want.
"Tonight," she begins, her smile pitched to the precise tenor of ass-kissing that Joel loves, "I'm honored to present this award to someone who has revolutionized how we approach investment in the tech sector. Someone who understands that success can be quantified, that even relationships can be optimized for maximum return on emotional investment?—"
The massive display behind her flickers. The tech running the system frowns at their laptop, clicking frantically as Samantha's personal calendar suddenly fills the screen.
I don’t understand what I’m staring at for several seconds. Not until the crowd starts to gasp.
"Tuesday 10AM: Divorce Attorney (DO NOT SYNC TO SHARED CALENDAR)"
"Wednesday 2PM: 'Healing from Algorithmic Love' Support Group"
"Thursday 3PM: Therapist - Discussion Topic: Breaking Free from Optimization Prison"
Clad in a suit that’s worth more than most cars, Joel Franklin, who's been approaching the stage with a shit-eating grin, stops dead. His presence only makes the murmurs amongst the crowd louder.
Each click from the panicked tech reveals more entries:
"RECURRING: Weekly Meeting of 'Yes, My Partner Also Tried to Quantify My Emotions' Anonymous"
"URGENT: Research How to Block Partner's Efficiency Tracking Software"
"REMINDER: Delete Browser History re: 'How to Fall in Love Like a Normal Person'"
"Well," Connor's grandmother whispers loudly enough for half the room to hear, "this is better than my bridge club drama."
But I'm barely listening.
Because even though Roz’s joke of an ex looks like he might shit his pants...
Even though Roz’s empty-headed backstabbing cousin is watching her engagement blow up in front of half of Seattle’s tech elite …
All I can feel is goddamned shame.
Shame because watching Samantha and Joel’s constructed facade crack feels like looking in a mirror.
And as the tech scrambles to get the projector working, as Samantha stutters and as Joel tries to interrupt, to regain control, to optimize his way out of this mess, I see myself. See every time I tried to reduce love to data points, to calculate my way through feelings that were meant to be felt.
The final calendar entry appears in bold: " Download Heart & Soul Connections App - Because Sometimes the Old Ways Are Better ."
Samantha's measured smile finally breaks. "You know what?" She turns to Joel, who's now frozen halfway to the stage. "I was going to wait until after the ceremony to tell you this, but since we're all about optimization metrics - here's some data for you: I'm done. Done with the weekly relationship performance reviews. Done with having my conversation patterns analyzed for 'maximum networking efficiency.' Done pretending to want to be in this relationship!”
She yanks off her perfectly selected blue blazer, her over-the-top ditzy arm-candy mask popping like a champagne bubble as she turns back to the crowd, arms outstretched.
"Did you know he has a spreadsheet tracking the statistical impact of my wardrobe choices on his funding success rates? That he times how long I spend talking to each investor's spouse to ensure 'optimal social distribution'?"
The room is dead silent except for Connor's grandmother's delighted "Oh my!"
"I thought this was what I wanted," Samantha continues, her voice cracking. "To be the perfect partner. But you can't ploy your way into real connection. You can't mold your way into love. And I'm so tired of trying."
Something in my chest tightens as her words hit home. How many times had Roz tried to tell me the same thing? How many moments had I missed because I was too busy analyzing them?
Indicating I’ve got a call to Connor and his Grams, I head for the terrace doors.
“Hey, bro!” Connor calls after me. “Everything good? You?—”
But I'm already outside, the snow falling around me as I pull out my phone. Jessica's number still sits in my contacts, untouched since that last awkward conversation about returning house keys and dividing up our shared smart home devices.
My finger hovers over her name. No algorithms. No careful calculations. Just... whatever this is.
I hit dial before I can overthink it.
The phone rings once, twice, three times. Then:
"Grayson?" Jessica's voice carries that particular mix of surprise and wariness I probably deserve. "I... wasn't expecting?—"
"How did you know?" The words tumble out of my mouth without finesse. "With James. When Roz connected you two. How did you know it was real?"
Silence stretches between us, heavy with the years of distance.
"You mean, how did I know it was worth blowing up everything we'd built?" A pause. "Worth hurting you?"
"Worth being unpredictable," I correct, though my free hand clenches at the memory. "Worth disrupting all our plans."
"That's exactly it, though.” She snorts softly, the sound sad. "Our 'careful plans.' Our perfectly optimized future. God, Gray, do you know how exhausting it was? Being the perfectly assessed choice?"
"I thought that's what we both wanted."
"No. That's what you needed. Everything measured, everything controlled. Even our engagement was an algorithm. "
"It was efficient.”
"It was safe." The bite in her voice makes me flinch. "And then I met James, and suddenly I understood what everyone else had been talking about. What Rosalind kept trying to tell me about real connection."
"And now?"
"Now I wake up every morning terrified and thrilled and completely, ridiculously happy." She pauses. "Because I finally stopped trying to be perfect and started being myself.”
Hearing this. Listening to everything I’ve done.
It’s like a bug in a great code.
Destructive. Screwed up. But impossible to ignore.
And just what the hell I’ve needed.
“I’m doing the same thing now, aren’t I?” My voice comes out barely audible.
“Doing what?”
“I’m sorry. I think…I’m trying to make the woman in my life fit into my planning instead of..."
"Instead of letting her show you a better way?" I can hear her smile. "Grayson, you are the smartest man I’ve ever known…but sometimes, you really can be so dense.”
"So everyone keeps telling me."
"Then maybe start listening." Another pause. "You know what the difference is between then and now?"
"Besides your significantly less organized schedule?"
"I fought for James," she says simply. "Even when it meant burning everything down. Even when it meant hurting you – which I am sorry for, by the way."
I swallow hard. “I know."
"Do you?”
Through the windows, fresh snow begins to fall, and I watch it, my mind spinning like one of the snowflakes outside.
"Oh God," I mutter. "I've really fucked this, haven't I?"
"Only everything that matters." But her voice holds no judgment. “But now that you know better, Gray…You can do better.” A silent second passes, then another one. “By the way, I called the woman who matched me with James.”
“You mean Roz.”
“I’ve seen the headlines with you two. I just wanted to let her know that getting her version of the truth is better than letting others report their own. Because it’s exactly what happened to me. The press twisted and spun every story about me and you. My advice? Don’t let them do that to either of you.”
I already had.
Let the headline I’d read about Roz turn me away before I can even gave her a chance to explain.
“Thanks, Jess. I…I’m sorry I treated our relationship like a variable I needed to control.”
I can practically hear grin. “That’s alright. Just don’t make the same mistake twice.”
“I won’t.”
Ending the call, I stare down at the phone. So much time wasted avoiding that one conversation. Only for it to be everything I needed and more.
The moonlight casts a silver sheen over the terrace, the quiet hum of the city below barely registering. After a quick call to my car and driver, I adjust my cufflinks, ready to leave this circus behind, when the sound of uneven footsteps draws my attention.
Blond hair mussed and tousled, Joel stumbles out, a glass of something dark teetering in his hand. His tie is loose, his posture even looser, and the smell of cheap bravado follows him on the way out.
“Well, that was a shitshow,” he mutters, leaning heavily against the railing. His glassy eyes land on me, full of a confidence that’s as fake as his charm. “Women, right? Always gotta make things... complicated. ”
I don’t bother with a response. Instead, I glance at my watch, willing time to fast-forward through this pointless interaction.
Joel chuckles, the sound hollow and bitter. “Not much of a talker, huh? Fine. I’ll get to the point.” He swirls his drink, the ice clinking like the ticking of a clock. “Roz.”
At the sound of her name, my hand pauses on my cufflink, but I say nothing.
“You really think she’s worth it?” He drags the words out, as if they carry weight. They don’t. “I mean, sure, she’s...something. But long-term? She’s not exactly the ‘settle-down’ type.”
My jaw tightens. “Is there a point to this, or are you just drunk and trying to impress yourself?”
Joel smirks, smug and sloppy. “Just wondering if you’re really in it for the long haul. Or if this is some kind of experiment for you.” He pauses, savoring his own voice like it’s a fine wine instead of bottom-shelf garbage. “Because if it is, you might as well let her go now. Let someone who actually knows her step in.” His eyes narrow, and his arrogance spikes. “Maybe I chose wrong. But who’s to say you didn’t, too?”
I step closer, my voice dropping to a level that probably reaches Hell itself.
“You did choose wrong, Joel,” I tell him, and for the first time, his smirk wavers. “You had something extraordinary in your hands, and you treated her like an afterthought. You fumbled the bag. Dropped the ball. Whatever sad metaphor helps you sleep at night.”
I adjust my tie, taking my time.
“But me?” I take another step forward, and Joel suddenly finds his drink fascinating. “I don’t have doubts. I don’t have regrets. And I sure as hell don’t need advice from the guy who lost Roz because he couldn’t decide if he wanted a girlfriend or an ego boost.” I let that sink in before adding, “Spoiler alert: you went with the ego, and it’s not aging well.”
His grip tightens around his glass, and I watch him swallow whatever weak retort he had brewing.
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “You had her, and you let her go. I have her…and I thank fucking God that I’m not stupid enough to make the same mistake.”
For the first time, he looks rattled, his drink hanging limply in his hand.
I straighten, turning my back on him as I move toward the exit. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I add, “it’s Thursday, and I have better places to be. And someone worth my time I need to see.”
I don’t look back. My steps echo against the terrace tiles, each one final, resolute. Joel can stand there with his mistakes and his arrogance. It’s all he has left.
As for me…I’m still hoping I have something left. CORA seems to think I do. By the time I slide in the backseat of the waiting town car, my phone buzzes.
CORA: “ Sir, based on current behavioral patterns and elevated stress indicators, I calculate a 89.8% probability that you're experiencing what humans call an emotional breakthrough.’ Would you like me to compile relevant data on reconciliation strategies? ”
"No, CORA." I smile slightly, removing melting shards of snow from my shoulders. "I think I need to figure this one out myself."
“ Very inefficient, sir ."
"I know." I motion for my driver to drive, and the car starts to roll down the snow-covered street. "That's what I’m hoping will make it worth it.”