Chapter 19 Paige
PAIGE
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as I squint at my monitor, willing the lines of code to resolve themselves into something resembling sense.
MindMeld has evolved beyond our wildest dreams in the past few weeks, learning to mediate not just heated arguments but also the subtle, thorny conflicts that plague human relationships.
Like, for instance, what to do when the man you're in love with betrays your trust and then has the audacity to look at you with those puppy dog eyes every time you pass in the hallway.
"Analysis complete," MindMeld's interface chirps, its cheerful tone grating on my already frayed nerves. "Would you like to review the results?"
I groan, rubbing my temples where a headache has been building for the past three hours.
I can't believe I'm actually asking an AI for relationship advice.
But then again, who else can I talk to? Jamie's tired of hearing me mope about Alex, and Byte just purrs sympathetically while stealing my cheese when he thinks I'm not looking.
"Fine," I mutter, reaching for my now-cold coffee. "Hit me with your worst."
The results scroll across my screen in neat, orderly lines that mock my chaotic emotional state:
CONFLICT ANALYSIS:
Subject demonstrates strong emotional attachment despite claimed indifference.
Recommendation: Open communication channels. Consider alternative perspectives.
Note: Human stubbornness detected. Probability of accepting advice: 12.3%
"I am not stubborn," I protest, glaring at the screen like it's personally offended me. Which, to be fair, it kind of has.
"Probability of accepting advice revised downward to 8.7%," MindMeld responds, and I swear I can detect a hint of sass in its algorithmic output.
"Cute. Did Alex program your sass subroutine?" The words slip out before I can stop them, and just like that, the ache in my chest that I've been trying to ignore all day intensifies.
God, I miss him. Miss his stupid jokes and his infuriating smirk and the way he always seemed to know exactly how to push my buttons.
Miss the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he's truly amused, not just putting on a show.
Miss the warmth of his hand on my lower back when we'd walk to get coffee, the way he'd automatically order my usual (triple shot espresso, extra hot, no room for cream because I'm not a heathen) without having to ask.
But he betrayed me. Went behind my back with CupidCode, tried to sell my baby to the highest bidder without even talking to me first. I can't just forget that, no matter what MindMeld's fancy algorithms suggest.
"Additional analysis," the AI continues, undeterred by my brooding. "Subject exhibits classic symptoms of fear-based decision making. Recommendation: Examine root cause of trust issues. Consider possibility of forgiveness as path to growth."
"Okay, that's enough out of you," I mutter, minimizing the window with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. "I preferred you when you were just solving workplace disputes about who keeps stealing Karen from accounting's yogurt."
"Perhaps humans aren't ready for AI-guided emotional intelligence," MindMeld quips before falling silent, leaving me alone with my thoughts again.
I'm about to dive back into debugging—because clearly the sass levels need some serious adjustment—when my office door bursts open, revealing a frantic-looking Jamie.
"Paige! Thank god I found you. There's an emergency with the servers!"
I'm on my feet instantly, adrenaline spiking through my system. A server emergency could mean anything from a minor hiccup to a complete system meltdown, and with the MindMeld launch just days away, we can't afford either.
"What kind of emergency? Is it the new neural network? I told Owen it needed more processing power—"
"No time to explain!" Jamie grabs my arm, practically dragging me toward the door. Her grip is surprisingly strong for someone who spends most of her time typing. "Just come quick!"
We race down the hallway, my mind whirling with worst-case scenarios. Data corruption? Network failure? The AI becoming sentient and deciding to take over the world via passive-aggressive suggestions about human emotional intelligence?
But when we round the corner to the server room, I pull up short so fast Jamie nearly crashes into me.
Because there, pacing anxiously outside the door like some sort of caged jungle cat, is Alex.
He looks up when he sees us, his eyes widening in that way that still makes my stomach do a little flip. Damn him. "Paige? What are you—" He turns to Sam, who's standing beside him looking about as innocent as Byte after he's knocked something off my desk. "You said there was a gas leak!"
Jamie and Sam exchange guilty looks that would be comical if I wasn't suddenly fighting the urge to either kiss Alex or strangle him. Maybe both. "Um," Jamie says, backing away slowly. "Would you believe this is all a crazy coincidence?"
I cross my arms, channeling every ounce of righteous indignation I can muster to cover up the way my heart is racing. "Really? This is your master plan? Fake emergencies?"
"Hey, we're just trying to help," Sam protests, holding up his hands like he's facing down a wild animal. Which, given my current mood, isn't entirely inaccurate. "You two clearly need to talk, and since you're both too stubborn to do it on your own..."
"I am not stubborn!" Alex and I say in unison, then glare at each other. Because of course we'd be in sync even now, even when I'm trying my hardest to hate him.
Jamie throws up her hands, looking like she's one coding error away from a breakdown. "See? You're even stubborn in sync! Just... talk to each other, please? Before we have to resort to actually breaking something to get you in the same room."
And with that, they're gone, leaving Alex and I alone in the hallway with nothing but the hum of servers and years of complicated history between us.
The silence stretches between us, thick with all the things we haven't said. I study the floor, the wall, my shoes—anywhere but his face. Because I know if I look at him, if I see that soft, vulnerable look he gets sometimes when he thinks no one's watching...
"Paige," he says quietly, and god, the way he says my name still does things to me. "I—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand, finally meeting his eyes because I'm not a coward, damn it. I'm not. "Just... don't, okay? I can't do this right now."
He nods, his expression carefully neutral. But I can see the hurt in his eyes, the way his shoulders slump ever so slightly. After all this time, I still know his tells.
"Okay," he says, and the resignation in his voice makes me want to scream. "But Paige? For what it's worth... I miss you."
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. Because god, I miss him too. So much it feels like a constant ache in my chest, like a piece of me is missing and I don't know how to function without it.
But I can't tell him that. Can't let myself be vulnerable again, can't risk having my heart broken twice by the same infuriatingly perfect man.
So I do what I do best. I run.
"I have to go," I mutter, already turning away. "Deadlines to meet, code to debug..."
"Right," he says softly. "Of course."
I make it halfway down the hall before his voice stops me.
"Hey, Reynolds?"
I pause but don't turn around. "What?"
"Your code's never needed debugging. It's always been perfect, right from the start."
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, half sob and half genuine mirth.
Because of course he'd know exactly what to say to crack my carefully constructed walls.
Of course he'd remember that throwaway conversation from months ago, when I admitted that my obsession with perfect code stemmed from a lifetime of trying to be perfect myself.
"Fuck you, Spencer," I say, but there's no heat in it. Just a bone-deep weariness and something else, something that feels dangerously like longing.
I can hear the smile in his voice when he replies, "Love you too, Reynolds."
And then I'm running again, my vision blurred with tears I refuse to let fall. Because he's right—my code has always been perfect.
It's my heart that needs debugging.