Chapter Fifteen
I’ve been rotting in my office chair for so long that my pedometer must think I’m a corpse. E.M.M.A.’s interface blinks back
at me—the sleek, minimalist design dominated by a pulsing circle at the screen’s center that almost seems to be a pupil, studying
me.
Judging me.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, betraying me with their trembling. Just like my brain betrays me with thoughts of two
days ago. That electric moment when our eyes met, the way his smile made my stomach flip . . . No. I shake my head, trying
to dispel the memory of our kissing. One time is a mistake. Two times starts to feel like a choice.
And yeah, about that kiss . . . After he left, I did what any rational adult would do: canceled my cocktail date with Hana,
and fell into an internet rabbit hole trying to figure out what the hell happened to me. Why I’d grabbed his shirt like that.
Why ordering him around felt so . . . right. I ended up in my bedroom, laptop propped on my knees, reading article after article
until my skin felt too tight and my breath came short. Let’s just say my browser history now looks like a PhD dissertation
on power dynamics, and the things I learned about dominance and control . . . well.
I’m still shaking, actually. Still feeling the aftershocks of what happened when I finally closed the laptop, got in the shower, positioned the pulsing stream just right and let myself imagine .
. . imagine having that power. His surrender.
The way he’d sound I—god. My thighs are still trembling and I can barely focus on E.M.M.A.
’s interface and I really, really need to not be thinking about this at work.
Turns out there’s a word for women who like to take charge. Several words, actually. But I’m not ready to put a label on . . .
whatever that was. The way his breath hitched when I pushed him against the wall. How perfect it felt to—nope. No. Absolutely
not.
I need therapy. Or more coffee. Or both.
“Come on,” I mutter, my voice shakier than I’d like. “It’s not that complicated and you started it with all your matchmaking. Just find a good match for Gale. Someone who is kind, okay with fame, maybe into sports
or cooking. How hard can it be?”
But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. The AI I’ve spent years perfecting, training on millions of data points . . . what
if she sees something I’m too scared to admit? Something I glimpsed in those late-night searches, in the way my body responded
to the mere thought of taking charge, of being in control. What if E.M.M.A. knows exactly who I am, even when I’m too terrified
to look that truth in the eye?
I can’t believe I’m debating a computer as if she were some kid on an elementary school playground . . . you started it, E.M.M.A.!
Nuh-uh.
Uh-huh.
Except the voice that comes through my earbuds is less “nuh-uh” and more maddeningly reasonable. Reanalysis complete. Conclusion: unchanged. You remain the optimal match for Gale Knight. Probability of successful pairing: high. This assessment is final.
I bend forward and bang my forehead against the desk. The cool surface does nothing to quiet the war between my heart and
head. How did I end up coding an AI with such inflexible output? Despite trying to tweak its neural network and retrain with
new datasets, it’s like E.M.M.A. has hard-coded stubbornness into its core algorithm. Or maybe—and this thought terrifies
me—it sees the truth I’ve been fighting so hard to deny.
“We’ve been over this,” I say, trying to keep my pitch at an inside voice. “Gale and I are old friends. It wouldn’t be appropriate
to date him.”
FRIENDSHIP IS A STATISTICALLY SIGNIFICANT PREDICTOR OF ROMANTIC SUCCESS, E.M.M.A. states in a monotone voice. ANALYSIS OF SHARED HISTORY AND PERSONALITY METRICS YIELDS A COMPATIBILITY SCORE OF 98.7%.
I wave my hand dismissively. “There’s more to compatibility than just data points.”
MY ALGORITHMS ARE FUNCTIONING WITHIN OPTIMAL PARAMETERS, E.M.M.A. responds in a flat, digitized tone. CALCULATIONS INCORPORATE MULTIPLE VARIABLES INCLUDING EMOTIONAL QUOTIENT AND SOCIAL INTERACTION PATTERNS.
“Well, they’re not accounting for the fact that I’m his sister’s best friend, or that we work together,” I shoot back. “Those
are pretty big obstacles.”
The AI is silent for a moment, the dot on my screen pulsing slowly in what I recognize as her “thinking” pattern.
FACTORS ANALYZED AND INTEGRATED INTO DECISION MATRIX. COST-BENEFIT ANALYSIS INDICATES POSITIVE OUTCOMES OUTWEIGH RISKS FOR ROMANTIC PAIRING OF USER AND GALE.
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “It doesn’t matter! I promised to find him a match, not to date him myself. Now, are
you going to help me or not?”
ACKNOWLEDGED. SUBOPTIMAL CHOICE DETECTED, E.M.M.A. drones as if she is getting sick of me. ALTERNATIVE PARTNERSHIP OPTIONS WILL BE GENERATED. WARNING: DEVIATION FROM PRIMARY DIRECTIVE OF OPTIMAL MATCH IDENTIFICATION
IS LOGGED.
So petty.
“Noted,” I say dryly. “Now, let’s see some options. Focus on athletes, career athletes.”
The screen flickers to life, presenting me with a parade of profiles. I scroll through interview summaries, my brow furrowing
in concentration. A pro golfer. A figure skater. Someone who does . . . something with horses. I can’t help but sigh.
“E.M.M.A., these are all . . . well, they’re fine, I guess, but they seem kind of bland,” I mutter, unable to keep the disappointment
from my voice. “One says her idea of a perfect weekend is organizing her pantry and drawers. Another practically lives in
nightclubs. And this one? Her claim to fame is never having smoked. I mean, come on. We can do better.”
I lean back, running a hand through my hair. “Gale’s got this infectious energy, you know? He’s warm, always ready with a
joke or a goofy grin. He’s obviously not a couch potato, but he’s not looking to exhaust himself partying every night either.”
As I speak, I realize I’m not just describing Gale—I’m painting a picture of someone I know intimately. Someone whose booming
laugh echoes through the room, whose eyes sparkle with mischief when he’s teasing. I push the thought aside, refocusing on
the task at hand.
“We need someone who can keep up with him,” I tell E.M.M.A.
, hoping the AI can somehow translate my vague human notions into actionable data.
“Someone who loves funky Americana diners or guys who are built like a brick wall but get misty over kittens. These profiles? They’re all sort of intense, and just not matching his vibes. He’s like a human golden retriever.”
RECALIbrATING SEARCH PARAMETERS. PRIORITIZING PROFILES WITH HIGH ENERGY AND EMOTIONAL DEPTH. SEEKING CANDIDATES WHO APPRECIATE
NOSTALGIC AMERICANA AND DEMONSTRATE MULTIFACETED PERSONALITIES. ADJUSTING COMPATIBILITY ALGORITHMS TO MATCH GALE’S CANINE
ENTHUSIASM LEVELS.
E.M.M.A. clearly has no clue what I mean by “golden retriever personality.” I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples as
I try to think of a way to explain this concept to an AI.
“Okay, let me break this down. When I say ‘golden retriever,’ I don’t mean an actual dog. It’s more like . . . imagine a person
who’s always happy to see you. They’re energetic, friendly, and kind of goofy in the best way possible. They’re up for anything,
whether it’s a hike in the woods or a Netflix marathon. They’re loyal, affectionate, and have this enthusiasm that makes everyone
around them feel good. That’s what I mean by ‘golden retriever personality.’ Got it?”
I wait, half expecting E.M.M.A. to bark in response.
UPDATING MATCH SYSTEM, E.M.M.A. states mechanically. INCREASING PRIORITY OF SHARED NICHE INTERESTS IN CALCULATIONS.
“Do that,” I say, then pause. “But don’t make them too similar. Gale needs someone who’ll challenge him a little, you know?
Keep him on his toes. Like maybe they enjoy a range of music like hip hop or K-pop or country too. A cat fan is a must, though.
Also close to family. Likes to celebrate holidays . . . Valentine’s Day, birthdays, all that stuff.”
The dot on my screen pulses faster, processing the new instructions. ALERT: SELF-REFERENTIAL SPEECH DETECTED. SUBJECT “HARRIET” MATCHES DESCRIPTION TARGET. PROCESSING IMPLICATIONS.
“No!” I snap. “Look, just . . . just find someone else. Please?”
There is a long pause, and for a moment I think E.M.M.A. might refuse. Then the screen changes, showing a new profile. My
eyebrows shoot up.
“Jasmine Chen? The WNBA star?” I ask incredulously.
You specified someone who could “keep Gale on his toes,” E.M.M.A. replies, a hint of what sounds suspiciously like smugness in her voice. Jasmine is athletic, intelligent, and shares Gale’s interest in classic science fiction cinema. She also has rescue cats,
and a noted sense of humor that aligns well with Gale’s, and likes to hang out with friends and family but doesn’t enjoy excessive
drinking.
I stare at the profile, trying to picture Gale with the basketball player. It takes me a second to realize E.M.M.A. just switched
to a more casual “friend mode” setting without my request. But this is actually not a bad match, at least on paper. Still,
something in my chest tightens at the thought of him kissing Jasmine’s full mouth or lying beneath her as those long thin
braids form a curtain, shielding them from the world.
“I don’t know,” I say slowly, my mind racing in directions it shouldn’t. Would she know what to do with him? Would she recognize
that little hitch in his breath that means he wants more? Would she know how to take him apart, piece by trembling piece,
until he’s begging? No. Stop it. She’s gorgeous and successful and exactly his type on paper.
Isn’t she a little tall? And a little too gorgeous?
I don’t give voice to my inside thoughts. I’m being pathetic. And possessive. And . . . something else I’m not ready to name, something that makes me want to delete her profile just to stop imagining her hands where mine should be.