Chapter 5
You’re not even trying, Logan’s voice kept ringing in Ophelia’s head. I need to think.
He was going to break up with her. She knew it.
‘I need to think’ felt like it was spelled ‘it’s over.’
Ophelia left early Saturday morning, busying herself with a trip to the farmer’s market, where everything looked as appetizing as ashes. She bought nothing but a plain croissant that she ate in a perfunctory manner.
Socks. She needed socks, which led to her spending an hour in the store picking up packages and putting them back before not buying any at all.
Surely, she could make the mismatched pairs she had left stretch a little longer.
Finally, she stopped at the local coffee shop to order a latte, which went cold as she sat staring blankly at it for another hour before throwing it away.
When there was nothing more she could make busy with, she reluctantly made her way home. She was nearly to her block when she veered off to the left, repulsed as though she and Logan were the same poles of two magnets.
God, she didn’t want to break up with him.
This was a mess—a horrible, heartbreaking mess—but she still loved him. She’d never been in love before him. She couldn’t imagine finding anyone after.
Someone whistled at her, and she was distracted enough that she turned to look instead of ignoring it as she usually would. A gaggle of borged-out teenagers lingered on the street corner she was approaching.
Her blood chilled.
There was only one way kids their age could find the money and the shady doctors to get that kitted out with implants. She dropped her eyes to the pavement and walked faster.
“Hey, lady!” One of them called after her. “Nice panties!”
She grimaced, wishing a thousand deaths on whichever bastard had allowed x-ray vision to be distributed on the streets.
“Wait up,” another called, hustling after her. “We just wanna talk.”
Her heart thumped in her ears. Someone grabbed her hand, yanking at her shoulder as she was suddenly drawn up short. She turned wide-eyed, pulling desperately at his biting grip. The metal joints of his fingers pinched at her bare skin.
“Get off me!” she cried.
“Calm down, damn,” the boy said, grinning down at her. “We just wanna know if you want to have a little fun. You seem tense.”
A second teen came up behind her, boxing her in. People streamed by on the sidewalk as though they were invisible. They might as well have been. Only Cy-Tac officers would jump in on a cyborg incident, and they knew it. No one else would last five minutes if it came to blows.
“Let me go,” she whispered. “Please.”
Hands fell on her shoulders, and unfamiliar lips brushed her ears. “You should really chill. Come on, we know a place.”
Her joints turned to rusted metal as they began to pull her down the sidewalk.
Someone shouted nearby. “Hey!”
It was a regular cop on the other side of the street. He said something into his radio that she couldn’t hear, but the cyborgs cursed and shared a look before releasing her.
Their boots pounded against the pavement, and a few moments later, a hovercraft barreled past overhead with blaring sirens and flashing blue lights. She stood frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.
“Miss?”
She jumped as someone touched her shoulder.
The officer held his hands up in peace. “You okay?”
“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I… yes.”
“I need to take a statement,” he said, pulling out his holotab.
She was barely aware of his questions or her answers. When they finished, she walked on wooden legs toward the closest place with a public restroom—a Chinese restaurant with a little waving neon cat on the sign.
She walked right past the confused hostess, slipping into their bathroom and locking the door. At the sink, she washed her hands once, twice, a third time. She splashed soap and water over the ear that had been contaminated, then washed her whole face and neck for good measure.
Ice-cold water slid in rivulets down beneath her clothes, soaking the edge of her bra. She stared at her pinkened face in the mirror, then ducked her head and washed it again.
She heard her breath coming faster and faster, until her head spun from the extra oxygen. She began to cry softly as she shook.
She wanted to curl up on the floor and sob, but she couldn’t—the floor was covered in germs. Everything, always, was covered in germs. Instead, she squatted down on her heels and doubled over as she wept, hugging her arms around her chest.
She wanted to call Logan, to beg him to come get her, but maybe they were past that now.
Logan was the only man she’d met who hadn’t eventually grown tired of her mental illness.
Sometimes people didn’t mind it at the start—though more often, they found her to be rude or strange—but ultimately, everyone burned out on her in time.
Usually, the first time she had a bad episode in front of them, or even worse, a meltdown.
The first time she’d had a meltdown in front of Logan, she’d been laid off from her previous job working with pharmaceuticals.
She had loved that job, and it had been a gut-punch to be let go without any preamble.
She’d gone home and tried to make dinner like usual, but her OCD had spiraled in response to her stress.
Logan had come home to find her crying on the ground, the sink running as the chicken burned to charcoal in the pan, unable to stop washing her hands because she was convinced everything she touched was cross-contaminated.
She’d thought he would leave her then, but he’d brought her meds to her and watched her take them, then helped her into the shower so she could break the cycle of panic.
He’d never asked for much from her. To come out with him and his friends, help out around the house, and pick up some of the bills. Small things compared to the strain her erratic mental health must put on him. Now, he was asking for something he claimed he couldn’t go without.
Why did it have to be this?
She wasn’t sure why she was crying anymore. It was all one amorphous blob of self-pity.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Just a minute,” she croaked, wiping her face with her shirt.
With shaking hands, she called the person she’d been avoiding.
“Finally, you deign to call me back,” her mother said hotly. “I could have been in the hospital, you know.”
“Mom?” she said in a wavering voice.
Her mother was silent for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
She told her everything, though she couldn’t help softening Logan’s words and actions.
Her mother gave a heavy sigh. “You need to keep him happy, Effie. It’s not easy for people like you to find happiness. Don’t squander it.”
“People like me,” Ophelia repeated numbly.
“Mentally ill.” Her tone was patronizing, as though she wasn’t Ophelia’s carbon copy in that department.
“Right.” She stood up, staring at her bloodshot eyes in the time-worn mirror.
“I’m sure you two can work this out. Maybe you can meet him halfway. You know, he—”
Ophelia hung up. Her phone rang again immediately, and she shut it off before slipping it into her pocket.
She emerged from the bathroom in a miasma of her own shame, head held low. The hostess side-eyed her as she passed by with a mumbled apology. A bell over the door jangled cheerfully as she stepped back out onto the street.
Part of her wanted to phone up a friend and ask for help, but she’d stopped trying to make them years ago, convinced she’d only spoil it all in the end. The pain of rejection had seemed worse than the pain of loneliness, and slowly her social circle had narrowed to Logan, alone.
She thought of calling Laura, but… what would she say, really? Wouldn’t it jeopardize Logan’s career if she complained about him to his coworkers? She couldn’t do that.
You need to keep him happy, Effie. It’s not easy for people like you to find happiness. Don’t squander it.
She sighed in misery, the warmth of her breath thawing her cold-numbed nose.
He was trying, wasn’t he? He’d recognized her horror at the thought of sleeping with another person, so he’d brought home the android. A toy, he’d called it. And wasn’t that all it was? Just a machine that looked like a person—basically a walking vibrator.
She could do that, couldn’t she? If he was just a thing, an object, it wouldn’t feel like cheating. It would be like using a toy on herself while he watched, and that thought didn’t turn her stomach over. Maybe it was all a matter of perspective.
She didn’t want to lose him. She couldn’t.
Closing the sanitizer with her shoes tucked safely inside, Ophelia straightened and stepped into the apartment.
Logan lounged on the couch, the news muted on the TV as he fiddled with something on his holotab. The android sat next to him in that ramrod straight way that would have made her abs tremble with effort. He regarded her with quiet, clinical interest.
“Hi,” she murmured, looking past him to her fiancé.
Logan looked up at her with an inscrutable expression. “Hey.”
“Um… Can we talk?”
After a pause, he nodded, setting down his holotab and gesturing toward her reading chair in the corner. She crossed to it and sat down on the ottoman, folding her hands in her lap.
“I’ve been thinking.” Her voice wavered, and she cleared her throat before continuing. “About last night. About… about meeting you halfway.”
A flicker of hope lit in his eyes, breaking the stoicism of his expression. “And?”
Her gaze flitted nervously to the android sitting beside him, the android she was about to…
She looked away quickly.
“I want to try,” she said with more certainty than she felt. “For you. I’ll try.”
There was a moment where she thought maybe he was going to tell her not to bother, but that familiar, brilliant smile of his took over his face. He stood and crossed the room to pull her to her feet, kissing her deeply. When he pulled away, he cupped her face in both hands and beamed down at her.
“Thank you,” he breathed. “I know you’re nervous, but you’re going to enjoy it, I promise.”
She smiled, hoping it reached her eyes.