Instead of the serene gaze that has greeted his audience every weekday, he looks out with cloudy eyes.
“Over the last three years,” he begins, “our community has grown from hundreds to the tens of millions. We have developed long-lasting bonds that are based on the fundamental premise that the big moral questions of our lives remain unanswered, and that to ask these questions, of ourselves and of each other, is what brings us together as human beings.
“Last night I failed you as the steward of our community. I always said that I was only here as one of you, a person who has the same basic need for spiritual sustenance as everyone else. And yet I took on the responsibility of leading this organization, for making decisions that would affect all of you. A few months ago, I made the decision to integrate Obit.ly and WAI. I thought both platforms used the best of technology—that is, the ability to replicate our humanness into new and groundbreaking forms—to give us something that was previously unthinkable. But unthinkable things should sometimes remain in the realm of the imagination: ideas we consider and dream of but resist the urge to bring into being.”
I know this speech by heart; I helped write it an hour ago. But now Cyrus hesitates. He looks down, pauses for a long moment, and goes off-script.
“There was one person on my team who warned me against the dangers of Obit.ly’s messaging service. Her name is Asha Ray and she is my co-founder and my wife. She fought hard to make me and the others on our team see that we were out of our depth, and that this new path was unsafe for our community. Unfortunately, I did not listen. Our disagreement on this matter led to a rift between us, as colleagues, friends, and partners. I thought we were parting ways on ideological grounds, but really, it was my shortsightedness, my inability to see that she was fundamentally right and I was wrong. I gave up my life’s greatest gift—my closest human connection—because I was unable to see the higher truth in another person’s vision.”
At this point, his voice, quivering but steady, breaks. “For this reason, I am stepping down as CEO of WAI, effective immediately. I am announcing this to you, my friends and fellow travelers, first. My team and my board are hearing of it now for the first time. And I would like to say to my wife, Asha, that I can think of no better person to run the company from this day forward. Our future—not just as a company but as a human collective—is in question. We have challenges ahead that none of us could have foreseen. I hope sincerely that Asha will be the one to guide you through these challenging times, and that you, my friends, will embrace her as you did me.”
I’m trying to get my head around what I’ve just heard. The screen that was previously displaying Cyrus’s face is now reflecting what the viewers are seeing, which is me, perched on a stool, with improbably shiny cheekbones and a blowout that could hang at the MoMA.
Someone is talking to me. “Wow, Asha, what an announcement. Did you expect this at all?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Let’s give Asha here a moment to absorb the news. She’s just been invited to run WAI, a major social media platform that people say might soon become a rival to the establishment. Asha, did you ever imagine you would become CEO yourself?”
I try to assemble the random assortment of words that are flying around inside my head. “It wasn’t something I ever expected to do. WAI was born on my laptop, an idea that I had when I met the extraordinary man you just heard from.”
“And what happened then?”
“We all just agreed that Cyrus would run it. He was the one who had the rituals in his head, and once we launched, he was the person everyone looked up to.”
“He certainly is a charismatic man. And if you decide to become CEO, what do you think you might change, especially in light of last night’s tragic events?”
“We are all going to have to do a lot of soul-searching,” I say. “Not just us at WAI but at all the tech companies. We have influence across every aspect of human life now. We have to take better care of our communities.”
“Before we finish, I know our listeners out there are wondering—are you and Cyrus Jones going to remain a couple?”
I feel the tug of the fake lashes that are glued to my eyelids. “This project was a partnership from the start,” I say. “It will always be that.”
I’m led offstage. By the time Tina and I exit the building, there are cameras and microphones in our way. Tina takes a pair of sunglasses out of her bag and I put them on, and it’s like a wall has gone up between me and the world. “You did great,” she whispers, then she ushers me forward, where a car door is held open.
Jules is waiting for me inside the car. We drive downtown, the traffic still light at this early hour. He takes my hand. “We fired Marco,” he says. “Charlie made him sign everything over to us, so we can do whatever we want with the tech.”
“Burn it,” I say. Then I say, “A lot of people loved AfterLight, didn’t they?”
“It’s possible that we were trying to do something important. But it doesn’t matter now. It was too dangerous.” He is still holding my hand. “Cyrus is right, you know. It should be you. It should always have been you.”
“What’s going to happen?” I ask him.
“Come stay with us,” Jules says. “Gaby will cook, and we can sing duets and drive him crazy.”
I smile, grateful, and tell him I’ll think about it. But I feel like he’s talking about a totally different group of people. Not ones who just killed a man because they couldn’t stop what they were doing for long enough to consider the consequences.
* * *
Cyrus is curled on top of the blankets. He’s wearing his coat, but he’s taken off his shoes, which lie in a pile along with his hat, gloves, and scarf. He’s asleep; he doesn’t stir even as I lean over and lightly kiss the top of his head. I want to wake him up right away, but I also need a moment to take it all in. Cyrus, in our bed. Home.
I pace the apartment. Then I make myself sit down and reply to the frantic messages from my parents, and I send about a dozen emails to people who need to know that things are under control. My fingers are shaky on the keyboard, but inside I am strangely calm, working through the messages, saying what I have to say, reassuring, in control. Then I wander around the apartment again and eat an egg I boiled yesterday.
I pad up the stairs and find that Cyrus hasn’t moved, he’s still lying there on his side with his face pressed against the pillow and his hands between his knees. I get into bed beside him, and he stirs, removes his coat, and gets under the blanket with me. I nudge closer until I can feel the heat of his body radiating toward me, till I can smell his exhaled breath, which is so familiar it makes my own breath stop in my chest. He stirs, and then we are kissing, softly but urgently. Our bodies edge closer, our hands reaching toward each other. He mumbles tenderly to me, I hear him saying he loves me. He dips his head and grazes my neck with his lips, and then he unbuttons my shirt and everything is hazy and dreamlike, the want growing inside me as he shifts his body and presses on top of me. Cyrus. The tender yield of his skin, the rhythm and weight of his body, so familiar. I keep my eyes closed and let out a small cry. Cyrus.
We sleep. I wake up and it’s dusk, and there are about a hundred messages on my phone, so I turn it off. I put my hand on Cyrus’s face and he stirs, opens his eyes.
“I used my key. I hope you don’t mind.” And then: “I love you so much, Asha.”
“I love you too.”
“I killed Stephen.”