I grinned, throwing my hands in the air and doing a little dance at my desk. Albeit, a quiet dance.
“Yes. Okay. Good. This is very good. I love this.” Daniella was typing again, it sounded rushed and excited. “Marie, send me over the concept blurb, with a storyboard of each article. We could stretch this over a few months, starting in November and through the season, when people are suffering from holiday blues.”
“Yes. I will. I’ll send it over today.” I scribbled a few notes on my notepad, briefly distracted by the buzzing of my cell phone. It was my mom, but I would call her back after my work call was finished.
“I’d like both the male and female perspective on this, especially the paid services part. Is cuddling essential for men? Who knew? And orgasm meditation, what does the man get out of it? If anything.”
“Great,” Tommy agreed readily. “Maybe I’ll fly to Chicago, Marie can show me around while we cuddle and dry hump.” Then, as though realizing what he’d just said, he quickly amended, “Not each other, obviously. Sorry. That came out wrong.”
I chuckled. “How about you check out the cuddlers of LA, and I’ll do the same here. Then we can write the OM and dry humping pieces together.”
“Sounds like we have a plan. I have to dash. I’m excited about this. This is going to be great. Talk later.” Before I could say another word, Daniella hung up, ending the conference call.
Breathing a sigh of relief and gratitude, I picked up my cell and navigated to my mother’s number.
She picked up instantly. “Marie! Sorry, did I interrupt you?”
“No. Not at all. Sorry I didn’t pick up; I was just finishing up a work call. How are things?” I asked with a smile in my voice, still feeling the rush of victory.
“Not bad. Your father says hi and is planning to call you tomorrow about cell phones. He needs a new one and doesn’t know where to start.”
My mom and I chatted amicably and affectionately about anything and everything, as was our way. But I braced myself for the end of the call, because she’d always bring up the same subject.
“So . . .”
Here we go.
“Your father repaired the floor in the treehouse.”
I smiled, closing my eyes and letting my forehead drop to my hands. “That’s nice.”
“You know, just in case you or your brother decide to give us grandkids anytime soon.”
There it is.
“Mom.”
“I was reading a story about a lady in New York who has one of those high-powered jobs like yours, and do you know what she did? She got herself a donor. You know, a donor?”
“Oh God.”
“Sperm.”
“Yes, Mom. A sperm donor. I got it.”
“That’s right. Sperm.”
“Please stop saying sperm.” I started to laugh because apparently I transformed into a thirteen-year-old whenever my mother said sperm. My mom knew I wanted kids—one day—but since my thirtieth birthday, she’d become less subtle about her desire to have grandchildren.
“Well, she got that sperm and she took it to the doctor and made a baby.”
“This isn’t unusual. People do this all the time.”
“Just wait. So, she got herself a nanny, to help with the day-to-day stuff. But then, as her baby grew older, she rented herself a dad.”
“Wait, what?” I was no longer laughing.
“That’s right. She rented a man, paid him to be a dad to her son. From one of those Internet websites called RentAFriend.com. You know, in Russia, it’s big business, what with their unemployment rate. Men will foster kids for payment. It’s just catching on in the States with single mothers.”
“Holy crap.”
“I know, right? Your generation is so clever, finding these workarounds, as you do.” She took a deep breath, like she was satisfied with how our conversation had progressed. “I’ll just leave you with that as food for thought. I know I’ve said it before, but your father and I would help, pitch in financially or any other way we could. Your happiness is important to us.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said numbly, too blown away by her suggestion to talk her off the limb of insanity.
“No problem, baby. Talk to you soon.” She ended the call and I knew she did so with a smile.
Meanwhile, I stared at nothing in particular for several minutes, trying to wrap my mind around the concept of what I’d just learned from my baby-crazy mother.
7
Tesla Model S Self-Driving System
A machine learning algorithm which can self-drive an automobile with no human supervision.
Source: Tesla
I didn’t want to examine why—not yet—but the idea of using a robot to meet my romantic relationship needs didn’t appeal to me as much as paying for human services. Something about relying on a robot exclusively felt inauthentic, fake in a way that employing humans didn’t.
“Matt.”
“Who is this?”
I grinned with satisfaction. Two weeks had passed since I’d made my threat to Dr. Matthew Simmons and the time had come to collect.
“It’s Marie.”
“How did you get this number?”
“Greg gave it to me.”
“Greg,” Matt said harshly, like his next-door neighbor’s name was a curse word. I could imagine Matt making a fist, his face scrunched in annoyance.
Dr. Matt Simmons’s outburst of frustration was strangely adorable, and I had to press my lips together to keep from laughing. “Yes. Greg. But let’s cut to the chase. When can I visit your lab? See your prototypes? Look at your data?”
I hadn’t gone into the office because I’d scheduled my first professional cuddling session for the afternoon. I figured I’d get all my errands out of the way: stop by Matt-the-pretender’s lab and then go get cuddled.
“Uh . . .”
“Is now good?” I was determined.
“Now? No. Now doesn’t work. And I have no time to meet for the next month either.”
This time I did laugh. I cackled, imbuing the sound with sinister enjoyment. “Oh, yes. Yes, you do, Dr. Simmons. You will make time right now. Otherwise the Chicago Tribune will be publishing the story I’ve already written about your research methods. And as a victim of those methods, let me tell you—”
“You? A victim?” He scoffed loudly. “I think you mean Valkyrie.”
I blinked, surprised by his choice of labels, and felt oddly . . . flattered. “Sure. We can go with that imagery, if you wish. Regardless, I’m stopping by today, as in,” I quickly calculated the time it would take for me to walk to the university, “within the hour. Expect me. And text directions to this number. Bye.”
Not giving him a chance to respond, I clicked off the call, smiling to myself.
Grabbing my packed lunch from the counter and the box of six coconut macaroons I’d made for Matt, I left my apartment.
Okay.
Yes.
Yes, he’d been a jerk, but he didn’t seem like a horrible person. I didn’t wish him ill. Plus, in his defense, I was going to be placing my marauding paws all over his hard work and pillaging his data for my own wicked purposes.