I glared at him, irritated with myself for noticing how breathtakingly hot he looked.
The days apart since our last interaction had been good. Positive. I’d felt better about him, about us. Maybe it was possible to salvage our friendship. Maybe I really could roll back the crazy, suppress the urges, and recalibrate my expectations to platonic.
But seeing him now, feeling the involuntary but familiar surge of bittersweet anticipation, pissed me off.
He was holding a drink tray with two coffees and grasping a paper sleeve with some sort of pastry, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. His stride was easy, confident. And his hair was crazy, unbrushed, like he’d run out of time getting ready this morning. I loved his crazy hair.
As my gaze devoured the sight of him, I felt a pang of despair.
Despair because I was beyond attracted to him. I was so far beyond platonic, I’d jumped head first into the deep, dark waters of desire. Yet, thanks to witnessing his snogfest down the hall from Fiona and Greg’s apartment, I was also at peace with the fact that he was never going to return my feelings, not in any meaningful way.
Even if what Abram had said was true, that Matt didn’t feel worthy of me—and I wasn’t convinced this idea held any merit—it changed nothing. Matt wasn’t a car that needed to be fixed. He wasn’t a robot needing reprogramming; he was a person. He was ultimately responsible for fixing himself, and only if he wanted to.
You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink the water that will allow it to enter into a happy, fulfilling relationship. Maybe the horse likes being dehydrated. Or maybe you weren’t that horse’s type.
Step back from the stupid dehydrated horse . . .
Coming to a stop in front of me, he kissed me on the corner of my mouth. “Valkyrie.”
“Matt.” I imbued his name with all the exasperation I felt.
He handed me the sleeve, ignoring my tone, smiling persistently. “This is for you.”
“Thank you.” I accepted the pastry, my rumbling stomach reminding me that I’d skipped dinner the night before. “What are you doing here?”
“Flying to New York.” He blinked at me, like I was the nutty one.
“Oh, really? Do you have a work trip?”
“Not this weekend. This weekend, I’m going to help a friend. My best friend.”
“Help her how?”
“Save her from being leg-humped by a horny murderer.”
I rolled my eyes but laughed despite my ire. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re sassy in the morning. Here, have some coffee. Maybe it’ll help you de-sassify.” He gave me the entire drink tray, with both coffees, leaving him empty-handed.
“Thank you for the coffee, and the food. But may I say, you’re overreacting.”
“No, you may not say.” Matt picked up my bag and placed his free hand on the small of my back. “Come on, let’s find a place to sit so you can tell me what the plan of attack is.”
“What do you mean, plan of attack?”
Matt guided me to a row of empty chairs, lowering our bags to one while I sat in another. “You know, exit strategy, escape routes, and so forth.”
“Again, you’re being ridiculous. This is not a scam. This is for a story. I know what I’m doing.”
“Why does it have to be you?” He claimed the spot next to mine and took the drink tray, discarding it once we’d both removed our coffees.
“Because I’m the one writing about it. And don’t forget about my co-author, Tommy. He’s already done the deed with a humper in LA.”
“Humper in LA,” he said derisively, glaring around at the airport. “You make it sound like it’s the sequel to Bambi. Except not the deer Bambi, the hooker Bambi.”
I pressed my lips together because I didn’t want to laugh at his joke. He really was overreacting. “It’s safe, Matt. Completely safe.”
“I guess we’ll see.” He was glowering now, grinding his teeth, still not looking at me.
“I’m telling you,” I placed my hand on his leg and squeezed, “this guy is legit. He has celebrity clients.”
“I don’t care about celebrity clients,” Matt said, picking up my hand and tangling our fingers together. He continued to scan the airport and I thought I heard him mumble under his breath, “I only care about you.”
It was at this point—with Matt being thoughtful, holding my hand, caring enough to act—that my feelings would usually squeal with delight at the possibilities of what he might mean, what these words might mean for a future between us.
But not this time.
No.
This time I took him at face value, and endeavored to focus on being grateful for having a friend who cared so much about my well-being.
The flight was half empty; therefore, Matt had no trouble talking the gentleman in the aisle seat next to me into switching his seat with Matt’s exit-row seat. Matt took the aisle, and when no one appeared to take the window seat, I scootched over and buckled in, leaving the middle empty.
He eyed me as I did this, but said nothing. He seemed preoccupied by something or someone a few rows in front of us.
I opened my laptop, scrolling through my questions for Roger, my professional dry humper, and the research I’d already done on dry humping as a paid service.
Meanwhile, Matt had opened his laptop as well. He’d been staring at the screen for the better part of fifteen minutes, a tight frown on his features, his fingers in his hair, when I decided to interrupt him with a question that had been bothering me since we spoke about the issue last.
I tapped him on his shoulder, drawing his eyes to mine. “When does something man-made cease being synthetic, and become real?”
Matt peered, looking concerned. “Have you been talking this whole time?”
I scowled at him. “No. I just asked the question. Just now.”
“I know. I was teasing you.” He closed his computer, leaning an elbow on the armrest. “Your question. What are we talking about?”
“Your Compassion AI, I guess.”
His eyebrows ticked up and he glanced away, back down the aisle toward whatever kept drawing his interest. “You’re still concerned about it being mistreated?”
I nodded, trying to steal a glance over the seats in front of us to see what had him preoccupied, but I was too short. “So, I read I, Robot—the book you brought me a few months ago—and it got me thinking. I know you believe wanting protections for AI doesn’t make any sense, but—”
“It doesn’t make sense,” he said tiredly. “If it made sense, we would have laws protecting toasters.”
“Just listen.”
“Why no advocacy for ceiling fans?” He faced me again, lifting a teasing eyebrow, but the effect was ruined by the grim set of his mouth. “Or is this just your binary systems prejudice showing?”
That made me smile, but I persisted. “What if the protections and regulations aren’t really about the AI, but more about preserving the essence of what it means to be human?”