Page 44 of Meet Me at Midnight

ThunderStruck: Maybe you can give me a tiny hint. Some kind of something to let me know that you’re actually real.

ElizaBeth: You afraid I’m just some AI bot?

ThunderStruck: Fuck me. That’d certainly be an unexpected twist, but it is the world’s fastest-growing technology.

ElizaBeth: Hold, please…

A minute or two goes by before a picture message appears inside the chatbox.

It’s grainy and dark but showcases the length of her bare arm. A few small freckles form a zigzag path from her wrist to her elbow.

I’m real, she says.

She’s real. And even from her arm, I know that she’s beautiful. But I can’t decide if I know that because of the picture or because of the words we’ve shared inside Midnight.

For the past year, I’ve basically drowned myself in work. The initial two months after Bethany and I broke up and she got engaged to Seth were a mindfuck. It wasn’t easy losing a best friend and a girlfriend in one fell swoop. It was downright misery, if I’m honest.

And the few months after that, I tried to date. Went out and partied with the guys way too often. Even had a handful of one-night stands.

But nothing ever felt fulfilling.

Sure, work gave me purpose, but I know a cushy office with no one at home isn’t the fucking finish line. I want a life with someone.

I thought I had that life with Bethany, but now, looking back on it all with eyes that aren’t clouded by love, I know our relationship had truly run its course.

We’d grown into two different people with different priorities and different visions of the future. Bethany wants glitz and glamour. I wantreal.

A wife and kids I’m actively engaged with, dirty diapers I changed in the trash, and a home-cooked dinner I made onthe stove. To have that, I need a woman who prioritizes time with our future kids over jet-setting across the damn world just because we have the money to do it.

ElizaBethfeels like she could be all those things and more.

ElizaBeth: Step two tomorrow?

ThunderStruck: I can’t wait.

ElizaBeth: Goodnight, Beau.

ThunderStruck: Goodnight, Mystery Woman.

Fuck me, she’saddictive.

I know I don’t know her. And I know this shit is completely reckless on my part, considering the implications for myself, my father, and the company if this would go wrong. But I can’t bring myself to stop.

I can’t bring myself to do anything but keep going until I win…or shit explodes.

Whichever comes first.

“How are things going with Dalencia and Sonar?” my dad asks from behind his massive desk, one ankle crossed at the knee and his elbows resting on the arms of his vintage black leather Egg chair my mother spent twenty grand on for part of his Christmas present five years ago.

He’s put together as always, his more salt than pepper hair combed neatly from his part and wearing a crisp gray suit.

I’m slightly less vibrant this morning, the lack of sleep starting to catch up with me, and I fake a cough to cover a yawn.

“Dalencia just launched their winter campaign,” I explain, leaning back in the leather chair across from his desk and interlacing my fingers. “It’s too early to pull any data, but their runway show in Paris did well.”

“Did well?” He quirks a brow, and I smile, knowing full well that, to him, “did well” means nothing. Neil is a fan of hard data, not supposition.

“They just released their first run into stores. Thirty of the forty-two Saks Fifth Avenue locations are already requesting more inventory. Nordstrom is doing much the same. And their couture inventory at Bergdorf Goodman and Bloomingdale’s is no longer available.”

---