Page 8 of Time Stops With You

“Are you? It feels like I’m under arrest.”

Hastings changes the subject. “Are you aware that the hospital has been trying to reach you?”

A flare of annoyance rises in my chest. I don’t know this man and he doesn’t know me, so why is he acting like he’s trying to save me from myself?

“Mr. Hastings?—”

“You can call me Darrel.”

“Mr. Hastings,” I speak sharply, “if Sullivan sent you here because he’s afraid I’ll off myself before he gets his money’s worth, he doesn’t have to worry. You can let him know that I have no plans to die before this project is complete.”

Hastings studies me with a hint of pity in his eyes. “Most of us don’t control when or how we die, Mr. Cullen.”

“But some of us are more friendly with death than others.” I inhale. Exhale. Again, a small miracle for me.

“Can I ask why you’ve been avoiding the hospital?” Darrel asks pointedly.

My mouth spreads into a thin line. “How is that any of your business?”

“It’s not. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t even know me.”

Exactly what I’ve been thinking.

“How often do you have visitors here, Mr. Cullen?”

“Why do you ask?” I grunt, still on guard.

“This place looks very clean. Very big.” He glances around. “Very grand. The chandeliers,” he pauses and, for the first time since he entered, I see a genuine smile cross his mouth, “my wife, Sunny, would make a lot of high-pitched, squeaking sounds if she saw the design.”

“I didn’t know you were married.” It’s more like I didn’t know someone would marry him. Darrel Hastings seems kind of… stiff.

Not that I can judge.

As a computer nerd for most of my life, I’ve had little experience with women. What little I’ve encountered of them has completely baffled me.

Women demand a man who ‘understands’ them, but they set arbitrary and constantly shifting parameters for what should be understood. They desire someone who ‘listens’, yet are never open for feedback or solutions when the listener is ready to speak. They complain constantly, chat incessantly, and alwayswantsomething, whether it’s attention, affection, or time—of which I have very little.

Darrel lifts his ring finger proudly. “I married my high school sweetheart. Well, it was more of a one-sided crush. On my end. I pined for Sunny the moment I saw her and she didn’t even know my name. She called me ‘The Hoodie Guy’ and, in senior year, she humiliated me in front of the entire student body.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, well. She thought I was a creep, so the humiliation was justified in her eyes.”

“How did you end up marrying her?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“It started off rocky. As you can imagine.” Hastings leans back in the chair, grinning broadly. “I wasn’t exactly thrilled to see her again, but no matter how much I told myself I disliked her, I couldn’t get her out of my head. Finally, I gave up and admitted that I couldn’t live without her. She was,is,” he amends, “as bright, warm and beautiful as her name.”

I leak a tiny smile. How can I not? As much as I love robots, I’m not made of metal. Darrel Hastings loves his wife. And she must be something special if he’s here in a stranger’s couch, waxing poetic about how much he adores her.

“What about you?” He gestures to the house. “Did you purchase this place with someone in mind?”

“No.”

“You’re single?”

“Yes.”

“Because you like your space or…”

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