Page 7 of Time Stops With You

“Can I come in?”

That wasn’t an answer to my question.

My fingers tighten on the door knob but, because I know Hastings’ visit probably has something to do with my investor, Sullivan, I step back and allow him to enter.

His gaze darts around my living room, bouncing from the high chandelier to the sweeping staircase to the floor-to-ceiling windows always covered by heavy, black-out curtains.

“This isn’t what I imagined a programming genius’s house would look like,” he comments.

I don’t bother asking him what he imagined. People’s opinion of me ranks at the bottom of my list of interests.

“I think I expected at least one robot,” he adds with a smirk.

“I have two.” I point to the robot vacuum zooming around in the large kitchen. The robots have names, but I’m not obliged to share that information with the therapist.

Hastings’ mouth quirks up. I can’t tell if it’s a smile or a grimace. He walks forward, his back ramrod straight. There’s something about the way he carries himself, like he’s a general in the army? Was he in the military?

No, I don’t think so. If I remember correctly, he walked away from a lucrative career on Wall Street to study neuropsychiatry. He’s not a soldier but a scientist. The man knows brains like I know code.

When is he leaving? I don’t want him parsing through my thoughts or trying to unearth my deepest secrets.

Hastings takes a seat in the luxurious brown sofa where I sometimes eat and game with my video game creator friends.

I guess he’s not leaving any time soon.

“You want a drink or anything?” I offer reluctantly.

He shakes his head and then changes his mind. “Oh, actually, just a water please. Thank you.”

I offer him a bottle and take the seat across from him. He says nothing for a moment and just watches me.

It’s unnerving.

Nothing against him. I find humans in general wildly difficult to understand. Fake politeness. Unnecessary social conventions. Dishonesty. Backstabbing. They’re all a part of the human experience.

A computer, on the other hand, can only be programmed to do what it’s instructed or trained to. It’s far more predictable, accurate and trustworthy.

“You must be wondering why I’m here,” Darrel says.

I nod and wait.

“Dare,” Hastings says and, at my look of utter confusion, he amends, “I mean Richard Sullivan is a good friend of mine. He’s been trying to connect us both for a very long time.”

“I’m aware.” The amount of times Sullivan’s tried to get me to see a counselor can’t be counted. Were he not very obviously a man and married to a famous deaf social media influencer, I’d have wondered if he were my mother in disguise.

Hastings looks at me as if he expects me to say more. When I don’t, he adds, “Mr. Sullivan thinks very highly of you.”

“Not me. He thinks highly of my abilities.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Is there a difference?”

“Of course there is.”

“What kind of a difference?”

“Is this a therapy session?”

“I’m only asking questions, Mr. Cullen.”

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