Page 117 of The Grumpy Billionaire

I snort, loving that he said that. “Thanksgiving’s next week. I’m sure Charlie will stick around for it. Come to Illinois and celebrate with us—Mom and Dad would love to have you. And we can talk to Charlie.”

“The man owes you an apology first,” he says again.

“I just feel like, let’s get in a room and talk. More communication is always better than less communication.”

“Sometimes,” Hugo says, and I think he’s probably thinking about his parents and their useless drunken communication.

“Yeah, sometimes.” I swirl an egg roll in rich, brown sauce. “Do you think you like data models because it’s a way to create order out of chaos?”

“You need to get Charlie’s bullshit out of your head.”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with it?”

“I’m not creating order out of chaos. More like predicting how chaos will move.”

“But how is that even possible? Hello, it’s chaos!”

“There’s always a pattern to find. My old data model predicted the velocity of chaos. My new one will predict its shape even before the chaos occurs.”

“Are you getting into the psychic business, Hugo?”

“I’m in the observation business, baby. The observation business always looks like the psychic business.”

“Dude, you’re trying to predict the unpredictable.” I’m trying to act light about it, but my pulse is racing. I don’t know why this is bothering me so much.

“It’s not unpredictable if I can predict it and put numbers to it.”

I spoon rice onto my plate. “But the world is full of weirdness and mystery, and people who do things for different reasons. You can’t go, here’s a math equation for that.”

“Actually, that’s my entire job description.”

“But isn’t that the wonder of life? That nobody’s perfect and nothing’s predictable?”

“Give me a little time and I can create an equation for the wonder of life.”

“You’d better not!” I say.

He chuckles.

“Well, is there a place where I can opt out of the data model,” I ask playfully. “I don’t want an equation to predict me. I want to be grossly irrational and unpredictably imperfect.”

Hugo snorts. “Too late.”

I go around the table and stand behind where he’s sitting. I wrap my arms around him. “Take me out of the data model,” I whisper into his ear.

“No can do.”

“Maybe I’ll act extra messed up in there.”

Hugo gets out of his chair. “Please do.” In one swift movement, he’s carrying me across the room. He plops me down on the couch.

“I mean it,” I say, gazing up into his gray eyes. “Take me out of your data model or else.”

“I can’t.”

I start tickling him. He pins me down.

“Take me out,” I say. “And you, too. I want us to live outside of the data model.”

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