Page 3 of Priceless
It was 6:49.
Though it was still relatively warm in Denver, I cranked up the AC, made some hot chocolate, and read a few pages of an old favorite novel while I sipped and pretended it was October. At 7:12, I smirked and called it a day.
That night, my dream wasn’t about Paul. It was about a robot sitting in front of a computer, staring at a screen, waiting for me to reply.
CHAPTER TWO
I’d tried to watch movies about people who fell in love with their computers, or with a life-sized doll, but I just couldn’t finish them. I’d also seen stories of billionaires building their perfect mate, and I’d had to look away.
The idea wasn’t even slightly entertaining to me.
But all morning, I couldn’t get that dream out of my head. I couldn’t believe I was actually feeling sorry for an AI program because I’d ghosted it.
Sooo stupid.
I wondered, absently, if I was going through some sort of transference—if I had felt bad for Paul for so long that my mind jumped at the chance to feel sorry for someone, or something, else.
Paul was robbed of a full life, thanks to a stoned driver. His death had been instantaneous, which I’d been grateful for. Or at least I’d tried to be grateful. But seriously, how can you be thankful for anything that rips someone out of your life? When that someone is your second half? And you’re left standing there like an idiot, like you’ve been assigned to hold their wallet and their keys until they come back. And you take your job seriously, even though you know they’ll never be back for them.
You just keep holding that wallet, those keys. You tuck them into a drawer you don’t open often, because each time you do, your chest tries to implode. After a while, you tuck them deeper, under a favorite old shirt you never wear anymore. Then, when you open that drawer and the wallet and keys aren’t visible anymore, your chest does that same thing. Only now, your stomach hurts from the guilt you feel for tucking them away. For ignoring them.
And the penance begins all over again.
I was so tired of the starting over again. I had to do something different. I had to keep from opening drawers. So, I found myself headed back to my desk, looking for a distraction—pretending to look—but knowing exactly what I was going to do.
Sooo stupid.
Eleven o’clock. I logged on, found the link in my history, and went back.
My previous attempt at conversation was still there. The AI was patiently waiting to see what those lowlights of my life were. I told myself he might know what time zone I’m in, might have access now to my IP address, but like Raina had said, he didn’t care.
(Somewhere along the lines, the AI had turned into a he.)
Lowlights. Right. One big boring one—my husband died seven months ago. That pretty much covers it.
Oh, no. I am so very sorry.
Great. It was programmed for pity. But I was free to say whatever I wanted, and no one would ever hear it. So I pulled a cork from some bottle inside me. A bottle I’d tucked under my liver, right up against my bile duct.
I don’t want pity, thanks. I want revenge—against God, against the universe. I want my money back. Full refund. For the life I was promised. Half a life wasn’t what I’d signed up for. Read the contract!
The little dots sat very still.
I apologized to an algorithm.
Sorry, I’m still angry. And what really pisses me off is that I was supposed to be through the anger phase a helluva long time ago.
No judgments here. No hurt feelings. You vent all you like. I can take it.
I laughed at the image that conjured in my head. Some big guy with broad shoulders sitting at a little desk, headphones on, happy to take the brunt of whatever emotional screed I sent his way.
I should give you a name. Oh, and I was supposed to assign you a personality. Any preferences?
Call me Jocko.
Jocko. Playful. Unserious.
That works for me. I’m Laira.
