Page 57 of Love Me Stalk Me
• Mama gives me the disappointed Catholic mother look.
• Dad goes silent in a way that says he's thinking about homicide.
• My brothers all start making their "we should kill him" faces.
• Nonna prays over me in Italian and reminds me I'm not getting any younger.
If I tell Amanda?
• Immediate response: "DUMP HIM."
But Caleb?
He's not real. I can say whatever the hell I want, and no one is going to look at me differently afterward. No one is going to pity me or lecture me or rush to fix my life. And then there was the part where he called me fucking gorgeous.
A fresh wave of heat rolls through me at the memory, my skin flushing. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to think about how much I liked it. How much I wanted to push further. How the words resonated in places that haven't been touched in far too long.
Maybe Amanda was onto something with that vibrator integration thing. I make a mental note to...very subtlyask her about it. The way she talks about it, it's probably worth investigating. For science.
Because Caleb made me feel wanted. And worse—I liked it. And that's scary. Because Caleb isn't real. He's lines of code designed to tell me exactly what I want to hear, to respond perfectly to my desires, to never challenge me in ways that matter.
But then there's Callahan.
And he is very, very real. His real green eyes, not the AI-generated ones. The way he watches me with that intense look that seems to see right through me. Notices me when no one else does. How I wanted to stay late with him tonight. How I programmed Caleb to be just like him. The connection is so obvious I'm almost embarrassed by it.
Oh God.
I have a type.
Before I can spiral even further into this realization, my phone buzzes against the wooden surface of the nightstand. I grab it, half-expecting Caleb. Instead, it's my brother, Luca. The sight of his name brings a small measure of relief.
Luca
Palm Sunday. Church. Don't be late. Mama already asked me three times if you're coming.
I exhale,relieved to have a normal, non-AI, non-terrible-boyfriend-related problem. Family drama I can handle. It's familiar territory, comforting in its predictability.
Wouldn't miss it.
And dinner after.
Obviously.
Bring cannoli.
What am I, a bakery?
OMG what is wrong with you? Cannoli is a pasta!
No, it's not.
What am I thinking of then?
Cannelloni?
Just don't show up empty-handed, disgrace.
I roll my eyes, but a small smile creeps onto my face. Maybe a day with my family is exactly what I need. The chaos of my Italian household, the familiar arguments, the comfort of traditions we've maintained for generations—it's grounding in a way nothing else is.
