Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6) Read online

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Regulation only slows down technological advancement. Why would anyone want to be regulated?”

  “To ensure that AI are being used ethically—”

  He shook his head. “You can’t mistreat a blender. If you break it, that’s on you. You haven’t done anything ethically questionable.”

  “Fine. Not all robots. I’m talking specifically about your AI. Its entire point is compassion, correct? Taking it for granted. Beating it. Insulting it. Whatever.”

  “If a person damages their Compassion AI they’ll have to get it fixed or buy a new one.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” What did I mean?

  “I suppose we could make the cost prohibitive, to discourage damaging the device,” he suggested haltingly, still looking at me with concern. “But, Marie, you do understand that artificial intelligence is, in fact, artificial. Right? It doesn’t have actual feelings.”

  I glowered at him, but before I could respond, Derek interrupted.

  “Hey, are you two finished? Want to grab lunch?” Derek stuck his head in the door. His eyes bounced between us.

  I stirred, glancing at my watch. Now past lunch, I realized we’d been reviewing and talking about Matt’s data for over three hours.

  “Oh no.” I stood, shoving my notepad in my bag. “I have to go.”

  “Go? Where?” Matt followed me, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We’re not finished yet.”

  “We’ll have to meet another time. I don’t want to be late.”

  “Fine.” Matt frowned, grumbling. “Go if you must. Let me print out those graphs for you.” Matt crossed back to the computer and began clicking through the screens we’d been reviewing.

  I moved to step forward but Dr. Merek stepped in my path. “Listen,” he began softly. “I’m sorry about your subject interview. I was sick and Matt had to fill in. We really do have good intentions here. We’re trying to make a difference.”

  “I believe you, I just don’t know if I agree with you. At least, not yet.”

  “Fair enough.” Derek’s gaze moved over my face again. “You know, you’re not what I expected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Matt told me about what happened, between the two of you, I’d expected someone . . . scary.”

  I grinned. “I am scary.”

  “I bet you are.” His voice dropped and his eyes seemed to sparkle.

  A few seconds passed, then a few more while Dr. Derek Merek continued to gaze at me and I at him. I realized, to my very great surprise, we were in imminent danger of flirting.

  “Hey, so. Here,” Matt said, then cleared his throat very loudly and came to stand next to me, shoving papers into my hands. “Thank you, Dr. Merek. But neither of us have time for lunch.”

  “Oh? Where are you off to?” the tall scientist asked, like he didn’t believe his coworker.

  “I actually do have an appointment.”

  “That’s right. She does,” Matt added unnecessarily. Then he bent near my ear and whispered, “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to a professional cuddling studio.” I lifted an eyebrow at Matt. He was standing very close to me, his large brown eyes wide and watchful. He was acting strangely. At least, based on the short amount of time we’d spent together, he was acting strangely.

  “What’s that?” Derek asked, clearly confused.

  “Are you going to the one on Broad? I’ve been meaning to check it out.” Matt dashed away from me, grabbing his wallet, keys, and sunglasses from his desk.

  “You have?” The intensity of Derek Merek’s confusion quadrupled.

  “I have,” Matt responded curtly. Then odd Professor Matt bumped my arm with his and tilted his head, saying, “Come on, Valkyrie. Let’s go.”

  8

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  “Do you watch Jack and Grace often?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. I used to. I guess it’s not unusual for me to watch Grace and Jack. But I haven’t been babysitting much since Greg stopped traveling this spring.”

  We were just two blocks from the cuddle studio. I still didn’t know why he’d decided to join me, but I didn’t mind the company. In fact, I liked the idea of having someone with me, someone I could compare notes with once the experience was over.

  “I like Fiona.”

  I glanced at him, finding his readiness to be honest refreshing.

  “I do, too.”

  “She used to babysit me. She’s like my sister.”

  I smiled, thinking of my friend. “She’s pretty great.”

  He paused, and then added, “I don’t understand why she married Greg.”

  That had my steps faltering for a split second. Readiness to be honest was one thing, but I hadn’t quite grown accustomed to Matt’s candor. He actually reminded me of Janie that way.

  “They’re so different. Greg is hilarious, but he can be—”

  “Harsh?”

  “Yes. Exactly.” He nodded his agreement. “He’s sarcastic. And she’s not.”

  “She can be.” I thought back on the last few years of knitting nights, remembering a few doozies of wit she’d foisted on the group.

  “Hmm.” His lips twisted to the side. “Anyway. It seems to work for them.”

  “He loves her,” I noted. “They care about each other. A lot.”

  Matt made a face, like love was a dirty word. “I don’t think caring about a person is a foolproof means to longevity in relationships. I care about my ex-wife. We cared about each other when we divorced. It wasn’t enough to keep us married.”

  Again, I almost tripped over nothing. This time it was due to the offhanded mention of his ex-wife. “You were married?”

  “Yes.”

  “When? For how long? How did you meet?” I was unable to stop the barrage of questions.

  “I was nineteen. We met at MIT. I followed her to Cal-Tech. Things were fine at first, and then they weren’t. And then they fell apart rapidly when I entered industry,” he said with absolutely no malice or resentment in his tone, like he was telling me about an article he’d read.

  Matt walked with his hands in his pockets. With his sunglasses and Converse, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, hair askew, he looked even younger than he had when we first met.

  “How old are you?” I questioned abruptly, not sure why. “You have a Ph.D., so you’ve got to be late twenties?”

  “I’m thirty. We’ve been divorced for three years. She’s four years older than me.”

  “Huh.” I inspected him anew. “So, what happened? With your wife?”

  He didn’t respond right away, instead scratching his chin before saying flippantly, “We never saw each other,” as though that explained everything.

  “Yeah, but a lot of married couples have long-distance relationships, and they make it work.”

  “Ours wasn’t long distance. We lived together in the same house. But we never saw each other. Three months passed and I realized I hadn’t spoken to her in three months. Other than sleeping next to her, I hadn’t seen her.”

  I made a face of shock, but then quickly suppressed it. “How is that possible?”

  Matt’s eyebrows moved sporadically on his forehead, like he was trying to figure out what to say. “Work. I guess. She’s brilliant. And passionate about her work. So am I, about mine. We attempted to make time for each other, but it just made her miserable.”

  “Loving you made her miserable?” I asked incredulously, irritated on his behalf.

  “No. She felt like she’d worked really hard for her achievements and, being a woman in tech, felt like she needed to work twice as hard to maintain her level of success. She was right. She did.” He met my irritated incredulity with excessive rationality.

  “What do you mean?” I watched his profile, my heart thumping with dread for some re
ason.

  “Instead of attending a conference, she stayed home with me for a weekend. I also took off work, which was rare. Then on Monday, she found out she’d been passed over for a project.” He sounded regretful.

  “That’s not your fault.”

  “I know. It’s the fault of society, that ambition in women is punished, that more is expected of them in order to prove themselves ‘worthy.’ I didn’t want that for her. I didn’t want her to be punished for trying to make our marriage work.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to ask him if it still troubled him, so instead I asked, “Do you think you two will find your way back to each other?” My heart hurt and I fought the desire to touch him, lay a comforting hand on his arm. Though he looked and sounded completely at peace with the situation.

  He smiled, but his sunglasses hid his eyes so I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not. “I don’t think so. She remarried within the year after our divorce. He’s a great guy.”

  I almost choked on my shock. “What does he do?”

  “He used to be a barista at Starbucks, to pay the bills. But he’s an artist. A painter, extremely talented. Now he paints full-time. He also makes a great cup of coffee.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Oh yes. I stay at their house when I go back to the Valley.”

  “The Valley?”

  “Silicon Valley.”

  “Oh.” I was so confused, which likely explained why I had the audacity to ask, “Is that what you want? To find someone, too? To get married again?”

  Matt made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “Hell. No.” He sounded alarmingly bitter, similar to how he’d sounded when debating with Fiona whether robots could replace parents. The bitterness was completely at odds with the brainy and peculiar Dr. Matthew Simmons he’d been back at his office, or the excessively reasonable guy who’d just discussed the dissolution of his marriage as though it were nothing more than a failed experiment.

  Actually, I suspected he would be more passionate about a failed experiment.

  Yes, I’d seen him angry—when I’d coerced him into sharing his research—but this bitterness was something altogether different. It sounded almost hostile.

  I hadn’t decided whether or not to ask for further details when he volunteered, “Marriage—forcing vows of eternity upon a person who won’t be able to fulfill them—doesn’t work for me. Read that book, don’t need to read it again. Some people are worthy of a lifelong commitment, others are not. In my experience since the divorce, women will always demand I work less, which is problematic as that is where my real interests lie. Some get to have that, to find fulfillment with other people, with their families, spouses, children, and that’s fine. Good for them. But some people, like me, have their work, and that’s enough.”

  I snapped my mouth shut, trying to school my expression and bite my tongue. His explanation was less acrimonious than the Hell. No. yet still colored with a similar shade of harsh obstinacy. I wondered if Matt Simmons was pretending he was over his ex-wife. Was that all it was? Pretending?

  Maybe he was a great pretender. Because why else would he, personally, be so against romantic relationships?

  “We’re here.” Matt pulled the door open for me, motioning for me to precede him.

  “Thank you,” I said numbly, still working through the surprising new details he’d just volunteered. In a distracted daze, I strolled to the counter, reminding myself to take note of our surroundings.

  The space resembled the front room to a day spa. An assortment of cosmetics lined the walls. Massage oils. A basket of what looked like fur gloves sat next to another basket of silk scarves on a shelf with a handful of other textured and sensory products.

  “May I help you?” The receptionist glanced in our direction.

  “Yes. I have an appointment with Jared.”

  “Marie?” she asked, her eyes moving between her computer screen and me.

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  She read something on her screen, her eyes jumping to mine. “You’re the reporter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you have any walk-in availability?” Matt asked, coming to lean on the counter next to me.

  The receptionist moved her eyes to his and they widened subtly with blatant appreciation. She reached for her braid over her shoulder and began playing with it. “Do you need a cuddler?”

  “I think I must,” he answered with over-exaggerated sincerity.

  She giggled.

  I fought not to roll my eyes.

  “Well, let’s see.” Her tone was a tad breathy. “Giselle should be finishing up soon, and she’s free until four.”

  “Giselle.” Matt said the name like he was tasting it, deciding if he liked it or not.

  “She’s great,” the hostess said. “Only the best for you.”

  Matt peered at her as though he distrusted her judgment. “Okay. Sure. Giselle it is.”

  “Let me go grab Jared,” she said to me as she stood. Then to Matt, “When Giselle’s finished, I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  The hostess left to fetch my cuddle buddy just as a man and a woman came down the hall toward the waiting area. The woman was mid-twenties, maybe even younger, dressed in yoga pants and a tank top. The man, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, appeared to be in his sixties, his hair in earliest stages of salt and pepper.

  They were smiling, but their smiles were muted, and hers was laced with compassion.

  “What do you think the age difference is there?” Matt lifted his chin toward the couple slowly walking toward the waiting room.

  I glanced at Matt, who was frowning like he disapproved.

  “Why does it matter?” I asked.

  “Because he’s putting his paws all over someone who could be his daughter.”

  I gave my head a subtle shake. “First of all, professional cuddling is platonic. Meant to provide comfort.”

  Matt blinked, catching himself mid-eye-roll, but mumbled, “Give me a break.”

  “And secondly, you don’t know what’s going on. Don’t judge a situation you don’t know anything about.”

  He pressed his lips together, narrowing his eyes on me, but said nothing.

  Noting his surly expression, I turned, hoping to intercept the man before he left, noting that the cuddler had already disappeared back down the hall.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Stepping forward, I extended my hand. “I’m a journalist, writing a story about unconventional touch therapy. I was hoping you’d be willing to answer a few questions. It should only take five minutes.”

  In all honesty, I had no idea how long my questions would take. But people were more likely to give you their time if you gave them a quote.

  The man hesitated, glancing at me, my hand, and then at Matt at my side. Pulling his jacket on, he slowly accepted my hand for a shake, still looking skeptical.

  “I don’t mind, I guess. I just don’t want to share my name.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed immediately. “It would be completely anonymous. And no pictures either.”

  “Okay. Fine.” His gaze intensified. “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything you’re willing to share about your experience with professional cuddling. But we can start with your impetus for seeking it out. Do you mind telling me why you decided to use a professional cuddler?”

  The man scrutinized me for a beat, his expression somber, then said, “My wife died. Six months ago. Brain tumor.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, giving him a subdued, sympathetic smile. It was possibly similar to the one he’d just received from his cuddler.

  He nodded, a flash of pain sparking behind his eyes. “We didn’t have any children, never wanted any. She was it for me, more than enough. She was my soulmate.” His eyes misted over, his words trembling. Clearing his throat and blinking away the moisture, he continued. “I miss holding her hand, hugging her close as we fell asleep. That’s what I mi
ss the most. Without her, I feel lost, and I don’t mind saying so. I heard about this place from a psychologist buddy—or maybe he’s a psychiatrist, who knows—but he said maybe it would help me cope with my loss. So I gave it a try.”

  I made mental notes about the cadence of his voice, the color of his shirt, the way he nibbled at his bottom lip and paused between thoughts.

  “Does it help?” I asked softly.

  “It does. I don’t think people realize how lonely it is, after having someone alongside you half your life. And then suddenly, she’s gone. Giselle is a really nice young lady, very compassionate.”

  I assumed Giselle was his cuddler.

  “What do you do, specifically, with her? Do you hold hands?”

  “Yes. We always hold hands. Even if we do nothing else.”

  “Anything else? Only if you’re comfortable sharing, of course.”

  He scratched his neck. “Sometimes she holds me while we’re lying down. Sometimes we hug standing up. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, at least I don’t think so. It’s a crutch, for me. I don’t have anyone else on this earth. What other choice do I have? Other than being lonely.”

  “What about dating? Finding another person?”

  He shook his head, his mouth a resolute line. “No. I’m not ready for that. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I can’t betray Patty that way. And doing that wouldn’t be very kind, would it? To another person? When I could never love them.”

  I nodded, seeing his point.

  “Anything else you need?” The man’s sad eyes moved between Matt and me.

  “No. Thank you. I appreciate your time.” I shook the man’s hand again, moving out of his way so he could leave, and turned to Matt once he was gone.

  “Hmm.” Matt was nodding, very slowly, a thoughtful expression on his features.

  “How are those judgy pants fitting now, Professor?” I cocked an eyebrow at him.

  The side of his mouth hitched, his tone somber as he said, “Point made.”

  “Marie?”

  We both turned at the sound of my name, finding the aforementioned Giselle glaring at me with barely controlled irritation.