Eric was happy. It was getting to me. Not his happiness per se, but the realization that our time was brief, and there would be moments like this in the future wherein my figure on the couch would be cut out and replaced by other people; other women even. Veronica, 37, three miles away. Jocelyn, 34, registered nurse, loves hot yoga and hiking. Normally, his happiness would've been enough. There was just something about this moment specifically that was casting my thoughts back to what he'd said when he'd left L.A. He'd been in search of exactly this: happy and healthy, and here he was, closer than ever to his final form.

Was I even needed?

I'd always wondered what this space looked like. Even during moments when I'd been my most adamant about erasing him; thoughts about what his life looked like when he was this happy, this vibrant, would flicker across my mind. They'd existed before Portland, back in West Hills, watching him on the couch with his leg intertwined with a budding girlfriend's. I couldn't help but wonder what they talked about. What did it feel like to not be afraid of his undivided attention? To realize, over and over again, he wanted you in return? I set mechanisms in place to minimize the inevitable rejection—avoidance, mostly. Mechanisms that were now taking hold again.

It was one thing, in theory, to want his happiness, and another thing entirely when that happiness was crystallizing on its own—independent from you. Sylvie had made him happy. In the beginning, at least. He'd been radiant the first time I'd met them as a couple at my parents'. Knowing I shouldn't have, a part of me still wondered what it would've been like to produce that kind of happiness in him.

Some things are just not meant to last.

'I have to go.' I reached over to the tray on the coffee table and ashed what little remained of my joint. 'I have to get some work done. I'm a terrible bore, I know,' I said, seeing his disbelieving look. All things considered, everything had been perfect until that point. We'd been talking and joking. The weed, Tracy Chapman on the tv, stroking Ivy's soft coat, it had all put me in a half-sedated state. And yet, there was still that growing chasm of dark matter oozing out of my chest.

'Dude, I thought you were done with working?'

'I kind of promised someone I'd take care of something for them,' I lied. I rose, flashing his unsettled expression a quick smile. Don't look back. I had to. I couldn't not drink him in where he sat on the sheepskin armchair. The harmonica was still in his lap. He'd played me the beginning of Winnipeg from his second album simply because I'd asked him to. How could anyone expect me not to turn around when it was Eric we were talking about? All forlorn, hair damp over his ears, dressed in a pair of teal-colored pants and a wife-beater. I smiled one last time, banishing the voice that was screaming at me to go back, to just endure it a little more; to not hurt him.

Not hurt him? That's fucking rich.

I retreated to my room. Alone. Safe. Lonely. What did it matter if I was protected from making a complete fool out of myself? I contemplated working on the snake game, which I'd come to consider "work" having lied about it so many times, but taking a seat on the bed settled it for me. I fished out my AirPods from my pocket and reclined, kicking my feet up over the duvet. My phone was soon in my hand, lighting up Amanda's bio—13 miles away, 31 years old. I froze, then swiped left. Krystal, 33 years old. Red-head. Huge rack. Dog lover. Was this Eric's pick? These women were gorgeous. Surely, changing my profile from gay to straight was altering the algorithm selection somewhat? Either that or these people were all catfishes, because what the actual fuck? But then again, logically speaking, there was just something about women, wasn't there? I swiped left. Then did that about a dozen more times until my chest was brimming with utter dejection. What was he even into? Dyed blondes with heavily Americanized British accents? Musicians? He'd been into you once. Had he? I closed my eyes to push away the memories. And when that didn't work, I grabbed the pillow from under my head and screamed. My arms fell to my sides. I lay there, breathing in my recycled breath against the cotton. The dark matter in my chest was expanding, threatening to fill me head-to-toe with malignant longing, shame, and indecisiveness.

Eventually, I pushed the pillow off my face and started up Winnipeg on my phone. I couldn't tell you how long I lay there, looping those three minutes and forty-five seconds. There was something about Eric's music that levitated just above hopeful—Winnipeg wasn't like that. It was plain sad. The mournful harmonica, the saxophone solo at the end, Eric's uncharacteristic bass voice balancing between pain and helplessness. Just a few more minutes of this, and then no more.

A few more minutes got warped as they trickled down a rabbit hole of Apple Music's Sad Girl playlist. The windows in the room were still undraped. A patch of sunlight warmed the space between my knee and the hem of my trunks. I shifted, moving around every few seconds or so, so absorbed in not feeling anything, I failed to realize I was seeking out the pleasure of it. The moment when it burned just hot enough to become uncomfortable, coupled with the soothing intensity of finding new patches of flesh to torture. The whole endeavor was so effective in taking me out of my mind and into my body that I was pretzeling myself on the bed to uncover fresh skin to sunbathe. My forearms, legs, toes. The inside of my thighs. I tugged my trunks to my hips and pulled my tee up to catch the tender skin under my belly button. There was something so novel and unexpected about this pleasure. Maybe that particular song, maybe the heavy feelings it was alleviating, maybe the warmth that felt like a touch.

If something was pleasurable, I was guaranteed to drain it until it wasn't. I was like a magnet to it—had always been. Something in my chemical make-up reacted hair-raisingly fast to pleasure. And I desperately needed it now. Needed to self-sooth. I cut off the music, but that felt ineffective, so I changed it to something less obtrusive—a house playlist lying around in my library. There was stillness at first, to calibrate my mind, and then my body took over. I pulled my tee over my head and shuffled forward until the duvet was balled under my knees and the sunlight was directly over my nipples. I closed my eyes and reveled in the sensation, stroking a hand lazily across my chest. And then lower, pushing the patch of sunlight, square by square, down my torso. I rolled onto my stomach and had to stop myself from moaning. Fuck, that felt incredible. Light and effervescent. The warmth like a thousand even-tempered hands caressing the nape of my neck, my upper back. I pushed my face into the mattress and sunk lower. My hands were working my scalp and the back of my ears pleasurably. My blood was pulsing in beat to the music. Everything in me was begging me to grind my dick against the bunched-up duvet. I rolled back, sensing my flushed face before registering my panting breath. The patch of sunlight felt so good against the dent of my erection. I arched into the warmth with a whimper. Needing it warmer, I pulled the waistband down, exposing myself to the sun. I fell back against the pillow, eyes shut tight, and lost myself in the whirlwind of pleasure; the music, the feel of the sun and my hand working my balls and the base of my cock.

The only reason I'd even thought to glance at the door was to enhance the pleasure by compounding it with that of being watched. I wasn't expecting the shift in shadows; the almost imperceptible flicker of movement, and the ice-cold dread at seeing the door ajar. Fuck. I pulled an AirPod out and then impatiently ripped out the other while I pulled my shorts up. I heard nothing. No sound, no footsteps. I rose from the bed and froze. My heart was pounding in my ears, which made the first second or so of hearing the faint noises feel like a side effect of too much adrenaline, too fast. But then they grew unmistakable.

Oh, fuck.

Not one voice, but several.

'Eric?' I wasn't sure why I said it like we were being burgled. Slower, much slower, I put my tee back on, fixed the duvet, and combed my hair into place before I made for the door. There were other people in the house. Light, distinctly female voices reached my ears once I pushed the door wider to step into the hallway. The door bounced back, and I started as Eric stepped out in front of me.

'Oh, shit—'

'Sorry. I... I—'

'Fuck. You scared me.' Hand over my heart, stilling it. An Oscar-worthy performance because my surprise stayed plastered there even after taking in Eric's shifty eyes and avoidant posture. 'What's wrong? Thought I heard something. Is someone here?' I asked.

'Yeah. Marjorie... ' He closed the bedroom door with his back, stepping around me in the direction of the living area. 'Ehm, Fred's wife, and their daughter, Sam, are here to drop off some things. I don't know if... They probably would like to say hi, but if... You don't have to, of course. You know what? I'll just tell them you're busy, yeah?' He was backing away from me until he stopped talking altogether and turned on his heel.

'Wait. Give me a minute.' My hands vacillated between both ends of the hallway. 'I need the toilet. I'll be right behind you.' As frantic as my hands were moving, nothing was as effective in drying the moisture from the crevices of my palms as running them down the sides of my shorts once the bathroom door was shut firmly behind me. Breathing was a chore. He saw. Somehow, my mind was expected to process everything that had happened; every tiny flicker of emotion that had crossed his face. Well, fuck. He'd come to get me, had seen me, and then hid behind the door. How long had he stood there? Did it matter? Clearly long enough to never want to look me in the eye again.

I took a seat on the toilet and contemplated jumping out the window—seriously for about thirty seconds. Less seriously for whatever remainder of time I was in there, letting the faucet run while I stared at myself in the mirror. He expects you to go out there and play nice with the woman who gave birth to John. Something about that thought was more diabolical than anything the devil could've concocted. Knowing what you were doing. God had never felt more tangible in my life because this seemed like some kind of biblical punishment.

I washed my hands, flushed the toilet out of habit, and exited the bathroom. Shame and embarrassment clung to every pore of my skin. For all I kept insisting there was nothing inherently shameful about self-pleasuring, the image of a female version of John asking me about God stiffened my steps. What greeted me as the view of the kitchen opened up were the backs of two women. One with grayish hair down to the middle of her back, and next to her, the much taller, slender figure of her blonde daughter. Eric, who was watching me approach, said, 'There you are,' like we hadn't just had the most awkward exchange ever. 'Majorie, Sam, this is River. River, Majorie,' he gestured to the mother. 'And Sam.'

There was something about the way Majorie's keen eyes raked over me that felt abrasive next to the aloofness of her daughter who didn't so much as glance my way. Sam couldn't have been older than 25, and looked exactly like how I imagined the daughter of a pastor to look like. Medium-long, curling hair—not the natural kind, the curl-iron kind—and a sundress that fell just above the knee. She was much more reserved than John, more reserved than her mother, who instead of extending a hand for me to shake, embraced me.

'I hope you like key lime pie,' she said, letting me go to steal a glance at Eric. 'I heard through the grapevines that that might be the case.' She stepped back, and I saw they'd been pored over a damn-fine key lime pie on the island.

'Think I got it,' Sam said. She threw me a smile over her shoulder. The knife she'd been cutting the pie with came away with a white stripe of whipped cream. 'Do you want a piece? Eric's making the coffee.' The way she said his name was so familiar, and I realized with a slight jolt, these people were his family in a way.

I straightened my back. 'Sure. I'd love to. So, you were dropping off a pie?' I asked, turning to Marjorie, who was still assessing me. They both were; her and Eric. But I refused to give in to the part of me that was dying to glance at him.

'Sam's been pestering me about seeing the dogs,' she said. 'There's nothing in the world she loves more than those mutts. But the real reason, I'll admit, was to meet you. Eric's been practically gushing about you these past weeks.' She waved a hand across her face, self-effacingly. 'The pie is a good ol' neighborly bribe.'

She was warm and bubbly. For some reason, I hadn't expected that from the cunning way she'd assessed me seconds ago, and I felt foolish for comparing her to John. They didn't even look alike. I was wondering how old she was—the gray hair was throwing me off—when Eric said, 'Marjorie's oldest daughter, Esther, recently opened a café downtown.'

My eyes refused to rest on him as they landed on the pie. 'That looks amazing. Mind me asking how many of you there are?'

She laughed. 'I assume you met John,' she said slowly. I nodded. 'Esther is my oldest, John, who's a few years older than her, is from Fredrick's first marriage. Then there's Simon, my next eldest, then Samantha here—'

'Can I go play with the dogs now?' Sam interrupted.

'Sure, go ahead.' Eric said. 'Here, let me take this.' There was something to the way he grabbed the knife from here that was slightly peculiar.

'Stay inside, Samantha. You forgot your sunscreen, remember?' her mom called after her as she trotted off to the living area.

Okaaay.

There was something I was missing, clearly. I found Eric's eyes already trained on me from across the island. If he saw my clueless look, he was choosing to relay nothing. Before I could read too much into why, Majorie was speaking again. 'As I was saying, there's Esther, Simon, Samantha, Mary-Ann, and my youngest, Junior, who's turning 12 in two months.' She had no problem going into detail explaining what each of her children did for a living. Only Sam and Junior were exempted, as they were the only two still living at home. As soon as she'd said that, I put two and two together and realized my hunch had been right. They had been treating her like a child.

'John told me about the car,' Majorie said, taking a seat. I followed her example as Eric went to check on the coffee. 'Is it treating you alright? Not giving you too much trouble? John's been teaching Isaac how to drive with it, and last I heard... Well, I hope it's been dependable, is all. '

'I haven't had much opportunity to use it,' I admitted. Her gaze was assessing all over again.

'Well, you must get out and see the city. It's the only time it's tolerable, if you ask me. I hear the Japanese garden is lovely and the Pearl district is a must—you should go.'

'No, I want to. It's just been really nice to stay in and...' I left the sentence hanging, but then realized what a bad idea that was. Some people met you half-way in a conversation. Majorie was not one of those people.

'We went hiking today,' Eric said, swooping in to save me. He put the coffeepot down; the mugs and dessert forks followed.

'You mentioned that. Salmon Creek, that's quite a drive.' To me she said, 'It's Fredrick's favorite trail. He showed it to Eric years ago, much the same way he introduced it to you, I imagine. He scared you a little, didn't he?'

'I didn't scare him.' But he was smiling. His voice dripped with amusement. 'This guy's a veteran hiker.'

'Worth missing midweek service for, I suppose.' Her smile was as warm as ever, but I thought I caught something, which was solidified by the flash of guilt across Eric's expression.

'Shoot. I knew I should've called.'

She shook her head. 'You had a guest over. I'm sure he'll understand. Can you do me a favor and get me the milk before you sit down, please?' Eric turned on his heel. I took the coffee-pot from Majorie, who was explaining how black coffee didn't agree with her, when suddenly, I caught Eric stopping mid-stride and turning to us.

'Plant milk, okay?'

Her hand stopped where she'd been scooping a piece of the pie onto her plate. She blanked, then blinked like she was firing up her motor neurons again. 'You're out of milk?

'No, I have oat and almond and—'

'That's not milk. I'll take cream instead, thank you.'

He inflated his cheeks and let out the air slowly. 'I have a nice oat creamer.'

She looked appalled. 'They shouldn't be allowed to market it as a creamer, or milk, or anything but what it actually is.' She turned to me. 'It's... It's oil and water.' I was too busy watching Eric dry his hands on the front of his pants, looking to and fro the fridge like he was fighting a losing battle.

'Sorry,' he said at last. 'I could fetch you something else to drink. Tea?'

'No. Don't bother. This is something that you need to keep in mind for the future, Eric. Especially now, with River here and... and other things taking shape in your life.' He seemed to know what these "other things" were and, from the way he slumped onto his chair, they didn't seem all that pleasant. I tried catching his eyes, but he kept himself distracted by pouring the coffee, then staring into its dark depths.

Before I could put into words what I was about to do, I rose from my seat, my best money-making smile plastered on my lips. 'Marjorie.' I was all cheer and queer, rounding the island. 'I'm sorry, but I would be a total affront to my militantly vegan mother if I didn't try.' I opened the fridge and was surprised by the array of choices. He'd brought all of this for you. I didn't let myself falter, even as I heard Eric mutter something unintelligible from behind me.

'Let me at least convince you to try a sip of this. Just a sip.' I held the oat creamer out to her like I was in a 1960s commercial. 'If there's one thing you need to know about me, it's that I've had friends, colleagues, neighbors,' I unscrewed the cap and poured boldly into her mug, 'call me, crying asking to know what I put in their coffees. Knowing they could never go back after trying it.' She didn't look like she was about to strangle me. 'The answer?' I pushed the mug towards her. I darted a glance at Eric, catching his amusement, before I said, 'Try it. If it tastes like oil and water, I will call my mother and disown myself.'

The faintest smile grazed her lips as she put the mug to her mouth and took a sip. 'It's creamy and mild,' I said. 'So mild, in fact, that it hardly tastes like oats at all.' For the sake of Mom, I felt compelled to add, 'And, you know, has all the benefits of being cruelty-free.'

I pushed down a wave of glee as her mug stayed raised to her mouth. She took another sip. 'Your mother's vegan?' The whole concept seemed to mystify her.

'Yes. Unfortunately.' Eric laughed. I glared at him as I took my seat. 'She runs a vegan lifestyle journal—has done my whole life. It's called VeganLiving, you might have heard of it.' She shook her head. Couldn't say I was surprised. 'She makes a lot of ruckus, my mother. Front row at all the animal rights protests. March Against Monsanto, Standing Rock, all of that. She met my dad while breaking into the lab where he was doing his graduate thesis work to free the rabbits in the facility.'

'Oh, wow. That's... something.'

I nodded, sneaking a glance at Eric, whose lips were twitching. 'They've been together ever since. They're as opposite as can be, but in the best way possible.' I shrugged away the pang of longing that struck me. I missed them. They were special people. The best parents in the world, hands down.

'I heard about your brother.' She placed a hand on my shoulder and put her coffee down. 'I'm sorry to bring it up, but it seemed calloused not to acknowledge your loss when Eric speaks so highly of him all the time. Oddly, over the years, it feels like I've gotten to know him myself.' 

I didn't know what to make of Majorie. At times, I was sure there was something stern, if not cruel about her. The way she'd yapped at Sam about the sunscreen, the way I'd just watched her make Eric collapse into himself, her piercing looks. But then, like now, she could turn to you with all the warmth and care of a second mother. It was quite disorienting.

'Ehm...' I didn't know what to say. 'Thank you.' I looked at Eric.

'He was a musician. That's a gift. His music lives on.' I was thankful for her voice breaking the awkward stare-down between us. I never liked talking about Samson to strangers—not while they were rubbing my back after I'd just gotten emotional about my parents.

'And so young,' she continued. 'My heart goes out to your family. It's heartbreaking. My brother died of a stroke last year, but he was sick for a long time, and it was his second one. It's different when you can see it coming. We're dealing with an opioid crisis all over. I've seen what it does to families, to communities. It's why the church is so important. People need hope and love now more than ever.'

I shoved a big, fat piece of pie into my mouth to stop the grimace from forming on my face. God, this family. I didn't know why I expected differently from her, but I clearly did, because I was awash with disappointment. 'Oh, wow,' I said around a mouthful of tangy sweetness. 'This is so good.'

'I'll tell Esther you liked it.'

'Tell her I'll gladly come around and buy some more. I love key lime pie. It's the only dessert I can eat and eat and never tire of. Here.' I licked the dessert fork clean and stabbed it into the pie before pushing the saucer towards Eric. 'Try it. It's amazing.' It hadn't skipped my notice that he'd foregone his serving.

We both watched him expectantly. I wanted him to eat it. I don't know why, but it mattered. And it especially mattered that Majorie was there to witness it. 'Eric doesn't eat—' she started just as he pulled the plate closer, scraping it against the granite surface. Eric doesn't eat what? I turned to her because she'd never seen that side of him, and it showed.

'He loves key lime pie. Or used to, anyway.'

'Oh.' To say that it felt orgasmically good to watch Majorie's reality reconfigure as Eric nabbed the pie crumbs off the fork was an understatement. It felt infinitely better. Felt like Eric was choosing me as he mirrored the way I'd licked the cutlery clean, never breaking eye contact.

'It's true,' he told Marjorie. My heart was bolting, and I was grinning wildly, and it didn't even occur to me that I was pushing it when I reached for the only other plate that was available and scooped a serving of pie for him.

'You should've said something, Eric.' To me she said, 'He's so secretive, isn't he? New sides to him every day.'

I didn't like the tone of her voice. 'That hasn't really been my experience. He's...' I glanced at him, feeling mushy and vulnerable all of a sudden. 'Pretty open, actually. If you ask.'

'You must have shared a close bond in Los Angeles. But Eric was... He was different when he got to us. We met him in Fort Worth, Texas. He met Fredrick first. My husband brought him here to us, and Eric's stayed ever since. Isn't that right?' Eric, whose only reassurances that he hadn't tapped out of this entire conversation were his occasional smiles, had now betrayed me in even that. His lips were thinning as she forged on. 'He was severely depressed. I shudder to think what would've happened if we hadn't intervened when we did. The music industry is a godless place. Los Angeles is... Well, I don't need to tell you. Anyway, there are plenty of reasons his favorite dessert never came up. We really had to nurse him back to health—'

'We don't need to rehash that, do we, Marjorie?' She didn't notice or care that he was shoving pie into his mouth.

'No, of course not, but... We've known you for a long time. What could it be, ten, eleven years now? And it's perfectly understandable if,' she turned to look at me, 'a person changes in that time. I'm sure... I don't want to assume, but I'm guessing you've also noticed his relationship with God is more healed now. I know, I know.' She put her mug down and held up her hands in surrender. 'Eric's told me a bit about how you grew up, and I know how we as a family can come off at times, so I'm being mindful of that. We're all really curious about you, is all. You're this fabulous creature to us.' At this, Eric groaned and some of his smile returned. 'Oh, hush,' she chided. 'Tell me a bit about what brings you to our neck of the woods.'

Their neck of the woods. But Eric wasn't theirs. He looked like he needed two puffs of a strong ass blunt right now.

'Eric didn't tell you?' I asked, stalling.

'Well, there's your business, the company, that you recently sold—'

'I didn't— Sorry. I didn't sell the company. I sold a software package.' That weid quirk of hers again. She expected me to continue. I glanced at Eric, saw that I was left to my own devices, and decided to crank up the corporate charm. 'You're right, though, about everything else. Me and my business partner, Daniel, jointly decided to sell Insillica. Five years of hard work, probably thousands of hours and buckets of sweat, but the intention was never to keep it.' I never knew how to tell people who weren't tapped into the industry about Insillica, so I fell back on tried-and-true strategies: confidence, ego, salesmanship. 'We got on Forbes' top 50 companies in machine learning and AI last year. Yeah, placed 13th.'

'Wow. That couldn't have been a simple decision, to sell.'

'I didn't know this,' Eric said. 'Why didn't you tell me this?'

'You know why.'

He huffed indignantly and said to Marjorie, 'This guy's allergic to talking about his work. You're doing me a huge favor right now.'

'Why? Is that true?'

'It's work,' I told them. 'Who wants to talk about work on vacation?'

'He's always been like this. He would win prizes in school and come home and stuff them under his bed. His mom would find expired prize money while cleaning.' Eric was grinning, and I felt my body flush with recognition. There you are. Happiness looked good on him. If he wanted to rib me, I could allow that. Just please keep on smiling. 'He would spray paint his trophies. I think he did that not to seem conceited because deep down he knows if he puts his mind to work, there's no competition.'

I looked to Marjorie, who was smiling as she brought her coffee to her mouth. Do you see this? I wanted to ask. Do you see this human?

'It fetched a pretty buck too, the software. But he came here, to "the backwoods of Oregon" for some reason he doesn't want to share. And he's not telling me how long he's staying either.'

'I told you.' Then when he pinned me with a look. 'Didn't I?'

'Nope.'

Huh.

'Well, for as long as you'll have me, how about that?'

'Better start picking out furniture then, because that's practically forever.' Marjorie laughed as blood coursed to my face. Why did this feel so damn good? I was staying a week. Just a week. I pinched my lips, covering them with my hands to stop the words from forming.

'That's great news for me,' Marjorie said. 'There's actually a luncheon on Sunday. That's...' She thought about it. 'Four days from now. Promise you'll swing by if you boys haven't killed each other by then. Eric knows about it, it's sort of family tradition—nothing formal, so don't go fretting about it. I know Fredrick and the family are dying to meet you.'

I looked down at my half-eaten slice of pie. 'I mean, it would be rude not to, now that you've done your neighborly bribing and all.' She laughed. 'I'm here on Sunday,' I said. Then I'm leaving.

'Fantastic. I can't wait to tell everyone.'

It wouldn't hit me until the conversation moved steadily onto other topics, that Sunday was a holy day for them. A church day. I couldn't muster the will to drag the conversation back and ask if I was expected at church as well. How long did Sunday service last? How many hours or minutes did it end before, or maybe impose on lunch, and when did people eat "lunch" anyway? These questions would no doubt cast me even more unfavorably to Majorie, so I sat worrying my nail beds, thinking about them until Sam marched back into the kitchen with the same determined strides she'd exited with. Naturally, with the dogs at her heels.

'Junior's soccer practice ends in 34 minutes,' she told Marjorie.

'That's very kind of you to remind me. Why don't you sit down and have some dessert? Thirty minutes is plenty of time.' Sam looked at the pie like it was the last thing on earth she wanted to touch. She was obviously trying to be polite about it, which cracked me up. I was thankful I wasn't the only one who found it funny.

'But if we go now, we can leave faster,' she said impatiently. 'I want to catch the alligator documentary.'

Her mother clearly wanted to object, but something about Sam's determination broke her resolve. 'Okay,' she said. 'Well, you heard it, boys. The young lady's spoken.' She mouthed something to Eric, making him laugh, and then she was up and gathering her handbag. Sam was snuggling the dogs one last time, murmuring to them, when Marjorie turned to me. 'It was lovely to finally meet you. And I'll see you on Sunday?'

'Sunday,' I promised. Not entirely sure what I was promising. There was no time to ask, even if I'd wanted to. Eric was walking them out. I stayed behind as they said their goodbyes, clearing away the dishes, and readying myself for what I knew was about to come. Us, alone again, under the same roof.

*

'Do you want to watch a movie?' Eric asked.

'Alligator documentary?' I licked the newly rolled joint shut, smiling wryly. If there was one thing I knew about Eric, it was that he hated tension, awkwardness, confrontation—you define it. Whatever this was, he hated it. One look at him as he came up the central staircase, and I knew his Midwestern, people-pleasing self would avoid the conversation at whatever cost.

Which meant I was free to go.

Which meant I didn't need to stand around playing at civility when I didn't have it in me.

He slumped onto the couch cushions with a groan. 'I'm sorry about all that. I know Majorie can be quite intense.' Sure, I bolted for the weed first thing after they'd left, but intense wasn't the word I'd use for Majorie. Draining. I felt drained, and I couldn't tell if it was this looming lack of acknowledging what needed to be acknowledged, or if it had been them.

'Actually, I'm more interested in Samantha. Is she on the spectrum? The way you guys were interacting with her... The dogs, the alligator thing.'

His smile was tired. 'Yeah.'

There was something to the way he'd said it. 'Yeah,' I mimicked. 'I like that.'

'That she's on the spectrum?' he asked, confused.

'The way you said it. You didn't do the whole spiel people normally do.'

'I mean, you pretty much clocked it. Do you want me to explain it?'

'No, gosh.' I rubbed my eyes, feeling the fatigue setting in. 'You're not getting it. Forget it, just tell me where you put the lighter so I can light this thing.'

For someone who looked equally beat, I was surprised when he sprang up. I was standing diagonally from him across a slab of rock some genius had marketed as a coffee table. He looked down at where he'd been sitting, as if it might have been under him all this time. I knew it wasn't there because I'd sat and watched him light up after me on the sheepskin armchair.

'It's not—' I started to say when, in his haste to get to said chair, he stumbled, skipped, and either scraped his toe or stubbed it on the coffee table. There was a lot of grimacing and one-legged jumping until he came to grip the wooden armrests, hunched over, in a moment of respite.

'Got it,' he groaned. 'Got it. Just—'

'Geez, are you okay?' I asked.

'Yeah.' He was limping my way and grinning. 'Hit my foot on the damn thing. Here.' The lighter was a candle lighter, which meant he could stand two paces away and extend his arm. I put the joint to my mouth and leaned in. He stepped closer, and I missed the flame. When it happened again, I realized it wasn't because he was intentionally fucking with me, but that he couldn't keep his hand still. I was about to snort when our eyes caught. The mirth died in my throat. I gripped the lighter to steady it and inhaled. At the first tendril of smoke, I let go and stepped back.

I hadn't done anything to embarrass him, but it felt like I did. It was an unfamiliar experience watching his neck color in blotches. Watching him not even attempt to laugh it off. I'd known on some theoretical plane that Eric could get embarrassed. It was just that my mind couldn't compute why he was getting embarrassed now. Because he'd seen me self-pleasuring? Because he'd seen me and this was him feeling embarrassed for me. Somehow realizing it, slowly, second by second, while staring at each other, was worse than anything he could've outright said to me.

'Ehm.' His eyes were dashing around his colorful living room. 'So, Netflix? Mortal Combat?' His eyes landed on the guitars. 'Banjo?'

Why couldn't I bring myself to say it? I wasn't ashamed of it. I shouldn't have to flee. We should be able to sit and enjoy a movie together. We should be able to be friends, but there was obviously something fucked up with me that my body revolted at the idea. Because it was obvious, I was ashamed. What did friendship with him even look like?

This is misery.

'No.'

'Have you ever played one?' He was still on the banjo.

'No, I mean...' I couldn't use "work" as an excuse anymore, could I, without him taking it as some kind of euphemism? I staggered to the couch, dragging on my joint, and plopped down. I exhaled, slowly letting my head sink into the cushion. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm a bit of a mess.' I looked at him where he stood watching me. 'I've been working on this game. It's actually better if I just showed you.' I made no move to get up. I smiled tiredly, feeling the weed erase the boundary between my body and the couch.

'Is it on your computer?' He asked. 'In your room?'

I laughed, then scrunched my nose. Was I really doing this? 'Yeah.'

I wasn't surprised when he went to get it.

'Decimate all hope of anything sophisticated, right now,' I told him as he handed me my laptop. I turned to him where he'd sat down next to me, to show I meant it. 'It's a snake game.'

'Jesus, okay. You don't need to fear my judgement.'

'It's just,' I said, opening the laptop. 'I've made this exact game at like twelve or some ridiculous age like that, but I haven't coded in JS in a long time. So, now it kind of looks like this.' What Eric was seeing was a bunch of code.

He was confused. 'Is this playable?'

'No, wait.' I saved and closed the window, went to the directory containing the executable file, and started up the game. The screen went navy blue. Then, with some delay, the two snakes appeared as yellow and red rectangles. That's the level of sophistication we were dealing with.

'Oh, it's a two-player game,' he said once the bait, a white apple, blinked into the screen. The snakes started moving in two vertical lines, entering and exiting the window, not deviating from their paths. Well, that needed to be fixed. I was thinking of how I could set up barriers to minimize the playing window when Eric pulled the screen closer, pushing our thighs together to balance the computer between us. And then he nicked the first apple.

'Hey, that's cheating.' He had the easier controls. I had to play using letter keys. His snake grew thrice as long as he caught the bait again. We played like that, Eric in the lead until his snaked bumped into the tail end of mine. The screen went black, and the game crashed. I laughed at Eric's indignation.

'I was winning,' he lamented.

'Told you it was a total disaster.'

'You're just saying that because I would win.'

'Did you not see the canvas? A three-year-old could do a better job.'

'At least, it's playable. Besides, how much more sophisticated does a snake game need to be?' He was trying to cheer me up. I laughed, sinking back into my seat and taking a drag, feeling the weed working on me. I felt relaxed for the first time since coming upstairs.

'You know you're quite secretive, right?' he said after a beat.

My smile was dopey. 'Is that so?'

'I was just thinking whether it would be different if I just asked you outright.'

I was suddenly acutely aware of how close we were sitting; his warmth, the fact that I couldn't see his face. 'Ask what?' When nothing came, I nudged him with my elbow. 'Ask what?'

He turned to me. 'I guess I'm afraid of finding out I'm not important enough for the truth.' He left me sitting with that, mulling over where this was all coming from.

'Is this about Insillica?' I asked. I saw it wasn't, but he wasn't going to tell me what it was about, either.

'This Daniel dude,' he said. 'Did he pressure you to sell or something?'

My pulse spiked. 'No. Where did you hear that?'

'Sorry. You just don't seem happy for someone who, I don't know, placed 13th of top 50 Forbes anything.' I remembered saying that and felt so vulgar. I wanted to shove the words back into my stupid throat. What was I thinking? Seeking validation, of course. Seeking approval. Pathetic.

'If I don't seem happy, it's because I wish I didn't have a product to sell to begin with. Selling was...' I forced myself to say it. 'Evacuating a sinking ship.'

'Why do you say that?'

'It's the truth. I'm not a good person. What I helped create... It can, and most definitive will, change the world. The people who've made it clear they want to use it... I don't know, Eric. It's fucked up.'

His brow furrowed. 'You gonna explain why?'

'Insillica is a neural network that's been trained to recognize visual as well as digital cues. You can think of it as a vacuum almost. We don't really know the dimensions it accesses, but it's endless—way above what our human minds can scale—and it uses it to categorize propensities with an eery accuracy. You know what machine learning is, right?' I asked, seeing I'd lost I'm somewhere. I scooted back on the cushion to get a better look at him.

'I think so,' he said. 'Algorithms, magic, something goes into the sauce, it comes out as something else, right?'

'Okay.' I laughed at that. 'Not exactly. Think of... Think of Spotify or Apple Music or any other music streaming service. They have that little feature where you listen to one song and after it finishes, you can choose to play songs that the app suggests to you, right? That selection is based on accumulated data—we're talking enormous quantities, wells of information, gathered from each user that has ever listened to that song—and it selects the songs with the highest probability of you liking it based on its scoring matrix. The algorithm that drives the song selection teaches itself to become more and more precise. For that, it needs to know when something is wrong and when it's right. It needs to train on data, learn to classify it properly, and produce a reliable outcome.

'The promise of Insillica was solving perhaps the biggest quandary in psychology since Carl Jung. That of personality—or rather propensity.  Can it be quantitated? Computerized? Say, can you predict, based on biometric and psychographic data, whether someone is more or less prone to overspending, aggression, impulsivity, misinformation, advertising?' I asked, the pit of my stomach tightening uncomfortably.

'You can do that?' I would've laughed at his incredulous tone, but all I was thinking was Yes, yes. I helped make it possible.

'Daniel...' I swallowed. 'His research was an incredible starting ground for experimentation—that is, if he wanted to take me on. Convincing him was an ordeal. There was a generational gap that I needed to close. The other thing was my lack of academic credibility. I didn't even have a Master's degree. For him, that sort of stuff mattered; experience, credibility. I knew it would be a challenge, but I was twenty-five, cocky, and had time on my side. I'd just moved back to L.A. I had nothing to lose.'

'The first time I met him, I was a sophomore taking this elective called Science Fiction to Machine Learning; he was a guest lecturer. It was the most invigorated I'd been in class. He'd made an impression on me and I kept up with his research, even after I'd graduated—you know, just to keep up with what was going on in academia. You can call me a nerd, I don't care.' I brazed myself for a quip that never came. Eric smiled faintly, encouraging me to continue. 'Anyway, I was thinking about moving back home. I had all these vague ideas about what my career should look and I wasn't happy. I left New York to interview at Facebook when I saw Daniel was going to hold a Tedx talk at Stanford. It was called something like, "Can a computer tell whether you'll overspend?" or something like that. He'd interviewed test subjects at his research lab before allowing them to move around a high-end grocery store with a camera strapped to their heads, tracking their eye-movements. All the while he was explaining his findings, I was thinking, 800 people, that's a small pool to be boasting about. Later, as I was having lunch with an old professor, I was telling her we lived in the selfie-age. Front facing cameras were a thing. I was being a bit cocky, but it hit me then. I had a way of increasing those numbers, taking those hundreds into the ten thousands, millions even.'

'What's so bad about that?'

'Well, when I say it like that, why would anyone think it's a bad thing? A part of me still can't believe it's real. You can't possibly imagine the connections an AI's neural network makes. Not in this digital age, not when everyone has a footprint, and we're all connected. It's powerful, Eric.'

'I'm not really getting it. Is Insillica an app? What is it? What does it look like, practically speaking?'

'It's not an app. You can think of it as the skeleton of one. It can be embedded in web tech, in apps—you can choose to dress it in whatever you like. It's artificial intelligence. One that's without likeness in today's market. It's 66% more precise than qualitative evaluation by professionals, and that number will only keep rising.'

'Oh, fuck.' He was finally getting it. 'How did you accomplish that?' There might have been a bit of awe in his voice. I swallowed again. And pointed at the computer between us.

'I made a game. People downloaded it, played it. You can't simulate the same type of cognition as a human brain if you don't train the AI. I found a way to do that. But how much of people's lives, their thoughts, their desires were imbedded in that data—I didn't foresee that. I made something I'm not really proud of and I did it because I could. Because who was going to tell me no in such an insular environment? No one. When you're in it, you're only thinking of data collection in terms of legality. It's often abstract. Code, mathematics, practicality. You're thinking investors. You're thinking expansion, application, user-experience. If you're thinking about legacy, you're thinking about it like this,' I looked down at my hands, 'narrow, and not about all the other technologies that will coalesce with yours. You're not thinking about that legacy. I created a fucked up thing and I did it because I could. It's...'

Vulgar. Disgusting. Unethical.

I had the words, but I didn't want to say them. Not once had I allowed myself to express genuine remorse for my ambition. The world didn't want my remorse; the world wanted things I no longer had the power to grant. I couldn't erase the AI. I couldn't influence its future use. I couldn't do anything to meaningfully reverse the five years I'd fed my ambition.

The corporate world had sunk its teeth so deeply into me that I still some days woke up and thought: at least I accomplished something. This was a world where good intentions in the hands of bad people were lauded every day. All that mattered was growth; more and more accomplishments. It's why I could so easily tell a stranger my company was placed 13th on Forbes' top 50 list. These were the things everyone had told me mattered all my life. Invention. Innovation. Ingenuity. I was told I had in me to change the world—nobody ever told me in what direction.

'You're right, you know,' I said in the lull. 'About what you said about the trophies.' I bit my lip. Everything in me was screaming to self-preserve, but I didn't want to. I didn't want to hold this inside me anymore. 'I am conceited. I loved winning every one of those prizes. And the reason I defaced them was so other people wouldn't find out just how much—how empty I was without those accolades. What you said about my brain? I've heard it my whole life, and trust me, no one believes it more than me. It's not a particularly good excuse, I know, but it's the truth. Sometimes you create something because you can see yourself winning at it.'

He digested my words in the ensuing quiet, folding the laptop. As he pushed it off to the side, I rose to ash the joint, and when I sat back down, we were closer. I didn't want him to speak. The warmth from his body was all the balm I needed. It was like he understood that. I sunk lower. My head found his side. His arm came around my shoulder. I told myself this was okay, like I'd be able to stop myself even if it wasn't.

'I didn't know being a genius had so many drawbacks.' He said in the lull. His hand was softly caressing my hair. 'I'm biased, but I think you're pretty special. The decisions that you made at twenty-five—'

'Don't—' I pulled away to show I meant it. 'Don't do that.'

'Don't say what I think?' he challenged.

'No.' He knew what I meant. He didn't get to look at me as if what I just said could be comforted away with a few words. I glared at him. His resistance wasn't relenting. He scooted closer.

'I know what it's like to want to be a martyr for your art, but this doesn't change what I think, what I've always thought about you. You're pretty darn special. And one day, somehow, somewhere, a door will open and you'll find a way to do right.' He said it so earnestly, leaving no room for doubt to squirm its way passed.

I wanted to believe it—desperately. And when he looked at me like that, I wanted it even more. A future. Something to hold. Something sturdy and durable, made of clay and organic matter, not code. Green like this living room. Ocean blue like his eyes.

Had his eyes always been this beautiful?

The base of his throat. There, glinting, the silver chain with the cross I knew so well. I was slowly becoming aware of time outside the rise and fall of his chest when I made the mistake of looking into his eyes again. With the snap of a hair strand, he jerked back. Air flooded back into my lungs. Eric looked like he'd taken 200 volts to his stomach, and I realized as my heart rate registered in my ears that

No.

he'd leaned in.

No.

To kiss me.

I couldn't be sure, but something was happening to his expression; surprise and something conflicting and pinched. His body was scooting away, distancing itself, until he rose.

'I have to... Ehm... I gotta... I'm sorry. I'm not thinking right.'

My heartbeat was nonexistent. A sound. A wave. A particle. A white, impossible light.