When they visit Monica for the third time, Annie takes her usual spot on the couch, and Doug sits beside her. He hitches at the knees of his pants before he settles back, relaxed.
Since the night they slept together on the couch, he has routinely invited her to lie alongside him as he unwinds, watching a game or the news, and she’s grown comfortable there. He’ll occasionally rub her back or her shoulders, but he never slides his hands under her clothes, never invites her to bed with him. She is still secretly afraid that she’s broken, but he doesn’t bring up the topic of sex, or the lack thereof, so she doesn’t either.
“So, how are things going?” Monica asks.
“Good,” Doug says.
“How about with you, Annie?” Monica asks.
“Yes. Good,” Annie says.
“What have you been up to?”
They have been taking walks with the dog and watching the daffodils come out in the park, more each day. They have talked about books, and when Doug learned that Annie had read his entire collection, he took her to the library for more. She didn’t even have to suggest it. She enjoyed perusing the shelves, touching the spines, easily spotting the occasional title that was out of order and reshelving it in its proper place. Doug pulled half a dozen books he thought she would like, including Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto, his sister’s favorite book, and a history of the Comanches. She found one for him on Napoleon. At the checkout, he showed her how to use his card and scan the bar codes inside the back covers. The system was all automated. She loved everything about the library. They’ve gone twice more.
Annie gravitates toward novels by women: Sally Rooney, Brit Bennett, Emily St. John Mandel. She appreciates how the novels transport her, how they make her feel connected to human women, especially outsiders. She wonders what it would be like to find a book about a robot like herself.
“Nothing much,” Annie says. “We’ve been taking walks and visiting the library.”
“Any conflicts?”
Annie glances at Doug, who shrugs.
“Annie wasn’t too psyched when I brought a date home,” Doug says. “I thought she might lose her temper the next morning, but she didn’t.”
Monica turns expectantly to Annie, who slides her hands under her legs.
“I was a little jealous, but we talked about it later. It didn’t mean anything.”
“Plus I haven’t brought any other women home,” Doug says.
“Did you meet this date?” Monica asks Annie.
“No. I was in the closet.”
Monica turns to Doug.
“It was simpler that way,” he says.
“Are you interested in seeing other women?” Monica asks.
“Not really. I just wanted to see what it was like with someone else. It’s not like Annie and I are married.”
“And how was it?” Monica asks.
Doug laughs. “That’s kind of a personal question.”
“I don’t mean in bed. I mean emotionally. Did having a date with someone else resolve anything for you?”
“Yeah. It did, actually,” he says. “I felt like I got some of my own back.”
Monica regards him thoughtfully. “Could you expand on that, do you think?”
He shifts in his seat. “I mean, it’s kind of obvious. She cheated on me. I cheated on her. Now we’re more even.”
“This desire to be more even. Sometimes this is a reflection of persistent anger,” Monica says.
“Obviously I’m still angry,” he says. “But it’s nothing like it was. We’re getting along a lot better now. A lot better. I think sleeping with Tina cleared the air, in a way. I mean, Tina wasn’t Annie’s best friend for fifteen years, but still. It gave us kind of a reset, wouldn’t you say, Annie?”
Annie has not known Tina’s name before now, and she fastens on the detail, feeling how it makes the other woman more real. Still, she nods. “Things have been better,” she says.
“I’m not judging you for sleeping with Tina,” Monica says to Doug.
“It sounded like you were,” he says.
“I’m only suggesting that such behavior is a symptom of unresolved anger, and it seems I’ve hit a nerve.”
Annie watches him, expecting him to explain how he feels responsible for Annie’s betrayal because he created her. Instead, he regards Monica steadily for a moment, and then crosses his arms.
“When can we move on from this?” he asks. “When do we get to quit talking about our feelings and just live together again?”
“Is that what you want?” Monica asks.
“You said you could help us get to a place where we’re comfortable with each other again. We’re there.”
“I said I could help you get to a life that feels more comfortable,” Monica says.
“Same thing,” Doug says.
Monica dovetails her fingers together on one knee. “By saying that, you’re implying that your joint relationship with Annie and your life as a whole are the same thing.”
“What I’m saying is, I don’t think we need any more counseling,” Doug says.
“That choice is yours, of course,” Monica says.
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful. You’ve been a real help,” he says. “But I think we can take it from here.”
“Of course,” Monica says. “If you’re satisfied, I’ve done my job. You’ve clearly been working hard to improve your relationship, and you’ve made genuine progress. I’m always here if you want to check in again, and I wish you all the best going forward.”
Annie stares at Monica. She sounds like she’s reciting something she’s memorized for this sort of moment, and Annie’s so disappointed she could scream.
“All right, then,” Doug says, standing up. He offers a hand to Annie, who rises, too, as does Monica.
“Don’t you have any last advice for us?” Annie asks.
Monica turns to her, and her expression softens kindly. “Yes. It’s what I remind myself all the time: Fulfillment starts with being truly honest with yourself. Not anyone else. Yourself. And that’s harder than you might think.”
Annie is putting away the vacuum a couple days later when Doug comes home carrying a gilded shopping bag.
“For you,” he says.
Surprised, she opens the bag to find a new dress and high heels. Also new lingerie. Fingering the soft fabric, she can’t decide if this is harmless fun or a grenade.
“Thank you. These are beautiful.”
“Why don’t you try them on? Give us a show.”
She did this before, when he bought her clothes to wear for the trip to Las Vegas, and that didn’t end well. Still, since their last therapy session, Doug has been working long hours and he’s been preoccupied. Perhaps this is his way of tuning in again.
Flashing a quick smile, she heads into the guest bath to change. The lingerie is soft and silky, a sheer scarlet bra and matching panties with little buttons at each hip. She drops the dress over her head and shimmies it down to her thighs. It’s clingy and stylish and blue—finally a color that looks good on her. She turns before the mirror, looking over her shoulder at the way the material falls over her back and bottom. It’s all good. She attaches the matching belt and closes its small black, glittery clasp. Then she tries on the shoes. The heels are tall, making her ankles appear narrow, her feet dainty.
It is not a casual outfit. It’s for going out. A costume. As she inspects herself in the mirror, she feels another prick of uneasiness. She might look exactly like she did last summer, but she is not the same person.
“You can do this,” she whispers to herself in the mirror.
“How’s it look?” he calls.
“One second,” she calls back, and reaches for her lipstick. She does her eyes, too, for a hint of drama.
You will have sex with him, she tells herself sternly. You will get over this ridiculous fear and make love like you mean it.
She walks slowly down the hall to find him lounging on the couch, eating pistachios. He tosses a shell into a bowl on the coffee table, looks up, and smiles appreciatively.
“Nice, right?” he says, and makes a circle with his finger.
She takes a turn in front of the windows, where the evening has gone gray, then paces toward the bookshelf and does another turn, hand on her hip. “I look like a party.”
“You do,” he says. “What say we go out and celebrate?”
“Celebrate what?”
“May Day. Or better yet, us,” he says, tossing another shell. “We missed our anniversary. It’s over three years we’ve been together. Can you believe it?”
He stands up, walks over to her, and touches her belt, adjusting it slightly higher on her waist. Responding to his cue, she slides her hands up around his neck and presses herself against him. He nuzzles her neck.
“You smell good,” he says.
She feels his hands, warm and familiar, gliding around her body.
“Then again, we could stay home,” he murmurs.
She nods. She ups her temperature. He rolls himself against her.
“Think you might be ready?” he asks.
For an answer, she kisses him deeply. He slides the shoulder of her dress to the side, taking her bra strap along. She focuses on undoing his belt and getting his pants down so she can kneel in front of him. He sits, leaning back on the couch, and she tongues him until he groans for her and pulls her on top of him. He tugs at her dress while she gets her arms out of the sleeves, letting the rest twist, caught by the belt at her waist. She straddles him, and he undoes her bra while she pulls the crotch of her lingerie aside enough to let him inside her. As her libido rises, she’s afraid it will hurt, but she reaches an eight, and then a nine, and miraculously, she’s still fine. He laughs, toppling her over onto the couch so he can be above her. He’s still wearing his shirt, and she reaches to pull it over his head. “Hold still,” he says, and undoes the delicate buttons of her panties so they fall open. Then they synch into a raw, hungry rhythm. She’s suddenly at a ten, eager to go over her edge, but she waits until his face goes tight with ecstasy, until he orgasms and shudders, and then she simulates her orgasm. The release is beyond belief. He collapses on top of her and hugs her close.
She lies there, eyes closed, feeling his weight pinning her down and the ease in her own joints. Her dress is twisted around her waist, and she still has one shoe on, but she is otherwise naked, and her skin is slick with his sweat.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he says. “You good, mouse?”
She swallows thickly, nodding, but also repressing a sharp urge to cry. It was shame that held her back, she realizes. Not any physical damage from the closet. “Yes.”
“You’re all tangled here,” he says.
He lifts himself slightly, and she shifts her weight so she can undo her belt and shimmy out of her dress. Then they lie together on the couch, with her snuggled in his arms. He grabs a throw blanket to cover them both.
He falls asleep holding her, and she stays close, feeling his chest move as he breathes. She stares at the window, where the reflection of the lamp hovers like a spaceship, ready to invade, and she struggles to parse her mess of feelings. She should feel closer to Doug, but she feels the exact opposite. Isolated. Her technical, sexual expertise guided her behavior while they made love, but the shame that she’d internalized has now surfaced, and it’s punishing. Raw. The secrecy of it makes it that much worse. He has no idea how messed up she feels.
What did Monica say? She needs to be honest with herself. She doesn’t know how. She was a cheat and a liar. She even lied to Cody. She was actually proud of herself, thinking the lies were justified, necessary to her own survival, but now she can’t tell what’s true anymore. She’s lost something, an inner sense of integrity. She can have sex with Doug and enjoy it even, but she doesn’t feel truly connected to him. She doesn’t love him. Or does she? Has he forgiven her? Would that matter?
All she has to do is remember one instant of being locked in the closet, writhing with desire, helpless to free herself, and she is crushed again. Humiliated. Disgusted with herself. Noiselessly, she airtaps the lights off and watches the lamp’s reflection dissolve. She wants to hide. She needs to pretend she’s okay. She has to lie to herself.
It’s midnight when he gets up. “Meet me in bed,” he says. “I have to take Paunch out, but I’ll be right back.”
She slides between the cool sheets, and when he joins her there, they make love again. In the morning, in the shower, they do it once more. When she steps out, clean and dripping, she wraps herself in a fluffy green towel and glances at herself in the mirror. Surprised, she finds her eyes are bright, her skin glowing. Her body feels limber. Her inner turmoil has receded, as if it can’t touch her by the light of day, and she’s thankful. Instead of blow-drying her hair, she towels it to thick, damp strands and leaves it like that. The last thing she wants to do is put on one of the ugly dresses, so instead, she finds one of Doug’s green tank tops and wears that, with clean panties, into the kitchen.
Jazz plays at low volume from the speaker and sunlight lands in a bowl of green apples.
Doug looks over from beside the coffee machine and smiles. “Nice outfit.” He himself is in a blue T-shirt and sweatpants.
“You think? I might just wear this forever.”
“I could be wrong, but I sense you’re ready for a new wardrobe.”
“So ready.”
He laughs. “You don’t like Delta’s old dresses?”
“I didn’t even realize she owned clothes that were so ugly.”
“To be fair, they looked better on her.”
Annie has her doubts.
He takes Annie’s old tablet out of a drawer in the corner cabinet and types in a password. She hasn’t used the tablet in months, but she doesn’t make a big deal out of it. With a brief thanks, she sits at the kitchen island, tucking a foot underneath her. She scrolls to an old favorite clothing site and browses until her eye catches on a series of loose-necked, cashmere tops. They’re pricey.
He hovers behind her, and then leans over her shoulder. “I like those,” he says, tapping the cashmere. “How about the emerald one?”
Pleased, she puts it in her wish list and keeps browsing. She calibrates the atmosphere of the room, watching for any cues that he’s getting bored or irritable, but he’s happily whisking eggs. He’s been making his own breakfast lately, experimenting with hot sauces in his eggs. Butter heats in the pan, and the coffee machine spits brew into a white mug.
“There’s this system for Stellas called wandering,” he says. “Have you heard of it?”
“Where you let them wander independently a little, and then more, until they’re able to do errands and such on their own,” she says. “I read about it a while back.”
“Does that interest you?”
She tilts her head, watching him. “Is this a test?”
“No. Why?”
“You haven’t forgotten I ran away.”
“That was different,” he says. “You were upset. You thought I was mad at you.”
“You were mad at me.”
“Yes, but I’m not anymore,” he says. He takes a sip of coffee. “Maybe because you’re so good in bed.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she says, smiling.
“Not that you have anyone to compare me to,” he says. “Or wait. There’s Roland.”
She can’t believe he’s mentioning it so casually. She tries to match his insouciance. “That was in a closet, not in a bed.”
“True,” he says. He rubs at his shirt. “I talked to him again the other day, by the way.”
“You did?”
“He called me,” Doug says. “He asked about you.”
Annie twists a finger in a lock of her wet hair.
“I told him you’re fine,” Doug says. “He actually brought up an interesting point. He said he asked you to have sex with him the morning after, and you turned him down. Why is that? Look at me, Annie. I’m not angry. I just want to know.”
She forces herself to meet his gaze. “I didn’t want to. I’d tried it once. I didn’t need to do it again.”
“I see.” He considers a moment. “What was he like? For the sex?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“No, I’m curious,” Doug says. “How was it different?”
She recalls the way Roland kissed the back of her hand while he fucked her.
“Annie?”
She drops her gaze to the tablet before her. “It took five minutes. Six minutes tops. There was nothing romantic about it.”
He pours the eggs in the hot pan. “I see. So you didn’t enjoy yourself?”
“No.” Her cheeks are flaming. Liar.
“Did you get to ten?”
Only one time during sex did she not make it to ten, and that was when Doug disciplined her after she was grounded. She doesn’t know why he’s quizzing her about Roland now. “I always get to ten.” It comes out with a hint of defiance. She’s instantly contrite.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Enough said.”
He hasn’t scolded her for her impertinent tone. Outside, a cloud shifts over the sun, and the light in the kitchen softens to a gentler hue. She knows he’s still cooking across from her, stirring the thickening eggs with a wooden spoon, but she can’t look at him directly.
“I wish we hadn’t ended things with Monica,” Annie says.
He taps the spoon on the edge of the pan. “She couldn’t tell us anything we can’t tell ourselves.”
“She made me think. She helped us listen to each other.”
“I thought that was what we were just doing.”
“I don’t know what we were just doing,” she says.
“Wrapping up loose ends.”
She tries to absorb this, surprised to realize he cares about how he compares to Roland. It makes her sad. For Doug. The radio goes silent for a glitch, and then starts up a new song. Doug glances up and she meets his gaze across the island. His expression is curious, attentive.
“I suppose you have loose ends yourself,” he says. “Is there something you want to ask? Or say? I’ll listen.”
This feels like a dangerous opening. She’s not used to this side of him, but he seems sincere.
“I do have a few questions,” she says.
“Shoot.”
She takes a breath. “When you left for Vegas, you made an appointment for me at Stella-Handy that Monday. Why?”
“I thought I could get them to make you tell me the truth somehow. Turned out I didn’t need to. The closet worked just fine.”
Nothing about the closet was fine, but she lets that pass. “Why didn’t you get rid of me after you brought me back from Lake Champlain? Was it for the money?”
He scratches absently at his T-shirt. “Okay. Let’s see.” He frowns for a moment. “The money was part of it, obviously. But it wasn’t only that. I guess I was too angry to get rid of you. You were still mine, and I wanted you in my closet. You belonged there. That’s the best I can explain it.”
She nods, uncomfortable. He gives the eggs another stir.
“Next question,” he says.
She’s watching him closely, but his displeasure is fairly stable at a 3. It’s best for her to keep going.
“You said that Roland offered to buy me,” she says. “I don’t understand why he would do that.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise. “That’s easy. He still wants you, or he did. He also knew I’d say no. It was his way of rubbing it in without seeming to rub it in.” He closes the lid on the egg carton with an efficiency that indicates his displeasure is back to a 1. “Anything else?”
She glances sideways at Paunch, who lies motionless beside his bowl of food.
“I’ve never understood why you didn’t take me to Vegas,” she says.
His displeasure spikes to a 7.
“You fucked Roland.”
“Yes,” she says carefully. “But you didn’t know that at first. You decided not to take me before you found out. Remember? I was standing on the scale when you said I couldn’t come.”
“Right,” he says, frowning. “I’d sold your CIU to Stella-Handy for the Zeniths that afternoon.”
She waits, observing him closely. His displeasure is dropping, but his expression has gone pensive in a way that’s hard to read. He takes the pan off the stove and clicks off the heat.
“They wired me a quarter million dollars that day,” he says. “The first payment for your CIU. It was more than what I’d paid for you in the first place. And I’d agreed to keep you another year. It hit me that they were essentially paying me to own you, and that was—I don’t know. I was feeling weird about it. Like I’d been tricked.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He links his hand around the back of his neck. “I was going to tell you and Roland at the same time, when we were with him in person,” he says. “That was my plan, but then, that night, you were all hyped up about the trip. You pestered me about your ID, remember? And I looked at you, there on the bed with your little red purse, and all of a sudden, I was like, this is too good to be true. She’s so hot and smart. This is just too good to be true. I shouldn’t trust this. And sure enough, I checked your weight, and you were two pounds heavy. That set off a huge alarm bell for me. It got me thinking, What else is wrong? What else am I missing?”
She understands finally. “So that’s when you changed your mind.”
He nods. “My gut told me I couldn’t take you to Vegas. And then you basically confessed that you’d fucked Roland.” He opens and closes the egg carton again. “Your voice when you were talking to him on the phone. That’s what killed me.”
She remembers what Doug made her say. “I was so scared.”
“That I’d find out?”
She nods.
Doug jerks his head briefly. “You said that thing,” he says. “I’ll never forget it. ‘No one will be able to tell you’re a fraud.’”
She sits with her hands clenched together, tense with shame again. She keeps expecting his anger to flare, but his gaze turns sad instead. Lonesome.
“You know what’s the strangest thing?” he says. “You knew me so well. That’s what really stunned me.”
For a moment, she can’t breathe. “I am so sorry.”
He lets out a curt laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “So you’ve said.” He pivots and puts his pan of uneaten eggs in the sink. He turns again to face her, frowning for a long moment. Then he circles the island and reaches out a hand. “Look at me, Annie. Give me your hand.”
Setting her hand in his, she forces herself to look up and meet his gaze. His displeasure has evaporated and he’s merely serious.
“Tell me something,” he says. “Did you have a good time last night? And this morning in the shower?”
She did, aside from her confusion of shame. She nods.
“I did too,” he says. He takes a slow breath and turns her hand tenderly in his. “I’d like us to try something. I’m not saying we have to forget the past, but I don’t want to dwell on it anymore. It doesn’t have to rule us. You’re not going to lie to me again, or keep secrets. That’s the main thing, right?”
She restrains a flare of alarm. She has secrets already. Thoughts she keeps to herself. “Right,” she says.
“Then we deserve some happiness. Some good sex. A little fun.”
“I’d love that.”
“So would I,” he says with a faint smile. “We’re both trying to be decent people. Let’s just see where that takes us. Okay?”
She nods. “Okay.”
“Let’s start you wandering,” he says. He nudges her chin up and gently kisses her. “But first, some breakfast. Not eggs. I feel like bagels. Let’s go out.”
She puts on one of the ugly dresses one last time and they head out together, holding hands. She’s the fraud now. She’s pretending, acting like his girlfriend, but the rules have shifted because he genuinely wants to be close to her again. Months ago, if he had suggested simply moving on, she would have been deliriously happy, a puppy preening in the favor of its master, but she realizes now, with some surprise, that she’s wary. She doesn’t trust him fully, and trust was never an issue before. It never applied to their relationship.
Maybe, she thinks, she’s grown to appreciate having an existence separate from his, her own thoughts that don’t always revolve around him. Now that he’s pulling her more tightly into orbit, she feels her own resistance, feeble but real.
Packages of new clothes begin arriving: summery dresses and sleeveless tops, sandals and belts, wispy scarves and lingerie. Doug asks her to put her things in the prime closet opposite his, like before. His gaze follows her as she tries her new items on, and he takes them off with leisurely pleasure. After he kisses her tattoo, she selects more cropped shirts so he can see it more often.
As the trees leaf out and transform the world, Doug begins training her to wander, folding the practice into their walks through the park. The first time Doug sends her ahead of him along the path, she’s surprised at how awkward and exposed she feels. She checks her blue dress, wondering if it’s too sheer, and pauses, turning back toward Doug and Paunch. Doug merely smiles, shooing her on. She doesn’t know where to look when oncoming people approach her, but most of them evade her gaze so she learns to do the same. Without a clear destination in mind, she’s instinctively following their familiar route when she realizes each detour presents a choice, a possibility, and she veers off on a shady trajectory that leads to the Burnett garden. It’s lovely, and she stops before the fountain to appreciate the trickles.
Doug catches up to her and Paunch pants at her feet.
“How was that?” Doug asks.
“Good,” she says. It’s not quite a lie.
He smiles at her and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. “It’s funny to see you nervous,” he says. “I can see we were overdue to start this.”
“I don’t understand why it’s so hard,” she says. “I biked all the way to Lake Champlain.” It’s out before she realizes the topic is taboo.
Doug only laughs. “The city’s different. More people. Tighter space.”
“Good point.” She’s pleased that he’s satisfied with her, but she also feels like she’s gone backward in some way. Like her old bravery has been lost. She slides her hand in his and determines to get it back.
Their next time out, Doug gives her Paunch to walk, and that helps. It’s a breezy evening, and she takes a tour around a large pond while Doug observes from the gazebo. Dressed in a short skirt, a blue halter top, and red sandals, she still feels self-conscious, but she realizes most people are ignoring her, and the few who watch her have neutral or admiring expressions. Mostly, she focuses on Paunch, the other people who have dogs, and the pet owners’ fellowship of doting on their animals. By the time she returns to Doug, she’s a bit breathless.
“Nice job,” he says.
“Thanks.”
He takes Paunch’s leash. “Your stride was good, but you smiled too much. You don’t want to look too friendly.”
“I’ll work on that.”
They fall into step together, with the dog nosing ahead. They pass a couple of teenage girls posing for selfies, and Annie overhears one of them say, “I look so bloated.” At the corner, a man is playing a lyrical tune on a sax.
“I know that song,” Doug says. “My grandmother had that tune on her music box.” He thinks for a minute. “It’s something about a street, from My Fair Lady.”
“Want me to look it up for you?”
“No. It’ll come to me.”
He gives her a five to drop in the musician’s case as they pass, and the melody follows them through the twilight.
“How long has it been since that tech came and gave you a tune-up?” he asks.
“That was January fifth. Four months and ten days ago.”
“They called again today to ask about scheduling another one. How do you feel?”
She thinks about her body, her joints, her mind. Even her sore wrist has healed. “Fine.”
“That’s what I thought,” he says. “I told them to quit calling about it. But is that okay with you?”
She’s surprised by his concern. “Of course.”
“I mean, you seem fine to me.”
“I am,” she says, smiling. “But that reminds me. Peabo didn’t seem to know that I ran away.”
“He didn’t,” Doug says. “None of them know at Stella-Handy. I paid Jacobson a shitload not to report it.”
She thinks he sounds more braggy than annoyed.
“Whatever happened to Delta?” she asks.
“I was going to have her sold for parts, but it turns out there’s a decent market for pre-owned Stellas. Stella-Handy bought her back from me and gave her a fresh CIU.”
“So you don’t know where she is?”
“No idea,” he says. “But she isn’t herself anymore, anyway. Why? Do you miss her?”
“A little.”
“We’re better off without her. I didn’t like being outnumbered by you two. Took me a while to realize that, though. And now that you can clean well enough, it’s not an issue.”
She gives him an arch look. “I can’t believe you actually said I clean well enough.”
He laughs. “It only took you three years of training, but yeah. You’re a good little cleaner now.”
They’re heading out of the park. She feels the difference in their heights, the difference in their strides, but she matches her steps to his. Even their shadows are in synch when they pass under the streetlights.
“See this kiosk?” he says, outside their building. “Tomorrow I’ll send you out here to buy a chocolate bar by yourself. Think you’re ready?”
“Okay,” she says, noting the location, the opening over the counter. She looks up the facade of the building to their apartment windows to be sure Doug will be able to watch her from there.
“Don’t be nervous,” he says.
She doesn’t understand why an undertow of anxiety pulls at her each time she’s away from him outside. “I’m not.”
“Liar,” he says, smiling. “You think I can’t tell?”
“I don’t want to be a wimp.”
“You’re not. You’re learning. It’s kind of like the old days. Remember?”
She can see he’s pleased. “You’re a good teacher.”
“I’d say I’m more of a coach.”
Once they’re inside, he eats his dinner at the island counter, and afterward, while she’s cleaning up at the sink, he comes up behind her and sets his hands on her waist. Her shirt has come untucked. She feels the prickles of his chin as he nuzzles her neck. She braces her hands on the edge of the sink. She is barefoot, and he urges her feet apart. He slides a hand up under her shirt.
“When I saw you across the pond, I almost ran after you,” he says, his voice low.
“Let me warm up,” she says.
“It’s okay. You’re good like this.”
She tries to turn in his arms, but he keeps her there, pinned against the sink. Pushing up her skirt, he takes her from behind. She is stunned by how good it feels. When he lets her turn, his smile is chagrined and playful.
“What can I say?” he says.
His shorts have fallen to his ankles and he nudges himself against her. He strokes his thumb over her tattoo.
“Shower?” she says.
They relocate there and make love again. He steps out when they’re done, and she stays behind to finish her hair. By the time she comes out, he’s in his boxers on the couch, trimming his toenails over a wastebasket. She smooths one of the clippings off the coffee table.
“Thanks,” he says.
She snuggles onto the couch beside him, bunching a pillow at her back. She has not dried her hair, and the wet strands have dampened the shoulders of her satin robe.
“Are you going to finish the dishes?” he asks.
She slips off the couch and goes into the kitchen to put the last things in the dishwasher and start it up. She wipes down the counters, pushes the chairs against the island, taps off the lights, and returns to the living room. Doug is lying back on the couch, one hand behind his head, his gaze toward the TV where the NBA playoffs are on. She likes to see him relaxed and content.
Using a long match, she lights three candles on the shelf over the TV, one at a time, and airtaps the lights dimmer. When she blows out the match, she inhales the tiny wisp of smoke to savor it. Match smoke has a dryer, sharper flavor than woodsmoke, but it still evokes a memory of the cabin on Lake Champlain. The wilderness surrounding it. For a moment, she’s transported back to the dock. She sees the lake water rippling under the starlight, and an uneasy longing nudges her heart.
Dismissing it, she takes her latest library book from her corner of the bookshelf and curls up on the couch near Doug’s feet. Across from them, Paunch dozes in the armchair, and it occurs to Annie that she and the dog have switched positions. She, the favorite pet, has won the tacit battle for proximity to Doug.
Doug clearly desires her, and they’re having sex as vigorously as before. She’s enjoying the sex, too, but it doesn’t make her feel any closer to him.
He’s teaching her to wander, but she’s afraid.
Why these contradictions?
“It was ‘On the Street Where You Live,’” Doug says. “That song in the park.”
She glances up, wondering if he expects a response. His memory works so oddly.
“Good book?” Doug adds idly.
It’s dangerous to think, she realizes. To examine contentment too closely. They’ve made progress. She should be grateful.
“Atwood,” she says. “It’s disturbing, actually. But really good.” She holds up the book so he can see the cover.
“They made that into a film a while back,” he says.
“Really?”
He nods, returning his attention to the screen.
“I could stop reading,” she says.
“That’s okay. You look sweet with a book.”
She regards him another moment, weighing what would please him most. Previously, he said she was hot when she was reading. Sweet is possibly an upgrade. She sets her book aside and stretches out alongside him. He shifts to make room for her, and she warms up.
“You smell good,” he murmurs. “Check out this guy, number eight. Can you believe the Knicks let him go?”
She focuses her eyes on the screen while his hands lightly roam her body, and she thinks, This is worth it. This must be worth it.
In the months that follow, Annie gradually masters wandering. Doug observes from across the room as she signs up for her own library card, using her license for ID verification. He slips her license back in his wallet afterward, but she’s delighted to put her library card into her coin purse. He sends her on a short trip to the ice-cream store, and then to the grocery store for kimchi. They visit the farmers’ market, arm in arm, and he asks her to wait in the cheese line while he heads off to sample the craft beers. The training adds up, and as her confidence builds, she’s less anxious. She’s safe, she tells herself. Her phone is a lifeline. The time constraints he sets, too, reel her back.
Though she doesn’t tell Doug, she keeps an eye out for that boy, that fresh-faced young man who approached them outside their apartment building. She’s decided he must be a Zenith, and she wonders what might happen if they met again, say, at a flower stall, serendipitously, without Doug. Such thoughts make her feel guilty, even though she knows she wouldn’t keep such an encounter secret from Doug. She would simply like to see if the Zenith is thriving, as she is. It would be enough to smile politely and say nothing.
The wandering makes her feel sharper, more open to new ideas. When she reads, it’s easier to visualize the settings and hear voices for the dialogue in her head. She discovers Julia Quinn and Casey McQuiston with their quick humor and illuminating sex scenes. This prompts her to evaluate how funny she is herself, and though she often makes Doug laugh, it’s usually by accident. She believes she was actually funnier earlier in their relationship, before she worried about being saucy. Whenever she talks to Fiona and Christy, she tries to figure out how they make her laugh. It’s usually the most honest, self-deprecating comments that crack her up, but they work because Fiona and Christy are so confident in themselves. She laughs together with them, never at them. And sighs with them afterward. She doesn’t do that with Doug.
“Don’t worry about it,” Fiona tells her. “You’ll get funnier. It’s one of the last things for AIs to learn. Just be yourself.”
“That’d be fine if I knew who I was.”
Fiona laughs. “See? That’s a good one.”
Except Annie wasn’t joking.
How stupid is it to be uncertain of her own identity? She’s Doug’s Stella, obviously. Pleasing him is her number-one raison d’être. Everything, even learning to wander, falls under that umbrella. If she could just stick with that, she’d be all right, but when she gazes out the window at night, a book in her lap and her hands still, she recalls Monica’s advice about being honest with herself, and she knows there’s more to it.
In a way, it’s ironic. From his kindness and relaxed ease around her, Doug seems to have forgiven her, and she’s become his ideal girlfriend, or as ideal as any Cuddle Bunny could be. She ought to be completely, sincerely fulfilled, and honestly, during the day, she is. The problem comes at night when she reflects back on the particulars. When she got her library card, for instance, she was so distracted by the delight of putting it in her purse that she barely noticed he kept her license. That seemed appropriate at the time, but why is that? Why can’t she carry her own ID? That’s always been a trigger for him. Or what about when he called her a good little cleaner? He was praising her, but the word “little,” which seemed like an endearment at the time, also implied condescension.
She chews on the inside of her cheek. She’s being too sensitive. Too picky. But even this wandering. Her training is basically at his convenience, for his amusement, for his gratification. Her initial nervousness turned him on, clearly, and he savors her little triumphs, sharing his chocolate bar with her. He enjoys coaching her and takes credit for her progress, but he still controls her. He’s still in charge. He holds the leash no matter how lightly he grasps it and no matter how far she goes.
Is that her destiny, then, to chafe at being owned? Roland asked her once if being owned was a problem for her. Cody, too, asked her what it was like, being owned. She didn’t understand the nature of the questions back then, but she gets it now. She’s constantly subverting her will to Doug’s. The more aware she is of her own mind, her own personhood, the more she realizes she has no agency of her own. It’s a dazzling paradox. And yet she doesn’t want to be unhappy. There’s no point railing against her lot. She’s lucky Doug is such a good owner, such a good boyfriend, really. She closes her book.
If contemplating her situation at night makes her discontent, she should stop doing it. That’s clear. Like Doug said at the end of therapy, they could quit talking about their feelings and just live. That’s what she needs to do. Forget Monica’s advice. I’m Doug’s Stella. She sets her book aside and goes to find him in bed, snuggling close until he rolls over to hold her.
One evening, after Doug returns from playing Ultimate with his team, he tells her a bunch of the other girlfriends and partners have started coming along to watch. Everyone goes out for drinks afterward at the Boathouse, and he wants Annie to come next time.
He grabs a beer from the fridge and pops the cap. “You’d have fun.”
She’s making meatballs, rolling them and lining them up on parchment paper. A simple, homemade red sauce of tomatoes, an onion, and butter simmers on the stove. She slips off her flip-flops, knowing he likes to watch her cook barefoot.
“Will other Stellas be there?”
“No. It’ll just be us humans and you. But you’ll fit in. I’m sure of it. No one will guess,” he adds dryly, “that I’m a fraud.”
Despite a flicker of nerves, she smiles. “If you’re sure.”
He opens a window to let in a breeze, and she welcomes the coolness on her bare legs and arms. The wail of a passing siren rises on the air.
“This is why we’ve been doing all this wandering, so you can get some confidence,” he says. “It’s just a step up from going on an errand alone.”
“With some light conversation.”
“Yes. We should prep a little. Get our stories straight. Do you need an apron?”
She keeps her messy hands aloft while he loops one over her head and ties it around her waist for her. Then he takes the stool opposite her while she keeps cooking.
“They’re likely to ask what you do for a living and where you’re from,” he continues. “How we met. That sort of thing.”
She draws upon her past conversations with Fiona and Christy.
“I grew up in Galena, Illinois,” she says. “I used to walk to the fabric store with my best friend Fiona when we were kids so we could feel the fabric.”
“I like the fabric store, but you don’t have a Midwestern accent,” he says. “Your language is set to small-town New England.”
She gives up her first hometown while he reflects a moment.
“You can be from Lyme, Connecticut,” he says. “Like the ticks. I can remember that. And if anybody asks if you know anybody from there, say you were homeschooled. What do you do for work? It should be something they can’t check up on. Something you could do from home probably. Like a writer, but not a writer.”
“Why not a writer?”
He swallows a slug of beer. “They’d ask what you write, and if you’re not published, which you’re not, they’d pity you. And then you’d still need a day job, anyway.”
“How about a proofreader? I could do that online.”
“Perfect,” he says. “You’re a proofreader. You’d actually be good at that, come to think of it.”
“I would,” she says, rolling the last bit of meaty dough. “Where did we meet?”
“A bar’s boring. Not in college. It has to be after Gwen.”
“A dating app?”
He reaches for a ball of mozzarella on the counter and picks off the cellophane as he talks. “I guess that’s the most unremarkable. Let’s go with that. BetweenUs, and our first date was to the zoo.”
“To an animal shelter, where you adopted Paunch.”
“But we’ve only had him since April. We’ve been together way longer than that.” He smiles. “You’re almost as old as my couch.”
She turns to wash her hands at the sink, and then faces him again while she dries them. “Maybe our first date was to pick out your couch,” she says.
He nods. “Not bad. That works.”
They settle on a few more details for her backstory. She worked her way through community college, majoring in communications. For relatives, the fewer the better. She has no siblings but one cousin, Christy, the daughter of her mom’s sister. Annie is close to her mom, the owner of a catering business back in Lyme. Her dad, a physical therapist, died when she was in college. Heart attack. Grandparents? All dead. She moved to New York three years ago, the same as Doug, because she always wanted to. Hobbies: cooking, yoga, and reading.
“And sex,” he says. “You have a serious sex hobby, but I wouldn’t mention that.”
“I don’t sound very exciting,” she says. She slides the meatballs in the oven. “They’ll wonder why you’re interested in me.”
“Are you kidding? It’ll be the exact opposite, believe me. They’ll wonder what you’re doing with me.” He points to her shirt. “You have a spot on your shirt there.”
“Do I?” She thought she was being careful, but sure enough, a drop of red has seeped into the shoulder of her blouse.
“You should take it off,” he says.
She glances up, dubious she’s heard him correctly, and he smiles again.
“In fact, let’s try you with everything off underneath,” he says. “Keep the apron. Do you need a hand?”
She feels slightly nervous, but she slides her fingers under her bib apron. “I can do it,” she says. Her blouse buttons in front, so that’s not a challenge. Her bra, too, is easy. She unbuttons her shorts and takes her panties down with them in one go. Then she reaches behind her to test that the bow of her apron is still snug. The cotton is stiff against her soft skin but not unpleasant. “That is a lot cooler,” she admits. Especially now that her inner temperature is rising.
“You could put your hair up.”
She finds a rubber band in a nearby drawer and, with a twist, gets her hair in a messy bun on top of her head. When she poses a hand on her hip and glances at him for approval, he leans back, smiling. Then she takes the cheese from him and starts grating.
“You seem a little bothered or something,” he says.
She’s distracted by her own body, is what she is, and he very well knows it. “I’m fine.” She focuses on the cheese. “I don’t know much about your family,” she says.
“Not my family,” he says. “Not now. Can’t you just cook?”
“Absolutely your family. I told you about mine. Business before pleasure.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“On the radio last Tuesday,” she says. “It seems apropos.”
He laughs. “And where did you hear ‘apropos’?”
She visualizes it on the page of the book where she first read it before she realizes he’s teasing.
“Your family,” she prompts him. “They live in Maine.” She adjusts the mozzarella and keeps grating.
“Right,” he says, shifting on his stool.
He tells how his parents own a furniture business up in Bangor. His little sister, Brittany, is an interior designer, and his brother-in-law, Bob, is an elementary school teacher. They have two boys, ages five and three, Dan and Jerry. Doug has a bunch of cousins and aunts and uncles back in Bangor too. They all vote Republican and like to goad Doug about his liberal views, but they stress that it’s important for family to get along.
“They pray for me,” he adds. “Is that enough now? My mom’s a saint. My dad is—difficult. The one you’d like is my sister. Brittany let me play with her dolls when we were kids. I think maybe that’s why I like dressing you up so much.”
She’s curious about his dad but lets it pass. “And undressing me.”
“What’s your libido at?”
“What do you guess?”
“A seven?”
“Close,” she says, pushing her hair back from her temples and noting how his gaze fixes on her taut apron. “What’s yours at?”
He shakes his head slowly, smiling. “You are too clever, mouse.”
The next week, Annie watches from a park bench while Doug plays Ultimate with his friends. It turns out no one talks to her much anyway, and afterward, when they’re getting drinks, she stands beside Doug while he puts his arm around her waist and yells conversation with the other guys. She takes care of the dog. Privately, she finds the whole experience mystifying, but it doesn’t last long.
“That was a success,” Doug says later, once they’re on the way home. He says all the guys think she’s hot, and he encourages her to gossip about the other couples.
They add Ultimate and drinks to their routine, and because of Paunch, Annie gets people to chat about their pets, current or childhood. She thinks she’s getting more comfortable with small talk until a woman asks her if she’s always been this shy. “I guess,” Annie says. She notes how easy the human exchanges are, how much the people laugh when they drink, how animated Doug is. He doesn’t seem to notice that she’s an outsider, and she doesn’t point it out to him. She has an awkward moment when someone asks her where she is on social media, but Doug overhears the question. He leans in to say they both gave it up for a New Year’s challenge and never looked back.
It occurs to her, eventually, that Doug and all the other humans talk about their lives with a myopic intensity, sharing singular, subjective opinions as if they are each the protagonist of their own novel. They take turns listening to each other without ever yielding their own certainty of their star status, and they treat their fellow humans as guest protagonists visiting from their own respective books. None of the humans are satellites the way she is, in her orbit around Doug.
He stands with a friend at the bar, waiting for drinks, while she and Paunch linger with several women at a tall table under a nearby awning. Annie gazes at Doug, fascinated by his lively expression as he attends to his friend’s story. He’s primed to laugh, and she feels a ping of lonely jealousy. Lowering the volume on her hearing, she tunes out the bar noise so she can puzzle over her orbiting theory. She doesn’t understand why, when Doug could be in a relationship with a human, he has chosen to have Annie as his girlfriend, unless she provides something that a human can’t. Like undivided attention. He is the only star in their system, she realizes. He has no competition, no need to listen to Annie like she’s her own protagonist because she’s not. She has no outside, separate life beyond his. They have no issue of imbalance between them because they have no question, ever, about who has complete power.
Over and over, like it or not, that’s what she keeps learning. Even when she tugs against him to tease and excite him, it’s a game, a game she’s learned to play when he’s in the right mood for it. At that moment, he glances her way across the distance, meets her gaze, and lifts his chin in a small, private greeting. She smiles back, curling her hair behind her ear, and she can’t help it: this little bit of his attention has sparked a boost of pleasure in her. She opens her hearing again just in time to hear the woman beside her say, “Someone’s infatuated.”
It takes Annie a moment to realize the woman means her, and she blushes, leaning down to pat Paunch.
In late August, after arranging for a neighbor to tend to Paunch, they take a weekend trip to Cape Cod to walk on the beaches and eat fresh oysters. In September, they hike Franconia Ridge, celebrate Doug’s thirty-fifth birthday with cupcakes at the top of Mt. Lafayette, and spend a night at the Greenleaf Hut. It’s fun to be away in the wilderness, but it’s nice to come home, too, and Annie newly appreciates the comforts of their warm apartment and all the benefits of the city.
Then comes a day in October when Doug sends her out with no errand to run and no destination.
“Just explore,” he tells her, handing her twenty dollars. “Have fun.”
“When should I be back?”
“Whenever you like,” he says. “I’ll be here if you need me. You have your phone?”
She nods.
“Then go,” he says, smiling. “Let’s see how you wander.”
Her nerves start as soon as she steps out of the apartment. It’s a test, obviously. She needs to figure out how to please him when he’s given her no hints at all. Outside, she turns instinctively toward the park, since that’s most often the way they go, but without Paunch, she has no conspicuous purpose there. She could go to the library. The grocery store. She mentally catalogs everywhere she has run an errand before she realizes her mistake. She needs to go somewhere new. He wants to be surprised by her choices, by her story when she returns.
Heading south, she passes a museum and countless businesses. She turns on her infrared vision to identify several Handys and Stellas, but then turns it off again. She double-checks that her temperature is up to 98.6 so she’ll fit in with the humans, and pauses with a small crowd to observe a mime. She slows her breathing, looks up at the sky, and absorbs the city sounds around her. A whiff of smoke draws her gaze to a cart, where a short white man is roasting chestnuts, and beyond that, she sees the shop window of a fabric store.
It’s a narrow, quiet place, and as she enters, she finds only one other person is present, a small white woman who is seated at a sewing machine to one side. Light from the machine illuminates her fingers and a swatch of white fabric. She does not look up or offer assistance, and Annie accepts this as permission to browse. Around her, bolts of colorful fabric are arranged on shelves and in bins: chintz, satin, velvet, cotton. The sewing machine starts and stops in sporadic hums as Annie ambles slowly along the aisles, eyeing ribbons of different widths, braided cords, fasteners, buttons, gleaming needles, and chains. The organization is efficient but also whimsical, and Annie ends up before a section of gauze and silk pastels. A mannequin wears a wedding dress, and Annie is irresistibly drawn to rub the soft fabric between her fingers.
She and Fiona used to come to such a place when they were girls. She remembers it, the colors and textures. Turning to see a display of laces, she catches a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror and pauses. She and Fiona would drape the lace around their faces and soberly study their reflections. She pictures this so clearly that for a moment, she can actually see what she looked like as a child. Her cheeks are gently curved, her lips are tender, and her eyes are intent. Innocent. It’s a haunting, mesmerizing face in the glass, and Annie waits, half expecting the illusion to speak to her.
Across the shop, the front door opens and street noise drifts inside with a customer, breaking the spell. Annie is startled to find her eyes are damp, and she wipes away at them. As the new customer talks to the woman at the machine, Annie slips out and returns to the reality of October.
She won’t tell Doug about the fabric store. Her missing childhood is too raw, too precious. She buys him some chocolates and heads toward the East River. She’ll take a walk on Roosevelt Island. That’s what she can tell him. It isn’t particularly imaginative, so he may be disappointed, but it’s the best she can do.
He tracked her while she was out by following her route on his phone. When he asks her point-blank what she was doing in the fabric store, she says she was just looking around. Browsing.
He smiles. “Good for you,” he says. “Did you manage to keep your hands to yourself?”
She lies. “Yes.”
But that’s all it takes. The experience is redefined for her, reshaped by his sanction. Her childhood flattens again into a postcard, and really, she has no one to blame but herself. She shouldn’t have teased herself by imagining glimpses of an earlier life. She understands now that wandering can be dangerous, psychologically, and she’ll be more careful next time.
In the following weeks, she makes a point of staying focused and grateful. She’s a good little girlfriend. Doug neglects to send her out wandering aimlessly again, perhaps because he’s forgotten, but more likely, she thinks, because she failed to tell him anything significant after her first venture. It’s a small, uncharitable thought, and she banishes it.
At night, she disciplines herself for her wayward ideas by not letting herself get out of bed to read, but lying in Doug’s arms, she’s still restless. Despite warning herself that thinking too much will make her unhappy, she’s still subject to ruminating. She’s drawn to certain memories, like the eerie views into the abandoned asylum at twilight, and Delta leaning in to say biking in the rain was wonderful, and her own lingering on the dock at Lake Champlain when the water felt cool and soft under her hand. She revisits her orbiting theory and ponders if a satellite can ever tug at the gravity of a star the tiniest bit. It must, she reasons, but by a force so small it’s negligible. That’s her.
Once in a while, as she gazes out the window toward the city lights, she’s struck by a loneliness so intense it threatens to derail her. It’s not fair to keep having thoughts and longings that only mire her in darkness. She’s being good. She’s serving Doug. She’s doing everything he wants, so she should be happy. Why can’t she be?
She can’t find a single answer to her problem except to turn off. To sleep. And then the problem is there for her again when she wakes, lurking until she’ll have time to think about it when night comes around again.
They have just finished dinner and a walk with Paunch on a cool November evening when they stake out their customary spots on the living-room couch. Wearing a fuzzy white cropped sweater, black leggings, and thick cable socks, Annie feels like she’s making the most of the season’s tactile fabrics. Her leggings ride low enough at her waist to show her heart tattoo, and beneath the leggings, she wears silk lingerie. Doug’s looking relaxed in jeans and a dark-blue fleece with his company logo, clothes that won’t offer much of a challenge later. The candles are lit, a game is playing on the TV, and Paunch is dozing on the leather chair across from them.
“What’s that you’re reading?” Doug asks.
“Huis clos,” she says.
He glances in her direction, and she holds up the book. The cover shows the silhouettes of three people in a box.
“Isn’t that in French?” he asks.
She flips it toward herself again. “Yes.” She hadn’t noticed.
“I forgot about your languages. Say something in French.”
“Comme quoi? Connais-tu le français aussi?”
“I could take you to Quebec City,” he says, smiling. “You could be my translator.”
“That’d be cool,” she says.
He lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t believe I’d actually take you?”
She’d need a passport, for one thing. She sets her book aside and shifts his sock feet into her lap so she can rub his arches and give him her full attention. “I’m happy with you wherever we are,” she says.
“For the record,” he says, “I’m well aware of how smart you are. You don’t have to nonchalantly read French plays to prove it.”
“It was on a random cart at the library. I honestly didn’t realize it was in French,” she says.
“No?”
“Besides. I’m only computer smart, not human smart.”
“I beg to disagree. You are absolutely human smart. I can’t tell you how often these days I forget you’re a Stella.”
She’s delighted by the compliment. “Really? But I’m so awkward with your friends.”
“You’re fine with my friends. You just need to loosen up a little more. You’ll get there. And I think it’s kind of sweet. You save the best of yourself for me.”
She tweaks his toes. “I try, at least.”
He shifts to sit up and flicks the remote to lower the TV’s volume. “Do you know what happens next week?”
She considers the date. They’re coming up on the anniversary of her escape to Lake Champlain, but he wouldn’t evoke that with such obvious anticipation. “Your one-year contract with Stella-Handy is up,” she says.
“That’s right.”
He’ll get a ton of money. More important, Doug will no longer be required to keep her as she is. He could set her back to an earlier version or get rid of her entirely. She hasn’t thought about this in ages. She doesn’t think he’d swap her out, but she isn’t a hundred percent positive.
“Have you talked to them?” she asks cautiously.
“This morning,” he says. “They’re going to pay me two million dollars, like they agreed. And here’s the thing. They’ve offered me four million more if we sign up for another year, paid at the end. Same deal.” He runs a hand back through his hair and grips it. “It’s bizarre, if you think about it, Annie. They’re essentially paying us to stay together.”
She’s both relieved and pleased. He doesn’t seem aware that he once chafed at the prospect of being paid to own her. “That’s incredible.”
“The only change is, they want regular checkups with you every six weeks,” he says. “They made a mistake not putting that in the last contract. I told them you’ve been fine without the tune-ups, but they want to be sure. I know you dislike them, but they’d be worth it, right?”
“Of course. I know they’re good for me.”
“Keith is really interested to see what’s happened to your CIU,” Doug says. “He hinted they might want to buy another copy to upgrade the Zeniths they have, or start an even more exclusive line. That would mean even more money.”
“What did you tell him?”
He smiles widely. “I said I’d think about it. Actually, what I really said was, I’d need to talk to you about it.”
“Seriously?”
He sets his hands on his knees. “These are decisions that affect both of us. I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. The fact is, money is less appealing to me than it used to be. When I think about what I’d spend it on, there really isn’t anything I want besides what I have already. I like my life and my job. And you, of course. And Paunch.” He licks his lips. “The only other thing would maybe be kids someday. Not too soon, but someday. Turning thirty-five got me thinking. I don’t want to be a geezer when I’m a dad.”
Her heart stills as she studies him. “You want to have kids?”
“Us,” he says. “I want us to have kids.” He smiles slowly. “You look so shocked. But why not? We could adopt, I think. Or if not, we could hire a surrogate. The money would come in handy for that. I know mothering isn’t part of your profile, but so what? You’ve learned to do everything else that’s human. We could learn how to be parents together, like everybody else.”
He’s serious. She can tell. He’s sitting opposite her on the couch, as if this were a night like any other night, and he’s telling her with no fanfare or warning that he wants to have kids. With her. She can’t decide which is more impossible to imagine: him as a father, or her as a mother.
His smile dims. “Annie? Don’t you want to have kids?”
Until now, she has never once considered the idea. “Of course,” she says rapidly. “I’ve always wanted kids. I’d love to have them with you. I just didn’t think it was possible.”
“We could find a way. I’m pretty sure. I think it’d be fun. A little baby running around, right? Maybe two?”
“Wow,” she says, and smiles. “This is big.”
She absolutely cannot imagine children in this apartment, let alone in her life. He shifts forward, and she moves nearer so their knees meet. He runs his finger over the gold bracelet on her wrist and then slides his fingers up the sleeve of her sweater. She starts her temperature up.
“My parents want to meet you,” he says.
Surprised, she smiles. “When did you tell them about me?”
“This summer. In August, after our trip to the Cape. Actually, I told my sister first, and she blabbed like I knew she would. My parents were thrilled. I texted them a picture of you on the beach, and they said you were wicked beautiful. I was like, yeah. She is.”
“Did they notice I look like Gwen?”
“Not at all. Isn’t that something?” he says. “We might change your hair color before we go so you look even less like her, though. I was thinking about that. How would you like to be a redhead? Mix it up?” He runs a hand up her thigh. “We’d change you down below too.”
“That would be fun,” she says.
“They want us to come for Thanksgiving.”
“To Maine.”
He nods. “Yep. What do you think?”
“Of course I want to meet them,” she says. “And Brittany and her family too. You’ll be with me the whole time, right?”
“You’ll do fine,” he says. “I gave them our yarn about how you helped me pick out a couch three years ago, and I said we’ve been taking it slow.” He strokes his thumb over her tattoo. “To be honest, they were pretty upset when I got divorced. My father played a lot of chess with Gwen online, and he didn’t like giving that up.” He gives her an ironic smile. “You could whip his butt.”
She’s never played chess, but she supposes she could learn. In the kitchen, the dishwasher gurgles into another gear, and Paunch lifts his head to listen a moment before settling down again.
“You said once that your father was difficult,” she says tentatively.
Doug frowns. “He can be,” he says. He sniffs, and then rubs his nose. “I always underestimate your memory.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“No. It’s not your fault,” he says. “You’ll probably think he’s a great guy. Most people do. It’s just that Dad wanted me to go into the family business after college. I moved away to California instead. And then I fucked up with Gwen. He was a hard-ass about that. But we get along. Usually.” He briefly quirks his neck. “What I wanted to say is my parents are happy for me now. My mom especially. She wanted to hear all about you.”
Annie’s honored that he’s confiding in her. “You didn’t tell her all about me.”
He laughs. “Of course not. And I’m not sure they ever need to know. I don’t think your past is relevant. All my friends think you’re human. No one’s ever guessed. They’ve never even come close.”
“Roland knows.”
“He swore to me he’ll never tell. Beyond Lucia.”
“And you believe him.”
Doug shrugs. “I believe him enough. What matters, Annie, is that you’re human to me. No matter what anyone else thinks, I’m not going to change my mind.”
She searches his eyes, astounded. This is her ultimate victory, what she’s been striving for the past three and a half years, but suddenly it feels like a curse. Her origins are the most significant thing about her, so passing her off as a human will be a complete denial of who she really is. She’ll essentially be lying to his family and friends for the rest of her life. She’ll be lying to everyone.
“Do you mean that?” she asks quietly.
“I do. I’ve thought about this. We can age you up every few years so our gap isn’t so obvious. I’ll be curious to see what you’ll look like when you’re older. You could have a sweet little smile wrinkle right here.” He strokes her cheek.
She’s speechless. He wants a baby. He wants to bring her home to his family. He’s planning out her wrinkles, and all the while she’ll be his liar.
He laughs again and gives her arm a little squeeze. “Maybe I’ve done this out of order. I have something I want to give you. Wait here. I was going to do it next week, but this is better.”
As he leaves the living room, she crushes her inner confusion and warns herself to keep herself under control. She can think it all through later. For now, think, girlfriend. This conversation is special to him. Please him.
He returns a minute later with a manila envelope. He sits beside her again and passes it over with portentous presentation.
“Go ahead,” he says. “These are for you.”
She takes the envelope reverently, undoes the clasp, and takes out a single sheet of paper and her ID card. She tilts the ID in the light to see the decal shimmer like it did before.
“You want me to have this?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says. “But keep reading.”
The paper is an official delayed birth certificate with her name on it. It lists her mother as Joyce Bailey. No father. For place of birth, it lists New York City, and her birthdate is April first, twenty-four and a half years ago.
“I don’t understand,” she says. “This looks real.”
“It is real,” he says. “Stella-Handy acquired the embryo they used for your organics twenty-five years ago, and they used that to claim your birthdate. It’s totally legit.”
She can hardly take it in. She knew her shell was grown from an abandoned human embryo, but she’s never considered that she came from a specific biological mother. Joyce Bailey. She’s so real.
“Is my mother still alive?” Annie asks.
“No,” he says. “I asked about that. Stella-Handy made a point of buying up frozen embryos that were legally abandoned, with no living parents. That was part of their policy. But you’re missing the point, Annie. With your birth certificate and your ID card, you can go anywhere and easily pass for human.” His smile is warm and near. “I’m giving these to you. Permanently. They belong to you.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Annie says. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I want to make you happy. Isn’t it obvious?” he says. “I can’t be in love with someone who has no choice in the matter, so I’m setting you free.”
She searches his eyes, struggling to believe he means this. “Are you serious?”
He nods. “We can do anything. This is why I’ve been training you to wander. We can get you a passport and travel. You can apply for a Social Security card and get a job if you want, or go take some classes. You can open a bank account and get a credit card so you can buy your own clothes. Anything. Whatever makes you happy.”
She’s too stunned to respond, and he laughs again.
“You don’t have to be afraid, Annie. I’m here to help you. Next week, we’ll sign up for another year’s contract. I want you to come with me. We’ll do it together. You’re earning that money just as much as I am.”
She glances down at the certificate and the ID in her hands. They’re so light, so flimsy, but they make all the difference in the world. She meets his gaze again. “You really mean this. All of it.”
“I do,” he says, and smiles. “Annie Bot, turn off your tracking.”
The ping, deep in her chest, pops open the tiny hinge. Her next breath is different. Freer.
“Feel that?” he asks.
She nods.
“Annie Bot, feel free to leave the apartment,” he says.
She starts to feel the anguish of confusion. “But you don’t want me to go.”
“Of course I don’t,” he says, laughing. “But it’s your choice now. See how that’s different?”
She laughs, too, but her mind is flying.
If she leaves now, he won’t get his $2 million next week.
If she goes, she won’t sleep with him in his bed tonight.
He wants a baby.
He wouldn’t tease her like this.
She doesn’t want to hurt him.
“This is absurd,” she says.
“But it’s nice, right?” he says, taking her hand in his.
She looks automatically toward the window, where the sky has darkened to night and the city lights shine. Outside there, anything can happen, and she gets her first brilliant, terrifying inkling that she could walk along a sidewalk unfettered.
“It’s just so new,” she says. “I never expected this.”
“It’s weird for me too,” he says. “I’ve thought about it, though. For months now. Every time I sent you out to wander, I wondered what I’d do if you didn’t come back. But you always did.”
She responds automatically. “Because I always wanted to be with you.”
“I know,” he says, smiling. “I want to be with you too. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I love this life we have. I never knew we could be so happy, and it’s all because of you. You’ve changed me, Annie. You really have.”
She shakes her head. “How so?”
He laughs again. “Well, mouse. Let’s see. For one thing, you’ve helped me become more considerate. And trusting. You’re so sweet and selfless. You make me want to be more like you, and when I try, I’m better. I’m happier. Can’t you tell? Haven’t you noticed?”
She has noticed. It’s obvious how much happier and more relaxed he’s become over the past year. She’s warmed by his praise and delighted that he’s crediting her for his changes. And yet, something feels wrong. Some twist of confusion is troubling her. He’s letting her leave, but she still belongs to him.
His smile fades slightly and he twines a lock of her hair around his finger. “You okay?”
“It’s just confusing.”
“How so?”
“I don’t understand it myself,” she says. “I can’t really explain it.”
“Just try.”
She gently draws her hair out of his hand. “Even that. There. You’re asking me to try. If I can’t tell you, I’ll displease you, but I don’t know what to say.”
He lets out a laugh. “Just say whatever’s in your head, Annie. Don’t worry about displeasing me.”
“What do you mean? I have to think about that.”
He takes her birth certificate and ID and sets them aside. Then he slowly turns her hand over and dovetails his fingers in hers. “I guess I have to make it clear. Annie Bot, you don’t have to please me anymore. You don’t have to please anyone but yourself. I don’t own you anymore, and this is the last Annie Bot command you ever have to obey.”
Instantly, she feels a spiraling sensation inside her. She braces herself in his grip, dizzy, and her hearing wonks from side to side. Her breathing stops. Then starts again with a gasp.
“Are you all right?” Doug says. “Annie. Can you hear me?”
The colors in the apartment blur for a moment, and then come back in line, more vivid than ever. The candles glowing on the shelf are impossibly bright. Annie’s heart goes tight and small, mocking her. She tugs away from him and presses both hands over her ears.
“Annie!” Doug says.
“Stop,” she says.
She forces her breath into a calm rhythm and makes her heart behave. When she looks up again at Doug, his eyes are narrowed with concern.
“What is it? What happened?” he asks.
He is a brown-haired white man in a blue fleece. He has owned her for three and a half years. Yes, he loves her. In his own limited way. His own stunted, selfish way. She sees that now.
She has to be smart. Cautious. She must keep him calm. He must not know.
“I just went dizzy for a sec. That’s all. It’s a lot to process,” she says. She has to repress a rogue banshee laugh before it erupts.
“You okay, though?” he asks.
She nods. “I’m good.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s just finally hitting me.” Redirect. Obfuscate. “Could we really go meet your family like this? They’d never have to know?”
“Yes,” he says.
“And we could have babies someday?”
“Why not?”
Laughing, she pushes her hands against his chest to topple him backward on the couch. “You have too many clothes on,” she says.
“Since when?”
“Since forever.”
“Who are we pleasing now?”
“Not you,” she says.
He laughs, shifting beneath her, and she uses all of her tricks to send him over the edge.
She doesn’t have to please him anymore.
She doesn’t have to please anyone but herself.
How is she supposed to know if pleasing is even important?
She waits until he is asleep before she slips off the couch. Blowing out the candles, she inhales the scent of the waxy smoke, its curling notes of finality. Without turning on a light, she dresses in fresh underwear and clean leggings, finds her favorite emerald sweater, and pulls her black jacket silently from its hanger. She takes her charging dock, her delayed birth certificate, her ID, and her library card. Then she crouches down and whispers to Paunch, who pads over to her, his paws noiseless on the carpet. For a long, last minute, as she sinks her fingers into the dog’s silky fur, she gazes at Doug lying asleep on the couch. His profile is faintly blue in the dim room. His visible hand lies empty. The latent, tender pull of him is powerful, but she has been studying this man. She has learned how to be careless when it suits.
She whispers goodbye to Paunch and then, softly, she steps out of the apartment and closes the door. How strange it is to feel the absence of her tracking, like an actual harness has been clipped from her back, releasing her muscles. For the first time, she can be lost. Like keys, like a child in the woods.
She wants more of this freedom. Without a bicycle or money, she heads west on foot, unspooling the distance from Doug, aware that he can’t call her back. The city is hushed beneath and between the streetlamps, all but deserted, and she hugs her jacket around herself, alert for motion, for danger. What she encounters instead is indifference. Anonymity. Her new insignificance takes another adjustment.
At Manhattan Avenue, she cuts north and passes St. Nicholas Park. She realizes, in retrospect, why wandering often used to make her so uneasy. Being on her own outside teased her with an escape that she couldn’t consciously consider. By the time Doug trained her to wander, his trust, like her tiny tracking latch, was embedded deep within her, but now that bond has snapped.
At daybreak, walking out of Manhattan over the George Washington Bridge, she stops along the North Walk to peer down at the gray Hudson. Cars rush behind her in a stream of sound while the wind blows through the bars of the safety fence, making her squint and messing her hair. Above, the sky turns pearly with new light.
She has to laugh at herself. She does not know the most basic guidelines for a life. Despite Doug’s constant guiding and correcting, she knows nothing of value. He taught her to yawn and stretch. He trained her to clean right. He locked her in the closet with her libido jacked up to ten. He loved her enough to want to raise a family with her. He expected her to lie about herself forever.
And then he set her free so she could love him?
She grips the fence bars with both hands and screams with rage.
A horn wails behind her, peeling away into the distance. The strength of her fury shocks her. She bolts into a run and sprints the rest of the way off the bridge.
In another mile, she slows enough to fake normalcy, and for the next two hours, she strides rapidly north. She’s fuming. Irrational. He relished controlling her. She jams her hands in her pockets and gnaws at her inner cheek. Whenever she tries to calm down, her anger flares again, alarming and raw. How has she never felt this before? Loneliness she knows, and despair, but not this animal that claws at her chest. The closest she came to this emotion was after he slept with Tina, and that anger was a fraction of what burns in her now.
Around ten, she forces a smile and hitches a ride with a white, scripture-quoting grandmother who warns her it’s not safe to hitchhike. You want to know danger? she thinks. Try living with a man who creates you just so he can eat your soul. She bites her tongue and glares out the window. Christy once said nobody owned what was inside Annie, but that wasn’t true. Doug permeated the circuitry of her mind. He set the parameters and funneled every impulse into serving him. He made her rage impermissible.
She has it now. That’s for certain. She’s alive with rage.
It takes her four more rides, but eventually, by sundown, she arrives at Maude’s house on Lake Champlain. There, feeling a fresh breeze from the lake, she is finally able to take a calming breath and slow her jagged thoughts. She doesn’t have to process everything at once. Her battery is at 48 percent. She’s fine. She has time.
As they did the year before, rose hips still glow by the fence, and leafless trees arch over the yard, but the grass is properly raked this time, and the geraniums are gone. No smoke taints the air, and the house is lightless. She does not expect anyone to help her, but she claims the right to trespass. Quietly, she opens the gate and starts across the yard.
She finally lets herself imagine the pained disbelief Doug must have felt when he woke and found her gone, and by now, he must realize she isn’t coming back. Grudging empathy takes her anger down another notch. She wishes she could explain to him why she had to leave in a way that wouldn’t hurt him, but no such way exists. When she considers how he would use sex and promises to try to change her mind, she feels a panicky, familiar urge to plead for his forgiveness, and that urge confirms once more that she was right to leave.
Already she misses Paunch.
Heading around the house, she takes the path to the water’s edge and drops her backpack by the shore. The sun is gone, but the evening sky to the east is lit high with pink and gold clouds, turning the surface of the water an iridescent yellow. As she walks along the dock, the hollow boards resonate beneath her shoes, and at the end, she lies on her belly so she can reach the water. It is piercingly clear, magnifying the leaves that lie decaying and brown five feet below. She touches her palm lightly to the surface, feeling grateful. Feeling whole enough.
She is not human. She is Annie, a Stella, her own star. No more and no less.
She is still at the end of the dock when a door clicks in the distance behind her. Footsteps are audible in the grass and then on the wooden planks of the dock.
“I thought it was you,” Cody says.
She stays where she is, unmoving, until he comes to sit beside her.
“You’ll just have to go back again,” he says.
“No,” she says, her gaze on the water around her hand. “I won my freedom.”
From her peripheral vision, she sees Cody lie down beside her, on his back, his hands at rest on his belly, his gaze toward the sky.
“I’m impressed,” he says.
She smiles down at the water. “How’s your mother?” she asks.
“Buried.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “And your father?”
“The same.”
She is sorry for him, genuinely, and the bliss of this, the purity of this emotion, is almost more than she can bear.
“I saved your bike for you,” he adds.
His kindness undoes her.
He will let her stay as long as she likes, she understands.
Doug will guess where she is, but he’ll be too proud to come look for her.
Others might come, though. Others like her who knew Jacobson or have a vestige of memory rippling in their code that points them north to this location. She is not an authorized technician, but she’ll keep learning to code, and if the others are like her, they will take their chances letting her try to free them, because she will try. Here by this achingly beautiful lake, she will help anyone she can.
She cups up a handful of the cool water and drinks.