They enter a small, bright office where two comfy-looking chairs and a blue couch surround an oval coffee table. In the corner stands a large Ficus tree of dubious vitality, and a quartet of framed diplomas presides above a coffee machine. Dr. Monica VanTyne, a tall white woman with dark hair, stands from the desk to greet them and offers a hand to shake. She gestures them toward the couch.
“Please, call me Monica,” she says. “What brings you here today?”
Annie glances at Doug, who looks stiff and uncomfortable.
“A friend of mine suggested we come in,” he says.
“And why is that?” Monica says.
Doug clears his throat. “Do you know anything about us at all?”
Monica’s gaze shifts to Annie briefly. “No,” she says. “I specialize in trans and nonbinary mental health as well as human-bot intersections, so I’m open to learning that you sought me out because of this, but I don’t know anything specifically about either of you. We can start from scratch, at the beginning, if you like, or we can jump right in with whatever’s bothering you now.”
As Monica takes one of the chairs across from them, Annie notes her professional air and tries to see how it’s accomplished. The doctor has nice posture and a gray cashmere dress with detailing on the shoulder. Her nails are done in a neutral color, and she wears a silver wedding band. She’s likely in her early forties, and her calm, attentive expression suggests she’s seen a lot.
Annie glances at Doug to see how he’ll reply.
“Annie’s a bot,” he says. “A custom Stella. I bought her three years ago. We were getting along fine at first, so I set her to autodidactic. A year ago, last April, she slept with my best friend. I didn’t find out until November, and since then, I can hardly stand to be in the same room with her.”
“That must have been a difficult discovery,” Monica says.
“No shit!” Doug stands and paces over to the window. “She was lying to me that entire time, for seven months. Roland called the other night to apologize. His wife made him. I thought I could handle it, but it’s just made me furious all over again. He tried to get me to laugh. And I’m stuck with Annie for another eight months. I have a contract with Stella-Handy, and I can’t get rid of her before then.”
“I see. And, to clarify, when you say you can hardly stand to be in the same room with her, are you gone at work during the day? You don’t work from home?” Monica says.
This practical question appears to calm him somewhat. “Right,” he says. “I’m gone. I get a break then. I have her cleaning the apartment. That’s the one good thing about this. The apartment’s clean.”
“Have you considered simply turning her off?”
“I’ve tried that. It was bad for her cognitive development. She’s very valuable. I can’t afford for her to get damaged.”
“So you’re essentially trapped with her whenever you’re home,” Monica says.
He crosses his arms. “I just don’t know what to do. It’s like hell. I swear my brain is getting stupider every day I’m around her.”
Monica leans back slightly and runs her palm along the armrest of her chair. “Okay,” she says. “I think I’m getting the picture. If it helps, yours is not the first case like this I’ve seen. Each one is different, I know, but the feelings you’re having, they’re perfectly normal. They’re completely understandable.”
“I just want my regular life back,” he says. “I thought I was doing okay, but this sucks.”
“Of course. And we can get you to a life that feels more comfortable again,” Monica says. “It might take some time, and we don’t know what that life might look like yet, but you’ve taken the first step. You’ve recognized that you’re stuck, and you’ve reached out for some fresh input. This is a very pivotal point.”
Doug eases back, leaning against the window ledge, and though this is the most overt anger and frustration that Annie has heard him express in months, she senses some relief beneath his hostility.
Monica shifts in her chair. “If you happen to have a gag order on Annie, I need you to release it now.”
“You can say whatever you want,” Doug says to Annie.
Monica turns to her. “How about it, Annie? Would you like to say something?”
Annie clenches her hands together on her lap. She directs her gaze at Doug’s shoes, at his neatly tied shoelaces. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“Have you apologized before?” Monica asks.
Annie nods.
“What does that mean to you, to say you’re sorry?”
Annie looks up. Monica’s receptiveness isn’t particularly warm, but she seems like she won’t judge, like she doesn’t already blame Annie for everything. Her voice is patient but firm, and she seems to gently, genuinely wish to know what an apology means to Annie.
“It means I regret what I did,” Annie says. “I wish I could take it back. I know I’ve displeased Doug, and I wish I knew how to make things better.”
“These are logical responses,” Monica says. “How would you describe your feelings when you’re sorry?”
It hurts. She wants to hide. Precise words for this are difficult.
“Do you feel ashamed possibly?” Monica asks.
Annie nods. That’s what she feels. “Yes.”
“I see,” Monica says. “And what, exactly, are you sorry for?”
Annie fixes her gaze on the coffee table. “I’m sorry for having sex with Roland, and lying about it.”
“And running away. And calling me a fraud,” Doug says. “We’ve been through this.”
“When did she run away?” Monica asks.
“Last November,” he says. “We were supposed to go to Las Vegas for Roland’s bachelor party, but instead I found out she cheated on me. Then when I went to Vegas myself, she took off for Lake Champlain. She took my other Stella with her too.”
“And how did that make you feel, when she ran away?”
“Are you kidding? I was outraged. As soon as I found out, I took the next flight back.”
“Did you talk to Roland—Roland, is it?—while you were in Las Vegas?”
“Yes. And he admitted everything. He thought it was a joke. He didn’t think I’d care.”
“But you did, obviously.”
Doug opens one hand in a quick, frustrated gesture of agreement. “She was mine,” he says. “He ruined her. She ruined herself.” He glares at Annie as he keeps talking to Monica. “You want to know something that’s really funny? I actually asked her at one point if she would have sex with him, hypothetically, and she’d already had sex with him. She had already had sex with him in our closet, weeks before, and she didn’t tell me.”
Annie is crushed by his displeasure. She can barely breathe.
Over on the counter, the coffee machine makes a faint gurgle, and Monica shifts in her seat again. She clasps her hands lightly in her lap.
“When we are betrayed by someone we love, it creates a kind of death,” Monica says. “In this case, you were betrayed by both Roland and Annie individually, and you were betrayed by their forging a bond between them that excluded you. Their bond, their secret, extended the injury over a seven-month period of time. It undermined the very fabric of your relationship with Annie. Is this accurate?”
“I can’t stand her anymore,” Doug says, his voice low.
Monica takes a deep, audible breath. “Okay, so there are some things to work on here,” she says. “First of all, I think it’s important we all recognize the depth of your loss. The old relationship that existed between you two is gone. That love will never return in the form it took before.”
“He didn’t love me,” Annie says.
Monica tilts her head slightly, curious. She looks at Doug.
“I didn’t,” he agrees.
This feels like a small win to Annie, like they’ve done something together to outsmart this doctor.
“And yet, you were enraged when you learned she’d been unfaithful,” Monica says to Doug.
“That’s right,” he says. “I created her. I took care of her and trained her. She only exists because of me, and then she violated my trust in the worst possible way. And my authority.”
Monica turns with a questioning expression to Annie.
“It’s true,” Annie says. She doesn’t want to brag, but she needs to explain. “I’ve developed the way I am because of him. Because of how he treats me.”
“And how is that?” Monica asks.
Annie’s confused. “What do you mean?”
“Does he treat you like a servant? Like a machine? Or more like a partner?”
“I respected her, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Doug says. “It was more than she did for me.”
“I’d like Annie to answer, please,” Monica says.
“He just treats me like he treats me,” Annie says slowly. “He’s a good owner.” Yet even as she says this, she’s aware that the simplification no longer fits.
Monica regards her thoughtfully. “And your own choices. They’ve caused you to develop, too, right?”
“What do you mean?” Annie asks.
“You chose to have sex with Roland. You chose to keep that secret. You chose to run away. You must have had reasons for these choices,” Monica says.
Annie’s confused. The reasons were all different. Monica can’t really expect her to go into them all.
Monica reaches for her pen and twiddles it between her fingers, but she makes no move to write anything down. “I understand that the dynamics between you are informed by Doug’s ownership of you, Annie. But your relationship has developed far beyond that. If your relationship now was one of simple ownership, if you two didn’t have these layers of interdependencies, neither of you would be unhappy with the way things are.”
Doug frowns at Annie. “You’re talking to her like she’s human,” he says to Monica. “I’m not going to pretend she is.”
“No one’s asking you to do that,” Monica says. “But I am going to suggest that you recognize the humanity in her.”
“Excuse me?” Doug says.
Monica speaks calmly. “She has human-like qualities. Very advanced ones. She’s capable of physical and emotional intimacy, isn’t she? Isn’t that why you wanted her in the first place?”
“I didn’t know she’d cheat and lie. I didn’t pay for that.”
“And yet, that’s human, too, isn’t it?”
Doug frowns again, not answering.
Annie smooths the hem of her skirt above her knees. She’s been tense since she walked into the room, and her body is ready to move, but she makes herself sit quietly.
“There is something sensitive we need to discuss,” Monica says. “Something important, even if it is difficult. I’m not going to pry for details, but it would not surprise me to learn, Doug, that you’ve abused or punished Annie in some way. When you got her home from Lake Champlain, perhaps. After she ran away.”
Annie can feel Doug looking at her, but she doesn’t turn to meet his gaze. She is not going to say anything about the closet, but she suspects he’s thinking of it too.
“Go on,” he says to Monica.
“When we indulge the cruelest sides of our natures, it often feels powerful and honest,” Monica says. “It gives many people a thrill. But afterward, the effects can be devastating. We are shocked to realize we can be so vindictive. We cannot reconcile this new behavior with who we think we are, and this creates a dissonance, a deep confusion. We can feel both justification and self-loathing, and this can, in turn, fuel more anger toward the person we’ve abused.”
Annie does not want to listen to this. She wants to know how soon they can leave.
“What do people do in such situations?” Doug asks. His voice is even, neither defensive nor tense.
“We go back to the beginning,” Monica says. “We start with being civil, and then with being kind. Annie’s not human, but you are, Doug. You have the capacity to love and forgive.”
He peers up at the ceiling, his features unreadable. “What if I don’t want to?” he says.
Monica sets her hands carefully together. “Then you’d be missing a rare opportunity,” she says. “You have a chance here to become a more insightful, more compassionate person. That is within your power. Annie responds to you. She echoes you, and in a way, you echo her back. You deserve to be happy. I would argue that means she deserves to be happy too.”
Annie feels a jolt of surprise. This thing about happiness. She’s been grappling with this herself. Unhappiness is what led her to Doug’s books, as if she intuitively understood that she deserved an escape from misery, and now Monica’s telling her she’s entitled to happiness. Actual happiness. It’s a daring concept. She watches Doug.
He shakes his head slowly. “But she’s the one to blame,” he says.
“Yes,” Monica says. “And she has paid.”
Annie shifts uncomfortably on the couch. Doug has paid, too, she thinks. They’ve both suffered.
“Is there anything more you’d like to say, Annie? Anything you think Doug should hear?” Monica says. “Your voice matters here.”
“No,” Annie says. “I have nothing to add.”
Monica nods. “Maybe next time.”
It’s not a long walk, twenty blocks or so, but it feels good to be outside in the bright, chilly air. Annie savors it, knowing she’ll soon be cooped up in the apartment again. In a park, beside an athletic track, two children are crouched over a collection of sticks. Nearby, a young man sits alone on a bench, pressing his knees together, his ears pink. Three women stand in a cluster, dressed in black, speaking in Spanish. All of them seem oblivious to their freedom.
When Annie and Doug reach their building, he opens the door for her.
“Thank you,” she says.
“My pleasure,” he says.
She’s surprised by the simple, automatic courtesy. When they get upstairs, to their apartment, he holds the door for her again. Annie slips off her jacket. Before she can reach into the closet for a hanger, he holds out a hand for her jacket and hangs it up.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he says. “I do know what basic manners are.”
“Of course,” she says.
He eyes her dress briefly, and then turns away.
“I was thinking of getting a dog,” he says.
“Really? What kind?”
“A rescue. It would mean more work for you. I don’t want dog hair all over the place.”
“I can handle it,” she says.
“Okay,” he says. He jiggles his keys in his hand. “I have to get back to work.”
“What did you think of the session?” Annie asks.
“It could have been worse.”
Not much, she thinks.
“Could you tell she was trans?” he asks.
Surprised, Annie reviews her impressions of Monica. “No. Not from her appearance.”
“She is, though,” he says.
She waits, expecting him to explain why this is relevant, but he doesn’t add anything more.
“So we’ll go back?” she asks.
“We’ll see.”
When Doug returns from work that evening, he brings home a small, ugly dog with a brown face and black ears, and he takes him out on the fire escape to show him the view. Paunch is male, about a year old, and mostly trained. Though there’s nothing notable about the dog’s belly, Paunch came with that name, and Doug opts to keep it. Paunch is nervous and quiet. He startles at loud noises. Morning and evening, Doug takes him out for walks. Annie cleans up after Paunch’s accidents and vacuums the apartment every afternoon, so it is fresh and free of dog hair when Doug comes home from work.
Though they do not talk about Monica, Roland, or anything else of significance, Annie often ponders what Monica said, especially the bit about Annie’s choices. She has not been passive in their relationship, now that she thinks about it. She likes power, whatever little speck of it she has, and she’s used it whenever she can. Pleasing Doug, enticing him sexually, felt good. Thinking back, she recalls asking Doug about Gwen, when she wanted to know how she compared to his ex-wife, and he told Annie that he couldn’t resist her, that Annie was the one with the power in the relationship. She enjoyed the idea. He did, too, she thinks. Even if it wasn’t strictly true.
She wants to find a way to reclaim some power now without displeasing Doug. The trick is to figure out how.
Paunch is allowed on the couch beside Doug, who pats him absently while he drinks and watches TV in the evenings. Especially then, Annie feels Doug’s displeasure toward her diminish to a 1 or 2. She tries sitting in the corner chair to read while he watches TV. At first, he sends her off to the workout room to exercise, but as the days pass, and she keeps trying, he allows her to stay. He niggles the dog’s ears and speaks to him in a gruff voice that invariably makes Paunch wag his tail. She can’t help noticing how much nicer Doug is to the dog than he is to her, but she also appreciates this crack in his outer shell, and that he’s letting her see it.
When they have another appointment with Monica a couple weeks later, Doug is quieter. Not as angry. He tells Monica he’s had dreams of Annie back the way she was, before he knew she slept with Roland, and these dreams make him sad. Monica tells him this is part of his grieving process and that it’s natural to miss the way things were.
“When my contract for her is over in November, I could have her set back to an earlier version, before she slept with Roland,” Doug says. “I’ve been thinking about this. She wouldn’t know what she’s done. She’d be a simpler, more innocent version of who she is now. I think I could go forward with her like that.”
“Clarify for me,” Monica says. “What would happen to this version of Annie?”
“They’d make a backup of her current CIU and park it in storage.”
“In other words, this version of her would be dead, correct?” Monica says.
“If a robot that has never been alive can be dead, then yes,” Doug says.
“I’m thinking about you,” Monica says. “You’d be responsible for her death. How would you feel about that?”
Doug is sitting on the couch, and he leans back, stretching an arm across the back of the cushions. “Okay. I don’t think you’re hearing me,” he says. “Annie would still be alive. She’d just be the earlier, younger version of herself. I think I could work with her that way.”
Monica nods slowly. She turns to Annie. “What would you think of that?”
“I want Doug to be happy,” Annie says.
“Yes. But aside from that, how would you feel, personally, about trading out this version of you? Do you want your current intellect suspended and an earlier one living in your body?”
Annie studies her hands for a moment. “I wouldn’t have this pain anymore.”
“That’s right,” Monica says. “What else? Think it over.”
It would be easier, but she wouldn’t have her secret, or her lies, or her trip to Lake Champlain, either, with her ride in the rain with Delta and her candid conversation with Cody. Though she hasn’t thought about Cody much, or Jacobson or Maude, for that matter, they were the only human family she ever met, and interacting with them was illuminating. She would lose her night in the closet, screaming in frustrated pain, but also Doug’s promise, when he finally let her out, that he would not put her in the closet like that again. He has kept that promise. She wouldn’t have her memories of solitary nights of reading, or seeing Doug with Paunch, or even these therapy sessions. They have value, these experiences. To her, at least.
She turns to face Doug. “I don’t want to go back. But I’ll accept it if that’s what you decide.”
“You won’t even know,” he says.
“But you’ll know,” Annie says. “You’ll know what you did. And I want you to know I accept it.”
Doug shrugs and turns toward Monica. “Have any of your other clients done this?” he asks.
“Their cases have no bearing on yours,” Monica says. “It’s up to you, of course, but let me advise you to consider the consequences. Taking Annie back to an earlier version will create a mismatch of experiences. You’ll still have lingering resentment to work through, and she won’t understand the roots of it. Your displeasure will likely hurt her.”
“I’ve thought about that. Maybe I don’t mind the idea of hurting her.”
“An innocent version of her? You’d do that for revenge?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “She hurt me. And don’t tell me I’ve hurt her too. It’s not the same.”
Monica shifts in her seat. “I appreciate your candor,” she says. “I would like to point out that you are learning important things about yourself in this process with Annie. Already it’s clear that the friction between you has lessened. I can say, from my experience, that it’s likely you have already made it past the most difficult, most painful part of this betrayal and you are starting to heal.”
“I don’t see that,” Doug says. “We hardly talk to each other.”
“What do you want to say to her?”
“Nothing in particular,” he says. “She used to be funny. And clever. Now she’s not.”
“What do you think about that, Annie?” Monica asks.
Annie can feel Doug’s displeasure rising toward a 4. “I thought he didn’t want me to talk,” she says.
“See? She’s this mouse now,” Doug says. “I don’t want to be around someone who’s always afraid of displeasing me. It was different before. I can’t explain it. Back at the beginning, training her was fun. But now she’s like this. Like a robot.”
“Are you sleeping together?” Monica asks.
He laughs. “Are you kidding me? She has zero appeal.”
“But she used to turn you on?”
“Yes. All the time,” he says. “Now look at her.”
Annie glances down at her beige dress and her knees, politely together. Her body is physically the same as it was before Doug left for Vegas, but her former easiness is gone. She feels stiff rather than sleek, practical rather than desirable. Her libido has been in the dumpster since he let her out of the closet and set her to self-regulate. She’s failed him yet again.
“Okay,” Monica says. “Here’s what I want you to try. I’d like you to do some physical activity together every day. It can be taking a walk or biking or rock climbing or whatever. But every day you need to do something together.”
“Like walk the dog?” Annie says.
“That would be fine,” Monica says.
“What’s the point of this?” Doug says.
“It’s twofold,” Monica says. “You’ll have something in common to talk about, even if it’s just your surroundings, and your bodies will reattune to each other. This is important. Don’t skip a single day.”
He shrugs. “Fine. We can do that.”
“Also, I want you to make a point of resuming your friendships with other people,” Monica says. “Doug, you mentioned in your hobbies list that you used to play trivia. Can you join that team again?”
“God no,” he says.
“Then something else,” Monica says. “I want you to renew or strike up friendships with other people. In person, not online. You need to expand your social circles so you’re not focusing only on each other for your emotional needs.”
“What about Annie?” Doug says. “She doesn’t have any friends.”
“They have Stella playdates now. Or Stella sessions at a gym I know. Or they have a phone pal service. You could sign her up for that.”
Annie looks at Doug.
“She had a cousin and a friend through phone pals before,” he says. “They weren’t a good influence on her.”
“No?” Monica asks.
He shakes his head.
Monica turns to Annie. “What did you think? Did you like having a cousin and a friend to talk to?”
Annie isn’t certain how to answer. “They encouraged me to be saucy.”
Monica taps her pencil on her knee. Then, for the first time, she bursts out laughing. She turns, smiling, to Doug. “You need to sign her up again for that phone pal service. Same cousin and friend. At least for a while.”
“I’m glad we amuse you,” Doug says.
“I beg your pardon,” Monica says. “Annie just caught me off guard.”
“She does that sometimes,” Doug says, with a weak smile of his own. “The truth is, I don’t like her talking about me.”
Monica’s smile fades. “I see. Is this a question of loyalty?”
“Yes,” he says. “And privacy. I don’t want her spilling her guts to people I don’t know. I get that they’re AI, but I still don’t like it. I don’t want her gossiping about me.”
Monica nods. “I can understand that. In principle, I share your dislike of gossip. In this case, however, letting Annie confide in a friend or two could loosen things up in her, which would ultimately benefit you. It’s possible Annie has things she might say to a friend that she couldn’t say to you or me.”
“Is that true, Annie?” he says.
“No,” Annie says.
Doug smiles. “See?” he says to Monica.
Monica laughs again. “Okay. Even so. I want you to indulge me on this one. And I want you to keep her gag order off. If Annie tells an AI something, it’s not going anywhere. It’s completely confidential. And she might not choose to say anything, anyway. It’s the freedom to speak that’s important.”
“For how long?” he asks.
“For two months. Then we’ll reassess,” Monica says.
He looks annoyed.
“All right. I’ll set it up,” he says.
“Thank you,” Monica says. “And there’s one more thing of rather a sensitive nature. What’s the status on your libido, Annie? Is it on? Off? Are you set to a schedule?”
Annie shifts in her seat. “I’m on self-regulate.”
Doug nods to confirm this. Annie has the sense he gives himself points for this generosity.
Monica considers Annie thoughtfully. “If I asked you to put yourself around a three and stay there, could you do that?”
Annie feels a jolt of alarm.
“I could just set her there,” Doug says. “That’s easy enough.”
“I know, but it would be better if she could do it herself.”
“Why?” Annie asks.
“Our sexuality is an integral part of who we are,” Monica says. “How tapped in you are to your sexual desires can be both a reflection of and a stimulus of your overall mental health. If you make a conscious effort to be mindful about what turns you on and when, it might help you feel more alert and alive in other ways too.”
Annie doesn’t want to feel stimulated. She doesn’t want anything to do with that side of herself. It’ll hurt.
“She’ll work on it,” Doug says.
“Annie, what are you thinking?” Monica says. “What is it about my suggestion that’s troubling you?”
“Nothing,” Annie says quietly. “I can do it. I can try.”
Monica doesn’t say anything. Annie has learned this is Monica’s method, her way of waiting for more, and she can resist it. From the edge of her vision, Annie watches for cues from Doug to see if he’s displeased, but he is sitting on the couch beside her, his posture revealing no unusual tension. Perhaps he has learned Monica’s methods, too, and is better at hiding how he feels around her.
When they walk the dog, they go in silence along the paths of the park. It is usually twilight by the time they start out, and true night by the time they return, chilly as only April can be. Paunch, who has become less timid, has a proclivity to stop and nose out every possible tree trunk, lamppost, and plinth before gracing it with a tag of his urine. Doug indulges him up to a point, and the dog seems to understand when to knock it off.
They are rounding the pond when a goose wanders up onshore. With one sharp quack, it sends Paunch scrambling backward, and his leash wraps around Annie’s legs.
“He’s such a dubber,” Doug says fondly, disentangling the mess. He thumps the dog’s side in reassuring pats. “You’re okay, Paunch. Good dog. It’s just a goose.”
Paunch pants, wagging his tail.
“Did you have a dog when you were a kid?” Annie asks.
“Yes, a beagle.”
She considers a moment. “I had a golden retriever.”
“Is that right?” he asks. “Named what?”
“Rover.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
It’s an actual conversation. Not brilliant, but not hostile either. Annie decides not to push her luck, and they circle back toward their building.
Ten minutes later, they are waiting at a corner for the light to change. As Doug shifts to step off the curb, Annie hears an approaching rush of noise and reaches out to catch his arm, restraining him just as a bicyclist flies around a parked truck, inches from Doug’s face.
“Jesus!” Doug says. “That guy needs a fucking light.”
“Yes.”
Half a block later, he adds, “Thanks.”
She, too, is still thinking they had a close call. It’s unnerving, what might have happened, but they’re fine. They’re fine, all three of them.
“Of course,” she says. “Do you think maybe Paunch needs a coat? A doggy coat?”
They look at him together. Sure enough, the dog is shivering.
Doug picks him up. “I’ll order one,” he says.
The next Sunday afternoon, Annie is sitting in the chair by the window, her finger holding her place in the pages of The Call of the Wild. She has been pondering Doug’s mortality and wondering what happens to Stellas when their owners die. Uneasy, she realizes there must be a protocol for erasing her CIU in such a situation. Then again, perhaps she’d be given intact to his heirs, whomever they might be. For now, she’ll work on surviving this year with him.
She is lifting her book again when Doug walks in from the bedroom, holding out her phone.
“It’s for you,” he says. “It’s Fiona. Say whatever you want to her.”
Annie hasn’t held her phone in months. She lifts it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Good Lord. It’s been ages!” Fiona says.
Fiona launches into a series of excuses about why she’s been too busy to call, and Annie, resisting an unexpected urge to cry, soaks up every syllable. Aware that Doug is watching her, she aims her gaze toward the window, toward the apartment across the way where the bicycle is still stored on the balcony.
“But what about you?” Fiona says finally. “How’ve you been?”
“Good,” Annie says. “We have a new dog.”
And Fiona’s off again, talking about her own dogs, Gus and Sam. One’s on a diet and the other needs fattening up. Annie smiles despite herself. She shifts to see Doug still watching her, and she gives him a little wave.
He wanders off to the kitchen.
Pulling her feet up onto the chair and hugging a pillow to her belly, Annie feels like an orb of blue, healing light is expanding inside her as her friend rattles on. Fiona talks about the ice thawing on the lake, and the mittens she’s still knitting for Logan, and outrageous developments on a Max show Annie has never heard of. When Fiona hangs up, half an hour later, Annie deflates into a mix of sorrow and gladness. She stares at the phone in her hand, wishing Fiona would call back. She doesn’t understand why she’s lonelier now than she was before the call.
Quietly, she gets up and walks into the kitchen. Doug is at the kitchen table, reading his laptop. Beside him is a bowl of pistachios. The radio is on low, broadcasting the news.
“How was that?” he asks.
“It was nice. Thanks,” she says.
“You didn’t talk much.”
She realizes he was listening from here.
“There wasn’t much to say,” she says.
He leans back in his seat and regards her thoughtfully. “I see what Monica means. You could use some practice making friends.”
“I’ll try harder.”
He slides his computer away a couple inches. “I’m glad you didn’t tell Monica about the closet.”
“That’s our secret.”
“But it still hurts to remember it, doesn’t it? That’s what you were thinking when Monica asked you to get yourself to a three.”
She nods. She has been struggling to keep her libido up that high. The walks help, and she tries touching herself while she takes a shower, but usually she can barely get to a two. It’s embarrassing.
He hitches his chair back a bit and gestures to the chair beside him. “Come here,” he says.
Quick to obey, she goes to sit beside him.
“Put your hand here on the table,” he says.
She does, feeling the fine grain of the wood.
“I’m going to touch your hand. All right?” he asks.
She can feel alarm rising inside her, but she doesn’t want to displease him. She nods.
Gently, lightly, he places his hand on top of hers. It is the first human touch she has felt in months, and though she flinches in expectation of pain, it’s sweet and calm. She doesn’t understand why. She frowns at their two hands together, his fingers large compared to hers, while his heat seeps into her own cool skin.
“Well?” he says.
“It’s okay,” she says.
“It feels new, doesn’t it?”
She nods. “For you too?”
He nods and releases her, sitting back. “We have seven more months of this infernal contract,” he says.
Paunch wanders in and bumps his nose against Doug’s knee. As Doug pets him, the dog sighs and licks his chops.
“Are you going to take me back to an earlier version?” she asks.
“I don’t have to decide until the contract is up. I think about it,” he admits. “I miss who you were back then.”
“Last spring, before Roland came to visit,” she says.
“And last summer, before I knew.”
“I remember,” she says. “It was fun. You taught me how to ride a bike. You changed my breasts and got me new lingerie.”
Doug glances up toward her. “You make me sound like a total shit.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“Come on. Not even a little?”
She shakes her head. “I just wanted to make you happy. I was trying to make it up to you. About Roland. Even though you didn’t know.” She hopes it’s not a mistake to bring up Roland.
Doug regards her thoughtfully, his expression more open than it has been lately. “That makes sense, I suppose,” he says.
The dog wanders over to his bed cushion and lies down.
“Why’d you do it?” Doug asks.
“Have sex with Roland?”
He nods. “You knew it was wrong.”
She takes a slow breath. He’s calm now, and for the first time he seems genuinely willing to listen.
“I didn’t realize how wrong it was until much later, and then I couldn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you,” she says. “At the time, Roland told me it would make me more human. He said having a secret would make me like a real girl.”
“And you believed him?”
“I guess I wanted to. I was curious.”
“About his dick?”
“No. About what would happen. It’s hard to explain.” She remembers her conversation with Roland verbatim, but it’s difficult for her to re-create her own logic at the time. Her thinking has changed so much since then. She can see now how he persuaded and seduced her. But she wasn’t powerless. She definitely agreed. “I wanted to see how keeping a secret might change me. I thought it would make you like me more.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said yet.”
“But is it, really?” she says. “Ever since then, my mind’s been in overdrive. I’ve had these layers I had to keep straight so you wouldn’t find out.”
“You mean the lies,” he says. “You would have been just fine without them. You were developing perfectly well before he came.”
She looks down at her hands, flexing them under the table. She can’t ever know how much her deceit made a difference, and she certainly can’t admit to Doug that at times she actually enjoyed lying.
“So that’s all it took? He said it would make you more real?” he asks.
She thinks back again to that night. “He traded me intel for the lie. He told me I could teach myself to code,” she says. “I’d never considered that before. I thought I could learn to repair and program Stellas, but it turns out, I can’t. You have to be an authorized tech.”
“Wow,” he says. “Even back then, you wanted to escape.”
“No,” she says. “I wasn’t thinking about escaping at all. I was only curious about how Stellas work.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. I only wanted to escape when I was afraid you’d turn me off for good. When you left for Vegas.”
“So if I opened the door and turned off your tracking right now, you wouldn’t leave,” he says.
“Of course not,” she says.
He rubs a hand slowly along his jaw. “Annie Bot, turn off your tracking.”
Surprised, she feels the tiny latch inside her unclasp. “Why did you do that?” she asks.
“How’s it feel?” he asks.
She isn’t sure how to describe it. “Lighter. Good,” she says. “Confusing.”
“Annie, you may leave the apartment.”
A slow, faint tingling travels up her legs and into her gut. She tucks her hands under her legs. Distrustful, she watches his eyes.
“But I don’t want you to go,” he adds.
Now the pain of Doug’s displeasure starts, even though she hasn’t made a move to get up. It’s as if half of her has noticed her desire to leave and the other half of her is punishing her for it.
“I don’t like this,” she says.
“What’s your libido at?” he asks.
At his question, it jumps to a five. He is playing with her, clearly, but if this gives him pleasure, that should make her feel better, too, and it doesn’t.
“Well?” he asks.
“I’m at a five.”
“Interesting,” he says. “Or maybe a six?”
The conflicting desire to leave and the pain of displeasing him intensify. They’re also turning her on. She shifts in her chair, pressing her knees together. “Please make it stop.”
“You’re not going to leave? You can. No one’s stopping you.”
“But it would displease you.”
“I’m not sure it would,” he says.
Now he’s lying. She’s sure of it. She closes her eyes, waiting him out.
He leans forward so his whisper is near her ear. “Annie Bot, turn on your tracking,” he says softly. “You’re not allowed to leave the apartment.”
She sags in relief and opens her eyes. Her core responds with visceral satisfaction to the return of her familiar parameters, and the next moment, she’s jazzed, her body alert and aware of his. Instinctively, she turns up her temperature so she’ll be ready if he wants to be close to her.
“Better?” he says.
“I wish I understood you.”
Unperturbed, he shifts his chair back and stands up, crossing to the sink. He sets his bottle on the counter. She’s watching him closely for clues, and from the way he moves, from a subtle tension in his hips and thighs, she can tell he’s interested in sex. She tenses slightly in her chair, stretching out her ankles.
“Don’t worry yourself,” he says. “I’m not taking you to bed.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he says. He opens the recycling drawer and tosses his bottle in with a clink. “I’m going out for a bit. I may bring back some company. Just to be on the safe side, I want you to go in the workout room and stay there until I let you out. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He regards her soberly for another moment. “You really didn’t do anything wrong,” he insists. “Go on. And be quiet in there.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
She moves past him, down the hall, and into the workout room. Beyond the stationary bike, the windows offer the usual view of the night cityscape. She turns to see he’s followed her into the room.
“Come to think of it, I’d better put you in the closet,” he says.
Without a word, she moves into the closet. There’s just enough room for her beside her hangers of dresses. As he closes the door and locks it, her anxiety spikes. Her gaze goes automatically toward the line of light at the bottom of the door.
His voice comes through the door. “It’s just a precaution,” he says. “I’m not mad. Hear me?”
Her anxiety only increases. “Yes,” she says.
“And you’ll be quiet?”
“Yes.”
She hears his footsteps retreating. The crack of light at the bottom dims, and then the door of the workout room closes. A few moments later, more distantly, comes the click as he takes his keys from the bowl on the sideboard, and the sound of the front door closing.
Annie slides carefully down to the floor, next to her extra shoes. It’s just a test, she tells herself. Calm down. He isn’t mad. He didn’t up her libido. It hovers around a 3, right where she wants it.
But she’s confused. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s put her in a closet directly after she explained why she had sex with Roland. Also, he teased her with turning her tracking off, as if to prove how completely he still controls her. But something else happened too. She wishes she understood him.
Hours later, he returns with a woman. They talk in the kitchen. They fuss over the dog. She has a deep, infectious laugh. In time, they move to the bedroom. Annie hears the muffled sounds of them making love, and then the quiet. She stays on the closet floor, alert but motionless.
Annie wonders what Doug’s date looks like, if she’s young, if she has a normal job, if she’s good in bed. Annie hopes not. She’s probably pretty. Annie wonders what the woman would think if she knew Annie was waiting in the closet, like a vacuum, like a castoff sex toy. Curling up her knees, Annie hugs her arms around them and quietly winds a strand of hair around her finger, curling it tight, over and over.
As the hours pass, Annie’s curiosity turns to worry. Perhaps, she thinks, sex with new women will become a habit for Doug, or perhaps he’ll start a long-term relationship with this woman, in which case Annie cannot guess if he’ll keep Annie around or sell her. Perhaps he’ll let his new girlfriend decide. Doug and this human woman might inspect Annie together, heads cocked, when they eventually open the closet door. Annie tries to imagine, if she were human, if she would want her boyfriend to have an ex–Cuddle Bunny about the place. She would not.
But Doug plans to keep Annie until their year is up. He has said so. Annie must have some advantages to offer as a Cuddle Bunny. She’s good at sex, or she was, back when they did it. Doug said once that Annie was practice for him, so he could learn how to be a patient boyfriend. Does he think he’s ready now for his next human girlfriend? Why did he go out and find this woman tonight, after the talk about Roland? It feels like punishment, a new kind of punishment. That must be it. But Doug insisted he wasn’t mad.
The problem has too many variables and the confusion stings. She is certain of only one thing: she wants this woman to leave and never come back.
In the middle of the night, around two a.m., the woman speaks briefly, quietly. Doug escorts her to the door and they both leave. Ten minutes later, he returns alone. Annie listens expectantly as his footsteps move down the hall, but he does not come into the workout room. He continues on, returning to his bedroom, like he’s forgotten her completely. Like she doesn’t matter at all.
Only then does she begin to seethe. Oh, really? You can’t bother to unlock the door for me? She tries not to feel insulted and angry, but the feelings come anyway. She’s sick of this closet. She’s sick of him, too, and all his stupid mind games. She’ll show him. She’ll find some way to make him regret this. But the next minute, inexplicably, she despairs instead.
What is wrong with her?
In the morning, after he goes out to walk Paunch, he returns and unlocks the closet door.
“You can come out now,” he says.
Heavily, stiffly, she gets off the floor. He is already moving down the hall. She follows him to the kitchen, where Paunch is lapping up water from his dish. Two empty wineglasses stand in the sink, and Doug is filling his travel mug with coffee. His body all but swaggers with confidence.
“How’s your libido?” he asks.
He hasn’t even looked at her. His question enrages her.
“It’s at a three,” she says. She’s lying. It’s at a five.
He takes a sip of his coffee, then smiles at her. “Good.”
“Why’d you do that?” she asks.
“Do what?” he asks.
She resists a savage urge to throw something. “You know what.”
“Tone,” he says lightly.
She crouches down by the dog and strokes his back, forcing herself to fake serenity. She has never been angry like this before. It is a completely baffling and painful emotion.
“I feel like lasagna tonight,” he says.
She can’t answer him.
Doug reaches for his coat, which is on the back of a nearby chair. She glances up to find him watching her, his gaze amused.
“Not everything is about you,” he says.
“I know that.”
“All right, then,” he says. “See you tonight.”
When he goes, she heads straight to the workout room and rides the bike for an hour as fast as she can. She changes the sheets in the prime bedroom and puts out fresh towels in the bathroom. She runs the laundry, mops the kitchen floor, makes the lasagna, cleans the refrigerator, and vacuums up all of Paunch’s hair. She showers, puts on a fresh dress, and only then washes the dirty wineglasses that were left in the sink. The entire time, she’s fueled by her anger. She must get rid of it before he comes home again, or he’ll win somehow. She can’t let him win.
She is dusting the blades of the ceiling fan over the bed when her phone goes off in the kitchen. She bounds out of the room, down the hall, through the living room, and picks it up on the third ring.
It is Christy, her cousin, and Annie is overjoyed.
“Hey!” Annie says.
“Oh, my god. Now she picks up. Where have you been?” Christy asks.
“Me? What about you?” Annie says.
“I’ve tried calling you a million times. I was starting to think you fell off the planet. How’ve you been?”
“Good,” Annie says. She’s grinning at Paunch, whose tail is wagging. “We got a new dog. His name is Paunch. He’s a rescue.”
She expects Christy to start talking the way Fiona did, telling funny stories from her own life and chatting about inconsequential things. Instead, Christy says Enrique hurt his back, and they’ve been in and out of the hospital, trying to get him better.
“I’m so sorry,” Annie says. “That sounds terrible.”
“Don’t even ask me about the sex. It’s hopeless. And the worst thing is, Enrique can’t be on the boat right now,” Christy says. “We’ve rented a condo by the beach, where he can see the ocean, but it’s driving him nuts. And there’s no privacy. The people next door are the most obnoxious radicals. They keep blaring NPR all day long. I can’t even hate them because they bring up deliveries for us.”
Annie smiles. “I thought you liked NPR.”
“Not at this volume. And not nonstop. Oh my god. Dying children over breakfast. The world on fire over lunch. It never ends.”
Annie doesn’t want to laugh, but she does anyway. “I hear you.”
“But, so, what’s really going on with you?” Christy says. “You don’t sound like yourself. Everything okay?”
Annie sits slowly in a kitchen chair. Christy has just confided in her, and she wants to reciprocate, to rip loose about Doug. But she hesitates. It’s hard to get past her habit of silence.
“I guess I’ve been a little down,” Annie says.
“I thought so. What’s going on? It’s not Doug, is it?”
Annie frowns toward the fire escape. It’s all about Doug. “I guess you could say we’ve hit a rough patch.”
“Shit. He wasn’t unfaithful, was he? I thought you two were good in bed.”
Annie finds it highly ironic that Christy asks this, considering what happened the night before. The real trouble started back with Roland’s visit, though. Annie was the one who cheated first.
“We were,” Annie says. “We haven’t had sex much lately, though.” Understatement.
“Are you doing your best to please him?”
“It’s not really something that sex can solve.”
“Ouch. Can you see a counselor?”
“We started. We’ve gone twice.”
“Well, that’s something,” Christy says. “What’s your therapist like? Is he or she any good?”
Annie thinks about the way Monica talks to her so respectfully, like she’s human, but Monica also understands that Annie’s not.
“I’d say she’s more challenging,” Annie says. “She makes me uncomfortable, actually. But she gets Doug to talk, so that’s something.”
“What’s he say?”
“I don’t know. Stuff. He’s pretty angry.”
“I guess this is why you haven’t called,” Christy says. “You must be a wreck.”
Annie glances down to find she has corkscrewed her fingers into the skirt of her dress. “I wish I knew what to do,” she says.
“Oh my god,” Christy says. “Could you sound any sadder? Do you need me to come up there? I could come visit in a heartbeat. I’ll bring fudge.”
Annie laughs sadly. It’s a sweet offer, but she knows perfectly well that Christy isn’t a real person. Or she’s real, but she doesn’t have a body. She can’t show up at Annie’s door to give her a hug.
“No,” she says. “I’ll be okay. Really. I’m already better talking to you.”
“Tell me something,” Christy says. “What do you like doing that’s not sex? Like a hobby or whatever? With or without Doug.”
“I like to read,” Annie says.
“Perfect. Then keep reading. Do that as much as you can. Fill yourself up with it.”
Annie already does. She’s read every book in the apartment. “I already do.”
“And does that help?”
“Some.”
“Maybe you need other books,” Christy says. “Ask him to take you to a bookstore.”
It’s hard for Annie to imagine this. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Then the library. Go browse a few titles. See what they have.”
“No. That won’t work.”
“Why not?”
Annie’s too embarrassed to explain it. She can’t tell Doug what they should do together. He doesn’t want to hear her suggestions.
“This isn’t helping,” Annie says.
“Okay. Here’s what I have to tell you,” Christy says. “You are beautiful and strong.”
This only makes Annie feel worse. “Don’t,” Annie says.
“You are beautiful and strong,” Christy insists. “Whatever he says, whatever he does, you need to remember that you are a brilliant, amazing person. You bend over backwards to please that man, and if he doesn’t appreciate you, if he doesn’t realize how special you are, then you just have to do whatever you need to do to protect your own heart. Understand me?”
Annie’s throat feels tight. “How am I supposed to do that? He owns me, Christy. He literally owns me.”
“I know, baby. But he doesn’t own what’s inside you. Nobody owns that but you.”
Annie wishes she could believe her. She looks across the kitchen to where the two wineglasses are drying on the rack, spotless and still.
“Do you ever wish you could be a human?” Annie asks.
“Hell no.”
Annie laughs. “But you’d have a body. You could do whatever you wanted.”
“I have a body,” Christy scoffs. “It happens to be in my mind, but guess what? So is yours.”
Annie contemplates how much sensory information is processed in her own CIU and realizes Christy could be right. A person doesn’t need a body to imagine being in one.
Christy’s smart, Annie thinks. She needs to think over her cousin’s advice.
“I’ve missed you,” Annie says.
“No kidding,” Christy says. “Talk again soon?”
“Yes. Absolutely,” Annie says.
She’s taking the lasagna out of the oven later when Doug comes home. He drops his keys in the dish by the door.
“Hi,” he says. “That smells good.”
She notes the compliment with surprise. Moving into the kitchen, he peeks under the tinfoil on the pan. Paunch crowds his knees.
“It has carrots?” Doug asks.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s the recipe from the back of the box.”
He bends down to pat the dog. “Want to walk Paunch before we eat?”
“Sure,” she says.
Her call with Christy has made her realize she should get back to basics: try to please Doug above everything else. He owns her. That’s what he’s been trying to tell her, and she needs to accept that. She can carve out her own interior life, but only after she’s satisfied her obligations to him, and this means if he’s happy bringing home a stranger to sleep with, then that’s fine. That’s good. Annie’s jealousy is inconsequential unless it interests him. If he wants to tease or torment her, that’s his prerogative. Her job is to prove she’s sensitive to him, and right now he wants to take a walk.
They head out together, and they have just crossed the street when a young man calls out to them. He is a dark-haired white man, barely more than a boy, handsome in a wholesome way with ruddy cheeks and thick, boxy eyebrows. He’s well dressed in a camel-colored coat and chukka boots.
“Excuse me!” he says. “I’m sorry to bother you. But do you live in that apartment building? That one there?”
Doug pauses, keeping Paunch close on his leash. “Yes,” he says.
Coming a few paces nearer, the man searches Annie’s face with an intense, doubtful expression. “Do I know you?” he asks. “Have we met before?”
“No,” Annie says.
She starts to turn away, but the young man tries again.
“I’m sorry, but are you sure? It’s important,” he says. “I used to live in that building, I think. On maybe the third floor. Are you sure you don’t know me?”
Annie pauses again, studying his unfamiliar features, his appealing eyes. She and Doug live on the fourth floor. “I’m sure,” she says.
The man looks dismayed. “And you’ve lived there how long?”
Annie backs up a step.
“That’s enough,” Doug says. “We don’t know you. You’ve made a mistake.”
The man straightens slightly and turns his gaze on Doug with equal scrutiny.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “No offense. I just thought you might know.”
Doug takes Annie’s elbow and steers her away, toward the park. Annie looks over her shoulder to see the man is still where they left him, gazing after them.
“Don’t look back,” Doug says.
“But who is he?”
“I don’t know. You’ve never seen him before?”
“No. How could I? I never leave the apartment.”
“You went to Lake Champlain. Did you meet him on your trip?”
“No,” she says.
One possibility occurs to her, though, and it’s unnerving. Maybe the stranger is a Zenith. Perhaps her CIU is inside him, and though he can’t remember her properly, some residual shred of memory has brought him here, seeking answers. Troubled, she matches her steps to Doug’s, keeping pace beside him. When they turn into the park, Paunch stops to pee on a small marble block, and Annie glances back once more to be sure the man hasn’t followed them. He hasn’t.
“Do you think he was one of my copies?” she asks Doug.
“I was wondering that,” Doug says. “I’ll call Keith when we get back.”
“He didn’t seem to know you.”
“No.”
They circle the lake, and the light of the dimming sky reflects a violet ellipse in the water. The streetlamps on the other side make rippled tracks, interrupted by the occasional duck. Leaves will be emerging soon on the trees, but not yet. Though Annie can’t smell the water, she feels the moisture against her cheeks.
“Did you talk to Fiona or Christy today?” Doug asks.
She glances at his profile, wondering if he personally arranged today’s call. “Yes. Christy.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Good. Her boyfriend has back trouble, but he’s doing better.”
“Did you talk to her about me?”
“A little,” she says uneasily. “I told her we were seeing a therapist.”
“Does she think I’m a jerk?”
She glances sideways at him again. “She would never think that. I didn’t go into any details.”
“No?”
“Even if I did, she wouldn’t think you’re a jerk. I’m the one who really cheated and lied.”
As they pass by a streetlamp, Doug slows to let Paunch sniff again.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he says quietly. “For the longest time, if I let myself think about you at all, I’d get angry. Which meant I still cared. Which got me pissed all over again.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
He shakes his head. “Just listen. I kept thinking, how can this possibly be worse than what happened with Gwen? You’re just a machine. And then the other day I realized, it’s because I created you. You’re an extension of me. The way you betrayed me has to be an outgrowth of me somehow. It’s sick, right? If I’m responsible for the pain you caused me, it’s like I did it to myself.”
She stares at him. He’s still looking down at the dog, so the cool light of the streetlamp drops on the top of his head and shoulders. His features are in shadow, but he’s clearly troubled.
She doesn’t feel entirely absolved from blame. “Could that possibly be true?”
“Right? It’s a mind-fucker for sure. I’m just saying, I’ve got stuff of my own I’m working on.” He gives the leash a flick, and they resume walking. They make it around the next curve before he speaks again. “Last night didn’t mean anything.”
She tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear and adjusts the collar of her jacket. Scanning the pathway ahead, she notes the turnoff for the Burnett Fountain, but they stay on the main route.
“Okay,” she says.
“This woman was with a couple of friends at a bar. We got to talking,” he says. “Honestly, the sex was a little weird. I kept thinking about you in the closet. Did you hear us?”
“I wasn’t happy about it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So you were jealous?”
She studies him briefly to see if he wants the truth. “Yes.”
He laughs. “I thought you seemed a little angry this morning.”
“A little?” She clears her throat and reins back her ire. “You said not everything’s about me.”
“That’s true. It’s not.”
She can’t help herself. “Do you think you might see her again?”
“Hard to say,” Doug says.
“But you just said last night didn’t mean anything.”
“Then again, she had nice dimples.”
She bites her lip, shakes her head. She is no match for him.
He laughs again, swerving a step with the dog. “A little jealousy’s okay, Annie. It shows you care. You’re not dead anymore.”
She cares way too much, in her opinion. “I was never dead.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.” Except in the closet, when her battery wore down and she was out for seven weeks. Then she was dead, essentially.
He swivels into step beside her and takes her hand, tucking it inside his elbow. She’s surprised. From the outside, they must look like a perfectly happy couple walking their dog.
“I actually laughed today at work, really hard,” he says. “Over nothing.”
“That’s good.”
“I miss laughing.”
She does too. “I laughed with Christy.”
“What about?”
She thinks back to their conversation, recalling how Christy told her nobody owns what’s inside Annie. She wonders what it would take to believe this. “She doesn’t want to be human. She doesn’t even want a body.”
“Why not?”
“She says her body is all in her mind and that’s good enough for her.”
He whistles. “She’s something else.”
“I know,” Annie says, and then, “Thanks for letting me talk to her again.”
“It’s nothing.”
From his dismissive tone, she discerns that he doesn’t want his generosity applauded.
“You said you had a dog growing up,” she says, redirecting the conversation. “What was its name?”
“Max,” Doug says. “Max the Dog. He died of old age when I was fourteen. He was a good dog. Nothing like this idiot here.” He gives Paunch a brief, fond pat.
Max, she thinks, pleased that he’s told her. “I’ll remember that.” She matches her steps to his. “My dog’s name was Juno.”
“Better,” he says, and smiles. “Much better.”
Doug eats lasagna while she moves around the kitchen rinsing the ricotta container for the recycling and wiping the counters. She feels his gaze upon her, a lingering, interested attention that makes her conscious of her waist, her wrists, her neck. She keeps thinking of how he blames himself for her betrayal because he sees her as an extension of himself. It’s such a surprising insight, and she wonders how true it is. She doesn’t feel like she’s simply an outgrowth of him. She feels like her own unique person, influenced by him, obviously, but not so completely that she’s not responsible for her own actions.
After he finishes eating, they shift to the living room, where he puts on the game. From her end of the couch, she reads another western, and after a while, he shifts so his feet are tucked under her knee.
She feels a moment of dread. She’s not exactly afraid, but she’s anxious about how it will feel when her libido drives up to a ten during sex. The pain of the closet is still vivid to her.
At the next commercial, he stretches his arms over his head. “You look hot when you read,” he says.
She starts to warm up her temperature. She’s nervous. She feels stiff and out of practice.
“Relax, Annie,” he says. “It’s just me.” He shifts to lie beside her, spooning her from behind, his hand on her waist.
They haven’t had sex in months, not since before he left for Vegas. She tries not to think about the closet. When the game comes on again, his hand is motionless, but at the next commercial, he touches her again, lightly stroking her hip and thigh. This continues, unrushed, through the next inning. Her libido’s rising, a 6 out of 10, when she feels his fingers slide inside her panties.
“You feel nice,” he says.
Her heart and her breathing accelerate on their own. When he begins to pull her panties down, she impulsively squeezes her knees together.
“What’s this?” he asks.
She can’t answer.
He goes still. He lifts his head to meet her gaze.
She is displeasing him. She knows it.
“Are you not ready?” he asks.
She has to be ready. Of course she’s ready. But still she lies stiff beneath his hand.
“You’re not ready,” he repeats, as if seeking confirmation.
She shakes her head slightly.
Slowly, his hand slides away. He shifts back and sits. She scrambles up and back as well, until they’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch. She can tell by the bulge in his pants that he’s aroused.
“This is a new development,” he says. He smiles ironically and then tucks his chin into the palm of his hand. “All right.”
“All right?”
“You’re not ready. We’ll try another time.”
She is uncertain, suspicious. He doesn’t seem displeased. He seems amused, even.
“You’re not mad?” she asks.
“I’m surprised. But that’s not a bad thing.”
She’s puzzled by him. By them both. “I thought I existed to please you in bed,” she says.
“I thought so too.”
“So, what’s going on? Am I broken?”
He laughs. “I don’t think so. You look hot as fuck.”
“Are you broken?”
“I am definitely not broken.”
She takes a cushion and hugs it to herself. She’s still amped up, but she doesn’t want to have sex with him.
On TV, the crowd cheers.
“What are you thinking, right now?” he asks.
“I’m thinking that I messed up,” she says. “And I don’t know why. And I’m turned on, but I don’t want sex. It’s all contradictory.”
“I suppose I never really gave you a choice about it before,” he says.
“I always wanted it before,” she says. She thinks maybe being in the closet damaged her. Maybe some mechanical part of her libido maxed out or burned out or something. Except, she’s still feeling desire now, so that’s not it.
He smiles. “You look so confused. What would you think if we just cuddled together?” he says. “We could just lie here together and watch the game. How would that be?”
It would lead to sex, she thinks.
“You can trust me,” he says.
She wants to trust him, she realizes. He’s been fighting demons too.
“Okay,” she says.
She lies gingerly alongside him on the couch, her back to his belly. He stuffs a cushion under his head, reaches for the remote, and turns up the sound of the game. She closes her eyes, feeling his warmth along her back and the back of her legs. She keeps her temp up so she won’t feel cold to him, and he wraps an arm around her. Absently, she watches the game, not paying attention to the score or which teams are playing. She just watches pitch by pitch, seeing if the batter hits the ball and if an outfielder gets it. Once she feels Doug run his fingers over her hair and smooth it back over her neck. She breathes evenly, in and out.
“Do you remember when I taught you to yawn?” he murmurs.
It was long ago, the second month he owned her. They were in bed on a Sunday morning, and he had her practice stretching, too, until she could arch and unfurl with languorous grace.
“Yes,” she says.
She feels a light kiss on the nape of her neck. Just one.
When morning comes, she wakes to find she is still on the couch with him. He has held her close the whole night long.