Dear Adam, page 7
The woman’s smile remained fixed, but her eyes kept wandering over his shoulder, across the square, anywhere else.
First date, Ava guessed.
She watched them a little longer than she meant to.
She remembered that feeling. The fluttery, reckless hope of it. The butterflies in your stomach… that charged moment when the guy holds your gaze too long. When he leans in so you can feed him with your fork.
She missed that.
Missed being wanted in that way.
That moment when all the possibilities still stretched ahead.
The paper bag crinkled as she picked it up. Her grip tightened on the handle, and for the briefest moment, she pretended it was the hand of a child.
Then she shook the thought away.
A pipe dream in this skin.
Keeping her head down, she walked into the park.
Ava balled up the greaseproof paper from her quiche and dropped it into the wire trash can beside the park bench, where it skittered over the paper cups and plastic bottles. She dusted her fingers off on her jeans.
The park had emptied while she wasn’t paying attention. There were still a few people around—an older couple ambling past the flowerbeds, a man tossing breadcrumbs at the pigeons. But mostly, it was quiet now. Even the kids’ playground beyond the path had been abandoned, the swings moving in slow arcs in the breeze.
She’d been sitting there longer than she thought. Her Kindle rested in her lap, the screen still glowing faintly. She thumbed it off and slipped it into her bag, rubbing her fingers together to get the stiffness out.
The air had grown cold, signaling that she should head home. She pulled her linen blazer tighter across her chest and stood, the paper bag with the last of her things crinkling in her hand.
The sidewalks were thinning out as the day cooled. As she wandered down Hyde, the shriek of brakes made her look up. A brown cable car rattled to a stop at the light. An ad was pasted across the back panel, the company name ALIAS scrawled in bold type, the A tilting slightly, like it was about to fall.
The lights changed, and she stepped forward, thinking again about the Solace Tech investment and the massive bonus it could bring.
If the AI Companion worked, truly worked, she wouldn’t have to be a ghost anymore.
She swallowed.
Tomorrow, she’d ask it something different.
Chapter 12
Saturday Afternoon
Aidan crossed the market square at a fast clip, the late morning sun already hotter than he’d expected. Regret prickled at the back of his neck. The leather jacket had seemed like a good idea in his air-conditioned apartment, but now it was too much. He tugged at the lapel, wishing he could ditch it without killing the look.
The restaurant came into view, a slew of small tables scattered across the cobblestones under a bright striped awning.
He spotted her instantly. She looked like her profile picture—more or less. She wore a summer dress with a flared skirt and layers of netting that gave it that old-school flair. White stilettos clung to her spray-tanned ankles, her legs crossed at the knee, one foot bouncing in a restless rhythm.
His gaze lingered on the dress a moment too long. He tried not to picture unzipping it before the sun went down.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he approached the table.
She stood and gave him a slow head-to-toe once-over.
It wasn’t exactly inviting.
More like… appraisal.
Then she stepped forward and pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks, air-light and perfunctory. Her fingers grazed his ribs under the edge of his jacket.
His skin tingled where she touched him, and he pulled away, suddenly uncertain. Flustered, he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. He sat promptly, leaning forward over the table to disguise the semi pressing against his fly. He reached for the wine list, plucking it from its holder and pretending to study it with interest.
Deep breath.
Refocus.
“Do you have a preference?” he asked, keeping his tone light and casual, trying to hide that he was already two steps behind.
“I’ll let you choose the wine,” she said. “Something white. From your travels, maybe?”
Shit.
He should get it out there right now. That he wasn’t a pilot. That he’d exaggerated.
Exaggerated? Who was he kidding? He’d lied on his profile.
About what he did.
About who he was.
His mouth went dry.
He poured over the wine list, scanning the countries of origin for something that looked vaguely flyable distance. His gaze landed on a Kistler Chardonnay. Expensive. He could show he had taste by playing it cool. Then once they were relaxed, he’d come clean.
He flagged the server.
“The Kistler Chardonnay,” he said. “2019, if it’s available.”
She tilted her head, frowning just a little. “Kistler? Isn’t that… Napa?” Her disappointment was thinly veiled, lips pursed.
Oh, God. She hates me already.
Stay cool. Just like at work, when the code destabilizes. Patch in a quick fix. Stop it from crashing.
“Of course,” he said, his smile easy as he ran his hand through his hair. “I fly to exotic places all the time.”
He swallowed.
What the fuck’s wrong with me?
“But this one time,” he added before he could stop himself. “I was on a special charter. Flew a film director out of LA. He insisted we land at the vineyard in Napa before heading on.”
He shrugged casually. “Had to get special clearance from the FAA to land on a strip that small. Worth it for the vineyard tour and tasting with the owner. Perk of the job.” He glanced at her, fiddling with the corner of his napkin. Horrified at his actions.
Her eyes widened slightly. “Wow. That sounds… incredible.”
And for half a second, he felt better. That familiar little thrill. The dopamine hit that came from holding someone’s interest, from her approval, if only for a moment.
But then it ebbed.
Because it wasn’t him she was impressed by.
Just the status.
Just the lie.
Her brow lifted. “Wait. You drank? On a charter?” She let the words hang, then added, softer, almost as if to herself, “Isn’t that… against the rules?”
“It was a tasting,” he said quickly. “The kind with silver buckets and snobs sniffing corks. Swirl, sip, spit. Nothing remotely illegal.”
His stomach turned over.
“Unless having good taste is a crime.” He reached for his water, suddenly nauseous.
The waiter arrived with the wine, turning the label to Aidan before setting the bottle down.
Grateful for the interruption, Aidan nodded for him to pour.
The waiter smiled as he filled their glasses. “Excellent choice,” he said. “Very discerning.”
Aidan managed a polite smile, but the compliment stuck. Ridiculously, he felt proud. As if picking the most expensive wine on the menu meant anything. He swirled the glass slowly, as the quiet satisfaction lingered.
“So,” she said, leaning forward, the neckline of her dress dipping just enough to confirm it was not an accident. “You fly a private jet?”
He took a sip of wine, trying not to grimace. He hated white wine. “Corporate contracts mostly. Business clients.”
Her laugh sounded brittle, like glass breaking. “I bet you go to the most amazing places.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“You could take me somewhere,” she said, tilting her head. Her gold hoop earrings flashed in the sunlight. “I’ve always wanted to see Hawaii.”
Shit.
He set his glass down slowly.
“It’s against protocol.”
She gave him a look, half coy, half challenge. “You could bend the rules.” She pinched the stem of her glass between two manicured nails, turning it lazily. “I could be your stowaway.”
He offered a slow smile, trying to regain some ground. “And where exactly would I hide you?” But the thrill was already fading.
She leaned in a little, her elbow on the table, chin tipping toward her shoulder in a move meant to be playful. “Oh, I don’t take up much space,” she said. “Maybe I could sit in your lap?”
He didn’t mind that she was shallow. Maybe later they’d have dinner, drinks, and sex.
Only, at some point, he’d have to tell her.
That there was no plane.
No status.
No future filled with exotic weekends or private jets.
Just long hours and last-minute cancellations when the software glitched.
He nodded, already willing the date to end.
She wasn’t interested in him. She was chasing the pilot. And that wasn’t something he could offer. It wasn’t like he could fly her up the coast anytime soon. Or anywhere for that matter.
She took another sip from her glass, her eyes locked on his, her lipstick pink lips curling around the rim.
He watched the wine slide between her teeth.
His stomach turned.
She placed the glass down softly, fingers delicate on the stem. “And I travel light.”
He cleared his throat. “Shall we order?”
They skimmed the menus in silence. When the server returned, she didn’t hesitate. “I’ll have the lobster linguine,” she said, handing over the menu like it was a formality. “And a side of truffle fries.”
Aidan nodded, barely glancing at the page. “The halibut.” It was overpriced and came with some kind of foam he already knew he’d hate. What he really wanted was a burger. Something simple. Something real. But this wasn’t that kind of meal.
The server vanished, and they fell into small talk. She asked about flight paths, international regulations, and what kind of jet he flew. He gave her answers. Not lies, exactly, (provided she didn’t Google anything when she got home). Just enough detail to keep her interested.
When the food arrived, he made himself cut into the fish, chewing mechanically while she launched into a story about a modelling job she’d turned down because the location wasn’t warm enough.
He wasn’t convinced. She was pretty, sure. But model-pretty? Not really.
Across the square, a toddler ran unsteadily toward his mother, giggling. The woman scooped him up, swinging him into the air.
The boy shrieked in delight, kicking his feet as she settled him on her hip.
Aidan stared, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Something ached in his chest, dull and tugging. He made himself look away. But the emptiness stayed.
“Hello?” Her voice snapped him out of it.
He turned back to her.
She was glaring at him, the brittle smile slipping. “Am I boring you?”
He gave a polite shake of his head. “Not at all.”
But the damage was done. The easy rhythm of the conversation was gone, replaced by a thin layer of civility that neither of them could quite carry off.
He drained his wine in three gulps, wincing at the taste, before pouring another, hoping it would take the edge off.
It didn’t.
She tried again. Leaning in, laughing too hard, brushing his wrist when she spoke.
He couldn’t muster the energy to play along. So he nodded at the right moments, smiled on cue, and let her carry the weight of the conversation.
The rest of the meal dragged. He pushed his overpriced food around his plate, then signaled for the check without bothering to ask if she wanted dessert.
He winced at the total, waving his phone over the card terminal. The dull chime marked the near end of his crushing disappointment.
Shrugging into his jacket, he felt the chill in the air, the breeze rolling off the bay, cool and faint with the tang of salt. He didn’t help her into her coat, even though it took her two tries to find the sleeve behind her.
She stepped towards him, but he avoided eye contact. Done with the charade.
She kissed his cheek. A quick peck. Her thumb moved to wipe the smear of lipstick, while he fought the urge to pull away. “Let me know when you’ve sorted that flight,” she said, trying to keep the pretense alive.
“Don’t hold your breath,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Sure thing.” He forced a final smile before turning away. He couldn’t, for the life of him, remember her name.
He jogged across the square and boarded an old brown cable car. An ad for ALIAS was slapped across the back, the A tilting slightly, like a glitch no one had fixed.
The cable car rocked beneath him, metal wheels grinding against the tracks as the city slid by in a blur of grime and glass. He kept his head down and his jacket collar high.
The taste of the wine coated his tongue. Disappointment sat heavy in his chest, coiled like a knot he couldn’t untangle.
Stupid.
The pilot angle.
He should have known better.
When did life get so fucking complicated?
At home, he dropped his keys on the counter and went straight to the dining table, the glass, clear and cold under his hands. Two chairs. One always empty.
He flipped open the laptop and dove in without even taking his jacket off. Lines of code, familiar and clean, filled the screen.
He ran tests, then tried to patch the AI Companion’s conversational flow.
Prompt.
Response.
It still felt off. Stiff… clinical.
Scowling, his fingers flew over the keys. “More human,” he muttered.
The cursor blinked back at him, indifferent.
He didn’t notice the dark until his eyes burned from the screen glare. Outside, the streetlights flickered on. It was late. But he was still wound tight. Too tight.
Pushing back from the table, he headed for the bathroom, where he stripped out of his clothes, leaving them on the tiled floor, along with his persona.
Under the scalding water, he let the heat pour across his shoulders.
He soaped his chest, then exhaled slowly, reaching down to the half-erection he didn’t want. That he didn’t ask for, but it showed up anyway.
His hand moved, slow at first.
Trying not to think about anything at all.
But the dress slipped into his thoughts. The one from lunch, before everything soured. He imagined tugging the zipper down, baring her spine, kissing the back of her neck…
In his mind, she glanced back, smiling that pink-lipsticked smile, and his lie washed over him like dirty water.
He recoiled and shut the image down.
But his hand kept going.
Gripping harder.
Moving faster.
When it was over, he stood under the water, one hand braced against the tile, breathing hard.
He rinsed off, stepped out, and scrubbed himself dry like he could erase what just happened.
He avoided the mirror on the way out, jaw tight.
Later, sitting in bed, his laptop warming his thighs, he blinked back tears. The glow of his laptop flickered slightly as he tabbed between windows.
He exhaled hard through his nose and reopened his AI software, scanning for any evidence of the ghost logging in. A flicker of irritation lit in his chest.
He had spent the evening suspended in this loop… waiting… checking… hoping they’d log back in.
It was irrational.
The not knowing was the worst part. Initially, he’d thought some sort of intern, but in reality, it could just be a curious janitor who found the login card on someone’s desk.
Then why was he checking again?
He flicked back to the console—still nothing.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
He pulled up Slack and typed with sharp, efficient strokes, then smirked at the Jaws theme. “Yeah. That’ll do.”
He uploaded the MP3 and slotted it into the trigger event. Two ominous notes, slow and deep. A stupid, melodramatic choice. But the perfect way to take the piss out of himself and his irrational fear.
The code pulsed beneath the surface, a digital sentry monitoring the ocean, so he didn’t have to.
The cursor blinked, the flash of movement like a fin breaking the surface.
The shark was still out there.
If it circled back, he’d sail straight for it.
Whether it would pull him under, he didn’t know.
Chapter 13
Sunday Morning
Her morning walk around the park had been longer than she thought. By the time she unlocked her door, the ache in her legs had settled deep with a dull throb behind her knees.
Pumbaa greeted her with a guttural meow that made it clear where his priorities lay.
“Hold on,” she murmured, already moving toward the cupboard where his food was kept. She tipped Pumbaa’s kibble into his bowl and waited as he prowled over, silent now, his torn ear flicking once in her direction before he ate.
Typical.
When she returned the bag to the cupboard, it nudged against the edge of a cracked glass plaque she never touched.
Fairbridge Prom Queen:
Sponsored by Prescott Pines Golf & Country Club
The lettering was etched in gold, a detail designed to last a lifetime.
The crack had appeared the day she threw it at her mother shortly after she came out of the hospital. It hit the bedroom wall and skittered across the floor. The impact split the word Queen down the middle, which seemed fitting somehow.
Ava had thought about throwing it out after that. But she didn’t. Instead, she’d placed it on the dresser at the end of her bed where it could stand in judgment over her as she fell asleep each night.
Penance.
When she packed and left Fairbridge, she wrapped the plaque in a scarf. Not because she wanted it, but because she forced herself to take it.
Now it lived by the cat food instead, somewhere she’d have to see it every day.
Not out of sentiment.
But out of guilt.
