Page 11 of CHOICE Lover
Electra steps back, snorting. Does he mean compassion? “Yes, I noticed. I realize I gave you a hard time about lacking experience with an actual woman, but you’re coming across as rather clueless. I mean, some of the things you say make my head spin. And you leave me alone here for hours with nothing to do but let my thoughts spiral. Haven’t you ever had a girlfriend?”
He’s so glaringly attractive, there must be dozens of women willing to overlook his less than stellar personality. But he doesn’t reply, so she presses on. “What about your mother? Surely you saw another adult in her life offer her compassion when she became upset.” When he still doesn’t respond, she suggests, “Some other family member, then?”
He stiffens, his knuckles going white on the door handle. “There are factors you are not privy to. Factors I don’t care to share.”
Seems she hit a nerve. That’s okay. She isn’t happy either. Still, he wants lively. Some fight. Fine. “It appears we’re stuck in this situation together. If I’m guessing correctly, I’m not a legal person, so it’s not like I can just call up a therapist or go to a grief support group, right?”
“You would be difficult to explain,” he says.
“So that means for now, you’re all I have. Therefore,” she continues, “you’re going to get a crash course in being a compassionate human being. How does that sound? Because the alternative is me never leaving this bed, which you’ve already expressed your disapproval of.”
“Electra, I appreciate your distress . . .” He trails a hand through his lustrous sandy blond hair. “But with everything I’m juggling . . . I have work.”
His rejection is enough to shatter her brief attempt at strength.
Of course this is happening. You thrive on connecting with people, so here you are, in the future, with a—get out of your head,Electra. Try explaining things. Communication is how connection is formed, after all.
Electra clears her throat. “When I was little, we lost my mom to a form of breast cancer that should have been curable.” His brows raise slightly. Encouraged, she continues. “We didn’t have money for the expensive treatments. After she died, my dad held me and told me stories of what she was like when they first met. We spent hours talking about her and a bunch of unimportant nonsense. Then when he became disabled through a work injury, my friends and my stepmom Janet, who is,” she clears her throat, “whowasa licensed therapist, sat with me and helped me process my grief and fear while Dad struggled through his physical therapy.”
Somewhere during her monologue, his brows furrowed and—did he drift a few inches closer to the door? “I’m listening but unclear about what you are asking of me.”
“Those are examples of how people support each other when life gets awful. I would count this unfortunate circumstance among my worst life moments. You claim you feel responsible for bringing me here. How about offering me some compassion? You could sit with me and listen as I talk through . . .” She trails off at the deer-in-the-headlights expression he now wears. Is it reasonable to expect help or compassion from this future man? Maybe she’s the one being unrealistic. Too bad she didn’t wake up in the future to a woman. Such is her luck. Granted, for all she knows, future women are just as emotionally constipated.
He’s right, though. They can’t go on like this. She can’t stay locked away in his bedroom forever, as comforting as the dark walls are. “You can’t just drop off food like I’m some sort of lab rat and expect me to crawl my way out of bed. People don’t work like that. Isolation isn’t healthy.”
He stares at her unflinchingly. If only she had someone to call. One person she could talk to. To actually check on her, not just drop off food and tell her she needs a shower. Even growing up as poor as she did, she had community. When things went wrong, as they often did, people chipped in, and they got by.
“I can’t,” he says, and she notices the twitch in his clenched jaw before he once again turns away.
Calmly, she sits, placing the container in her lap. “Great,” she says without lifting her stare from the meal he delivered. Her hands tremble as she opens the lid. “Then it’s as I suspected. I’m perfectly fucking alone.”
He saidI can’t, notI won’t. Is that worse or better? Either way, it really fucking sucks. Unbidden, tears stream down her face. How embarrassing. He can’t even sit with her and talk because he clearly finds her just as horrifying as she does his manupartners. Now she’s crying in front of him. They’re never going to get anywhere. Thankfully, the door clicks shut, and she is left alone with only a box of flavorless mush she’s loath to waste and a spork for company.
October 9, 2390.
The next morning, she’s halfway through choking down another box of bland noodles when a knock sounds at her door. Considering Res6 hasn’t demonstrated that he understands the concept of knocking, she isn’t certain why he’s doing it now. Irritated, she barks, “Enter.”
Instead of the startlingly attractive man whose bed she lives in, it is one of the lab coats. Tommy, the assistant, she thinks.
“Hello. May I come in?” he asks, inching his head inside the cracked door.
Her eyes narrow, and she glances at his empty hands—actually, it was the orange-haired lab coat who surprise-injected her with whatever drug knocked her out. Her attention drifts to his black hair, worn spiky today, and the oversized blue-and-white checked smock he wears. Does the absence of a uniform mean this is a personal visit?
“I guess,” she says.
As he cautiously moves into the room, she shuffles back on the bed, tucking her knees to her chest and drawing the blankets protectively over them.
He approaches, gesturing to the bed. “I’ll sit, if that’s okay. I’m Tommy, Res6’s personal assistant.”
The bed shifts under his weight. Thankfully, he’s chosen a spot as far on the opposite side as possible. Once comfortable, he releases a long exhale, like he’s preparing for a tense conversation. “He says you’re struggling to adjust.”
Electra coughs. “Well, considering I’m grieving the loss of everyone I’ve ever known, I’m not doing so great.” Based on Res6’s unfeeling interactions, she never would have guessed he was concerned enough to delegate her problems to his PA.
She mentally replays their last conversation from the previous night. The one where they argued, in a roundabout sort of way, about her current depressive episode, her need for comfort, and his inability to be anything resembling an emotionally available human being. He’d gone as far as to suggest—
“I don’t want to be decommissioned, if that’s what this is about,” she blurts out.
Tommy chuckles. “I stopped by to check on you.”
