Page 53 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

And why the thoughts about the latter make the former start to seem so small.

15

ERROR 404: LOVE NOT FOUND

Dixon Family Home,Seattle, WA

GRAYSON

Ten days until Valentine's Day, and I'm watching the woman I'm supposedly just pretending to date charm my entire family over my mother's famous pot roast.

"So then," Rosalind tells my thirteen-year-old niece Anna, "your uncle's AI tried to calculate the statistical probability of successful dinner conversation topics."

"Did CORA factor in the likelihood of embarrassing childhood stories?" my sister Natasha asks, grinning in a way that suggests I'm about to regret several life choices.

"Actually," I start, but Rosalind's hand finds my knee under the table, and suddenly basic vocabulary becomes statistically improbable.

"Please tell me there are photos," she says, and I fight the urge to cover her hand with mine.

"Oh, honey." My mother disappears into the living room, returning with what appears to be every embarrassing moment of my childhood carefully preserved in leather-bound albums. "Wait until you see him at his robot-themed bar mitzvah..."

"Mom."

"He programmed the automated music system to play 'Mr. Roboto' during his Torah reading."

"Mom."

"Complete with choreographed dance moves," Natasha adds helpfully. "I have video."

"I was thirteen!"

"And already optimizing everything." Rosalind's thumb traces small circles on my knee. "Why am I not surprised?"

Outside, Seattle's record snowfall creates a cozy backdrop, the kind that makes family dinners feel intimate and warm and definitely not like an elaborate deception that's becoming increasingly complicated.

My phone buzzes. Another message from Douglas Franklin:Latest numbers looking fantastic. Not to be flippant, my boy, but your romance with Roz is gold for the brand. Time to capitalize?

I silence it just as my mother produces what appears to be photographic evidence of my brief stint as Junior Math Olympics champion.

"Oh my God," Rosalind breathes, leaning closer. "Is that a calculator-shaped medal?"

"It was very prestigious," I mutter, but my protest is drowned out by Anna's delighted giggle.

“Uncle Gray, you're blushing!"

"I am not. I'm simply experiencing elevated blood flow due to?—"

"Speaking of elevation," Natasha's fiancé Mark cuts in, "how's that new coding club you started at the community center?"

I shoot him a grateful look. Mark's been around long enough to recognize my sister's "embarrass Gray" spiral, even if this is only his second dinner as her official fiancé.

"It's going well," I start, but Anna interrupts:

"We're teaching kids to make apps! I designed one that turns all your texts into cat memes."

"Very practical," I say dryly.

"More practical than alphabetizing your dates in college," Natasha points out.

---