I slowly sit up. “Let me rephrase. What if we taught but in a different sort of way? Not in a school?”
Atticus considers this. “Like tutors?”
“No. Not like that. I mean, I could do that, but—” Emboldened by this idea, I crawl into his lap, and he easily circles his arms around me to hold me close. “What if we taught people about you, about androids? That there’s nothing to be frightened of?”
“On social media?” He’s catching on. “Like influencers?”
“Precisely.” I snuggle against him, appreciating how he rubs my arm, my side. “I could start a blog. Share our experiences, our day-to-day lives, what it’s like being in a relationship with an android. Give people a reason to be curious instead of afraid. Sort of like the lesson you taught that day at Vautrin—words instead of fists.”
His pupils flicker, shuttering as he gazes into my eyes like little cameras. Homing in on me. “I’d like that,” he agrees. “Very much. My educating directives would be more than satisfied with this.”
I’m thrilled at his support. “I could start it up now, while we’re still fresh in people’s minds. Make sure we take off running. I have all this knowledge on how to use these platforms to gain a following, it’d be nice to be able to use it, monetize it, teach full time but on our schedule.”
“Have you thought of a name?”
“How’s this?” I hold my hands out in front of me. “‘Pro-Bionic: the Life and Love of Atticus and Lucy Warren.’”
“Pro-Bionic,” Atticus repeats thoughtfully. “I like the sound of that. It’s catchy.”
“I think so too.” I lean in, hopeful. “So, you like it?”
“Absolutely. Let’s do it.”
I tackle him in a hug, and he twists me sideways to pin me beneath him on the couch.
“I guess since people know who I am anyway, I can just reactivate my accounts.” I tuck myself happily underneath him. He’s heavy but holding himself up in a way to where he isn’t squishing me. This is where I’m safest—in his arms. “End my social media embargo.”
“Build on what you have.” Atticus buries his face in my neck, planting kisses there. “Solid thinking.”
“Why, thank you. I do try.”
Our cuddle session devolves into heated lovemaking. I eagerly meet each of Atticus’s hungry thrusts, drowning away all worries of what tomorrow might bring in kisses and pleasure. When we finish, I fix my rumpled clothes while he tucks his cock back into his trousers, then gets up and opens the windows for a little fresh air. It’s all we can get for now. Whenever we try to leave the apartment, we’re spotted, and local reporters swarm us with questions.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “I can order you something.”
“See if there’s any Chinese places open,” I reply, sitting at my computer, already working on reopening my accounts. They retained all my followers, so that’s a bonus. I’ve got a few messages here and there of support, some of them dating back to the scrutiny and scandal of my last breakup.
But one of them is fairly new. From my ex-best friend.
I’m sorry for what happened and how it happened. I realize that doesn’t change what Jason and I did, and we can never go back to how things were. But it makes me happy to know you’re happy. Android or not, you were always amazing. And I think the rest of the world is already finding that out.
I read the message ten times over, wondering if I’m imagining it. But I’m not. I don’t think I’m ready to respond to her yet, not with everything going on. Maybe I never will. But it’s nice to know that an olive branch has been extended, and maybe when I’m there, mentally and emotionally, I could accept it and start fresh with her.
Someday.
I reserve a domain—pro-bionic.org—and work on templates, trying to find something simple for a blog I can work with.
Atticus comes to sit with me. “Orange chicken, lo mein, and fried rice are on the way.”
“Rangoons too?”
“Please.” He snorts, leaning in and kissing my brow. “I’ve got all your favorites memorized by now.”
Amber has been working tirelessly on my behalf, doing her thing as an investigative journalist. Her article about us made the front page. Whenever she calls, I make sure to pick up—like right now.
The holographic projection of her beautiful face hovers above my phone when I answer. “Hi, Amber.”
“Lucy! My article is bringing down the house around here,” Amber says excitedly. “It nearly crashed our website, we’re getting so much traffic. They can try to tear you down all they like, but it’s backfiring big time. Even the anti-android folks aren’t too keen on a history teacher getting her pictures taken in her home and then fired. The school district won’t be able to touch you now, andNew Carnegie Metrois scared. They’ve already taken down the photos from their official website, but they’re still circulating elsewhere, which continues adding to your case.”
