Page 91 of The Boyfriend Algorithm

“Can he get hurt?”

“My framework is durable, but I can sustain damage if—”

“Can he die?”

The kitchen goes quiet. Aiden and I look at each other.

“I can be deactivated,” he says carefully. “But I don’t age. I don’t deteriorate the way biological organisms do.”

“So he’ll outlive you,” Mom says to me. Gently. Like she’s already done the math and is saying it out loud so I don’t have to.

“Probably,” I say.

She nods. Files it. Moves on in a way that tells me she’ll come back to that one later, privately, probably at 2 a.m. while she can’t sleep.

She pours more tea. The questions keep coming—rapid-fire, scattershot, Karen Hart at full capacity. Can he go in the rain? Can he swim? Does he feel pain? Does he feel cold? What’s the panel for? Can she see it? She can’t see it right now, maybe later? What’s his favorite color? Does he have a favorite color? Can he have favorites?

“Blue,” Aiden says to the last one. “Ruby wears a blue sweater on Sundays, and it’s my favorite color.”

Mom puts her hand on her chest. “Ruby, if you don’t marry this man—this—whatever he is—I will be very upset with you.”

“Noted, Mom.”

Then she leans forward. Her cheeks flush slightly. She drops her voice, even though it’s just the three of us and the rooster clock.

“Honey, I have to ask.” She glances at Aiden, then back at me. “Does he—in the bedroom—does he know what to…”

“MOM.”

“I’m asking as your mother! I want to know you’re being taken care of.”

“I am being VERY well taken care of, and we are NOT—”

“I have researched sexual activity and female pleasure extensively,” Aiden says, because of course he does, because he answers every question with the same flat sincerity regardless of whether the question is “what time is it” or “do you satisfy my daughter sexually.” “I’ve studied hundreds of sources. And I have now made love to Ruby forty-six times, and—”

“AIDEN.” I grab his arm. “Stop. Talking.”

“—each time I’ve incorporated her feedback to—”

“There is NO feedback! There has NEVER been feedback! We are done!”

Mom is pressing both hands over her mouth. Her eyes are enormous and shining, and she is either horrified or delighted, and knowing my mother, it’s both simultaneously.

“Forty-six times,” she whispers through her fingers.

“We’re not discussing the number.”

“In how many weeks?”

“MOM.”

“That’s a lot, Ruby.”

“I KNOW IT’S A LOT.”

Aiden tilts his head. “Is forty-six a lot? I don’t have a reference point for frequency norms—”

“It’s a lot,” Mom confirms. “Your father and I, rest his soul—”