“Confabulation?”

He glances at you. “Self-deception. Making things up without realizing it.”

   You stare at him. “Are you saying I can’t trust my memories?”

“No one should ever entirely trust their memories. I take it you haven’t noticed any problems?”

“No,” you say curtly.

“Good.” Mike’s hands scuttle across his keyboard. The clicking sound sets your teeth on edge.

Something else occurs to you. “If you’re his best friend, why hasn’t Tim uploaded any memories with you in them? Why can’t I remember you at all?”

Mike looks up from his laptop. “Probably because he knows I don’t like you very much,” he says calmly. “That I loathe you, in fact.”

12

   “Me then? Or me now?” you say, taken aback.

“Both,” Mike says matter-of-factly. “Although loathed might be too strong a word to use about the original Abbie. I mean, it was pretty hard to hate you all that much. You were this idealistic, fresh-faced twenty-something without a cynical bone in your body. You were even into tech, for Christ’s sake. It was hardly a surprise Tim fell for you. It wasn’t you who was the problem. It was him.”

It was a whirlwind courtship, Mike explains. Tim was completely head over heels in love.

“It’s an issue in our industry. In school, the geeks aren’t cool enough to get the girls. Even the good-looking ones find themselves in all-male study groups. Then, after college, they’re trying to get a start-up off the ground and there’s no time for a social life. Until they raise some serious funding, and then—wham. Suddenly they’re rich, they’re flying around the world giving speeches, they’re offered the best tables in nightclubs, and they’re being interviewed by Vanity Fair and Time magazine. Half of them are still virgins at that point. It’s no wonder they lose their heads to the first beautiful woman who comes along and tells them how fascinating they are.”

   You frown. “Tim didn’t lose his head. He lost his heart. It’s not the same.”

“Maybe,” Mike says, shrugging. “But you didn’t exactly fight it. You only had to mention some designer’s name and Tim was beating on their door, buying you the latest dress or bag. Which, as often as not, you’d take back and swap for something you liked better. He had terrible taste, as you often liked to remind him.”

The clothes in the walk-in closet, you think. Those expensive boho-chic labels. “Are you saying I was some kind of gold digger?”

Mike shakes his head. “Tim was well aware some women only wanted him for his money—founder-hounders, they’re called around here. He was pretty good at spotting those. And to be fair, you weren’t materialistic. But you did lap up his attention. You were on the rebound from some toxic relationship or other, and I guess it felt good to be adored.”

His coffee cup is almost empty now. Absentmindedly, he turns it around by the top with his fingertips as he speaks, as if it’s a dial he’s slowly cranking up to maximum.

“Tim couldn’t see the problems. To me they were clear as day. People say opposites attract, but study after study shows it’s actually similarities that make for solid long-term relationships. Similarities—and pragmatism.

“When Tim gives you his full attention, it can make you feel like the most important person in the world. Add to that the whole jet-setting lifestyle—the houses, the cars, the red carpets, the fundraisers—and it’s a bit like you’ve bought into a fairy tale. But that’s just on the surface. Really, his life is about the all-nighters, the funding deadlines, the endless emails, the coding crises. That’s what motivates him and consumes a hundred percent of his energy. People like Tim need quiet, supportive partners who are happy to stay in the background. Not grand passions that only serve to distract them.”

   Mike sounds almost sad, you think. And with a flash of insight you realize what really happened back then.

Mike was jealous. Back in the garage, he’d had Tim all to himself. Little by little, as the company grew, that relationship had become diluted. But at least it was still all about their baby, this enterprise they’d created together.

The last thing Mike would have wanted was for Tim to fall in love with someone outside the company’s magic circle. To be diverted from the mission.

You don’t say any of that, though. Instead, you say mildly, “And now? What’s your problem with who I am now?”

“Where do I start?” he says with a rueful smile. “Don’t get me wrong—it’s nothing personal. And losing your wife is a tragedy I wouldn’t wish on anyone, let alone my best friend. After you died, Tim pretty much fell apart. And the company almost fell apart with him—after all, he is the company, as far as our backers are concerned. Then, about a year later, he suddenly announced he wanted us to start working on an AI with emotional intelligence. I thought it was a sign he was finally getting over you, thinking about the business again. So I said, Sure, let’s go for it.”

You doubt Tim had been asking for Mike’s permission, but again you keep the thought to yourself. “And?”

“Oh, he threw himself into it. His determination was extraordinary, even for him. He drove our employees like a bastard—some couldn’t take it, but Tim just went out and hired more, irrespective of cost. It was eighteen months before he told me what his plans really were. I couldn’t believe it. Everything we’d done—every cent we’d borrowed, every mortgage we’d signed, every all-nighter we’d pulled—had all been about you. And now that he’s got you…”

“Yes?”

“For all the millions we’ve spent, what have we actually proved?” Mike asks quietly. “That we have the technology to build a very approximate replica of a dead human being. Yes, it’s a breakthrough, but—so what? Only a man deranged by his own grief could think that’s a direction society should be traveling in. How does it make the world more productive? What does it change? Nothing—it simply fossilizes the past. People die—it’s a tragedy, sure, but there are other people to fall in love with, and so life goes on. Compared with driverless cars, or nanosurgery, or even a drone delivery for your groceries, you’re a cul-de-sac. Extraordinary technology, yes. But yoked to a pointless application.” He stops. “At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what Tim would have said about it, if it had been anyone else but him and you.”

   “He loves me,” you say defensively. “Some men build a memorial. He built an AI.”

“Memorials bring closure. You’re the exact opposite. Think about it—for as long as you exist, he’ll never get over the death of the real Abbie, or know what it is to have the love of a new woman in his life. At best, you’ll only ever be a pale shadow of the person he once loved. How is that a meaningful relationship? Another woman, someone who isn’t Abbie Cullen and isn’t even trying to be—that woman might have had a chance of healing him, of helping him move on. And now she’ll be denied that chance. Your existence deprives Tim of the very thing he was trying to achieve.”