Page 45 of Lovetown, USA

Lane

The panel lights are hot, the NBC logo gleaming in the backdrop like a reminder that everything I say is about to be disseminated for the entire world to see. Well, the entire southeastern region of the US, but hyperbole is fine.

I adjust the mic clipped to my lapel and remind myself to breathe.

The moderator, Jennifer, smiles. Someone counts down, and we’re on.

Jennifer greets the three of us on this panel. I’m up here with a sociologist and an AI data scientist.

“Lane, your exposé on Affinity AI has sparked a national debate. Some argue that what happened in Lovetown isn’t any different from the way dating apps operate. Data, algorithms, compatibility scores. What’s the difference?”

I lean forward, steady. “Consent. That’s the difference.

Dating app customers agree to provide personal data knowing said data will be mined and matched.

In Lovetown, nobody consented . And they weren’t just matchmaking.

They were beta testing people’s lives, using them as human guinea pigs.

That’s not technology, Jennifer. That’s manipulation. ”

A low murmur moves through the audience. I press on. “There’s a thin line between innovation and exploitation. Affinity crossed it.”

Shannon, the data scientist, speaks next, and it’s a bunch of bullshit.

“I’d argue that anyone moving to Lovetown is consenting by proxy,” she says.

“And frankly, the data speaks for itself. Numbers don’t lie.

Lovetown works. Okay, maybe we quibble about how we got here, but this is a successful program. ”

It's Andy's turn, but I speak again. “Shannon, let me also say, and I think our friend Andy might agree with this—that Affinity and Cognilynx set up where they did for a reason. Lovetown is racially diverse, but that AI center set up on the predominately Black side of the city. That’s not an accident.”

Andy, the sociologist, is nodding.

“Environmental racism is a thing, and we’ve only scratched the surface on the effects of AI on marginalized populations.”

“I would have to agree,” Andy cuts in. “Well said, and to take it further…”

We go on like this for half an hour. After the cameras go off, there are handshakes, compliments, and the buzz of people asking follow-up questions. I’m still coming down from the high of it all when someone presses a bouquet of roses into my arms. Confused, I glance down at the card.

Congratulations, baby girl. It’s only up from here — Trey

This negro. How the fuck did he even know I was here? Nadia better not have told him.

I grit my teeth, shove the flowers in the nearest trash can, and keep it moving.

Outside, the air is cooler, and I feel relieved. I’d been anxious about that interview for weeks now. With that under my belt, the sky’s the—

Wait.

Towering above Peachtree Street, in white letters across a billboard:

LANE. PLEASE GIVE ME ANOTHER CHANCE. LOVE, TREY.

I take out my phone and snap a pic, because I’m not sure anyone would believe this shit if I didn’t.

By the time I get back to my apartment, I’m irritated. At what point does this become stalking?

That’s the first question I ask Nadia.

“Well, I’ve seen his picture,” she says. “It’ll never be stalking, cuz that nigga is fine as hell.”

“That’s hella problematic.”

“And true. It’s only stalking when you don’t want the nigga. And you want the nigga.”

“I didn’t call you for this, I’m calling to ask how to make this stop. How do I get rid of him?”

She laughs on the other end. “Are you kidding? I’m living for this shit. Men these days don’t fight for you. They ghost you, breadcrumb you, act all nonchalant and cavalier. This man right here? He’s fighting. Love that for you.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not interested, Nadia. For the thousandth time. I’m moving on. Matter of fact, I have a date tonight. I’m getting back on the horse. Fuck Trey.”

“Mmhm,” she hums. “You’re still in love with him. Just admit it and make it easier on all of us.”

The words land like a slap across the face. Anger roils inside me until I can’t even speak. I hang up on my best friend for the first time in our entire friendship.

Fuck Trey, and fuck her too.

“I don’t know, Shay. I don’t feel anything.”

I’m cross-legged on a yoga mat, my laptop open, Shayla’s face filling the screen. She’s playing soft, lilting tunes for me that feel emotional, but I can’t seem to connect to it.

“Let the melody do the talking,” she says softly. “No analyzing. No critiquing. No thinking. Just…feel.”

“I don’t know if I can feel my way out of this.”

“Try. For me.” She smiles. “Close your eyes.”

I do. The notes float around me, a gentle piano riff over subtle strings.

At first, I resist, like I’m guarding a fragile part of myself.

But Shayla’s onto something…the music reaches places I’ve barricaded, the corners way down deep where grief and anger and confusion fester.

I feel my chest tighten, my fingers tapping along without realizing.

She switches tracks, and an acoustic guitar weaves the next melody.

I let my head fall back against the couch cushions.

I can almost hear Trey’s laugh, feel his hand on mine, remember how it felt to have someone who wanted me in every possible way.

My chest aches, but it’s different this time. It’s less suffocating.

I feel safe letting go. A tear slips down my cheek.

Then another. But instead of the usual defenses I build against them, I let them flow, and it feels cleansing.

I’m giving my heart permission to remember without tearing itself apart.

I dig all the way back to Reginald and the sting of grief and rejection I felt.

More tears flow, and Shayla’s voice cuts through the music.

“You’re doing it,” she says softly.

I exhale, slow and steady, and for the first time in months, I feel a little lighter.

Preston Johnson’s head is between my thighs, his tongue working, his hands braced on my hips.

It should feel good. It does feel good, actually, but not enough.

It’s mechanical and flat. No spark. And horror of horrors, I can’t seem to finish.

My mind betrays me, flashing back to Trey’s mouth, Trey’s tongue, Trey’s hands on me, Trey’s voice in my ear.

“Stop!” I blurt, louder than I meant to. “Just stop.”

He pulls back, confused, then offended. “What the hell?”

“Sorry. I’m just not feeling it.” I sit up, reaching for my robe. “Can you go? I’ll call you,” I lie.

He mutters something that’s probably offensive under his breath, but he collects his shit and goes, slamming my door behind him.

I stalk into the kitchen, yank open the pantry door, and pull out a package of soft-baked cookies. Store bought, and they taste like it. Too sweet. Too dry. Too…wrong. They crumble like sand in my mouth.

Frustrated, I hurl the package into the trash, staring at it in anger and disgust.

By the time I crawl into bed, the anger has drained away, leaving nothing but a hollow ache. I bury my face in my pillow and let the tears come, sobbing until sleep finally, mercifully swallows me whole.