My conclusion is that it must be a fluke. “It happens sometimes. The crowd gathers around some shiny new object, but before you can blink, they’ve moved on to the next thing. People are gnats. This isn’t even a mathematically relevant sample.”
“You could be right,” Rupert says, “but we scored a goal from midfield, and I’m not going to let you tell me I was offside the whole time.”
Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but I can’t help being the Bad News Fairy. “I’m the only person who’s just a tiny bit worried about this? About what it means?”
Jules laughs. “You and Cyrus are perfect for each other, have I ever told you that?”
“Wait,” Rupert interjects, “are these two playing doubles?”
“Cyrus here is always thinking about what everything means, and apparently, so is his wife.”
“You guys are married?”
I’m so annoyed at Rupert that I ignore the next three messages from Destiny. “We are,” I tell him. “We told you ages ago.”
“I must have forgotten. Too much going on.” Rupert smiles, and I notice how white his teeth are. He definitely has them whitened at the dentist, none of that at-home bleaching with a creepy plastic tray. Rupert calls to the waiter, who pours us each another glass of champagne. “To you,” he says, raising his glass, “best Quidditch team ever.”
Before I can ask, Cyrus explains: “Because there are three players on a Quidditch team.”
“Gaby is an integral part of the team too,” Jules adds.
“The Three Musketeers!” Rupert says.
“There were four,” I snap. “Four Musketeers.” I finally look down at my phone. Motherfucker, Destiny has written. We’ve just hit 100,000. “We have to go,” I say. “I don’t think the system can handle this kind of volume.”
“This growth is going to require more funding,” Jules says to Rupert.
“I’m your linebacker,” Rupert says, waving his arms. “Go score your touchdowns.”
* * *
Three days later, after the sign-ups have plateaued at around 500,000, Cyrus and I go home, order poke bowls, and watch multiple episodes of Black Mirror. When I wake up, I have my hands in the vicinity of his crotch, which tells me we had intended to have sex and one of us fell asleep and the other was probably too tired to notice. He’s still sleeping, his hair all Rapunzeled behind his head, his nostrils flaring a little as he exhales. My eyes must have been boring into his skull, because he wakes up with a start and then, seeing me, gives me the most glorious of smiles. Then I remember why I’m annoyed at him.
“Why didn’t Rupert remember we were married?”
Cyrus blinks, rubs his eyes. “I didn’t want to make a big deal about it. I wanted him to respect you on your own terms. Not just as my wife.”
“What if he saw you just as my husband?”
“I wish the world worked that way, but it doesn’t.”
“I thought we were going to remake the world.”
“We are,” Cyrus says. “Thanks to you.”
“Can you believe it?” I ask him. “The launch—it’s really happening.”
“Nothing has happened,” he says, which is both deflating and reassuring.
He’s right, of course. I turn to look at the time on my phone. “If we rush, we can make it to free sprouted buckwheat waffles at Utopia,” I say. We leap out of bed, both knowing that it isn’t the waffles, it’s WAI that wakes us up, drags us out of bed, and keeps us cheerful and loved up, even when small doubts begin to take hold.
* * *
Every morning, Destiny greets me with the latest numbers. I’ve also tasked her with the job of finding the quirkiest stories from among the many rituals the algorithm has been asked to produce. “Turtle wedding in LA,” she says. “Ouija-slash-resurrection ritual by a Catholic group who loves the book Possession, which features a séance.”
“People are weird.”
“But they want a piece of you.” Destiny folds her hands on her lap. We’re at the diner, sharing our second plate of pancakes. “It’s happened, Asha. You made it.”
I’ve decided to adopt Cyrus’s line on the launch. Yes, we made a big splash. Thousands of people are signing up every day, and WAI is taking on a life of its own. But I’m too nervous to celebrate. Or maybe I’m just superstitious, like if I say it out loud, it will disappear. “We have a long way to go.”