The Doomsday Equation by Matt Richtel Page B

Jeremy, after lovemaking on the futon in her living room that was, on its face, intense, but in which Jeremy sensed her absence.
    “I know you’re bitter about how things turned out,” Jeremy says, which is true but also ridiculous because Jeremy’s equally bitter.
    She ignores his bullshit. She looks up to see, thankfully, that Kent has receded to the piano bench, where he’s munching his muffin.
    “It’s not me, Jeremy. It’s everyone. Jeremy, to be blunt, I don’t think you’ve got a friend left. Not a single ally. Not that people wouldn’t help you. You won’t let them. Remember the log cabin?”
    “Harry’s messing with me, Emily.”
    She laughs. She bursts out. It’s a genuine laugh, a honey drip of irrepressible amusement.
    “Harry didn’t want to fight with you. He wanted to help you, and you just attacked him. Get out of the trees, Jeremy. And probably you should stay out of this neighborhood. It’s really not healthy for you.” She looks at Kent. Unstated: It’s really not healthy for Kent. He loves you. You know how much he loves you.
    Jeremy feels a vibration in his pocket. He extracts his phone. It’s a call from a private number. He’s about to send the call to voice mail. A call from a private number. He remembers what’s going on with his computer. Who is calling?
    He swipes his finger across the screen. “Hold on,” he says into the phone. He cups his finger over the microphone.
    “Kent is the forest, Jeremy,” Emily says. She looks him in the eye, draws him in. He wants to put his head on her lap. “Please don’t bother us.”
    Jeremy’s arm shoots up. He holds up his hand as if to say: wait, please. With his other hand, he cups the phone against his chest so that whoever is on the other end of the line can’t hear what he’s going to say. He looks at Emily, the slight cherub in her cheeks, the emerging crow’s-feet around her deep browneyes, a picture of softness and beauty, someone he, when he’s feeling charitable and condescending, likens to the Giving Tree in the book by Shel Silverstein that he often read to Kent. She gave, Jeremy took, and it seemed to work for everybody.
    She senses something powerful in him. “Is everything okay?”
    Now is the moment, he thinks. Now he can tell her that he needs to tell her something.
    “Where were you last night?”
    She raises her eyebrow. Are you kidding me?
    “I was on a date. I didn’t spend the night at his house. He came by this morning to take me to coffee. He’s a nice guy, a friend, and nothing more. For now. And you are not entitled to know anything further about my life, Jeremy. If not for Kent, please, do it for me. I need to be able to live without fighting.”
    She shakes her head and starts walking away. Jeremy feels his heart thump, unable to respond. So he switches his attention away from it, and to his head. “Hello.”

C HAPTER 9
    W HAT’S WRONG, A TLAS?”
    The sound of the voice sends electricity shooting through him.
    Jeremy watches Emily usher Kent out the front door without a look back. Trailing behind, Emily’s suitor. He peeks back at Jeremy, seems to smile. Does he look familiar?
    “Why are you calling me?” Jeremy demands.
    Andrea Belluck-Juarez laughs. “Just as hostile as I remember. Do you wake up that way or does it usually take enough caffeine to fell an elephant?”
    “Calls from blocked numbers make me hostile.”
    “You’re the one who answered, Atlas.” Her moniker for Jeremy, deriving partly from an inside joke between them that Department of Defense contractors deserve code names and partly because, she told him, he likes to think he believes he can carry the whole world to safety; he, she jokes, and he alone.
    “What’s up?” He’s trying to sound nonchalant, feel her out. But his antennae are bristling. It’s a big coincidence that she’d call mere hours after his computer warned of impending doom.
    “I should be asking you that question.”
    “What’s that supposed