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was opened. So what’s the point of engaging with monthly
reminders of my husband’s death if these documents aren’t
telling me something I don’t already know?
“Is it possible for me to download a copy of the withdrawal
form you’re talking about?” I ask the account rep.
She walks me through where on the website I can download
the form and I thank her for her time. My computer dings,
indicating that the download has completed. When the PDF
finally opens on my monitor, I see the form made out to cash,
clear as day, signed with my name just as the rep said.
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Except the handwriting is most certainly not mine.
My head from spinning as fast as my heart is racing. It’s
time to call my go-to guy for shit hitting the fan: Brian. His
phone rings twice then cuts to voice mail, which tells me it’s
not dead—he’s just not answering. He’s probably just—
With a patient. Everything OK? he texts.
My fingers start to dance over my keyboard as I type and
delete all the different ways to tell him that someone stole a
cool ten grand from me because I wasn’t emotionally equipped
to open my mail, let alone dispose of it properly.
Not rly. Can U come over after work? I fire off without re-
reading. Inviting Brian to my house to deal with some Decker
drama is both familiar territory and risky business. But we’re
adults now. We’ve moved on from what happened the last
time we were in this boat. We’ve declared it a mistake we’ll
never make again.
Crazy shift fol owed by 7am tee time tmrw morning. Don’t think I can come over tonight, sry.
I don’t know why, but as I reread his text my heart sinks a
little bit. Maybe he’s not in the mood for this? Maybe spending his lunch hour with Bella cleared up the hesitations he
had about her and now they’re back on track? Maybe I just
got used to Brian being available for anything and everything
Charlotte-Decker-related this past week? Or maybe…he’s just
busy, like he says he is.
The screen lights up again seconds later: I can come over
after golf tho. Maybe around 2 or 3?
I toss my phone to the side without a response. His reply
makes me sound like a consolation prize, a charity case. I don’t want to talk semantics right now. I’ve got an iPad to charge,
a presentation to load, and a five-year-old financial disaster
on my hands.
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17
“So as you can see, I’ve pretty much perfected its mate match-
ing functionality,” I say to Warren after completing a thor-
ough demo of my algorithm from my iPad to the screen of his
(Decker’s). All of the Apple tech is fitting, considering War-
ren looks eerily like Steve Jobs.
“It’s impressive. Truly. What are you calling this thing?”
“I don’t have a name for it yet. But I’m open to ideas,” I say.
“Well, from my vantage point, whatever you end up calling
it, it certainly seems to have the potential to be a full-blown, industry-changing dating app. You should get on that.” He sets
the iPad back down on the table. “I want to ask you: Where
do you see this going, Charlotte?”
“Call me crazy,” I say. “But I’m thinking of selling my proj-
ect to some big online dating firm in the next five years and
then I’ll work on it for a bit, and then move on to solving the next big tech dilemma.”
He breaks off a piece of his seventy-two-layer, fifteen-dollar
buttery croissant and tosses it to the back of his molars for a 9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 186
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lengthy chew. He tilts his head back and forth as if he’s con-
templating just how lofty a goal that might be.
“If that’s what you want to do, I’d say you’re well on your
way to doing just that. But I can do you one better. Don’t sell it to one of the big guys. Be the big guy. Trust me, I know plenty of people in the tech world who would be all over investing in something like this.”
Butterflies dive-bomb in my stomach. Hearing something
so promising from a person like Warren Holmgren is a big
deal. It’s like LeBron James saying your free-throw form is
good, but would look even better in a Cavs jersey.
“That’s totally my goal…to take over the online dating
world!” I exclaim, sounding like I’m delivering a Sunday ser-
mon. I decide to tone it down a tad when I ask the next ques-
tion: “So what’s a good next step for me? For the algorithm?”
“At this stage of the game, you need two main things: capi-
tal and beta testers. I wouldn’t worry so much about capital;
the idea is solid. Plenty of people I know, including myself,
would be willing to back it. So what about your beta testers?
What are they saying needs to be tweaked before you go to
market?”
“Um…”
“You do have beta testers, right?”
“Um… .”
“Let’s try this. You do know what beta testers are, right?
People using the app to confirm its functionality and success
ratios?”
I mean, yes, I know what beta testers are, but no, I don’t
have anyone dabbling with the program right now. While I’m
confident that my algorithm is as good as it gets, something
in me just isn’t ready to release it into the hands of the wild.
But, hell. I’ve used it enough to know all of its ins and outs.
Do I really need a focus group?
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“Essentially I have been my own test subject for the last
three years,” I say, hoping that’s good enough.
“I see. And are you happily married now?” he asks, taking
a sip of chai latte. There’s a crumb stuck to his lip and I’m trying hard not to get distracted by it as I dig for an answer that won’t make me sound as flakey as his croissant.
“Me? No, I’m not married. I used to be, but that was be-
fore I invented this algorithm.”
“So, then, are you engaged now? To someone new?”
“No. But with every date, I verify through this very pro-
gram, I can feel myself getting closer to that goal.”
“Interesting. And how many dates have you gone on re-
cently?”
“One last week,” I say, referring to Chad at Monica’s wed-
ding.
Warren takes his circular glasses off and rests them on the
table. He rubs his eyes and I can feel his mood shift into
something I can only describe as lukewarm. I’m not sure who
should speak next.
“So, what you do think? Are there any other questions I
can help answer?” I inquire.
“Well, I have to be honest. I’m starting to get a little con-
fused here, Charlotte. Let’s unpack this a bit. You aren’t
married, aren’t engaged, and aren’t seriously dating any one
particular person. Then last week, yo
u only fashioned your-
self one date. But all the while, you’re telling me that this…
this piece of programming, which hasn’t been tested by any-
one but you, might I add, is the key to a happily-ever-after
for everybody else?”
There’s no professional way to rebut a guy like Warren
Holmgren, so I stay quiet and let him continue poking holes
in what I thought was a perfect piece of tech.
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“Also, didn’t you mention that you were married before
without the help of this software?”
“Yes, but without going into hordes of detail, I was young
and that marriage was simply not meant to be.”
“And why is that?” Warren asks.
There is not enough caffeine in my double-shot vanilla latte
to help navigate a viable answer to that question. I could, in theory, pull out the urn, set it on the table, and put the whole thing to bed. But instead, I figure that trying another angle—
one that does not involve human remains—might be a better
approach to stopping this line from going limp.
“I’m looking for a lasting love. One that yields me a husband and partner with whom I can truly grow old. You have
to understand, Mr. Holmgren, that that is what every little girl dreams of when she is young. It’s not about the wedding day,
so much as it’s about a special forever love. Someone who can
be there with you through it all—ups, downs, lefts, rights. In
today’s society, it’s impossible to know someone’s intentions.
There are so many distractions and social media platforms.
You know, the kinds of things that make finding love super
messy. My app will cut through the clutter and help figure out
who’s real, what’s real, and what are the chances that this person is the one, because my future users are the type of people who don’t have time to waste.”
I put a figurative period on the end of that sentence and
it feels like I just aced my interview. It’s a mic-drop moment
for sure, and now I wait for whatever the tech-master has to
say in return.
“It’s certainly compelling, Charlotte, don’t get me wrong.”
He puts his glasses back on. “But, frankly, the more we talk,
the more shortcomings I’m starting to see in your product as
it stands right now.”
I take a hard swallow as I linger on the word shortcomings.
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“What do you mean?” I ask.
“For example, does it work for men? You spoke earlier about
this software helping women achieve their dreams of Disney-princess-style love. But what about if a man were to use the app? What if he wanted to plug in big tits and a round ass because that’s all he’s really looking for at the end of the day?
Could he get that?”
Tits is not a word I expected to come out of Warren’s mouth during this meet-up. And a round ass? What the hell is he talking about? My app isn’t Instacart—you can’t just go shopping
through a virtual aisle and put a pear-shaped Brazilian booty
in your basket. Even though this plot twist has the possibility to derail me big-time, I take a deep breath and regain focus.
I’ve been thrown bigger curveballs in my life.
“Yes, I can certainly rejigger things so that it can work for
a man looking for a woman, or a man looking for a man, or
a woman for a woman. However, the functionality isn’t so
literal. You don’t necessarily order specific traits. Rather, it aims to vet a person’s online tendencies and use them to determine how this person might act as a partner in real life, so you know if going on a date with them would be worth your
time. Make sense?”
He takes a sip of his latte and nods his head while looking
out the window. Is that a smile I see? I feel like the line just might be tightening back up again.
“Sure, but I still think being able to specify physical traits
is the single most important thing this app should offer given
where we’re at in today’s society. Let me know if you can add
that as a feature and we can pick the conversation back up
next time I’m in town.”
“But—”
“It’s been a pleasure, Charlotte. Keep in touch. And do
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yourself a favor: get some beta testers. And decide on a name
for it, too. Algorithm isn’t a sexy word. Okay?”
Warren knocks the knuckle of his middle finger twice on
the top of the bistro table before slipping out the front door
and into the back seat of a matte black Bentley. Either he has
a personal driver, or that’s the fanciest Uber I’ve ever seen.
Moments later, his driver peels away and I’m left sitting alone at Bouchon, no closer to securing an investor to take my app
to the next level.
“I don’t like the look of this,” Casey states. Her face is
slathered in a seaweed mask. “Why aren’t you getting ready?”
“Yeah, I don’t think I can go tonight,” I respond with
minimal eye contact from the couch. “Do you know how to
switch from Netflix to cable on this thing?”
Casey grabs the remote out of my hands and turns the tele-
vision to black.
“You’re going, Rosen. Not in those sweatpants or that choc-
olate-milk-stained shirt you’re wearing, but you’re going,” she orders. She plops down next to me on the couch and presses
on. “I don’t get it. What’s the matter? What happened?”
I never wanted things to get deep with Casey. Telling one
another when we were low on toilet paper was where our re-
lationship excelled. But I reckon that if I’m really leaving her high and dry on the day of the singles cruise, I owe her an
explanation. Albeit, an abridged one.
“I had a meeting with an app investor today.”
“Yay!” she squeals, putting her palm up for a high five. I
spare her the celebration and lower it for her.
“It didn’t go well.”
“Oh.” She slumps.
“And last night, I was digging around in a box of Decker’s
things and found his life insurance policy folder. Long story
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short, it looks like some asshole went through my garbage,
found Decker’s life insurance policy papers, and hacked my
account for ten grand. And because it was almost five years
ago and I have no real proof, there’s really nothing I can do
about it. So, yeah. Not a good day in Charlotte’s world.”
“How do you know it was someone random who did it?”
“The bank sent me a copy of the transfer form.”
“So?”
“So… I didn’t do it. It’s not filled out in my handwriting.”
“Right, but you said you have the policy folder here. Maybe
someone didn’t go through your trash for access to the ac-
count. Who else knows you have that box with his stuff in
it? Better yet, who packed it?”
I give Casey, a true crime aficionado, cred
it for thinking
of something I did not. But rest assured I’m the only one who
packed that box. Sure, Brian helped with the china and the
mugs, but the second the house sold, I myself packed every-
thing daunting of Decker’s (policy stuff included), then made
four more piles: “Mine,” “Theirs,” “Donation,” and “Trash.”
There were some things that went straight to the trash, like
a half-open box of Nut Thins and an electric razor that was on
its last leg. “Donation” consisted of mostly clothes and some
PS4 games. “Theirs” was a pile for Kurt and Debbie, which
was just a pared-down and less meaningful version of “Mine,”
which had everything else of Decker’s I never thought I’d get
rid of. No one else was invited to that sorting party, and no
one else touched the boxes of “Mine” with policy stuff in it.
But it does hit me that just because Debbie didn’t pack it
doesn’t mean she wasn’t ever near it. Even though our rela-
tionship had been strained, Debbie did stop by my apartment
on what would have been our first wedding anniversary all
those Septembers ago to bring me f lowers. Even though I
knew she resented me for the decision I made to pull Decker
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off life support, hand-delivering a bouquet of flowers fresh
from her cherished gardens made me wonder if deep down,
she knew she would have done the same thing. I wondered if
she was secretly grateful that the onus didn’t actually have to fall on her in the end.
I can still picture them: hand-wrapped bulbous sunflowers
from her garden. They were so gorgeous, they looked fake.
“Do you have a vase for them?” she’d asked.
“Yeah, somewhere in here.”
She and I rifled through my moving boxes until I ultimately
found a glass vase, too small for the bouquet, but it was all I had access to at the moment. By then, she apparently already
had access to the something else: a policy transfer form.
“How could she do this?” I say to Casey.
“Who?”
“Debbie,” I mutter, still trying to make sense of this in my
head. Granted, I was knee-deep in sadness and completely
distracted, but the woman doesn’t strike me as someone slick
enough to pull off a heist like this.
“Well that makes perfect sense, Charlotte. The woman al-