I had looked her up in the Mr. Match database. And unsurprisingly, we were not a good fit by the numbers.
We met at Seaport Village, where we picked up coffees and then walked along the wide path next to the Marina. It was comfortable and pleasant, if a little intense.
"Don't you love that feeling when you're driving toward goal and there's a defender there, but you know they can't touch you and you're just like, outta my way, motherfucker!, and they like totally just disappear, and then you realize you like, body-checked them or something but none of it matters because..." she paused dramatically. Or maybe to take a breath. "Because then, score!"
"Sure," I agreed, a little overwhelmed by the amount of fiery passion contained in this small package of a woman next to me.
"And then, sometimes after you score, the world comes back in focus and you realize everyone's screaming for you, and it's just like, 'fuck yeah!'"
Man, this woman really liked soccer.
I mean, don't get me wrong here. I love the game. It's my life. It's made pretty much everything else in my life possible. But still ... Tallulah was sweet, and like I said, passionate, but I hoped I didn't go on like this about the game.
We walked a while longer, Tallulah spilling some of her coffee when she threw her arms up in the air, demonstrating what her last great score had felt like against Dallas.
I laughed, sharing her excitement as much as I could. "I do know what you mean," I assured her. "I guess I'm just a little more ... restrained about it all."
"Yeah," she said, her gaze raking me from top to bottom. "I can see that. You seem like a guy who'd fit better in a suit, if you want the truth. Like if soccer doesn't work out, you'd be good at some stuffy corporate job."
"Thanks?"
"Me though, I mean, if soccer goes away—not like women make a great living at it anyway, not like you guys do—I'd have to do something outside. Like be a park ranger or maybe a coach or something. Or else something with people."
"You've got the passion kids would love if you ever thought about coaching. Or teaching."
"Think so?" She chewed a corner of her lip, her eyes wide.
"Definitely." San Diego was moving around us, the eager breeze picking up as more tourists and runners appeared next to us on the path. I knew this wasn't a match, but I enjoyed Tallulah, and I could see why Cat thought we might be a fit.
"Your sister is awesome," she said after a period of silence. "I met her a few months ago. A friend of mine bought one of her paintings."
"Oh yeah?" I loved hearing about Cat's success. It was amazing to me that her art, which I'd grown up surrounded with, was hanging on the walls of perfect strangers' homes all across the country, and probably the globe. Cat had done a gallery show in Santa Monica a couple years ago—where she'd met Xavier in person for the first time, actually (though Mr. Match had put them together in the first place)—and her career had taken off from there. She had her own gallery now in Solana Beach.
"Yep, and my friend, Carmen, had her and Xavier over for cocktails a while back and we got talking. I think she thought the soccer connection would make you and I a good fit."
I nodded. That made sense.
"The thing is," her words slowed and she chewed her lip again. "I don't think we are." She glanced at me sideways as if looking to see if this might have hurt my feelings. "I mean, I like you. You're awesome, and I love watching you play," she added. "But romantically, I mean. I'm sorry."
"No," I said quickly. "Don't apologize. That's totally fine. I'd love to hang out sometime, though. Cat's not wrong. We do have a lot in common, but I agree with you. It's not a match on the romantic side."
Tallulah dramatically wiped her brow and made a "whew!" noise. "Cool."
The pressure lifted then, as we both acknowledged that we weren't expected to generate feelings that weren't inherently present between us, and after we spent another half hour laughing and walking together, I gave her a hug and a promise to invite her out to meet some more of the team soon. The Oceanside Stars, Tallulah's team, were basically our sister team anyway, and the Sharks could do more to promote them. I hated that the women's team didn't get the attention, or the pay, they should. I'd seen Tallulah play, and she was every bit the fierce competitor Fernando Fuerte was, but you just didn't hear people talking about her the way you heard about the "Fuerte Fire."
As soon as I'd said goodbye to Tallulah, I headed into the office. Tatum had texted, saying she needed one more day to set a few things up, but I had some paperwork to do in the meantime.
"Hey Megan," I said, strolling past my manager's office. "How are things?"
"Do you mean my eyebrow?" she asked, her voice wary.
"I was thinking more like, business things," I told her. "But how is your eyebrow?"
"I don't want to talk about that, Max," she snipped.
"Well, that's why I wasn't going to ask about it, but then you sort of made it sound like you wanted me to, so I wasn't sure, but..." I trailed off, unsure how to proceed around the delicate topic of microblading gone wrong.
"The latest ad campaign has been generating good conversion," Megan said, standing and bringing me a printout. "Your idea to target finance and law was surprisingly on point."
"Surprisingly," I said, my voice flat.
She glanced at me. "I mean, surprising to me," she backpedaled.
"Busy people need help meeting the right person," I explained. Megan had wanted to keep our demographic targeting tightly focused on lifestyle sites, food, wine, bars. But people who had a lot of time for those things also had more time to devote to dating. Busy professionals needed help, I thought, and the numbers seemed to prove my point.
"Guess so," Megan said. "What's going on with the company? You selling?" I'd told her why Tatum Archer was here, and prepared her for the possibility of a sale.
"I don't think so," I assured her, crossing my arms and leaning against her doorway as she returned to her desk. "But I think we'll bring in an executive—someone else to steer."
She made a little humming noise, which I took as assent.
"Tatum will be here again tomorrow. I'll know more after that," I told her. I wanted Megan to stay at the company. Despite the eyebrow drama, she had proven to be a good hire. She'd signed the NDA I required and had kept to it, never leaking the true identity of Mr. Match, though I knew she fielded plenty of calls and questions outside the office. She was smart and good with both numbers and words. She was the perfect all around manager, and I hoped I compensated her well enough to make up for the somewhat unconventional setting and situation.
I spent a couple hours going through invoices and email, and as we got closer to mid-afternoon, stood to go. I needed to go see Cat, to report on her latest attempts to set me up. She'd been hounding me by text, but I wanted to say hello in person anyway, so I'd told her I'd stop by the gallery.
* * *
There were a couple people meandering around the gallery as I stepped inside. It was set on an artsy little stretch of street in Solana Beach called Cedros, just a few blocks back from the ocean. There were other galleries, a funky furniture store, a few boutiques and a couple restaurants with chalkboard signs and tables out front. Cat's gallery sat back from the street, and sculpted metal benches and potted plants were scattered around the patio just outside the store.
"Hey you," Cat said, spotting me as I pulled my shades off and moved into the gallery.
"Hey yourself," I said. "How’s the art biz?"
Cat gave me a hug and a happy smile, glancing around the colorful space filled with her creations and those of a few other artists, as if to say, "take a look!"
"How's the dating biz?" Cat asked.
It was my turn to glance around. I didn't want anyone to overhear and suspect me of being Mr. Match. My name had actually been part of a silly list generated by HOT-LA, the entertainment news show everyone watched for their celebrity gossip, but the show had ruled me out as a potential to be Mr. Match because I was
single. Which I thought was hilarious.
"I mean," Cat clarified, rolling her eyes at me. "How was your date. With Tallulah?"
We moved to the front of the gallery and sat in two chairs that were made from cut rounds of trees and polished and varnished to shine. They were seriously uncomfortable, clearly made to be seen and not sat on. I had considered buying them myself so Cat would get real chairs here, but I was worried another artist would show up with chairs made from barbed wire and Cat would think they were artsy and put those here instead.
"I like Tallulah," I said. "I hate these chairs."
"You're such a baby. You do? You like her?"
"Can you maybe get something with upholstery? Cushions? I'll buy them for you. I bet the furniture shop next door has something great."
"I don't want to talk about furniture. Are you going to take her out again?"
I shrugged, unsure how to communicate the complete lack of romantic connection. "I like her. We have a lot in common. We'll probably see each other again. I don't know why the Sharks haven't been more involved in supporting the Stars anyway."
Cat's eager smile faded a twinge. "Wait, this sounds like coworker-type talk. Not love talk."
"We did not do any love talking, no." I watched Cat's smile fall and wished I could tell her something different. "She's a nice girl, but I meant what I told you before. Gothic unicorn. Unmatchable."
"That's not true," she said, almost reaching the little-sister-whine pitch I remembered from when we were little. "Everyone is matchable."
I sighed. I didn't feel like rehashing all this. "It's not a big deal, sis. And I don't think I told you, but I've got a venture capital analyst here, Tatum Archer, looking at the business to help figure out if I really want to sell or maybe just bring someone else in to run it."
Cat's frown had faded and now she was squinting at me like she was trying to figure something out.
"What?"
"Well that's interesting about the business," she said but then waved her hands in front of her, "but hang on a minute. Say that name again."
"Tatum?"
"Yeah."
"I just did."
"Say the whole name again."
"Cat, are you having some kind of mental break?"
That earned me a pout and the evil eye.
"Fine. Tatum Archer."
"Yep. There." She looked extremely satisfied suddenly, crossing her arms and lifting her chin with a knowing little smile. Then she seemed to think of something. "Wait, Tatum is a chick, right?"
"Tatum is a woman." I waited for her to tell me what she was driving at, but I had a feeling I already knew. "Why?"
"You like her."
I thought I’d hidden my feelings better. This wasn't good. Was I grinning when I said her name, or did little hearts appear in my eyes or something? "Why do you say that?"
"Your whole face changes when you say her name." Cat leaned in. "Tell me about her."
I'll be straight with you here. Part of me wanted to give in to this, wanted to let my sad teenagery soul open up about all the ridiculous feelings I knew I was beginning to have for Tatum. I wanted to talk about her beautiful hair, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. I'd been keeping all of this bottled up and it would have felt good to just let it out, just for a minute. But I was afraid that if I did let these feelings out and acknowledge them, they might not go back in their box. And if Cat could see how I felt about Tatum, did that mean Tatum knew too?
Everything I thought I might be feeling about Tatum was ridiculous, and I was doing my best not to acknowledge it. She was a colleague.
And as much as I was beginning to wish I could talk her into filling in the Mr. Match intake form so I could run her through the database, the odds were good that even if I did, she would not be my match. I needed to wrangle these inappropriate feelings and crush them. They were only complicating what should have been a simple business arrangement.
"She's very intelligent and very pretty." There. These things were both true and didn't reveal a damned thing I didn't want to say.
"That's not at all what I want to know," Cat said leaning back into the embrace of the branches on either side of the chair back. God, these chairs were hideous.
"What do you want me to say?" I asked, still fighting the temptation to gush. I wouldn't let myself gush though. Not to Cat, not even to myself.
"Tell me about her."
I sighed, leaning back but immediately sitting up again as a low branch poked my kidney. "She lives in Palo Alto. She has a giant brown dog named Charlie that she took from her parents when her dad died about a year ago. She's renting a house in PB for the week and her mom is here with her."
Cat nodded as if she already knew all of this. "And you like her."
I let my forearms rest on my knees and dropped my head for a second, taking a deep breath. "Okay, fine. Yes. I like her. She is an intelligent colleague."
"You like like her."
"Are we six?"
"Just admit it. Actually, you don't even have to because I can see it in your eyes." Cat nodded as if agreeing with herself.
I sighed. "Fine. I have had some thoughts about her that aren't totally appropriate from a business point of view. But it's totally ridiculous, completely unscientific, and would never work out anyway."
"Because?"
"Cat, you know my thoughts on romantic matches. More than thoughts. Fucking proven science. I'm the last guy who's going to pursue someone based on a warm little tingle in my gut. Plus, she's a business associate." I lifted my hands out, as if in a plea for her to see common sense.
"So you're just going to ignore it?"
"Right. Good plan." Why did I feel disappointed?
"That's a completely shitty plan, Max." She rolled her eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be a genius?" Cat popped out of her chair, turning to greet someone who'd just come through the door. She walked the man to the back of the gallery to look at something, leaving me alone with my thoughts for a few minutes.
I stood and wandered around, looking at my sister's paintings while her words poked at things inside my head. But I knew I was right. I'd proven, over and over again, that love shouldn't be approached without good statistical odds of success. The best way to ensure compatibility was to line up all the variables and ensure they fit correctly together. It was simple math, and I knew it worked. I wasn't willing to throw my odds out to the universe and see what happened, the old fashioned way. To me, that was like diving head first into a pond, having no idea how deep it was or if there were rocks just inches from the surface, waiting to bash your brains in.
Cat reappeared at my side. "So I already know all your arguments, and you can save your breath," she said. "Just have her fill in a profile on the site. Tell her she should do it for research or something. If she's helping get investors or whatever, she should know as much as possible about what she's signing them up for."
That idea had definitely crossed my mind.
"Just think about it," Cat said, leaning her shoulder into mine as we both stared at her painting.
"I like this one," I told her. The painting was a street scene of Carmel by the Sea, a Monterey Peninsula village I'd loved since our parents had taken us there as kids. It was quaint and quiet, and many of the buildings had whimsical storybook roofs and striped awnings out front. The painting captured the feeling of the place perfectly—it made me want to grab a cup of coffee and nestle in one of the coffee shop windows with a book while the world puttered by outside. "I'll take it," I said. "And those hideous chairs, too." I pointed at the chairs.
"You hate those chairs," she said. "You don't want to buy them."
I raised an eyebrow at her. "Don't tell me what I want. I'm taking the chairs."
"Max, they're really expensive. You're not going to like, burn them or anything, right?"
"Nope. I have a plan for them."
"Honestly, I don't feel right selling them to you. They're art, Max. Someone spent a lot of time
making those."
"Which is why they will be a perfect housewarming gift for a dear friend."
She scrunched up her nose, looking up for a second as she worked out who I could mean. "Trace?"
I smiled broadly. "I'll take my painting with me," I said. "And I'll give you an address to which the chairs should be delivered."
Cat sighed, but she made the arrangements and I left, pleased with my gift. I stopped through the furniture store next door and paid for two very comfortable wingback armchairs to be delivered the following day to my sister's gallery.
It turns out I almost always get my way.
Chapter 12
Aspirational Shoes
Tatum
The day after the soccer game, things started getting weird at our little rental house in Pacific Beach.
It began with Charlie eating one of my favorite red pumps, which led my mother to ask why I'd brought them in the first place. "It's not like you're hitting the town at night, Tate," she said. "I'm surprised you even own shoes like these." She held up a half-devoured, slobber-covered shoe as Charlie sat next to her, looking only slight guilty.
"They're aspirational shoes," I said. "And they're pretty."
"Not anymore," she said, looking down at the big dog with a perturbed expression. "This dog is impossible."
Charlie had the grace to drop his big head at that, as if he understood Mom's words, and it broke my heart a tiny bit. I moved to where he sat and dropped to my knees in front of him, digging my hands into the thick fur at his neck. "No he's not," I said in a voice I'd never want anyone outside our little house to hear me use. "This doggy is not impossible. He is big and sweet and he just doesn't know shoes are not doggy food."
This kind of validation of his bad behavior would probably not make Amy, our dog trainer, very proud. But we hadn't been to training since we'd been in San Diego, and Charlie did look a little bit sorry about my shoe.
"Well," Mom said, delicately putting the ruined pump into the trash. "I need to get ready to see Roger."
Scoring the Boss: Mr. Match Book 4 Page 8
