The Dating Game

by Kiley Roache

  I nod, and we’re quiet for a moment, sipping our coffee and watching people walk in and out of the door, listening to the light sound of the bell ringing.

  “Tell me about her.” I turn back to Robbie. “What does she like to do?”

  He smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes. “She really likes music. She loves dancing,” he says. “She would lead me around the kitchen, making me dance with her while she cooked.” He blushes. “I used to love that, and then I thought I was too old, even though I wasn’t.”

  I nod and take a bite of my doughnut.

  “And at night, she would listen to ballads and sometimes show tunes. She liked songs that told stories,” he says. “Likes,” he corrects himself.

  “She sends me videos now,” he says. “Of herself singing.” He pulls out his phone and searches for one. “It’s ridiculous,” he says, but his smile betrays his real feelings.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Roberto

  Every few seconds, I check the clock, as if I’m half-afraid it will have jumped forward a few hours and we’ll have royally messed up. I’m standing over Sara’s shoulder as she types, hunched over the keyboard. I’m supposed to be helping her fix the bug, but I’m probably just making her more nervous. My eyes dart to the chair across the table, but I can’t bring myself to step away from the screen and do nothing. Even if I’m not much help right now.

  We’ve been up most of the night, trying to fix the last few hiccups before the scheduled launch of the app in—I check my watch—two hours and thirty-seven minutes. Jesus Christ. I run a hand through my hair and attempt to take a deep breath.

  “All right,” Sara says, leaning back in her chair. “I think... I think that’s it. It should work.” Her voice is faint.

  “Well, test it.” I take three paces in the small kitchenette before turning around and heading back toward her.

  “It works!” she says. I walk up and lean over her shoulder to see for myself, and she is right. It works. It finally works.

  “I can’t believe it.” She stares at the screen. “It’s done.”

  “I can,” I say, falling into a chair. “It feels like we’ve been working on it for centuries.”

  She laughs. “We made it literally just in time.”

  Just then the door flies open. “All right, you guys.” Braden charges in. “We go live in just under three hours—it’s game time.” His voice is commanding. He sets down two computer bags on the chair and takes out his cell phone. “Okay, this is what we need to do...” He reads from a list, but I am only half listening, and honestly understanding only half the things I hear. “...and then there’s the announcement on various other social media—Reddit, Facebook and Tumblr—which need to go out. Not to mention the press release. Speaking of, I need to get on the phone for an interview in—” he checks his watch “—five minutes.”

  As he continues to pace and ramble, Sara slowly stands up from the table and walks over to the couch. She pulls her legs onto the seat and drapes a fuzzy blanket over herself.

  “Uh-huh.” She nods along to what he is saying, her eyes fluttering closed.

  I try to hold in a laugh as I follow her and take a seat on the opposite side of the couch.

  Braden keeps talking, going on about an article on some blog.

  “Oh really? That’s interesting.” I have no idea what he had just said. I adjust the pillows behind me.

  He gives me an odd look, but continues with his speech.

  His ringtone blares through the room, interrupting him. He jumps and clicks his phone.

  “Hello, yes, this is Braden from Perfect10 Enterprises, thanks so much for making the time to talk to me!” He holds his hand over the receiver. “Reporter,” he says to us. “I’ll be right back, hang tight.”

  Sara gives him a lazy thumbs-up, I just smile. He brings the phone back to his ear, laughing as he opens the door to take the call in the hallway.

  “I think,” Sara says, after the door closes, “that it might be our turn to be the deadweight.”

  “Jersey Shore?” I ask.

  “You know what?” She reaches for the remote. “I think so.”

  So we relax while Braden finally does his share of the work. We both end up falling asleep at some point in the afternoon, and I think I might have actually napped through the exact moment our app went live, although I’m not sure. I might have been listening to Snooki rant at that moment. The point is, for the amount of our lives that we’ve poured into this thing for the last two months, the actual afternoon of the launch was anticlimactic. Well, for me and Sara.

  “Will you two wake up?” Braden shakes my shoulders.

  I rub my eyes and sit up. He walks over to wake Sara as well, but as soon as he touches her shoulder, she sits up.

  “Who’s there?” She flails an arm, smacking Braden in the face.

  He lurches backward, his hand going to his noise. “Ow.”

  I laugh so hard that I snort.

  “What the hell, Sara?” Braden says.

  “Sorry.” She shrugs, which then morphs into a stretch with an accompanying yawn.

  “You guys gotta at least rally for the launch party,” Braden says, walking to the kitchen. “We have four hundred RSVPs yes, and I’ve rented out a restaurant for the whole night. Of course guests will have to download the app to get in the door. And then get to platinum level to get in the VIP room with the open bar.” He picks up the toaster and examines his face in the reflection. “Luckily you didn’t leave a mark,” Braden says. “I need to look good tonight.”

  “Ugh.” Sara stands and lets the blanket fall to the floor. “How much time do I have to get ready?” she asks.

  “Forty-five minutes.”

  “What?” She finally seems awake. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier? Do you even know what it’s like to be a girl?” She races into her bedroom and reemerges with towel and shower caddy in hand. “That’s barely enough time to dry my hair, let alone style it,” she says, before heading out into the hallway.

  “I guess I should go get ready, too,” I say. Although my routine takes about fifteen minutes, so I’m in far less of a rush. Regardless, hanging out alone with Braden doesn’t appeal.

  I’m ready with twenty minutes to spare, so I do what I usually do when I have a few extra minutes. I pick up my phone.

  “Hello?” My dad’s voice sounds like home.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing well,” he says, the same response I always get. “Work is fine, friends are good, the house hasn’t fallen down. How are you, though, college man?”

  I smile. I keep telling him not to call me that, that it’s embarrassing. But a few kids from my high school who were first-gen college students as well have told me about their parents being bitter or mad at them for having opportunities they couldn’t have dreamed of. I’ll take overly proud any day.

  “I’m doing pretty good,” I say. “It’s been a pretty crazy week, but I had a free moment so I wanted to call to update you on the app launch.”

  “Thank you, but you know I don’t understand any of that tech stuff.” He laughs. “I’d rather hear more about this girl.”

  “What? What girl?” I say. My gaze darts to the door of my suite, which I left half-open. Although it is unlikely Sara will be ready yet, and she probably won’t be walking down my hall anytime soon, I kick it closed.

  “Every time you call to talk about the app,” he says, “it’s, ‘Sara said this, Sara said that, Sara is so brilliant.’ What’s going on with that? Have you told her you love her?”

  “No! Dad, what?” I pace the common room. “I don’t love her, okay?” I’m speaking rapidly now. “She’s my partner in this company, and she’s very smart, that’s why I said my professional opinion is that her ideas are brilliant.”

  He clicks hi
s tongue. “Nope, I don’t buy it. You love her.”

  “Dad, you’re not getting it—”

  “No,” he says. “I think I am right.”

  Of course you do, I think but don’t dare say.

  “If you care about her, you should tell her,” he says.

  “It’s not that simple,” I say. “We work together, after all. And she is one of my closest friends here. My best friend.”

  I actually had been thinking about it—telling her. A few nights ago, I started tinkering with some code, building a cute game filled with inside jokes that would tell her how I felt. At 2:00 a.m. it seemed like the type of thing a guy would do in a movie, and something that Sara, who has a bunch of Nora Ephron movie posters on her wall, might appreciate.

  I woke up the next morning and immediately dragged the game into my trash. It was way too intense. She’d probably never have talked to me again if I’d sent it to her.

  “True love is simple,” he says.

  I exhale. “Will you please just let me tell you about this project? I’m excited about it.”

  “Yes, yes.” I can picture him nodding. “I’m sorry, go ahead.”

  “Okay, thank you.” I shake my head. “So basically, it’s an app that helps people meet people, like to date...”

  “Oh, the irony,” he says. “You two, building an app you don’t need.”

  “Dad!”

  “All right, all right,” he says. “Last one, I promise. Tell me about your computer stuff.”

  I do, and he dutifully doesn’t bring up Sara again. But even after I hang up, I can’t help but wonder if the way I feel about her is that obvious. And if so... Has she noticed, too?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Braden

  I wake up feeling like a zombie. The launch party was a success—well, at least, the parts of it I remember. My mouth tastes like I licked an ashtray, and I vaguely remember smoking a cigar the night before. Water, I need water.

  I roll over and my brain screams.

  “Rough night?” my roommate asks from his desk. He’s working on homework and has clearly been up for hours.

  “A little bit.” I fumble for my water bottle and take a long sip. I reach for my phone and detach it from the charger so that I can use it without getting out of bed. After checking my texts to make sure I didn’t send any bad drunk messages, I click on my email.

  There’s the usual spam from various companies I’ve bought stuff from online, daily updates from the various newspapers I subscribe to and dorm-list server messages. The usual.

  But one message stands out. The subject line is Re: Perfect10. It’s a reply to one of the blind inquiries I sent out yesterday to venture capitalist firms.

  I sit up, my brain rattling against my skull. I click on the email.

  From: mike@WilliamsBrownandMoore.com

  To: Bradenhart@Warren.edu

  Subject: RE: Perfect10

  Hi Braden,

  I’m interested in hearing more about this endeavor, but my schedule is pretty booked. We had a cancellation on Friday at 1 p.m., if your team is willing to meet then.

  Tell your dad I say hello.

  Best,

  Michael

  Oh fuck. Today is Friday.

  I check the time—it’s twelve. And their office is at least twenty minutes away.

  I spring out of bed, texting rapidly. I stalk to my wardrobe and yank it open, then tug on pants with one hand while I text with the other.

  Me: Angel investor wants to meet exactly one hour from now on Sand Hill, you need to get ready ASAP

  Sara: what?!!?

  Robbie: damn okay

  Robbie: hopping in the shower now

  Sara: are you kidding me?! There’s no time!

  Sara: Should we still go?

  Sara: Are you ready for this?

  Sara: Braden?!!!!!

  Sara tries to call me, but I click Decline and instead scroll through my contacts.

  “Hello?” Professor Thomas answers on the second ring.

  “Hi, Professor, this is Braden Hart from your class and I’m one of the founders of Perfect—”

  “I put my phone number on the syllabus for emergencies. Could you maybe just stop by office hours?”

  “It is an emergency,” I say. “We just launched yesterday and someone from WBM emailed and wants to see us today. I wanted to get your advice, like how should I pitch, what should I make sure I say in the meeting.”

  “You shouldn’t go.”

  Feedback crackles over the otherwise-silent line. My heart drops into my stomach. “What do you mean? This is a huge opportunity for us—”

  “It’s not worth it. You should apologize for reaching out prematurely, say you don’t want to waste their time and will contact them when the company is further along.”

  “What if we don’t get a chance like this again?”

  “I know it’s tempting.” He sighs. “And maybe an experienced entrepreneur could pull off pitching on the fly, but you are eighteen years old and have never pitched a company to investors before. It’s not worth the risk.”

  My mouth goes dry. He sounds remarkably like my father.

  “Thanks, I guess.” I hang up the phone.

  The sinking feeling in my gut turns into a burning fire. I text Roberto and Sara the address and hail an Uber for myself. I’ll need this time to myself to formulate my pitch.

  I’ve finessed and rehearsed my speech to journalists, but I thought I’d have more time before I’d actually be trying to sell a part of the company. This is the type of meeting I would have prepared for weeks in advance, if I’d had the chance. Instead, I am jotting ideas in the Notes section of my phone as the car speeds across town.

  “Can I have one of these?” I say, taking a water bottle from the cup holder of the car. I unscrew the cap before the driver can answer. I chug it, hoping to drown this hangover a little bit.

  “Thanks,” I say, setting the empty bottle back in the cup holder just as he pulls up to the office of Williams, Brown and Moore.

  Sara arrives at the same time, also pulling up in an Uber, although not a black car.

  She’s putting in her right earring as she steps out. She’s wearing a professional-looking wrap dress and flats, and she seems to have showered since last night, which is more than I can say. Her eyes catch mine.

  “I’m going to freaking kill you!” She charges forward and swats my arm.

  I can’t help but laugh, because even in her moment of unbridled anger, she still can’t bring herself to swear, opting for the kindergarten teacher–style replacement instead.

  “Why are you smiling like an idiot?” she asks. “We’re totally screwed.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I say, but my voice is shaky. “It’s all about confidence.”

  “You smell like bourbon.”

  “I didn’t have time to shower.” I look away so that I don’t have to see her reaction and wave to Robbie as he hops out of a car driven by another student.

  I check my watch. “Five minutes to go... We might as well head in.”

  We take an elevator to the third floor. The office is light and airy, with big windows, stainless steel furniture and light blue accents. The modern, clean look should create a soothing atmosphere, but my stomach drops as I step off the elevator. I feel like I’m having the dream where I’m in a play I forgot to rehearse for, or when I show up to school naked.

  “Williams, Brown and Moore,” a pretty receptionist says into a phone. She narrows her eyes at us. Sara takes a seat in the waiting area and taps her foot on the floor. Robbie paces behind her.

  “All right.” The receptionist types into the computer. “I’ll get him the message, thanks.” She hangs up the phone with a click. “Can I help you?” she asks us.

  “Yes.” I st
ep forward. “I am Braden Hart—we’re from Perfect10.”

  She flips through a schedule in front of her.

  “Our appointment is at one, but we might not be on there—there was a cancellation.”

  She nods. “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  I sit next to Sara.

  She leans over and whispers, “Please tell me this is like the class presentation and you’ve secretly been preparing a perfect pitch.”

  “I wish I could.” I wring my hands.

  “Hey guys.” A fortysomething man in dark jeans and a button-down steps into the room.

  We shoot out of our seats.

  “I’m Michael.” He shakes each of our hands. “I’m looking forward to hearing about your project. Let’s head back to my office.”

  He leads us into a large room. There is a huge window against the back wall with a beautiful view of the foothills and in front of that, a grand desk.

  Three tiny chairs are lined up near the door.

  He offers us water, which none of us take, and then tells us to sit down. I settle into the seat farthest to the right. The florescent lights from above bear down on me. I can’t help but feel like I’m about to be interrogated.

  Why is it so bright in here?

  “So.” He folds his hands on the desk in front of him. “Tell me about this app.”

  I lean forward to the edge of my seat. “Well...”

  I launch into a version of the speech I gave in class, explaining the thought process behind the app, what it does and why people will want to use it. He smiles and nods as he listens, and even throws in a pensive look here and there. About halfway through, he starts to scribble notes on a legal pad. I’m shocked to feel like things might actually be going well. I sit a bit taller in my chair.

  “...and eventually, as the app grows successful, we can start monetizing by limiting how many times people can check their score to three times a week, and then charging 99 cents to check it.”