The Dating Game

by Kiley Roache

  “Fair enough.” I sip my lemonade, the processed soda-like kind they stock the dining hall with. The sugar coats my teeth immediately.

  “I felt bad about it,” she says. “Since I wanted to support you, but if you’re questioning it too...”

  “Don’t feel bad for quitting that dumb thing,” I say. “Trust me, I’ve been wishing I could quit making it.”

  I pick at my food. “This isn’t what I thought I’d be doing at all,” I say. “It was our last resort idea to not fail the project, and then everyone was so excited about it. I’d never experienced something like that. So many people looking to me, telling me to do something. But it was like all of a sudden I was running full force on a treadmill I don’t remember getting on.

  “I didn’t question it enough.” I sigh. “Robbie did. But I didn’t listen. People were just so hyped about it. And it felt like my chance, you know? This idea that everyone loved. And I couldn’t be sure that if I made something else, I’d stand half the chance.”

  “Well that’s just ridiculous,” Yaz says. “You don’t need this thing to be successful. You built it. You and Robbie, and he-who-shall-not-be-named too, I guess. If you build something else, something that lifts your heart, I think it could be just as successful. If not more.” She takes a bite of her salad.

  “You really think so?”

  She nods as she swallows her food. “I know so. You are a code-blooded bitch too.”

  * * *

  I text Robbie that I have an idea to run past him, but that I want to do some research first. I head straight from dinner to the library, and stay there until 10:00 p.m., pulling articles about couples married for seventy-five years and that New York Times thing about the thirty-six questions to make you fall in love. I find anthologies of the greatest fictional love stories, and philosophy and sociology writings about human connection.

  I check out so many books that the librarian asks if I am working on a thesis before giving me a hand trolley to transport them.

  Robbie bursts out laughing as soon as he opens the door. He holds the door as I wheel my books into his room.

  “Are there any left in the library?” he asks.

  “Ha-ha. Funny.” I start to stack the books on his table.

  “Do you have your laptop?” I ask. I didn’t bring mine to dinner, and I’d been doing most of my research on library desktops.

  “Yeah.” He pulls his Mac out of his backpack.

  I lay the books on the table and open them to pages I marked.

  “What is all this?” He starts to turn a page.

  I swat his hand away out of reflex. He yelps.

  “Sorry.” I turn to face him and put my hands on my hips. “I was thinking. Maybe we can reinvent the app, make it about real human connection, not about status. About bringing more love into the world, not...whatever it is this thing is doing now.”

  “Have you talked to Braden about this?”

  I shake my head and turn back to my books. “He’ll likely shoot it down, because every time we help someone find someone—”

  “We lose two customers. Right,” Robbie says.

  “Plus he’s probably plastered by now.” I try to picture where he might be. At some party? Some bar? I don’t know how he deals with heartache, but I doubt it’s with ice cream and a rom-com marathon. I keep getting texts with dubious spelling from him at 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. It’s an interesting rotation between I miss you, let’s get back together and screw you, never talk to me again.

  I had to put his texts on Do Not Disturb to get some mental clarity and distance.

  “Look...” I fall into a chair. “It probably won’t go anywhere. But I wanna see if I can do it,” I say. “Working on something so exciting I don’t even know if I can pull it off is why I used to make things, and I don’t know, I guess I feel alive again thinking about it.”

  Robbie pulls up a chair. “Let’s do it.”

  A few hours later, Robbie is knee-deep in the books, and I am typing up some preliminary notes on his laptop when his phone rings.

  “One second.” He stands up. “I gotta take this.” He steps into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

  I just nod and don’t look up. I am plugged in, typing rapidly as I hit flow state, new ideas coming to me every second. My hands fly over the keyboard and—

  Wait, what just happened?

  The page I was working on disappears and an error message replaces it.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  Luckily, I know how to recover documents like the back of my hand, thanks to my parents’ confusion that because I know Java, I must also be well versed in tech support.

  I make my way to the deleted documents on Robbie’s computer, and sure enough, there is the one I was working on. But something else catches my eye.

  To Sara, it is titled. It was created in November. Which is weird, because he gave me a candle for Christmas, and my birthday isn’t until June.

  My cursor hovers above the file I am supposed to click on. I pause and look around. His bedroom door is still closed.

  I know I shouldn’t. But it’s my own name. I think I have a right to...

  I slide the cursor down and click on To Sara.

  The program takes up the whole window. The screen goes dark and then a question appears. Like a trivia game.

  What is the best Beatles song?

  Below the question is a small answer box. It’s funny, because that seems way too subjective of a question for a Trivia game. Hell, fifty Beatles fans might give you fifty different answers. Well, I mean, let’s be real, a good third of them are gonna pick “Let It Be,” and for good reason, but still. You can’t design a Trivia password with a subjective question unless you want only one person to get into it.

  My fingers hover over the keys. I mean it did say my name, might as well try.

  I type “Hey Jude” and click Enter.

  The screen flashes green, and another question pops up. I am too excited about my correct answer to consider how weird this is.

  When color coding binders, what color should the Urgent Tasks section be?

  I type, Blue because it is calming and red sets off stress hormones in your brain. The last thing you need when facing a deadline is more stress.

  This comes back with a flashing red screen so I try just blue and it works. I guess my first answer was too correct. Whatever.

  I am asked about my dogs’ names, my favorite types of doughnuts and my favorite movies.

  I am typing quickly, the competitive part of my brain taking over, so caught up in getting answers right and getting to the next level that I forget that questions like this are usually passwords. Leading somewhere, unlocking a message.

  So I am taken aback when the screen flashes green after I correctly answer that Dani was the contestant who should’ve been chosen but was totally robbed last season on The Bachelor and another question doesn’t pop up.

  Instead, this message appears.

  Dear Sara,

  Caring about you means I want you to be the happiest you can be. I want the best for you. I want more laughs that make your eyes sparkle. More of that joy that rolls off you when you’re dancing to your favorite song. I want the coziest feeling of warm blankets and tea to find you every time you are sick or sad.

  And I don’t know if I’m the one who can make that happen. But I hope I can be.

  I know this is foolish and dorky, but I mean, when you have a crush on someone, isn’t that the time to be foolish and dorky? To risk looking like a complete idiot for the chance to be endlessly happy?

  So after all these questions there’s one I’m still afraid to ask.

  But I thought I’d let you know. Just in case I maybe could make you happier.

  I wanted to tell you that I think I am falling for you.

  And I w
anted to ask, if maybe you might feel the same way too?

  I stare at the message for a long time. It’s so cheesy and ridiculous, and so I’m not really sure why I’m crying.

  Maybe it’s because fancy dinners and helicopters are great, but a bad temper and fighting are sad replacements for passion.

  Maybe because I didn’t realize that the person I wanted to go everywhere with and talk with about everything that happened to me, who made late nights studying less brutal and good news worth celebrating, that maybe... That was the person I was in love with.

  In a sort of trance, I stand and walk to Robbie’s bedroom door. I am not even sure what I’m going to do, what I’m going to say, as I raise my hand to knock.

  The door swings open. Robbie stands in the doorway, holding his phone to his ear.

  “I...” I gesture behind me toward the table.

  His gaze goes to the screen. “Te llamo luego,” he says into the phone before hanging up.

  There is panic in his eyes. “Sara, I can explain—”

  But I don’t let him. I step forward, grab him by his T-shirt and pull him in. I kiss him, and at first he sort of gasps in surprise.

  But then his lips soften against mine and we sort of settle into the kiss. His hands find my waist and I weave my fingers into his hair.

  When we break apart I say, “I think I am falling for you too.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Sara

  My phone blares. I jolt awake. I pick it up from my nightstand, catching the time off the clock: 3:30 am.

  I tap Ignore.

  Next to me, Robbie mumbles, but doesn’t wake up. Since Tiffany is out of town visiting her boyfriend, I invited him to sleep over. Nothing happened, I mean, we kissed more of course, and cuddled. But nothing else physical. And we didn’t even talk about what we were, what this meant.

  I snuggle back up next to him. Maybe I will just enjoy this moment, and figure out all those questions tomorrow. How very unlike me.

  It is silent for a moment, and then my phone starts ringing again. I swear to God.

  I tap the green button and hop down from my bed. “Braden, it is three o’clock in the morning. Stop calling me.”

  “Saaaaara,” he whines. “Why don’t you answer my texts? What if it was about the app?”

  “Is it?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “But—”

  “Braden, I will talk to you tomorrow.”

  “No, we have to talk now. C’mon, I’m right outside.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Just let me in, and we can talk it out.”

  “Go home, Braden.”

  “I’m not leaving until you come out.” He pounds on the door, and I think I can hear him both on the phone and in real life.

  “Sara!” he yells. And yes, I can definitely hear that without the phone. He is not outside, like downstairs, he is right outside my suite door. He must’ve walked into the building behind someone.

  Jesus. I throw on my robe and head outside.

  The front door is practically shaking from his incessant knocking.

  I yank it open. “Go home.”

  Braden is wearing a suit. Or at least the remains of it. His tie is undone, and his shirt is half-buttoned.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he says, leaning against the door frame for balance. “And I have decided we should get back together.”

  “We should what?” I recoil, my muscles tightening. Fight or flight.

  “You and me.” He gestures sloppily. “We should start dating again.”

  “No, I heard what you said... What do you mean, you decided?”

  “Well...” He looks around, as if trying to figure out how else to explain what’s happening. “I decided I can forgive you for embarrassing me at the fundraiser. I still think the benefits of our relationship outweigh the negatives.”

  “Oh my,” I say. My anger is replaced with a wave of exhaustion. He does not understand, does he? “This is just...unbelievable.”

  “What is unbelievable?”

  I don’t know how to explain how bizarre his words are. “This is not how relationships work.”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “We shouldn’t be weighing the costs and benefits,” I continue. “We should just be hanging out with each other. We should be friends with each other. And not in a social climb-y networking way. But just, you know, genuinely like spending time with each other. It should be easy. We should have fun when we’re together. Trust each other more than any other person in the world.

  “Do you feel that with me?” I ask. “Honestly?”

  He shakes his head. “Stop being ridiculous, Sara. This isn’t some soap opera. We’re not on Gilmore Girls.

  “This is real life,” he continues. “You don’t pick partners because they want to sit around and cuddle or bake cookies. You pick people who will advance your standing in the world. We’re staring down a multimillion-dollar empire. This match isn’t about being...normal, dumb and happy. You have the potential to be much more than that. To be great.”

  “I’d rather be happy,” I say, reaching to close the door.

  He pushes his arm into its path. “You don’t understand,” he pleads. “I need you, Sara. You make me better.”

  I cross my arms, closing my robe tighter. “That is not my job.”

  My bedroom door opens behind me, and my stomach drops. I turn to see Robbie stumbling out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

  Fire builds in Braden’s eyes. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  I am at a loss for words. “Oh, I—”

  “You slut, what the hell is he doing here?” Braden yells at me. I flinch as he steps forward, closing the distance between us.

  “Hey!” Robbie rushes up to push him back.

  Braden regains his balance, and his head bobs back and forth.

  “You wanna go?”

  I try not to laugh hysterically, because Robbie has broad shoulders and works out every day, and Braden smokes and has the sort of metabolism where he doesn’t have to work out and takes advantage of that. A fight between them won’t be much of a contest.

  But that doesn’t mean they won’t hurt each other in the process.

  “Hey.” I step forward and place my hands on Braden’s shoulders. “Just go home, okay? Sleep it off.”

  “Don’t touch me.” He pushes my hand away.

  “Braden, I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. Although I know I shouldn’t be with him, I can’t imagine seeing an ex with someone new so soon after a breakup.

  “Yeah, you will be,” he says.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Braden

  I wake up to a hangover, no texts from Sara and an email about a grade update for Math 190. I shimmy down to the foot of my bed and pull my laptop off my desk, then type in my password, still lying down with my arm at a weird angle.

  Grade results posted! the message bubble on the website says. I roll my eyes. Really? An exclamation point? When is this ever an exciting moment?

  I click on the alert.

  Hart, Braden, Assignment Four Grade: 73.

  Damn it. I slam the computer closed. The test was two days after Sara and I broke up, and I wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind to take it. That, plus my lousy attendance record due to hangovers like this, and I am now looking at a solid C in the class. A nice parting gift from her, I guess.

  I lie back and close my eyes. Maybe I will just sleep for the rest of the day.

  My phone vibrates against my desk.

  Arrrgh. I flip it over.

  Call from: Father

  Great. I have to answer. I tap the green button.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say, putting the phone to my ear.

  “How’s my favorite son
?”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m your only child.”

  “That I know of,” he says.

  I laugh, but given my parents’ complicated relationship, it might not be that far off the truth. Which makes it a little less funny.

  “How goes it with the company?” he asks.

  Of course, he never likes to spend too long talking about personal lives, even thinly fictionalized ones.

  “Good,” I say. “I told you we have an offer.”

  “Right, right,” he says. “From whom again?”

  I bet I’m the only kid in the world to have this much success and still be forgettable to my parents.

  “Bell Ventures.”

  “Oh,” he scoffs. “They run a half-assed shop. You’d do much better elsewhere.”

  “Yeah.” I scrub a hand across my face. “I mean, they want to buy it almost outright.”

  “Then that settles it. A flattering but useless offer—brush it off and get back to initial meetings.”

  “It’s not quite that simple,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  The door opens, and Jesse, my roommate, walks in, wearing a backward baseball cap, pastel shorts and no shirt.

  I wave and point to the phone. He nods and turns to place his longboard on top of his desk.

  “I mean we have to vote,” I tell my father. “And my partners are not the easiest people to convince.”

  “These are your employees,” my dad says. “If they’re your friends too, that doesn’t mean—”

  “They’re not though,” I say. “My employees.” They’re not my friends anymore either, but that’s another point entirely.

  Jesse climbs onto his bed, puts his giant headphones on and plugs them into the turntable on his nightstand.

  “They code and you run the business?” he asks.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “They implement your ideas. You control the big picture.”

  “Yes, I mean, but they’re not my employees. We all have equal votes for this.”

  “Why is that? What do these people bring to the table when it comes to business?”