Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  This was the part where she suggested—not openly, of course—that if I'd switched jobs when I got married, found something that kept me closer more often, then Austin wouldn't have felt the need to sleep with our next-door neighbor, Paige.

  "I think if you'd been home more often—"

  "And we're done here," I told her. Mom's suggestion had merit. I hadn't been ready for marriage, and I was gone more than I was home. It was hard to compete with a ponytail-wearing, gym-going, pie-baking bachelorette like cute Paige next door. But I didn't think I was going to be handing Austin readymade excuses anytime soon. He was out of my life now, and out of Paige's too, from what the neighborhood gossips said, and that was for the best.

  Men were very nice. I liked to look at them and sometimes, when convenient, I liked to touch them. But I'd resigned myself to the idea that I might just be a woman for whom a high-powered career, a huge dog, and a penchant for crocheting tiny clothing on airplanes would have to be enough.

  "Oh, here," I said, getting up to retrieve my latest package of mini-sweaters to give Mom. "Can you take these next time you volunteer at the hospital?" I handed her the shopping bag.

  Mom's expression softened and she pushed her mug away, pulling a small blue and white cardigan up to spread on the table top before her. "Oh," she said, her eyes shining as she pressed the soft little sweater flat. "This is adorable."

  The next part usually involved Mom being sad about how my job would also keep me from ever having children of my own, and how now that Dad was gone, she really wanted some grandchildren to keep her busy and 'fill her life with love.' I liked to follow this up by reminding her how I'd routinely tormented her parents as a child.

  "I know what you're going to say, "I told her. "And if you like, we can skip ahead to a fond remembrance of the time I peed in Granny's cat's litter box and how Papa was so worried about the cat's suddenly ample urine production that they spent hundreds of dollars on unnecessary feline medical tests. Or we can chat about the time I hid in the bushes outside and watched in delight as the police were called when Granny reported me missing."

  "God, you were awful to them."

  "Exactly. And any child of mine would undoubtedly be equally horrid. Even in a tiny cute sweater."

  Mom sighed.

  She should have had more children. Dad and I had been close—watching sports together and cheering on our favorite teams. But I'd never been quite the daughter Mom wanted. At least I lived nearby.

  "I guess I'll head on back," Mom said, rising slowly. "Let you get ready for the week."

  "I'll come by for dinner, okay? And to bring Charlie over. I'm in San Diego Monday through Friday."

  "What company are you looking at this time?" she asked, though she'd never heard of any of the companies I examined for investment.

  This one was a little bit ironic, actually, for a couple reasons. For one, the company was focused on helping people find their match—something I still hadn't managed to do. But even more interesting, it was owned by one of my dad's heroes, and mine—a soccer player for Dad's favorite team. "It's an online venture. It's called Mr. Match."

  Mom's eyes rounded as she turned to face me. "The matchmaking site? I've heard of it!"

  I put a hand on Mom's shoulder and guided her to the front door, the little bag of sweaters and hats in her hand. "Yes, but I'm not going to use the service. I'm going to see if it might be a lucrative investment opportunity, and there’s some potential the owner wants to sell entirely."

  "Right. But maybe while you're there—"

  "See you later, Mom!" I let the front door swing shut and then watched as Mom's shoulders dropped and she turned down the driveway to walk back to the house I'd grown up in.

  It was exhausting disappointing my mother so consistently.

  Chapter 116

  Emo Unicorns with Guy Liner

  Max

  It was time to take a step back from Mr. Match before I had to answer a bunch of questions I didn't want to answer. Before the whole thing blew up and then tanked spectacularly because I was revealed to be a fraud. And so naturally, I had a plan.

  "You're going to sell Mr. Match?" My sister Cat was lounging on the leather sofa in the middle of my living room. "It's a goldmine! Why would you do that?"

  I shrugged. "Maybe I'm tired of finding happiness for everyone else."

  Cat's eyes dropped to the ring on her left hand and then found me again. "Max," she said quietly, looking sad.

  "No," I said quickly, sorry I'd let too much show. That wasn't my style. "It's fine. It's not even that. The whole secrecy thing is exhausting, and I think I'm pretty close to being outed, which would be bad for the business. Bad for me. And probably bad for the Sharks, too."

  "You won the Cup last season, it would take a lot to hurt the Sharks," she said.

  I stood just outside the sliding glass door that separated the living room from the patio and yard. My house was nice—big and open, lots of upscale touches and fancy appliances. But it felt cold to me, despite the almost constant San Diego sunshine, and I spent a lot of my time out on this patio. Less oppressive than that unfilled space. "Why do you care if I keep it, anyway?" I asked, turning to look back inside.

  Cat shrugged and stood up, coming out to join me in gazing over the grass beyond the patio toward the fence, which sat just along the curve of Mission Bay. The Isleys lived a few doors down, though I swear we didn't plan it that way. "I don't know," she said. "It's nostalgia, I guess. You always talked about figuring out how love wasn't this complicated mystical thing. And then you did it. I just thought it would mean something to you, even if you never ..." she trailed off, glancing at me and then sinking into a cushioned chair next to the teak table.

  My sister was one of the few people I'd confided in about my efforts at finding a match of my own. I'd been one of the first complete profiles in the database, but my file had sat there, gathering dust, for years now. The algorithm was built to match and weigh the most crucial aspects of someone's personality, giving mathematical priority to those aspects statistically most likely to correlate to longevity in relationships. I'd tweaked the math multiple times over the years, and tons of happy couples all around San Diego, Los Angeles, and now Arizona, had benefited. But I had not.

  Cat sighed. There wasn't much to say about my unmatchability.

  It turned out I was a fucking unicorn. And not the fun rainbow-maned kind with a cat riding on its back like a Viking conqueror, throwing glitter around. I was like a sad gothic unicorn, horn draped in black crepe and too much guy liner.

  "Are you thinking about that ridiculous unicorn analogy again?" Cat asked, interrupting my train of thought.

  "Maybe."

  "You're not an emo unicorn, Max."

  "Gothic. With guy liner."

  Cat rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "I have a novel idea for you."

  "No." I historically didn't like Cat's ideas, novel or not.

  She dropped her arms and leaned forward in her chair, widening her eyes at me and blowing out a breath in frustration. "Listen first, jackass. Then tell me no."

  I lifted a shoulder in resignation. "Fine. Go."

  "Why don't we go retro? You can be a retro unicorn."

  "I have no idea what you're trying to say. Use your words, Cat."

  "Those were words."

  "Use different words. Ones that go together to make sentences that make sense."

  "Listen," she said, rolling her eyes. Cat and I couldn't help reverting to grade-school banter when we were together. It was our dynamic. It drove Mom crazy, but when Mom wasn't around, we reveled in it. "Why not try this dating thing the old fashioned way?"

  "You want to order me a bride in the mail?" I imagined a stagecoach rolling in, a frightened-looking Midwestern girl coming down off the steps in a hoop skirt. It turns out I have a very visual imagination. I do best when I keep my little imaginings to myself though.

  "No. Not like wild-west style. More like before
the internet."

  "They definitely didn't have the internet in the wild west," I agreed. I wasn't eager to see where Cat was going with this. Distraction could work.

  "Stop changing the subject. Distraction won't work here." Cat stood up. "I met an adorable girl at the gallery last week, and I got her number. You set me up on dates before I met Xavier, so now I'm setting you up."

  "Definitely no," I told her. "And I set you up on dates that had a high mathematical probability of working out successfully. That's how you met Xavier, remember?"

  "Yes, but first you gave me Dr. Buttchin."

  I smiled as Cat's description of that date came back to me. The formula had needed tweaking back then. But you had to hand it to a guy so germaphobic he'd managed to find a place to buy condoms to put on the passenger seat of his car. "Still. Definitely no to the setting-Max-up thing."

  "Definitely yes, you mean." Cat had her phone out and was texting someone.

  "Stop. I'm serious." This was not at all what I wanted. I stood and went to look over my sister's shoulder, but she'd already hit send.

  "Her name is Julie. She was adorable, very inquisitive. You guys are probably perfect for each other." Cat smiled like she had just achieved world peace.

  "Based on your scientific assessment of what?"

  "She's cute, you're both single ..."

  "She mentioned this in casual conversation?"

  "We chatted a while." She shoved her phone in her back pocket, her smiled dropping a bit as she narrowed her eyes. "Well, really, I talked mostly, because she was doing some art research. But she's very pretty."

  "It's not that easy," I told her. "Besides, I'm unmatchable."

  She stood and poked me in the chest, our version of a hug. "You're not. Just unique. In a non-gothic unicorn kind of way." Her phone dinged and she pulled it back out of her pocket. She actually squealed then, and my own phone dinged as she forwarded something. "You're all set," she said. "Text her. I told her you're free tomorrow."

  I shook my head. "I'm actually not."

  Cat turned and went back inside, and I followed her, watching as she scooped up her bag and headed for the door. "You can't be busy all day. Go get coffee in the morning. Or grab a late drink. You have time. Isn't love worth it?"

  Love had actually devoured most of my off hours, and I definitely believed it was worth it. Or I thought I did. But there was absolutely nothing besides my sister's hunch to validate the idea that this girl might be a match for me. "No," I said, my voice flat.

  "Just go. Give it a chance. I'll talk to you after to hear how it went." She opened the door and headed out, and I watched her get into her car and disappear down the winding street outside my house.

  Then I texted "Julie" who was definitely not my match (though I'd do a quick scan through Mr. Match's backend database to see how close we actually were. I couldn't help it—I had access to way too much information at this point). I'd meet her to make Cat happy, either way. But it would have to be late afternoon. I had a meeting with a venture capital analyst named Tate Archer first to discuss what I was doing with Mr. Match.

  And I needed a clear head to meet with that guy.

  Chapter 117

  Tropical Fruit and Rodents. Your Thoughts?

  Max

  Tate ended up being short for Tatum. And Tate was not a man.

  On the contrary, Tate was a tall athletic-looking brunette with thick wavy hair, tanned skin, deep brown eyes and a smile that initially made me forget why we were meeting. She'd arrived at the Mr. Match offices downtown exactly on time, that smile in place and a hand firmly outstretched.

  "I'm Tatum Archer. Please, call me Tate." She moved in a way I'd label efficient grace, holding her laptop bag over a shoulder and striding near in confident steps.

  "Max Winchell," I said, recovering myself quickly to shake her hand. "Come on in."

  Tate's eyes were shrewd as she moved through the small office, taking everything in as she followed me to the conference room at the end of the hall. "I had a little trouble finding the place. No business name on the door and all that. But this is a nice space," she said, looking around as she settled and opened her bag, placing her laptop on the table.

  "Thanks. Yeah, the anonymity thing means no signage—at least as long as I'm popping in and out," I said. "Get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

  She smiled and shook her head. "No thank you." She raised a thermos from her bag and set it on the table. "I'm particular, so I bring my own."

  "Okay," I said, opening my own laptop across from her and connecting it to the wireless monitor at the front of the room. She liked things the way she liked them. I understood that.

  "It's quiet here," Tate observed. "What's the total employee count?"

  "Four if you count me," I told her. "The developers were in the first office we passed as we came down the hall. There are two of them, and then there's Megan Wright, who manages operations in my absence. She handles the marketing and general office stuff."

  "She's the public face of the company because you're still anonymous, correct?" Tate made a note in her laptop.

  "Correct. And trying to keep it that way, but it's becoming tougher. Part of why I called you."

  "I think that element of mystery has helped sell the service, don't you?" Tate tilted her head, looking up at me when she asked this question, and I watched as her thick shiny hair slipped over one shoulder. I had a fleeting desire to touch all that soft hair, to see what it would feel like in my hands, against my cheek.

  I cleared my throat. "It wasn't part of the initial intention, but yes, I think so."

  "What was your initial objective for the business?" she asked, watching me.

  I had the sense she saw much more than I was showing her, and it made me uncomfortable. I shifted in my seat. "Honestly, it was just kind of an organic thing. I was playing with the math, kind of turning over this idea I've always had that love isn't this complex and mystical thing people make it out to be. I've always believed there could be a formula applied to it—an equation. And I'd been working on it for a long time. When I was pretty sure I had it, I needed some kind of application, a front end. So I created the intake form to feed the database, and the obvious place to host it was the web. And once you get that far, you've got to start thinking about site design and branding, and the next thing I knew, it had become Mr. Match."

  "It's pretty brilliant," she said, her long fingers tapping at her laptop keys again. "And at this point, you're looking for a buyer?"

  I leaned back, crossed my arms. "Part of me wants to be done with it, yeah. I've got a lot of other things to focus on."

  "Soccer, for one."

  I agreed. "Soccer for one."

  An odd look crossed her face for a moment, a kind of darkness that misted her eyes and caused her to lower her dark lashes to touch her cheeks for a long second. "The Sharks were my dad's favorite team," she said. "We actually used to watch you guys together a lot."

  Were. Used to.

  Either he was gone or his loyalty had shifted elsewhere. Since we'd just won the Cup, it'd be an odd time to become a fan of DC United. I was going for the former. "That's nice to hear," I said. "Is your dad ...?"

  "He died a little less than a year ago. Cancer."

  My own heart twisted in response. "We have that in common then," I said. "But I was a lot younger when my dad died."

  She nodded, her eyes holding mine. My blood warmed slightly, and the gaze felt like a soft touch, personal and reassuring, even though she was sitting a full five feet across the long table. The feeling sweeping through me was comforting, addictive—and so unfamiliar I stiffened. "I'm sorry," she said.

  "I'm sorry too." And then, I couldn't have told you why I kept talking, but something in Tate's eyes invited me to divulge more than I usually would. "Dad was part of the reason I started looking for the formula," I told her. "He and my mom were perfect together. Happy, light. Fun. Just ..." I dropped my eyes to my own hand, which was resting on
the table. "They had that kind of love you could feel. Even when I was a kid, it was there. Reassuring and warm, kind of like a pet. You knew it would be there when you got home." I lifted my eyes to her face again.

  Tate smiled at me, a soft understanding expression that actually soothed the still-painful ache inside me where my Dad's memories lived. "My parents were kind of like that too," she said. "And then in the end Dad did get a huge dog, so they had an actual pet too. Though Mom hates Charlie."

  "The dog is Charlie?"

  She laughed, a bright, rolling sound I found I liked. "Yeah. He's a Newfoundland. He's almost as big as I am. But Dad didn't have time to train him, and Mom was kind of busy with Dad, so Charlie isn't super well behaved. I'm working on it now."

  My eyes strayed from her face down to her hands. The right one was hidden by the screen of the laptop, and rested on the keyboard. But the left hand lay on the tabletop, long slim fingers with clean bare nails. And her ring finger was devoid of jewelry, which sent a strange feeling of relief through me before I realized how ridiculous it was to be scoping out the venture capitalist who'd come to talk business. I cleared my throat and recrossed my arms.

  Business, Max.

  "Okay, well." Tate returned her attention to her laptop while I pulled the financials I'd sent her up onto the main screen. "The information you sent was exactly what I needed," she said, glancing up to acknowledge the spreadsheet in front of us. "The company has done well, compounding growth annually and demonstrating strong potential for future performance. I've gone through a competitive analysis and looked at market forecasts, and I can say with certainty that if you'd like to sell, there are several buyers who would be interested."

  "Great," I said, the idea of actually selling Mr. Match moving from concept to reality in my mind. A twinge of sadness echoed through me, but I pushed it away. I'd been considering this for a while.