Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  Max laughed, and I had the sudden realization that now we were alone together, sitting at an intimate table in a bar. A rush of nerves suddenly moved through me. I knew how to behave in the office with Max. He was a business associate. And I knew how to behave when we were at the game—I just had to sit and watch. But this was suddenly awkward. We were out in the evening, at a bar, and for all intents and purposes, we were alone together.

  I cleared my throat, grasping for something to say. "I didn't really get that gene," I told him, glancing at Mom again.

  "Which gene?" He asked, sipping his martini.

  "The 'go chat up men in bars' gene," I said. "I met my husband at school, and I guess I never got much practice in the whole bar-pickup scene."

  Max looked surprised suddenly, the smile dropping from his face.

  "He wasn't good at bars either," I went on. "He preferred to pick up women closer to home. Our next-door neighbor, for instance." I was over this indiscretion, and it was easy for me to talk about. I also realized I’d referred to Austin as my “husband” instead of my “ex.” Did that account for Max’s strange expression? Why would he be concerned with whether or not I was married?

  Unless the addictive tension I felt wasn’t entirely one-sided. But hoping he felt a similar interest in me would only lead to trouble. I forced myself to go on talking. “Yeah, that whole monogamy thing wasn’t his strong point.”

  "Nice,” Max said.

  "Right?" I dropped my head for a second, playing with the cocktail straws in my vodka tonic as I got a grip on myself. "That was a couple years ago. I heard they broke up too."

  "So you're divorced?" Max asked.

  "Yep. Just over two years officially."

  "I'm ... sorry. Do people offer condolences for divorce?" Max tilted his head, his brown eyes sparkling.

  I laughed. "I don't think so, not when the marriage shouldn't have existed in the first place. Thanks though."

  "You weren't happily married? I mean, before the neighbor?" He asked.

  I thought about that for a moment. Austin and I were an example of what not to do in relationships. "Not happily, no. Not particularly unhappily either though. I think we got married because we'd been dating a few years, and we thought that was the logical next step."

  "That sounds romantic," Max said.

  "Doesn't it?"

  "It kind of sounds awful," he added.

  "It kind of was," I said. No point sugarcoating things. "And it was such a contrast to my parents' marriage, I knew pretty much right away it wasn't going to work."

  "That had to be hard."

  I thought about that for a minute. It had been hard. I’d felt like a failure. I told Max, "At the time, I didn't think that much about it. I had made a choice, I was going to see it through. I'm the goal-setter type. Gold star girl, all that. It was a goal, something to achieve. Happy marriage, check. But when we were with my parents, who so clearly fit together, I was forced to look at it a bit.” They had the thing—the spark. You could see it. Austin and I had a piece of paper and not much else. “It was almost a relief when he left, if you want the truth."

  Max was watching me intently, those warm eyes shining and deep. For a brief moment, I thought he was going to reach out, touch me, maybe take my hand. But instead, he leaned back in his chair, moving away slightly. The tension between us snapped and I felt almost let down.

  "My parents were like that too," He said. "You could just feel the rightness of them together. It was reassuring as a kid."

  "Exactly."

  "That was why I started working on the math," he said. "I felt like I needed to figure out how to replicate that thing, that almost physical bond."

  "Seems like you did." I caught his eyes, smiling, but didn’t see my enthusiasm for the success of his business matched there as I’d expected. I wondered for a moment at a guy like Max building something like Mr. Match. I had no doubt he’d managed to avoid identification for this long mostly because it seemed like such an odd fit—here was this confident, athletic guy. And he spent his spare time working out the details of something as esoteric and touchy-feely as love?

  Max looked sad for a moment, and I struggled with what to say. Every word and action that came to mind didn’t fit our situation. I couldn’t reach out and touch him, comfort him. He wasn’t mine to touch.

  Max Winchell was a client, and while something swirled deliciously inside me, suggesting there was a possibility of something more, I shoved it down, poured some vodka on top of it and vowed to ignore it.

  Mom came back then, sliding her chair up so it made a screeching noise on the tile floor, and I watched the fragmented pieces of the previous moment fall to the floor at our feet. "Sorry to abandon you," she was saying. "That was an old college friend. I haven't seen him in years! Not since ... well, not since I moved up north."

  This was startling. I had the distinct impression that man was an ex-boyfriend of Mom’s. "Mom, was that man someone you dated? Before Dad?"

  Mom actually blushed, a sweet pink flame climbing her cheeks, and she dropped my gaze for a second before lifting her chin. "That was the man I really thought I'd marry before I met your Dad."

  Erm. Gah. I took another long sip of my drink, needing to drown that idea in vodka too. "Wow," I said.

  "We're having lunch tomorrow," Mom added, and I felt myself blanch as my stomach contracted. I wanted to feel happy, or at least accepting. Mom looked happy. Shouldn’t I be happy for her? Dad was gone. I’d been telling her to keep living, to step forward. Here she was actually doing it, and I was so conflicted.

  Maybe I was jealous that my mother had actually managed to put together a love life in one year of being single when I’d been totally unsuccessful at it in a lifetime of singlehood. I sighed, torn.

  "Tell me about San Diego Mrs. Archer," Max asked Mom, and I was happy to have a few moments to pull myself back together. "When you lived here."

  Mom lit up and turned to Max. "Please call me Rose," she said. And then she talked, and though I gave her as much attention as I could, my eyes and mind strayed constantly back to the complicated man at my side, the way his smile played across the sculpted lips, the way his eyes held my mother’s.

  This was not good. I was a teeny bit infatuated with my client. And jealous of my mother’s dating life. All in all, I was a basket case.

  Eventually, we stood, thanked Max for the tickets and the drinks, and said goodnight.

  "I'll call you tomorrow," I told him. "I think I'll have some news for you."

  Chapter 124

  This Chair will Kill You

  MAX

  I watched Tatum and Rose go, and then headed home myself. I needed some time to think about things. If I'd been a regular guy, I would have acknowledged the clear attraction between Tatum and me. I would probably have done something about it, have asked her out, have ignored the rules of propriety and kissed her. But I knew better than to act on impulse. I'd dated before—had my heart broken once, even. And that was because I'd jumped into something with my heart as a guide—instead of using logic and math to assure myself of success.

  My phone dinged as I let myself into the house. It was Cat.

  Cat: Try one more time. This woman is perfect, I promise.

  Not this again.

  Me: No thank you.

  Cat: Too late. I told her you'd call her. She's a soccer player!

  Me: ?? Stop setting me up. Who? Pro?

  I knew all the players on the women’s' team in Oceanside. Knew of them, at least.

  Cat: Last time, okay? She's perfect.

  This was followed by a phone number and a name. Tallulah Jeffries.

  Forward for the Stars. She was a fantastic player, but I didn't know much else about her. I sighed. It seemed I was going on another date. Cat had let me set her up, so I figured maybe I owed her. She was trying to help, and though the mathematical odds weren't good that Tallulah Jeffries and I would be a fit, there was always a chance. The truth was, I was lonel
y.

  Of course, I'd probably check the Mr. Match database first just in case.

  I sighed as I got into bed that night. Anticipation swirled in me over the knowledge I'd be seeing Tatum again soon. Less excitement surrounded the idea of calling Cat's latest setup, but I forced myself to decide that it could be a good thing. Who knew me better than my sister, after all?

  I woke the next day and headed out for my date, trying not to be negative.

  But once it was underway, it was clear negativity was called for.

  It was like my sister didn't know me at all.

  Tallulah was cute, that much was true. She was compact and muscular, and could only be described as a jock. She played for the National Women's Soccer League, and we both played forward, so Cat wasn't wrong about us having a lot in common. She was pretty—petite despite her clear strength, and she had striking features, softened by the straight blond hair that fell to her chin in a bob. Big blue eyes glowed with excitement as she talked about the last game they'd played—they were in exhibition season too.

  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?"