by Alisha Rai
She slid her hand in his. “Mr. Lima. A pleasure.”
Her fingers were slender and long, the nails short and buffed. When she’d coasted them over his body, he’d thought they were a workingwoman’s fingers, her palms calloused.
A tingle ran down his spine as they shook hands, brusque, personality-less, two strangers meeting each other for the first time. Today she was back to her jeans and black sweatshirt, though it was zipped up, so he couldn’t tell if she had a vintage band tee on under it.
Her hair was loose again. Under the indoor lights, all the shades of black and brown that made up the curls were more muted.
“Call me Samson,” he murmured.
She didn’t tell him to call her Rhiannon, he noticed, but he could say it in his head. Replace the name he’d thought belonged to her.
She dipped her head and slipped her hand out from his.
He flexed the fingers she’d touched. He wanted to touch her again, but of course, he couldn’t do that. It was apparent she didn’t want anyone to know they’d met. Neither did he, really. His persona at Matchmaker didn’t mesh with short hookups.
“You weren’t at the party last night, were you, Rhiannon? Matchmaker’s doing an adorable campaign,” Helena prattled as she and Rhiannon got mics. “Basically chances to date Samson.”
“Sounds like you’re a prize bull.” Rhiannon pushed her hair aside so the tech could access her collar.
“Hardly a prize.”
Her eye twitched.
“I’m thrilled to meet you,” he said gently, hoping she’d get the hint. He wasn’t about to reveal their past in a professional setting.
She dipped her head. Was that a flash of relief? “Very nice to meet you as well.”
Helena gestured to the stage. “Shall we take our seats? There’s a curtain, so we can chill up there while the crowd is still settling in.”
That crowd sounded enormous to Samson’s ears as they walked onto the stage, directed by staffers. Crowds didn’t intimidate him, but then again, he’d never tried to do an interview for his aunt’s struggling international business while sitting across from a woman he’d slept with and then flaked on in front of such a crowd.
He’d spent the whole night thinking about her, what he’d say if he ran into her again, how he’d apologize or grovel or say nothing. The scenarios he’d run through in his brain hadn’t come close to this.
They settled into the white club chairs, Helena’s seat in between theirs. When Helena was pulled away for a makeup fix, Samson saw his chance. “Rhiannon.”
She ignored his whisper, examining her unpainted nails.
“Rhiannon.”
Nothing. He braced his palms on the arms of the chair and leaned forward, slightly annoyed at this childish game. “Claire.”
Her eyes snapped to his. Ah, yeah. There was an emotion, but probably not a good one. “Don’t.” The single word was delivered between gritted teeth. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you.”
A surreptitious glance told him Helena was still occupied. “That’s fine. I won’t say anything about us.”
“Good, because there’s no us.”
Before he could answer, Helena dropped into the chair between them. “Now, I understand you two are competitors, so feel free to engage in some friendly banter, but I won’t have any blood drawn here. Keep it clean.”
“No blood.” Rhiannon cracked open a water bottle from the side table. “Got it.”
“No blood,” he echoed.
“One minute,” a stagehand hissed. An announcer’s voice boomed out, quieting the crowd.
“Samson, I know you were briefed on the questions, but I also know this isn’t your usual scene.” Helena’s smile was sympathetic. “If you get confused or overwhelmed, don’t worry too much. I’m sure Rhiannon will be happy to jump in, and I’ll moderate. Right, Rhiannon?”
Rhiannon capped the water bottle. If he was gauging her level of fury correctly, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t toss the contents of it on him if he were on fire, but her mild expression didn’t give that away. “Yeah, sure.”
“I’ll be fine.” He didn’t take offense to Helena’s doubt. People were inclined to believe football players were stupid, and he hadn’t been in the public eye for a long time. For all she knew, he wouldn’t be able to handle himself.
Public appearances had never bothered him, though. One of his first memories was sitting on his father’s shoulders after a Super Bowl win, the deafening roar of the crowd piercing through the giant headphones his parents had slapped over his ears. Being a famous man’s son had taught him how to play to the public; being a pro athlete had taught him that his face and body were a tool. He hadn’t minded doing endorsements. Until he’d retired, and they’d vanished.
“Here we go.” Helena straightened up.
The curtain split open, and Samson was abruptly glad he had been able to step in for Annabelle. This big of a crowd, plus a recording? He didn’t know if his aunt could have done this, if introducing him at the party had freaked her out. Even he felt a few nerves flutter alive.
Helena waved as the applause died down. “Gosh, thank you, Jason, for introducing me, and thank you all for coming! I’m so excited to be here at CREATE, and especially at this interview. I have so much respect for both of my guests today.” She cocked her head. “Now, this panel is called Slow Dating vs. Swiping, and I think that’s a bit of a mistitle, because I think real ‘slow dating’ would be, like, meeting someone at a café or a party and then seeing them once a week for four months and then deciding you want to be exclusive, and who the heck does that anymore, huh?” She placed her hand by her mouth and leaned forward, like she was imparting a secret. “If there’s anyone here who’s got a relationship that started like that in the last couple years, you’re a freaking unicorn, FYI.”
The smatter of laughter eased him. Helena was a good moderator, and this seemed like it would be a fairly softball interview. All he had to do was not focus on Rhiannon.
He might have been hit, he might be disoriented, but he could still play.
“But for our purposes, we’ll use ‘slow dating’ to refer to a nonswipey dating app. And to that end, over here we have Matchmaker. Matchmaker was one of the first entries to online dating, almost a quarter century ago. While a number of those first sites have been lost to history, Matchmaker has remained strong, with almost eight million paid subscribers, and committed to its one-hundred-point matching system. Now, I know some of you were expecting to see Annabelle Kostas, cofounder of the site, but unfortunately, she had to bow out at the last minute. We have a very attractive stand-in, though. If you’re a football fan like I am, some of you may know Samson Lima from his days as a Super Bowl–winning linebacker for the Portland Brewers or, before that, his college ball days at Notre Dame. He’s taken a bit of a break from the spotlight, but now he’s back. Hopefully, you all have heard about his gig over at Matchmaker, and how you, too, can score a date with this handsome bachelor. If you’re just finding out right now, I’ll ask you to hold signing up for the site until after the interview, please.”
He smiled and waved as the crowd chuckled and clapped.
“And, over here, we have Rhiannon Hunter.”
Samson raised an eyebrow as the audience erupted into cheers. There was no doubt who everyone was here to see.
Rhiannon took another drink of water while Helena indulgently waited for the noise to die down. “Rhiannon is the creator of Crush. Built on that familiar swiping platform, it’s often called the more empowered response to app dating, where users have more control in curating who they see and how they communicate with their matches. The customizability of the app seems to appeal to a lot of people. Crush currently has about twenty-six million subscribers.”
Rhiannon crossed her legs. Her sneakers were a matte gold, a pop of color in her otherwise somber outfit. “It’s closer to thirty million.”
Helena chuckled. “Okay, thirty million.”
; Thirty million was a lot more than Matchmaker’s eight million. Samson worried anew for Annabelle. Matchmaker had an app, but only due to Jennifer’s insistence. Annabelle had fought her every step in migrating their platform or altering their time-consuming sign-up process.
Matchmaker was behind, and Jennifer had leaned into being the “old-fashioned” option, but Samson really hoped their lag didn’t eventually tank the company. His aunt had had a rough year, what with losing Jennifer and Joe, and she didn’t need any more loss.
Helena waited for the applause to die down, and then turned to Samson. “I think we can all agree that the internet has made dating so different now. Samson, why don’t you explain what makes Matchmaker the place to be?”
Samson launched into his memorized talking points. “For anyone who’s taken Matchmaker’s questionnaire, you know how in-depth it gets, how long it takes. Now, some people may say that that’s a negative, that time-intensive process, but I think anything that forces us to slow down and think about ourselves and what we’re looking for is a good thing. Life is too fast paced. Your relationships shouldn’t be.”
Helena tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you think apps are too fast paced for anyone to make a solid connection?”
“I wouldn’t say that. Clearly people do make connections.” He tried to tread carefully. He didn’t want to attack Crush. This was a friendly panel, and the crowd was already here for Rhiannon.
Also, Rhiannon might murder him. “When you’re on a phone and you’re swiping, you’re spending a second? A fraction of a second? On each person. That’s not enough time to get to know them. That’s more of a game than anything.”
“Have you ever used a dating app, Samson?” Rhiannon interjected.
That felt like a trap. He answered honestly. “Only once, for a short period of time. I deleted it almost immediately.”
“Is that how long you spent on each person?”
“No, but I think I’m an outlier.” He’d scrutinized Rhiannon’s—Claire’s—single photo for a while and read her short profile ten times before swiping right. He had it memorized.
Looking for Mr. Right Now, not Mr. Right. Swipe right if you’re down for a night of fun and you’re not going to be a dick about protection or pleasure.
If he hadn’t been staring at her, he would have missed the twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Well, even if some people view it as a game, and you can’t deny that there are those who see any kind of dating as a game, this”—she made a swiping motion—“disrupted how we connect online. Fifty years ago, your potential mate was in a bar or a grocery store. Twenty years ago, your potential mate was on their computer. Today, this is where your potential mate is, on their phone, on their app, swiping for you. Maybe there are slower-paced ways to evaluate someone, but this is where you’ll get the largest pool to choose from.”
All that made sense, but he couldn’t let her paint Matchmaker as a relic from decades ago. “It should be about quality, not quantity.”
Rhiannon’s teeth flashed, and she snapped the trap, looking out at the darkened audience. “How many quality people here are on or have been on Crush?”
The audience cheered. Mentally, Samson cracked his knuckles. Oh, she was wily. No blood, but she’d handily cemented the crowd’s affection.
He would too.
Helena stepped in, perhaps sensing a need for moderation. “Crush does have a small quiz before you sign up. That’s different from other apps.”
“Yes. It’s not a hundred points.” The twist of Rhiannon’s mouth made it clear what she thought about Matchmaker’s system. “We ask simple questions, and most are optional: Do you have kids, want kids? Are you a smoker? How much do you drink? What’s your political party? And then we have one required question: Are you looking for a platonic relationship, a romantic one, or a hookup?”
“Interesting that that’s your required question.”
“Our mission at Crush is to disrupt how you swipe. We’re built on the principles of accountability, kindness, choice, and empowerment. We’ve found that this question encourages users to be honest about their intentions, and it helps curate who we match you with based on what answer you provide.”
Samson thought back to when he’d signed up for Crush. He’d selected hookup and felt vaguely guilty doing it.
“You don’t have to feel bad about what you pick.” There was Rhiannon, reading his mind. “You can be honest.”
“For heterosexual relationships, you also permit women to choose whether they prefer to initiate contact or not.” Helena cupped her chin. “Why not default let the woman start the conversation? Isn’t that the more empowered move?”
“There’s no real one size fits all for empowerment. I will say, our data shows that women who choose to make initial contact do seem to receive less unsolicited dick pics, but that may be anecdotal.” She grinned when the audience laughed. “We immediately block anyone who does that, of course. Zero tolerance on unrequested dick pics.”
Helena turned to him. “Samson, what do you have to say to that?”
He opened his eyes wide. “I’ve . . . never sent a photo like that and don’t understand why anyone would send one without explicit permission.”
The audience laughed louder, and so did Helena. Rhiannon took another drink of water.
“Seriously, though, Matchmaker’s app encourages accountability as well. In fact, if you came to our open house earlier today, you probably saw the launch of our new FaceMatch system. It basically requires users to take a selfie to confirm that they are who they say they are.” That feature had been a real hit at the open house, and it caused a ripple through the audience now.
Rhiannon raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Have you tried it? Because facial recognition is notoriously poor, especially when it comes to differentiating between the faces of people of color.”
“There’s no software. We have a team that personally reviews the photos and confirms the match. Matchmaker might be a huge company, but the Kostas sisters wanted everyone to feel like they’re receiving the personal touch.”
Helena consulted her notes. “Is it true that your parents met via Matchmaker?”
He blinked, but recovered quickly. Annabelle must have given that info to Helena’s team. It wasn’t a commonly known story, because the general public didn’t know much about Annabelle, including that she’d been Big Joe’s partner for close to forty years. That was a feat, given how cameras had followed Uncle Joe around at the height of his career. “Kind of, yes. They’re both gone now, unfortunately.”
“Right.” Helena grimaced, and it appeared genuine. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about—”
“No, it’s fine. It was a long time ago.” If Annabelle had been willing to talk about this, he could too. “For those who don’t know, my father was Aleki Lima.” The rumble of excitement in the crowd gave him a minute to take a sip of water, swallow past the jumbled mix of pity and love and guilt that came with the thought of his father. “My mother’s name was Lulu. She was born in Samoa and moved to San Francisco when she was in her early twenties. Lulu was looking for love. She came to Matchmaker’s office to find it and took the original version of the questionnaire. Hard copy.” He softened, thinking of his sweet, loving mother. “Annabelle and Jennifer set her up with bachelor after bachelor, and they all struck out.”
“One of them was Aleki?”
“Oh, God, no. The Kostas sisters knew my dad pretty well, and they were sure that the only thing he might have in common with my mom was that his family was Samoan too. He had a reputation at the time. But according to the story I was told, my dad saw my mom leaving the Matchmaker offices one day. He fell in love at first sight. Family friend or not, Annabelle refused to introduce them until he took the test too. Once he did and she vetted him . . .” He shrugged. “They were married in six months, had me nine months after that.”
Helena clapped her hands. “What a beautiful story. So this is a bit more per
sonal for you than a standard spokesman gig, huh?”
“Oh yes. When I say Matchmaker works, I really mean it works.” He hadn’t told anyone outside his tight inner circle that story in a while, and he’d forgotten how sweet it was. No matter what had happened to his dad after, his parents had started their lives together in love. He took another sip of water and looked at Rhiannon. She didn’t look as impressed with his origin story. “I’m guessing your parents didn’t meet on Crush.”
“Nah, they met at a grocery store,” Rhiannon replied. “I’m sure we have users whose parents met on Matchmaker. Not as old as you, though.”
Helena held up her hand to halt Rhiannon, chuckling. “Easy there, tiger. Why don’t we talk about what features you both have in the works?”
They ran through some lighter, easier questions, designed to make the audience laugh. Forty-five minutes flew by quickly. Then Helena paused. “Before we get to questions from the audience, I want to just ask about one thing: the terminology. I’ve been married for five years, and I feel like the language of love has changed, hasn’t it? There are so many new words, I can’t keep up with them.”
Samson was nodding before she finished speaking. For the last two years especially, he’d been so wrapped up in taking care of Uncle Joe, he hadn’t been online much.
“Language changes when progress happens. I think the way we talk about behavior makes total sense. For example, benching someone is stringing them along in case your first pick doesn’t work out. DTF is down to . . . mess around.” Rhiannon’s teeth flashed. “But really, maybe the most descriptive word we could possibly use is ghosting.”
Chapter Five
AN AUDIBLE hiss ran through the crowd and Rhiannon smiled, despite the cold anger balled up in the pit of her stomach. If she didn’t look too closely at Samson, she could forget that anger and the hurt.
Not hurt. Never again.
He didn’t have the power to hurt her. She owned the world. She’d gotten through this interview, hadn’t she? All by pretending Samson was someone other than the man who had stood her up. Who had ghosted her.
