by Alisha Rai
There were a couple times when she had been sucked in by his charm. Like when he’d gotten that knowing gleam in his eye when she’d made subtle references to how old Matchmaker was, or every time he’d articulately fielded Helena’s questions, or when his face had gone all soft and sentimental, talking about his late parents.
Claire. Her fake name that she used on the app, murmured in that fucking voice.
So she’d remind herself of why, exactly, he was a bastard. If it jolted him and made him show remorse or chagrin, all the better.
“Ugh.” Helena leaned into the audience reaction. “Ghosting is the worst.”
“It’s a terrible feeling. When you ghost someone, you’re saying, I don’t care enough about you as a human being to even tell you I don’t want to see you again. How humiliating is that?” She tried to keep her smile intact, but she feared it was turning a little feral.
“No joke.” Helena glanced offstage. “Okay, I am being signaled that we’re running low on time, so let’s take a couple questions from the audience.”
Most of the questions were for Rhiannon, a tiny win that made her want to childishly stick her tongue out at the hunk of man sitting across from her. Some of the questions were silly and goofy, and Rhiannon answered them as such. There was a harmless one about the journey she’d taken to get to where she was, which Rhiannon significantly toned down, nothing that wasn’t in her Wikipedia article: Harvard dropout, founder of a now-defunct social media startup she’d sold for a hefty sum at the age of twenty-six, an executive at a competitor app, and finally, starting Crush with a silent investor. She didn’t name Katrina, who used a number of shell companies to keep herself out of the spotlight.
Those in the tech industry knew Rhiannon had departed Swype under a dark cloud, but even right after she’d left, the questions she’d fielded in public had been veiled and gossipy. No one had been bold enough to come right out and ask her directly, Rhiannon, how do you feel about the fact that your former employer started a whisper campaign about how you were a gold digger and a whore?
Not great, Chuck.
“Ah, interesting,” Helena said as the next question came on the screen, but her lip curl told Rhiannon the woman found the question to be the opposite of interesting. Once Rhiannon read it, she liked Helena more. “The question is, ‘Rumor has it Crush’s staff is 80 percent female. Isn’t it discriminatory to hire only women?’”
Rhiannon scanned the room, though the stage lights made it impossible for her to track down who in the audience had asked such an asinine question.
She said nothing for a beat. When she’d been embroiled in a messy employment relationship with Swype, the man in charge wearing her down, she’d dreamed of this power. The power to be silent while a man—though it could be a woman, patriarchy had no gender—waited for her answer, to force them to conform to her timetable.
It was petty and silly, but again . . . one could indulge in such things when one was in charge.
Finally, she spoke, directing her answer to the audience, not Helena.
“It’s not a rumor, though the number’s a little off.” She didn’t have to look offstage to know Lakshmi was probably plotting to strangle whoever had green-lit that question. “I am proud of how representative Crush is. An inclusive staff means an inclusive app, one that can be safe and welcoming and serve as many people as possible. Currently, approximately 72 percent of our workforce are women, both cis- and transgender, 18 percent are men, both cis- and transgender, and 10 percent are non-binary individuals. Let’s look at the other companies of Crush’s size. What’s the makeup of their staff?” She didn’t look at Samson, because she wasn’t talking about Matchmaker. Matchmaker wasn’t the enemy, and since she wanted to buy it, she wasn’t about to rip it apart.
But she hoped everyone was thinking about Swype real hard. Her pettiness knew no bounds there.
Helena shifted. “I would imagine it’s a majority of cis men,” she murmured.
“I would say that too. So why do I constantly get asked this question? Why isn’t every single one of these male CEOs asked why they’re discriminating against anyone who’s not a straight white cis man?”
A murmur of agreement went through the crowd. Someone started clapping.
Rhiannon placed her hands on the arms of her chair and leaned forward. “I see talent. Maybe you need to wonder why other companies aren’t seeing the skills that I see in the people I hire. What’s holding them back from being the best that they can be?” She was getting too passionate, too loud, so she leaned back and pasted a smile on her face. “I hope that answers your question.”
Samson cleared his throat and raised his hand. Helena regarded him with amusement. “You can jump in, Samson. No need to raise your hand.”
He shrugged. “I just want to say Rhiannon answered that really stupid question with grace and more eloquence than I ever would.”
Rhiannon nearly smiled with the audience, but controlled it. Damn it.
But it was a nice thing for the bastard to say, especially when she couldn’t come out and call that question stupid. Not without looking too angry or emotional.
“Okay, one more question.” Helena tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Oh, this is more of a personal question. I love it, I’ve always wanted to be an advice columnist. Are there any circumstances under which you’d give someone who ghosted you a second chance?”
“No,” Rhiannon said flatly.
“Yes,” Samson said, almost at the same time.
“Oooh, polar opposites.”
No fucking surprise there.
Helena nearly rubbed her hands together. “Explain, Rhiannon first.”
What a no-brainer. “My stance is, if a man ghosts you, he’s literally ghosted you. Like, he’s probably dead.” The audience and Helena chuckled, but Samson only leaned back in his seat. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t wish them dead. I assume they died. I’m kind enough to give them noble deaths, too, in my head.” She rolled her wrist. “Saving a puffin from a fire, et cetera.”
“Is there a word for people who come back into your life after a ghost?” Helena mused.
If there was one thing Rhi did know, it was the lingo. “The behavior is called submarining, but I prefer calling them zombies,” she said dryly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not looking to let any kind of zombie back into my life.”
“What about you, Samson? You said you would give someone a second chance.”
Samson shifted. “I think, generally, you’re right, Rhiannon. Too often people treat others as disposable. It’s not right. But I think there are cases where you should, at the very least, hear someone out. What if someone doesn’t intend to ghost the other person?” Samson asked, so quietly Rhiannon had to lean forward to hear him.
This time she did sneer. “Intend? Your intent is irrelevant, you either do it or you don’t. If you—I mean, someone—makes a conscious decision to not call or stands you up, they’ve ghosted.”
“What if the ghoster has a family emergency? Don’t extenuating circumstances matter?”
Was he saying he’d had a family emergency that night? A flare of hope fluttered under her hurt and anger, but then she realized what it was and swiftly squelched it down.
Hope was the enemy of productivity, in her case, at least. “A family emergency of a sufficient degree may warrant a talk,” she said, proud that there wasn’t a single shake in her voice. “But trust in relationships is like fragile glass. How can you build on a cracked foundation? How can you be sure you’re getting the truth? You have to protect your own heart. No one else will do it for you.”
Samson’s short lashes lowered, hiding his eyes. Helena jumped in, probably sensing their light interview was getting a little too deep. They wrapped up the Q&A and Rhi waited for the curtain to come down before she wrestled with her mic, yanking it off with more force than was necessary. The adrenaline that had fueled her through the interview was going to seep out of her
soon, and she needed to get away before it did.
Shouldn’t have brought up ghosting.
“That was fantastic,” Helena enthused, as an assistant removed her mic and handed her a fresh bottle of water. “I’d love for both of you to be guests at some point on my show. Together, separately, anything.”
God no, not together.
“Matchmaker would be all for that,” Samson rumbled. She wondered if he was as drained as she was.
Don’t wonder anything about him.
“That would be amazing.” Rhiannon stood, Samson and Helena following her lead. “Why don’t you have your people contact mine?”
“Will do.” She and Helena exchanged air kisses and then it was time for Rhiannon to say goodbye to Samson. She held her hand out.
He took it, and that stupid little electrical shock ran up her arm. Why was it still there? It should be eradicated, that zing when he touched her. She snatched her hand back, and then felt mildly foolish.
Samson took a step toward her, but before he could open his mouth, Helena put her hand on his arm. “Samson, this is super unprofessional, but would you mind if I video called my dad? He’s such a fan.”
“That would be great.” His words and smile looked forced to Rhiannon.
Why do you care?
That was right, she didn’t. They were distracted, she was outta here.
She met Lakshmi offstage. The crew bustled around them to turn over the stage for the next event. “You killed it,” Lakshmi enthused. “You three had such good chemistry.”
They had had good chemistry, in spite of—or because of—the undercurrents of anger between her and Samson. Or at least, from her to Samson. She wasn’t sure what he felt for her, because the man’s public mask was as good as hers.
Whatever. She didn’t care what he felt for her.
“Did Helena say anything about her show?”
“Yes.” A belated thrill of excitement pierced Rhiannon’s exhaustion as she relayed Helena’s invitation. World domination was so close. “We’ll get it set up.” She glanced over her shoulder at the stage.
Samson was waving dutifully at Helena’s phone while the other woman chattered away. As if he felt her gaze on him, he looked up and their eyes met. For the first time since the curtain went up, she saw his mask drop.
There was sorrow and guilt and apology there, and Rhiannon felt that stupid hope churning inside her.
A family emergency. Such vague words. They could mean anything from someone dying to a mild cold. And in the end, it didn’t matter, because as she’d told the world . . . how could you believe someone who had already let you down once?
So she cut eye contact with the jerk and smiled at Lakshmi. “I gotta run.”
“No problem. Go rest at the hotel.” Lakshmi consulted her phone. “You don’t have anything on the docket until tomorrow morning anyway.”
And as much as Rhiannon hated running, that was exactly what she did. Because she knew she’d hate herself for running now much less than she’d hate herself for hoping later.
Chapter Six
CLASSICAL MUSIC swirled through the air, spilling out of the empty living room. Rhiannon peeked inside, then said, “Sienna, turn off the music.” A small black device on the huge heavy desk turned red and the music cut off.
Katrina had a pretty set schedule, and usually that schedule included forgetting to turn the music off when she was done reading her newspaper to go make breakfast every morning.
Rhiannon sniffed the air. Whatever Katrina was cooking, it smelled good. She followed her nose, walking to the large, open-concept kitchen, the sun glinting off stainless steel appliances.
The sprawling Santa Barbara mansion belonged to her silent investor and best friend, Katrina King. As ambitious as Rhiannon was, she didn’t require fancy houses to keep her happy. Big spaces meant more things to dust. As the kid of a housekeeper, she felt weird overseeing her own cleaning staff. Even if she had made sure her mother had a well-paid weekly maid service.
Dark lofts in transitioning neighborhoods had always been more Rhiannon’s style than something like this light and airy, mostly-constructed-of-windows hilltop home. In fact, she maintained her condo in L.A., close to Crush’s offices, and crashed there for most of the week.
But weekends she spent here and had since about a year ago, when Katrina had far too casually asked if she’d be interested in living with her. Katrina rarely asked for anything, and Rhiannon had seen the sense in the setup. Rhiannon didn’t have to worry as much about Katrina, and Katrina had some company in the house she didn’t leave often.
Katrina was in front of the stove, bopping away to whatever music was coming through her giant noise-canceling headphones. She wore a camisole and short-shorts, the cotton barely containing her voluptuous body. Katrina had once confided that she loved wearing scanty clothing at home because every dimple and stretch mark and roll reminded her that she no longer had to please cameras and photographers and her agency . . . and her father.
Since she knew how much Katrina hated being surprised, Rhiannon clomped loudly into the kitchen and waved until Katrina caught sight of her in her peripheral vision. The younger woman jumped, then beamed and removed her headphones. “You’re home early! I thought you were flying in tonight.”
Rhiannon yawned and adjusted her silk scarf. She’d barely been alert enough last night to trade out her clothes and wrap her hair before she fell into bed. “I got in last night.”
“I would have sent Gerald to get you from the airport had I known.”
Katrina didn’t offer to come get her herself, which neither surprised nor insulted Rhiannon. Katrina only left the sprawling mansion under very structured circumstances. “I took a car. Don’t worry about it. What are you making? Do you have enough in there to share?”
“You know I always make enough for five. Go on and set the table.” Katrina fussed at the stove while Rhiannon quickly set the small breakfast table with plates and spoons and forks and two glasses of fresh orange juice.
Katrina spooned creamy scrambled eggs and sliced avocados onto their plates. “Thanks.” Rhiannon’s stomach grumbled and she dug in as soon as Katrina sat down.
They ate quietly for a few minutes. Katrina could tell when Rhiannon was too hangry to be a good conversationalist.
Finally, Katrina broke the silence. “Why’d you come home before the conference ended?”
Because I was going crazy looking over my shoulder for Samson. One day of being skittish after the interview was enough.
Next time she tried to blow off some steam with a hookup—jeez, if she ever tried it again—she was going to find some nice boring accountant or truck driver. Someone clearly and explicitly far away from her industry. “Finished. I wasn’t needed at the conference anymore.”
Katrina pursed her lips, which called attention to the faint scar that ran down her cheek. Half Thai American and half white, Katrina had a unique and beautiful face, scars or not. “I thought you were going to stay for the weekend and sightsee. I haven’t been to Austin in ages, but I remember how much fun it was.”
“I don’t need to sightsee, and we can order perfectly fine barbecue from that place downtown.”
Katrina pointed her fork at her. “You haven’t been on vacation since I’ve known you, Rhi. That’s almost eleven years of nothing but work.”
Rhiannon took a sip of her juice. Had it been eleven years already? She supposed so. She and Katrina had met at a party when Katrina was barely twenty-two and Rhiannon was twenty-six, fresh off the success of selling her first start-up. Rhiannon didn’t make friends easily, but something about the other woman’s vulnerability had yanked her right in.
“And before you say you took time off after you left Swype, know that year doesn’t count.”
“I went to New York twice this past year.”
“Weddings also don’t count as vacations. I want you to get away from your job and your phone and Wi-Fi and relax.”
�
�No Wi-Fi? Um, that sounds like my personal hell.” Rhiannon placed avocado on a slice of toast and took a bite, the crunchy buttery fat and carb combination making her hum.
Katrina dabbed the corners of her mouth. “Sonya agrees that you need a vacation. We talked yesterday.”
Rhiannon groaned. That was what she got for not taking the time to spell out I love you. Her mother calling her friends.
“She said to tell her if you groaned when I told you she called.” Katrina’s eyes sparkled. “I love your mom.”
“I know.” Everyone loved Sonya.
“We had a lovely chat. Give her a ring when you can. She’s annoyed you only text her lately, never call.”
Rhiannon stabbed an avocado slice. “If I call, she’s going to want to talk my ear off about the engagement party.” Her little brother, Gabe, had announced his engagement, which meant Sonya was already preoccupied with a million wedding details, even though the couple had been engaged for a minute. Rhiannon had hoped she’d just be signing checks, but Sonya was determined to get her opinion on all sorts of things that Rhiannon had zero interest in. Like tablecloths. Why were there even options as to what you could put on your tables?
“You don’t know that.”
“Did she talk your ear off about the party and the wedding?”
Katrina looked away. “No comment.”
Rhiannon snorted and continued to eat. “I’ll call her. Later.”
Rhiannon’s father had died when she was young. Her single mother had been a housekeeper for one of the wealthiest families in the frigid midsized western New York town Rhiannon and Gabe had grown up in, and that meant they’d gotten some advantages other kids of housekeepers didn’t, like fancy private schools.
Being able to go to those places didn’t mean they’d fit in. Gabe had skated by a little less scarred, but she’d been acutely conscious of how . . . too much she was. Too much volume, too much melanin, too much ambition. Too much visibility.
Sonya had always tried to get Rhiannon to tone it down, ignore the haters, keep her head down. The best revenge is success, she’d preached, when Rhiannon had come home upset after someone was cruel to her. You’ll show them.
