"Charlie!" I said in my sternest voice, the one I used at work.
He actually paused and looked back at me, as if to say, "what's up your butt?" Then he seemed to decide I was serious, and he stopped. I stepped, panting, up to his side as the dog trainer jogged across the field to join us.
"That was good," she said. "The voice you used at the end there, that's your command voice. You'll need that with him. A dog this big with no training isn't used to being guided, but he'll take to it when he understands you're in charge. You just have to be consistent."
"Okay," I said, hoping she was right. Charlie and I were new companions. He was a Newfoundland, a breed I had no experience with at all, and a much bigger dog than I would have ever chosen for myself. He shed about two cats-worth of fur every day and slobbered constantly. That said, he was affectionate and sweet, and I was growing accustomed to having him around, even if he made my small house feel like a shoebox.
My parents had bought him as a puppy, but then Dad had gotten sick and their focus had shifted from training their soon-to-be enormous dog to taking care of Dad. Now that he was gone, Mom couldn't handle Charlie, and I had a soft heart and couldn't bear to see the huge beautiful dog taken to the pound.
I talked to the trainer a while, Charlie showing surprising restraint and sitting calmly at my side, pushing his big head against my hip until I dropped a hand to pet his ears while I chatted. I hadn't planned to have a dog—ever, really. But Charlie's soulful eyes and sweet disposition filled a space in me that was sensitive and sore since Dad had died, and knowing Dad had loved this guy helped me put up with some of the dog's less wonderful qualities. Like eating my shoes. And howling along with sirens.
"Thanks Amy," I called to the trainer when we were done, and Charlie and I headed back to my car, where he leapt cheerfully into the back seat and then promptly settled himself between the front seats, his big head right next to mine. "You know that makes it very hard for me to see through the rear-view mirror," I told him.
He tilted his head, looking at me with those emotional eyes, and then licked the side of my face before turning back to face the front as if to say, "Okay. I'm ready. Let's go."
I did my best to back out without smashing into anything, using the back-up camera and peering around Charlie's big head, and we headed home, back to my little two-bedroom house in Palo Alto.
Charlie happily headed back into the yard to check out his territory when we arrived home, and I went inside, still feeling a little like I was carrying a weight inside me—the absence of my dad from the world was heavier than I'd expected it to be. Grief was like a package you picked up when someone close to you died, one with no delivery destination, one you carried endlessly with quiet acceptance. I wondered if it would ever be lighter.
Mom was waiting inside, as she often was since Dad had gone. This was the danger of living a block from the house where I grew up. When I'd bought the place with my then-husband, though, it had seemed perfect. We'd raise our kids in my childhood neighborhood, with grandparents right down the street.
"How's the moron dog?" she asked, scrunching up her face and peering out the kitchen windows toward the backyard where Charlie was trotting around.
"He's a good dog, Mom."
She sighed. Mom had transferred some of her anger at Dad's sickness and death to the dog. She seemed to blame him for a lot of things dogs weren't really capable of. When Dad had coughing fits toward the end, she'd get frantic and exasperated, looking around for something to help, and if Charlie was inside, she'd order someone to take him out. Dad wasn't allergic, and if anything, I thought Charlie helped him at the end. But to Mom, he was a huge reminder of what she'd lost so recently.
"What's happening this week for you?" She asked, getting up to make coffee in the fancy cappuccino machine sitting on my peeling Formica counter. My house was a work in contrasts—I had a lot of new things, but the house itself was rooted firmly in the past. It had been a wonder Austin and I could afford a single-family home in Palo Alto at all. It had been bought as a project, one we were going to work on over the years. Bringing the place out of the seventies would now be up to me alone, and I wasn't sure I'd have the time or ambition to get it done. Charlie didn't look like he'd be much help with power tools and a hammer.
"Mostly work," I told her. This was not unusual. I worked. A lot. I often worked weekends and traveled when necessary for my job as a venture capital analyst. I had to go where the companies were and spend as much time as was necessary to figure out if they were worth an investment. "This week I'm heading to San Diego."
"That doesn't sound too bad," she said. I could tell Mom was trying to sound upbeat about my travel plans, but I knew she was thinking about being left here alone while I was gone.
"Should be good," I agreed, moving over to the machine to help her with the milk frother. "Like this." I moved the metal cup up and down as the steam shrieked out of the copper pipe.
"I'll never get the hang of this. Can't you just get a Mr. Coffee like everyone else? I can just pour milk in."
I frowned at her. "I'm weird about my coffee. You know this. I like it how I like it. You don’t have to make coffee at my house, Mom." The coffee machine had been a post-divorce buy, one I'd been gleeful about making since my ex had told me the idea was ridiculous.
"I like your coffee better, it just seems like a lot of work." Mom accepted the mug I handed her and went to sit at the little bistro table I'd managed to fit in the corner, making this officially an eat-in kitchen.
"Sometimes the things that are really worthwhile don't come easy," I reminded her. Mom had been telling me that since I was a kid. "Want to come to San Diego?" I asked. "I could rent a house instead of a hotel room and we could take Charlie. Make a week of it?" I joined her at the table with my own mug.
She crossed her arms, and leaned back in her chair. Mom's dark hair was streaked with grey and the lines on her face seemed to have deepened in the months since Dad had been gone. I was worried about her, though I knew grief wasn't something you just swallowed down and got over. "I don't know," she said, but she did seem to be thinking about it. "I don't want to be left with Charlie all day while you work. And I'd be alone there, just like I'm alone here."
I sighed, leaning forward on my elbows. "If you want to look at it that way, I guess. Or you could think of it like this: you'd get a chance for a change of scenery in a gorgeous city where it's warm, and we could try some new restaurants and do some sightseeing when I'm not working."
"You're always working."
I acknowledged this with a little nod. It was hard to argue when she was right. I'd tried to take more time off to be here for Mom, but I was torn. For one thing, I liked my job and I was good at it, and on my way up the male-dominated ladder. And another thing was that Mom had not been easy to be around lately, and my own grief compounded with hers and made me feel like I was sinking sometimes. Work kept me busy and distracted. "Well, I'd love to have you."
She gazed out the window and then turned back to me. "Why don't you take the week, get as much time off as you can while you're down there, and I'll take care of Charlie?"
"You don't like Charlie. I was going to see if I could find a kennel."
"Don't be silly. I don't like him like you do, but I can still feed him and take him out. And it might be nice to have company. Even him." She sighed, looking tired as she glanced out at the big brown dog playfully mouthing a soccer ball in the yard that my dad and I had kicked around when I was a girl.
It was nice of her to offer, but I got a bit of a martyr vibe from Mom, and sensed that we were about to have the conversation I most disliked. One we'd had often, especially since Dad had died and Mom had started thinking about family in a different way.
"You know, Tate..."
Here it came.
"Your job isn't exactly family friendly."
"Which is why it's so convenient that I don't have a family."
Mom wasn't a big fan of sarcasm, and
she gave me a stern look, her eyebrows lowered slightly as she frowned. "I know. I just ... isn't it hard being alone?"
"Mom," I said slowly, pulling patience from a very nearly empty well inside me. "My marriage wasn't like yours." My marriage had been impulsive and wrong, and that had been made painfully clear to me.
"I remember." Mom had liked my ex-husband, Austin. I'd liked Austin too. Hell, I'd married the guy. He just seemed confused about the basic requirements of marriage. "But that was one man. You have to try again," she said.
"Ever considered that maybe there isn't anyone out there who fits me?" I said.
She rolled her eyes. "There is someone for everyone, Tatum. You just have to look. And your job keeps you running all over the country all the time. It's a wonder you manage to stay sane and in decent shape. You'll never be in one place long enough to settle down properly."
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 3
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.
Scoring the Boss: Mr. Match Book 4 Page 2