The Dating Game

by Kiley Roache

  “Braden.” I grit my teeth. “At a certain point, people are going to grow the fuck up and realize that rating people like prize livestock is not love, and that status from strangers is the not the same as having people who care about you. And I’d rather be on a beach somewhere enjoying my one and a half mil when that happens than going down with the ship.”

  “God.” Braden turns to Sara, as if just remembering there’s a third cofounder. “You don’t agree with him, do you?”

  “I, uh... I don’t know,” she says.

  I don’t wait around to see what she decides.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Braden

  I reach out my hand to help Sara down the steps, running my gaze up and down her figure. She steps forward and her right leg is almost entirely visible through the slit in the floor-length dress. It fits her perfectly, tight everywhere it should be and elegantly draped over the rest. With her every move, the silky fabric shimmers. It looks almost like molten silver has been poured over her body.

  “I knew you’d look great.” I wink as I slide an arm around her. The designer dress was worth every penny. And trust me, there were a lot of pennies.

  “Thank you.” She blushes and tilts her head down as she tucks a stray blond curl behind her ear. “And thanks for the dress. That really wasn’t necessary.”

  “Of course it was.” I had the dress and a note telling her when to be ready delivered to her room this morning. I thought it would be romantic, plus I wanted to avoid a conversation about how nothing she owned would do for this event.

  I open the door of the waiting car and watch her while she slides in. I follow her and pull the door shut.

  “So where are we going?” she asks as the car turns around, heading away from the dorm and toward the street.

  I laugh. “Not a fan of mystery, eh?”

  She shrugs and smooths her dress over her knees. “I like plans.”

  I shake my head. I can feel a smile on my lips, despite my best effort to prevent it. “Well then, here.” I pull the invitation out of my breast pocket and hand it to her.

  “It’s a gala thrown by the Browns. For some charity, about...kids or animals or something, I don’t know. But he’s one of the first employees of Apple, and she’s—”

  “Our congressional representative. I know who they are.” She flips the invitation over, although there’s nothing on the back. “And their charity is for pediatric cancer research. It says it on here.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Right.”

  She studies the invitation. “Will they be there?” She looks at me through perfectly painted eyes.

  “Yeah, I assume so.” I undo one of the buttons on my coat and adjust the way I’m sitting.

  “Oh my gosh.” She holds the invitation to her chest. “She’s one of my favorite people.”

  “Really?” I try not to laugh. I can’t think of anyone I’d get that excited to share some overpriced chicken in a hotel ballroom with. I don’t think I’ve looked up to someone that much since I was five, and that was Batman.

  These sorts of events are kind of work for me now. Smile and shake hands with my parents’ friends, who I’m counting on to get me a job or secure an investment for me one day. It’s not that I don’t get that these people are important, it’s just that I know they’re important in a you show up and act like they’re a big deal so they give you a tax break way, and not in an actual I’m humbled to meet one of the leaders of my country way. I’ve seen enough to know that the real leaders in this country are on my side of the campaign donation.

  I adjust my tie in the reflection of the window. Outside, the darkness is interrupted only by a few ambient yellow lampposts among the palm trees.

  I hate how quiet it is here sometimes.

  “Can you put on some music?” I ask the driver. He nods and reaches for the radio dial. We listen to the repetitive bass of Top 40 hits the entire way there.

  The car pulls onto the still relatively quiet drive of the country club, toward the large stone building nestled among the dark green hills of the golf course. I watch out the window as the people in the limo a few cars in front of us step out. The next guest has driven himself to the fundraiser, albeit in a Tesla. As he leans over to shake the valet’s hand and give him the keys, I just barely catch his profile. He looks familiar, but I can’t place whether I know those features from a past Forbes’s list or some party my parents threw years ago. Maybe both.

  We step into the night, but it’s basically the same temperature as the air-conditioned car. Later the temperature will drop just enough to prove the seasons change, at least somewhat, here. But with the sun having set only an hour ago, the heat still clings to the earth.

  I hold out my arm to help Sara out of the car. I smile as we step into the light of the doorway and the white noise of other people’s conversations. The uneasiness in the pit of my stomach dissipates. It may not be as easy or seamless as I’d like to sit in a car alone with Sara, but walking in here with a girl like this on my arm—and knowing that, when my parents’ friends ask, they will be pleasantly surprised to learn she also brings a brain and, soon enough, a world-class degree to the table—makes it all worth it.

  “It’s so pretty,” Sara leans in and says to me.

  I just nod. Honestly, I’ve been so busy watching the other guests watching her I haven’t noticed much about the room. I glance around now. The ceiling of exposed wood beams coupled with the glittering candles that make up most of the light in the room give it a warm feel. Throw in the choice of lilies as centerpieces, and it’s a little bit Pinterest wedding for my taste. But these sorts of events are always a bit like that on this coast. I would prefer to be at the Plaza anytime.

  “Let’s get a drink,” I say.

  I flag down a waiter walking around with half-filled flutes of champagne and swipe two off his tray with confidence.

  “Is that okay?” Sara asks, taking hers reluctantly. “Like, half these people work for the government,” she says out of the side of her mouth.

  “Yeah, which means it’s even less likely the police are gonna come in here trying to bust people.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “That’s one way to look at it.” She tosses back half her glass in one go.

  “Braden Hart, is that you?”

  I turn at the sound of my name. Representative Brown, standing nearby in a small group, greets us with a warm politician’s smile. She touches the arm of the man she was talking to and shakes his hand, and then walks toward us. After a few steps, she looks over her shoulder to make sure her husband has also gracefully exited the previous conversation and is following her.

  “No way,” Sara whispers. “She knows who you are.”

  I turn to her and laugh. “Yeah, my family went skiing with them two Christmases ago,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Try to pick your jaw up off the floor. She’s going to want to talk to you.”

  Sara doesn’t get a chance to answer me before they are standing in front of us, Representative Brown in a classic blue pantsuit and her husband, in classic Palo Alto fashion, sporting dark jeans and no tie, although his hair is more gray than not.

  “Mr. Brown,” I say, reaching for his hand. “Congresswoman Brown, how are you?”

  “Well, you know.” She shakes her head. “You plan and plan these things and then it’s always something you didn’t anticipate that goes wrong. This time, it’s the caterer.”

  “Let’s hope no one wanted the vegetarian option,” Mr. Brown says gruffly.

  She nods, making a face.

  “At a meeting of Democrats near San Francisco? I’m sure that won’t be an issue,” I say.

  They both laugh.

  “I have the best staff around, though—they’ll sort it out. I’m not too worried,” Rep Brown says, ever the diplomat. “But I’m sorry, here I
am going on about catering and being rude...” She looks at Sara. “Why don’t you introduce us, Braden?”

  “Oh, right, this is my girlfriend.” I rest a hand on the small of her back.

  “Sara Jones,” she says, reaching out her hand.

  “Ah, that’s very sweet,” she says, shaking Sara’s hand. “I’m glad you brought her—young love is such a beautiful thing.”

  She looks back and forth between us, glowing. I just smile awkwardly and avoid looking at Sara. Love is a bit of a strong word.

  “You know, we were your age when we met.” She looks at her husband and smiles.

  Sara coughs and covers her mouth so as not to do a spit take with her champagne. “Really?”

  “Yes.” She turns back to us, nodding. “I was one of the first girls allowed into our university.”

  “And she was the smartest in our class, boy or girl,” Mr. Brown interjects.

  She pats him on the arm.

  “No, really,” he says. “You’d hear guys say all the time, ‘You know that Mary is probably one of the prettiest girls here, but no one can ever talk to her during class. She’s always sitting in the front, asking all those questions.’ But I loved that. I thought she was the most magnificent person I had ever seen.”

  “Oh.” She blushes.

  “Really.” He nods. “But I was too afraid to talk to her.”

  “That’s right.” She looks at him. “Until the election.”

  He smiles. “I was the fifth generation in my family to go there, and three of them had been class presidents.”

  “And the one was later on the board,” she says, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. As if there weren’t a handful of people in this room on the board at an Ivy.

  “So naturally, everyone thought I would run,” he said. “The only problem was, I was an engineering major who wanted to spend his off time drinking beer, not in long meetings about budgets for student clubs.”

  A smile breaks across my face. I can’t help but laugh at that; I love when old people talk about their days partying.

  “So,” he continues, “I went to Mary with a proposition. I’d be her campaign manager.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about running at that point,” she says. “But he had all these ideas from his uncles’ campaigns and was so sure I could win.” She shrugs. “So I said ‘why not?’”

  I nod and take a sip of champagne.

  “Well naturally, I lost terribly.” She laughs. “What would you expect—a year before, they were split down the middle about whether to let women in at all. They weren’t going to make me their president.” She grimaces at the mere thought. “But I’ll tell you this...” She leans in, like she is going to tell us a secret. “We shook up that campus. We campaigned hard, and had debates on real issues, about feminism and the war protests—none of the stupid popularity contest stuff that usually dominated. And we won most of the girls and a good chunk of the boys. That wasn’t enough, of course, because there were only, what, a thousand girls on campus at the time. I still have some of the letters people wrote to the school newspaper, supporting me, hanging in my office on the Hill. So then—” she points a finger at her husband “—the day after they announced the results, he asked me out. Only took him four months of seeing me every day.”

  “Well it would’ve been unprofessional to ask in the middle of a campaign,” he says.

  “That’s...” Sara clears her throat. “That’s really lovely.”

  I turn to her, but her glassy eyes avoid mine.

  “We better stop boring you kids with our stories.” Rep Brown leans forward to shake my hand and kiss me on the cheek. “Looking forward to seeing your parents at the next fundraiser,” she whispers in my ear, before leaning back seamlessly with a brilliant smile.

  “Certainly.” I nod. “Have a nice evening.” They head off to the next group they need to schmooze, and I turn around, tilting my champagne flute to examine the few drops left, unsure if there’s enough for another sip.

  “Want to sit down?” I ask Sara. “They’ll probably start soon.”

  “Hmmm?” She looks at me blankly.

  “Do you want to find our seats?” I ask again.

  “Oh yeah, sure.” She shakes her head, as if trying to snap out of some sort of trance.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. I place my hand on the small of her back as I guide her toward the ballroom. “You seem unusually quiet.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” She smiles, but her eyes are flat. “It’s just...” She makes a face. “You know.”

  I actually do not know.

  We find the place cards for “Mr. Braden Hart” and “Guest” and take our seats. I unfold my napkin and drape it over my lap. I flip open the program resting on top of my plate and skim it. The main speeches are before the meal. Which would be disappointing considering my growling stomach, but I’m not looking forward to this dry chicken as much as I am to the drinks.

  “Do you think they’ll bring wine around before this?” I point to the first speech. “I’ll try to find a waiter,” I add before she can answer.

  I search the room, half rising out of my chair.

  “What do you think we should do?” Sara says.

  I turn back to her. “What, like white or red? I think it’s chicken so...”

  “No, about Perfect10.”

  “Oh.” I narrow my eyes. “I think it’s obvious, right? It’s our company. We’re not just going to let them take it from us.”

  “They’re not exactly taking it,” she says. “I mean, I wouldn’t exactly call paying millions for the work of college freshmen a hostile takeover.”

  “Hey, don’t sell us short like that,” I say. “Picasso was thirteen when he started painting. Page and Brin created Google from a Stanford dorm room.”

  As PhD students, not freshman, but maybe she doesn’t know that.

  “Zuckerberg started Facebook during sophomore year.”

  She laughs. “I don’t think comparing ourselves to them is necessarily productive.”

  “Who else would I compare myself to?” I catch the eye of a waiter across the room and wave him over.

  He fills our glasses, and I assume we’re done with that conversation for now.

  “I just don’t know.” Sara takes a sip of her wine, then stares at the glass. “It’s a lot of money to turn down. It could change everything for me. For my family. And for Robbie.”

  “Yeah, but think about how much more we could do, how much more we could make, if we build this thing? Cashing out now is something that we might really regret.”

  “I really don’t think I’ll regret making a million dollars, Braden. We could end up with nothing if we don’t take this. And I get that it’s different for you, that you...have the comfort to take the risk for the big payout. But for some of us, this means not stressing about college anymore, it means helping my parents retire someday. And hell, for Roberto, it could mean helping his parents reunite.” She pushes the wineglass farther away from her. “I just don’t think you understand the ridiculousness of debating five million or one million dollars when to some people, money stress means not being sure how to budget for both utilities and food this month. It’s different for him, and I think it’s something we need to respect.”

  “I’m sorry.” I shake my head, reaching for my wineglass. “I’m not compromising the future of our company because his family hasn’t worked as hard as mine.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not my fault he’s poor.”

  “Did you really just say that?” Her voice is at least an octave higher than it was before.

  I shrug, my glass still at my lips. What? “What did I say?” I set down my wineglass.

  She just looks at me as if she’s disgusted. God, women—it’s not enough to constantly try to please them and apolo
gize for everything. We have to guess what they’re mad about too.

  “You’re unbelievable,” she says. “Are you really so self-centered, so narrow-minded, that you can really think that? That you don’t see that his family has sacrificed so much for their son? And worked so hard? That it is just luck and privilege and...geography that separates his situation from yours?”

  “Sara, you’re making a scene.” I put my hand over hers.

  She pulls her hand away like I’ve burned her. She reaches for the clutch I bought for her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” she says. “I’ll just call an Uber.”

  She takes off toward the door, heels clicking, as the Congresswoman takes the stage. Everyone stands to clap, and I weave through the crowd after Sara.

  I push through the door, and the roar of the room is replaced by the sound of her footsteps echoing down the hallway.

  “Sara!” I yell.

  She stops and looks over her shoulder but doesn’t walk toward me.

  “You can’t just leave me.” In just a few strides I close the distance between us. “Do you know how embarrassing it is to be at an event like this without a date? You can’t leave right as it’s starting.”

  “I’m sure you’ll make friends,” she says. “Hell, you know half of these people already and I know none. I doubt I’d be any help.”

  “That’s not the point, Sara, and you know it.”

  She turns away again.

  “Sara,” I say through gritted teeth. “If you walk out that door, that’s it—we’re breaking up.”

  She spins around, the bottom of her floor-length dress twirling. She extends her arms to the side, her purse sparkling in her hand. “I guess we’re broken up.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sara

  The room is quiet when I get back. My roommates are nowhere to be found, beds left behind unmade, with various considered and rejected shirts and dresses strung about between the crumpled sheets. They’re probably getting drunk at a frat party, or high and watching movies with friends. Normal college stuff.