Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  I picked up my beer bottle and took a long swallow, attempting to indicate that I was going to take a conversational break and that Julie should go ahead and jump in.

  I let my gaze wander the bar, which was beginning to fill up as sunset approached. The volume level was rising as other folks managed the seemingly impossible task of finding things to talk about. I glanced back to my date. She met my eyes and grinned.

  A tired sigh rolled out of me. This was not exactly a raging success. I drank.

  Julie grinned some more.

  Five minutes passed, filled with grinning and other people's conversations, but I was going to stay strong. I was not going to make arbitrary conversation just because that's what was expected. I would not break down.

  The bartender wandered by and I lifted a finger, indicating I wanted another beer. I looked at Julie, raising an eyebrow toward her bottle. She shook her head. It seemed she had committed herself to silence too.

  My beer arrived, and I sipped it, my mind twisting over the increasingly ridiculous situation in which I found myself. Why wouldn't this woman speak?

  Now I was finding it hard to look at her, and I kept my eyes on my own hands, wrapped around the beer bottle. It had been at least ten minutes since either of us had spoken, and I risked a quick glance up to see Julie still watching me expectantly, still grinning.

  I was beginning to wonder if she was potentially an android.

  "Hey, aren't you Max Winchell?" A guy leaned toward me over the corner of the bar at my side.

  I startled, since I had grown unaccustomed to people actually speaking to me. "Yeah," I said, turning to face him. "That's me. How're you doing?"

  "Good, man. I'm a big fan. You guys were so awesome this year. Great season."

  "Thanks," I said, relieved to find my voice still worked. This date felt like some alternate reality in which I had begun to question everything—my actual existence, my ability to speak, my choice in footwear ...

  "Can I maybe get a photo?" the guy asked. "If you don't mind," he said, addressing Julie now. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

  She grinned. She still. Did. Not. Speak.

  I leaned in as the guy snapped a selfie with me, and signed a cocktail napkin for him, then turned back to my date.

  "Okay, well," I said. "It was great meeting you. I've got an early meeting tomorrow though, and I think I'll head on home."

  The grin fell. "Oh?" She looked disappointed. "I thought we might get dinner, maybe."

  I took a breath. "Seriously?"

  Oops. Julie's mouth dropped open in surprise. "You don't like me?"

  Crap. I didn't want to be a dick. "No, it's not that. I really do have an early meeting though. And I just felt like maybe, well ..." The grin was slowly returning to her face. "Well, I just think maybe we don't have a lot in common, that's all."

  Grin gone again. "Oh."

  "I mean, did you feel differently?"

  She nodded. "Totally."

  "Oh." I eyed the cocktail straws and considered whether there might be some way to quickly end myself with them. Maybe I could choke on a cherry or something? "Okay, well. Can I walk you to your car or anything?"

  Please say no, please say no.

  "No, I'm good." She gave me a false little smile and said, "Well, it was nice meeting you."

  "You too." I stood awkwardly for just a moment, and then turned to escape, relief flooding me as soon as I was free, outside.

  I called my sister as I walked home. "Are you at my house?" I asked. Cat had a habit of popping in without telling me she was coming by.

  "No, why?"

  "Because if you were I'd probably kill you. I just met your friend Julie."

  "Oh, isn't she adorable?" Cat seemed to hear the first part of my statement a beat later than the second. "Wait, why do you want to kill me?"

  "The date was that good."

  "Oh no."

  I dodged roller bladers and bicyclists as I strolled along the wide pavement, watching the sun sink into the Pacific. "Let me ask you a question," I said. "When you met Julie at the gallery, did she speak?"

  Cat laughed. "Yes. She asked me a million questions about my work."

  Right. The research. "Did she tell you why?"

  "She said she was considering a new medium."

  "Any medium would be new since she isn't an artist."

  Cat paused a moment, taking that in. "She's not? But, I mean, you don't care, right? It's not like you were interested because you thought she was an artist."

  "No, but I'm definitely less interested knowing she is not an artist."

  "That doesn't make any sense."

  "Neither does Julie. And by the way, she might have some kind of transient catatonic disorder." I said, thinking of Julie's glassy-eyed grin.

  "That's a little harsh. Did you have fun at all?"

  "I asked her a couple questions, and she answered with one-word answers. Then I waited for her to ask me something, and she literally didn't speak. We sat there for fifteen minutes without talking."

  "Why didn't you ask her something else? Max, do I really have to teach you how to have a conversation?"

  "Why should I do all the work?"

  "Oh my God. Seriously?" Cat sounded annoyed. At me.

  "I'm not the bad guy here." I was just unmatchable.

  "It was a date, Max. There is no bad guy. You were supposed to go get to know her."

  "Well, I don't think I want to know her. And I definitely don't want to be set up on any more dates."

  "Okay then." Cat sounded a little hurt, and guilt pinged up my spine.

  "Hey, I appreciate the effort. Thanks for trying."

  She sniffed. "Okay. Well, good night."

  "Night, Cat." I put my phone away and lifted my eyes to the sunset. I stopped and faced it, a wave of sadness washing through me as the final quarter of the sun slipped behind the long blue edge of the water.

  I woke up feeling better.

  We had games coming up. Though the regular season didn't kick off until March, we started practice again this week and had a couple exhibition games first. A few of the guys would let loose in the off season (all two months of it), but I wasn't willing to do the extra work required to get back in shape if I let myself go too far. So the day after my failed date, I went running in mid-morning.

  Since I lived on Mission Bay, on the little spit of land that ran between the ocean and the bay, the Mission Bay bike path was my usual route when I was up for a long run. It was twelve miles around, and was a great scenic run. That said, today wasn't a long run day, so I headed north on the boardwalk instead. They called it a boardwalk, but that makes most people think about places like Atlantic City or Ocean City, out on the east coast. Those are real boardwalks. This is a wide sidewalk next to a low retaining wall, set back far enough to separate the beach from all the businesses, condos, bars, and hotels that faced the water. It was wide and flat, and there were always plenty of people out enjoying it.

  I ran, relishing the sun on my back and my favorite playlist pounding in rhythm with my feet. A little old school System of a Down and Trapt always got me going, and today I wanted it loud enough so my brain could focus only on that—the drums, the guitar, the repeated hammering of my feet on the pavement. Not about the couples strolling casually hand in hand. Not about Julie's perma-fixed grin and inability to form a sentence. Not about Mr. Match and the fact that I'd created something that had helped everyone in San Diego meet their match but didn't seem to work for me.

  Sweat poured down my face by the last mile, and my mind was blessedly blank. I slowed down to a jog, and eventually halted, stopping off the side of the path to stretch and cool down a bit. I'd planned to end just outside Joe's Java, and strolled in that direction now, pulling my ear buds out as I moved back out onto the path.

  I moved up to the window at Joe's to order—you didn't even have to go inside, which was the only reason I felt like it was okay to come here when I was slicked in sweat from a run—and pic
ked up the Americano I'd been promising myself since I set out this morning. Coffee in hand, and a slightly better mindset in place, I turned to head back home. But just as I was about to put my ear buds back in and start the best part of my workout, the part where I could just sip coffee and walk along, admiring the ocean, someone appeared in front of me.

  "Hey," the someone said, and it took me a minute to figure out who it was.

  Tatum Archer was clearly out for a workout too, dressed in black tights that ended mid-calf and a fitted tank top that revealed impressively toned arms. This was clearly not her first rodeo. She wore a hat and dark glasses, which was why it took me a second to be sure it was her, but she removed the glasses and there was no mistaking the wide smile and dark eyes.

  "Tatum, hello," I said, suddenly aware I was drenched in sweat and was probably not looking my best. Though I couldn't have told you why I thought this would matter—the woman was helping me with Mr. Match, not planning to date me. She didn't care what I looked like, I reminded myself.

  That said, she looked great. The workout gear revealed everything her businesslike attire the day before had hinted about. She looked fit and strong, and I felt that little jolt of nerves again that I'd noticed in the office the day before.

  It was like I'd never been around a pretty woman before.

  "You live near here, Max?" She asked, looking around with a broad smile and an appreciative gaze.

  The barista asked for her order and she gave it before I could answer her, and then she turned to face me again, the smile still in place as she slid the dark glasses back on.

  "Yeah, just on the bay over there," I said, nodding toward the path that led me home. "Is this where you're staying?" I thought of the low beachfront hotels that lined the path. It was an odd choice for a business trip, but when people came to San Diego, they often wanted to mix business and pleasure. I guessed I couldn't blame her.

  Tatum took her coffee when it was ready, and without planning it out loud, we moved together to the low wall facing the beach and sat, our feet dangling as we faced the water side by side.

  "It wasn't the original plan," she said. "I was down at the Marina Marriott."

  "That's a nice place," I said.

  "Yeah, it was. It wasn't that the hotel wasn't nice. It was more a Mom thing." She sipped her coffee and I waited for her reaction, remembering her statement about being picky the day before.

  "How's the coffee?"

  She pressed her lips together in a satisfied line. "It's actually really good."

  "So ... your mom?"

  She took another sip, then continued. "I told you about my dad," she said, turning to look at me.

  I nodded.

  "And Charlie. The dog."

  "Right."

  "Mom gets lonely," she said. "I invited her to come down here with me before I came, but she didn't think she wanted to. Yesterday she changed her mind, so she's coming down today and bringing Charlie."

  "A lot of dog for the Marriott."

  "I thought so," she said. "So I rented a little house in Pacific Beach. Just a few blocks from here."

  "Well, you'll get a good feel for the real San Diego in PB," I told her. "Living like a local."

  She smiled and for a moment we were both silent, facing the ocean and drinking coffee in the sun.

  "Can I ask you something?" she asked, turning to look at me again. It was hard to make out her expression with the hat and glasses.

  A strange kind of relief made my shoulders relax. Tate was talking. And it was easy and didn't feel forced. Tate was the anti-Julie. She was going to ask ME a question. How novel. "Sure," I said, glad to be back in the regular world where conversation was something both parties created.

  "So if you're Mr. ... you know," she said, looking around to make sure we weren't going to be overheard. "Have you used the service? Met your match?"

  It was inevitable, of course. A flush of shame crept through me. "Nah," I said, trying to sound casual.

  "Really? All this time, and you haven't put yourself into the database?"

  I wasn't sure why I was lying to Tate. Part of it was that I worried if she knew the algorithm hadn't actually worked for me it might kill her belief that the company was attractive. But maybe part of it was that it might somehow make me seem less attractive. "Nope."

  "Why not?" she asked, her smile fading a bit as if she really didn't understand why I wouldn't. I wouldn't have understood either.

  "Guess I just want to keep the business and my personal life separate."

  "Are you already matched?" She asked this with a more tentative voice, like she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer, maybe.

  Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

  "No," I said. I thought about adding how I didn't have time for a girlfriend, or that I just wasn't ready to share my life. But I'd already lied once. And for some reason, I didn't want to lie to Tate. "My sister set me up yesterday," I said, my mouth divulging this before I'd actually thought about it.

  "Oh yeah?" Tate cocked her head to the side, looking interested. "How'd it go?"

  "Turns out algorithms are more reliable than sisters."

  "That well, huh?"

  "It was a waste of an hour. The girl—she was really nice. Just not for me."

  "Interesting," she said, putting a finger to the side of her lip, a move that indicated she really did find this interesting for some reason.

  "Oh yeah? My abysmal dating life interests you?"

  "It's just a bit ironic, isn't it?" She laughed lightly and then lifted an eyebrow. "But why wouldn't you just use the site?"

  "I don't know," I said, ready to talk about pretty much anything else. "So the dog arrives today, huh? And your mom, of course."

  She nodded. "Yep. Change of subject noted, by the way."

  I felt a smile pull my lips wide. Tate was not the kind of woman who was going to let me bullshit her. I found I liked that. A lot.

  "So I guess tomorrow I'll have Charlie on my run."

  "Is he a good running partner?" I asked.

  She chuckled, sipping at her hot coffee carefully. "Well, if by 'good' you mean, does he stagger back and forth, chasing everything he sees and stopping randomly for no reason at all, then yes. He's a great running partner."

  I tried to picture this, but I didn't have a lot of experience with dogs. "Honestly, that sounds like a huge pain in the ass."

  Tate stared out at the water for a minute over the top of her coffee cup. Her voice was a little softer when she said, "Objectively, yes. Everything about Charlie is a huge pain in the ass. He's gigantic, he's untrained, he's wrecked half my furniture, and he slobbers over all my clothes before I can even get out the door in the morning."

  She was quiet again, but I sensed there was more coming, and I didn't interrupt.

  "But the thing is ... he's all I have left of my dad." She said this and then turned to look at me, just for a brief second before turning back to face the water, as if her admission embarrassed her somehow.

  "I get that," I said. "Totally."

  We sat for a few minutes, drinking coffee, listening to the water rolling against the shore and the noise of the tourists and locals passing us on the boardwalk. We weren't talking but there was none of the odd discomfort I'd felt the night before with Julie. This silence was full, somehow.

  "Thought any more about what we're going to do with the business?" Tate asked me, her voice turning more businesslike.

  "I'm honestly a little torn," I said.

  "It's a very successful venture," she said. "It could make you quite a lot of money either way."

  "Yeah."

  I guess I didn't sound too excited about that, because Tate turned to me and cocked her head. "Yeah? A lot of money doesn't excite you, though, huh?" Her tone made it clear she knew there was something more to my involvement with Mr. Match.

  "I never started it for the money." I thought for a long second, considering whether I'd say the words that were on the tip of
my tongue. I took a long drink from my cup to buy a little time. "The thing is, you know what you said about Charlie? About him being a connection to your dad?"

  "Yeah."

  "In a weird way, the business is like that for me. I mean, my dad wasn't around when I built it, obviously. But it was kind of about him. Inspired by him, I guess." I didn't think I'd even admitted that to Cat, and I found myself glad to have the big blue expanse of the ocean to stare at, so I didn't have to look at Tate right then.

  "You don't have to do anything with it, Max," she said, her voice gentler than it had been a minute ago. "You can decide not to change things."

  "Something needs to change, though," I told her, a certainty I was definitely not going to voice appearing in my mind with sparkling clarity suddenly, as if this conversation had washed away the dust keeping me from seeing it before. "I'm ready to let it go a bit. To step back, at least. It's getting hard, keeping up the front."

  It had never served the purpose I'd built it for anyway. It had made me money, it had made Mr. Match famous, and I was every bit as alone as I'd been when I built the site. I might have found the formula for love, but all it had proven to me was that I wasn't a candidate for love.

  "Okay," Tate said slowly, as if she sensed there might be something I wasn't telling her. "Well, we just need to decide if that means you stepping away but keeping ownership, or selling the business completely."

  "I'll think about it more tonight," I told her. "Maybe we can meet tomorrow to start hammering out details?"

  "Sure," she said. "I've got today free too, until my mom arrives. If you make a decision and want to chat this afternoon."

  Part of me almost jumped ahead, eager to plan to see her again. But I bit my tongue. Tate wasn't here to hang out, I reminded myself. No matter how nice it had been to have a conversation without straining for every word. This wasn't a date, and Tate was not looking for companionship. She had her hands full with her mom and her dog, and I was just a client.