Chapter 5
FIVE
I scoffed. What was this, second grade?
“Live a little,” he said. “I have it on the best authority that your data is very secure. And you can always delete it after, right?”
He was good. And so annoying.
I couldn’t deny that I was curious about his answers, and continuing to refuse would only make him doubt I believed in Matchify. I could imagine how that would play out in his article.
It wasn’t my belief in Matchify that had kept me from filling out a profile for myself all these years, though. I had all sorts of data to support that the app worked.
But I knew how data worked. I knew the general spread of profiles from the women who used our product, and I wasn’t like them.
You’re so intense.
I had a years-old text from Chase with exactly those words—a message that had been conveyed dozens of times by other people in other words.
My mom whenever I came home with a plan for a school project.
My friend Julia in high school after we finished a group presentation together.
My fourth-grade teacher who told me I didn’t always need to be the smartest one in the room.
I could go on.
But men in particular didn’t seem to like intense, driven women. At least not for long. Matchify data made it clear that most were looking for soft edges and smiles. Chill and low-maintenance were thrown around like caps on graduation day by our male users.
It’s why I’d never wanted to see my own match percentages. I’d had actual nightmares that someone would run my profile, and it would buffer and buffer and buffer until finally, a big black screen with stark white letters would show up: NO MATCH FOUND.
But filling out a profile didn’t mean I had to run the numbers. And if it got us closer to Vantive’s wallet, it would be worth it. I could always delete it later, like Grant said.
“Fine.” I checked my watch. “But I’ve only got half an hour until my next meeting.” This meeting was an unofficial one with my email inbox, but so what? I couldn’t spend hours of my day on this sort of thing when I had a company to run.
Grant’s mouth pulled into a curve that made me wonder how he intended to turn my choice against me. “Then we’d better get to it.”
Katie, who seemed highly intrigued by the development, let me take her seat, while Grant stayed in the one to my right. Meanwhile, she sat a few feet away on the edge of the desk behind us, watching us use the app she put scores of hours every week into designing.
Ostensibly, she was looking for any pain points or hesitation in our navigation. In reality, she was curious.
The first few questions were a breeze—basic identifying information—and I let out a slow breath through my nose. It shouldn’t make me so nervous to do this.
What’s your idea of a perfect Saturday?
I looked at the answers, frowning slightly, then selected the option that said sleep in and read a book. A more accurate answer probably would’ve focused on no app emergencies and coming into the office for less than five hours, but that option wasn’t offered.
Most of the questions had fixed options—multiple choice, sliding scales, yes or no. Sprinkled throughout were open-ended options, though.
What’s your most controversial opinion about love? the next question prompted.
That it’s not meant for me.
I didn’t write that. Instead, I wrote: Feelings lie. Numbers don’t.
What’s your favorite flower?
I suppressed an eye roll. Flowers weren’t my thing—yet another reason I was an outlier amongst our average female user.
I skimmed the options: rose, daisy, lily, tulip, peony, poppy, hibiscus. I checked the other box and typed out succulents. Not technically a flower, but oh well. Flowers were a natural byproduct of their life cycle, right?
Grant leaned back, stretching his arms toward the ceiling.
I glanced at him. “Hey!” I covered my screen with both hands. “No cheating.”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about. Besides, there’s no such thing as cheating when there are no right answers. Right?” He scooted his chair back in, then grabbed his pencil and scribbled something on a pad of sticky notes next to Alex’s mouse.
It was about me.
I just knew it.
Remind me why I’d agreed to this?
I made sure he wasn’t watching my screen before I went back to answering questions.
“I’m pretty sure the application for the Secret Service isn’t this thorough,” Grant said.
It had been fifteen minutes, and I was ready to be done, even though the progress bar on my profile said I was only 8% into my profile setup.
“We’re guiding people in what’s likely the most important decision they’ll make in their lives.
Would you rather we ask them their favorite type of donut and call it good? ”
His fingers clicked away on the keyboard. “Maple bar.”
I almost asked him if he’d tried the ones from Dawson’s Donuts—they were divine—but Katie interrupted.
“You guys might be the slowest users we’ve ever had.”
My gaze flicked to Grant’s screen to see how far he’d gotten. His mouse sat over a question about favorite dinners, but the one before was How would you describe your emotional availability?
He’d checked I’m an open book.
I scoffed.
His head swung around. “Are you cheating?”
“You are. I’m an open book? Really? Kind of rich after your questions about user honesty.”
“I’m testing the algorithm and your truthfulness safeguards.”
“Right…” I glanced at my watch. “I’d better go get ready for my meeting.” If he wasn’t taking this seriously, there was no reason for me to sit here self-analyzing and dredging up an unpleasant past.
“I should get going as well.” Grant clicked the mouse a few times, then stood. “Thank you, Katie. That was really helpful.” He turned toward me. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow.”
He shot me a smile, then made his way toward the exit.
Katie and I both watched him.
“He’s a piece of work,” she said.
“Right?”
“So are you.”
I shot her an annoyed look and pushed in his chair, which he’d of course left sloppily sitting in the middle of the floor.
“Oops.” Katie grabbed the sticky note he’d jotted something down on and turned to go after Grant.
I grabbed her arm to stop her.
She looked a question at me.
“He left it.” It was a lame way to answer her unasked question, but I was too prideful to be more frank about why I’d stopped her. I was curious, plain and simple.
“True. Don’t know what I was thinking.” She held it up and tilted her head to the side, her brows knitting. “What is this? Ugh. Worthless.” She crumpled it and went to toss it in the trash.
I snatched her wrist.
She cocked a brow at me. “You’re being weird, Viv. They’re scribbles on a Post-It.”
I dropped her wrist. “Those aren’t scribbles. That’s how he writes.”
She uncrumpled the note and took a second look. “Does he speak hieroglyphics?”
I took the yellow paper from her. “No one speaks hieroglyphics.” I tilted the note, trying to make heads or tails of it. “It’s gotta be shorthand. Does anyone here know shorthand?” I raised up on my tiptoes and looked around at my employees.
“The only shorthand you’ll find around here is ASAP and FYI. But we can figure it out.” Katie had never been one to be daunted by a difficult task.
My appointment with my inbox was put on hold while we spent the next half hour Googling different types of shorthand, identifying Grant’s style of choice as Pitman, and translating the scribbles.
Katie pored over the sticky note, slowly deciphering the message, character by character.
On some level, I knew what we were doing was incredibly pathetic.
On another level, I didn’t care. I wanted to know what he’d written—just one little peek into the mind of Grant Wilder, especially if the message was about me, which I was certain it was.
He’d had his notebook, after all; why write something down on the sticky note unless he’d meant to leave it?
Katie stopped.
“What?” I craned my neck to get a look at the note, my pulse quickening.
“That was a lot of trouble for nothing.” She moved aside, and I used the edge of the long desk to slide my rolling chair toward her spot.
And there it was: the translated message.
Succulents aren’t flowers.
He had been cheating.