“Oh.” Her brow puckers. “Well, maybe we could meet up for a run tomorrow?”
I scrub my hand over my jaw and grimace. “I have commitments.”
“All weekend?”
Normally I avoid this situation like the plague. I have a plan and I stick to it, and as long as I do, things tend to turn out the way they should.
Step one of the plan is keeping to myself, but when that fails, I might find myself picking up a woman at the bar where I work. When I have too much to drink and start to think I’m lonely or get a little too antsy. We’ll go back to mine for a bit of Olympic yoga. After which I feed her breakfast. French toast, syrup. Streaky bacon. Coffee. And then I kiss her goodbye at my front door.
If all goes to plan she walks away with a satisfied smile knowing it was a one and done kind of deal and she’s very happy with that.
If it doesn’t, you get this girl who I now have to let down as gently as possible without offering any hope. Because there is no hope here. I’m not the bad guy that the right sweet girl will reform. I’m just the bad guy. Trust me, letting her down in a brutally honest fashion is no picnic for either of us but it is for the best. “Look, Julia—”
“Jodie."
“Right. Jodie. I thought I was pretty clear when we hooked up that it was only for the night. Did I not make that obvious?”
She flinches. The sweet smile slides off her mouth as the hope dims in her gaze. “Well, you did, but—”
“I’m sorry if anything I said, or did, confused the issue for you.” I have sympathy for her. I do. Falling for the wrong people is hell. “I don’t want to come across as a real asshole, but I wouldn’t want to give you a false sense of hope by telling you that I’ll call or something.” I scrub a hand through my hair and offer her a soft smile, because I hate when this situation happens and I want to lessen the blow as much as possible. It’s not her fault that I’m a lost cause. “Because I won’t. We shared a really nice night, but that’s all it was. And all it can be. Understand?”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asks.
What I want doesn’t matter. It hasn’t for a long time. It’s not something that I worry about. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.” She pouts as she moves to the opposite side of the elevator. “If that’s the way you want it.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” I say as the elevator doors slide open on her floor.
“All right.” She steps out of the box and mutters, “Jerk.”
I take a deep breath when the doors close again. Exhale as I rest my back against the wall and watch the floor numbers rise. Okay, so I’m a jerk, but the truth is being called a jerk is a relief. I’ve experienced worse.
I’ve dealt with crying, theirs not mine. Face slapping, mine not theirs. That stung. The real kicker… ha!… was the chick who swung her boot into my boys. Gotta say I am not a fan of being assaulted in that fashion.
Exiting the elevator, I make my way into my apartment. I bought it a couple of years ago with the profits from one of my apps. It’s a nice pad with enough room for me and my tech and the occasional overnight visitor. Whether that be when Hud used to crash in the spare room after a few drinks or when someone more feminine spent the night in mine. Plus, the building is fairly private and quiet.
In the kitchen I whip up a fresh batch of French pressed coffee and doctor it with a dollop of cream before taking it into my office. Yes, the whole press. Not a cup. Since I’ll end up drinking the whole thing it seems like a waste of a clean mug. I’ll admit I’m a little more addicted than the average guy, but the caffeine doesn’t affect me like most people.
My desk is an organized mess of hard drives, monitors, keyboards, and other hardware. Since I do so much coding, my set up is quite expansive. I shift one of the laptops out of the way and boot up my PC. Six screens change from black to lit up, several of them showing my latest project; an ice breaker app for people looking to get to know each other.
I settle into my ergonomic swivel chair and pop a pair of reading glasses onto the bridge of my nose before I light up my tablet. Icebreaker started the testing phase a few days ago. Beta users have been flocking to try out the latest dating app.
The idea that I created a dating app still has me shaking my head. It certainly didn’t occur to me while I was coding this project that a new way to get to know people could be misconstrued as a new way to find love through technology. I was only hoping that giving people another way to break the barrier of getting to know each other might save a few from ending up in what could be a truly fucked up situation.
Like pretending my brother isn’t marrying my ex.
But the marketing firm I hired sees incredible potential in showcasing Icebreaker as a dating app. Algorithms designed to keep you from meeting the wrong people, so you can find happiness with Mister or Miss Right.
Isn’t that the gist of love for most people? Finding the right person and not screwing it up?
So Icebreaker became a dating app. Tech reviewers and dating blogs have jumped on board to check it out, which is all part of the marketing plan.
Opening the app, I check the stats. Hundreds of users have already signed up. Hopefully, with their feedback, I’ll be able to catch any glitches before its official release.
I should probably join up too. That way I can check out the user interface the way consumers will see it. I click on the sign up button and the registration form pops onto the screen. The cursor blinks in the first panel. Name?
Vale isn’t exactly Matt or Smith or Jack. It’s a bit too unique, which could be a problem if anyone caught on to the fact that it’s also part of my company name. I could use Hudson. He’d never know. But it’s probably not the best idea.
I glance around the room, but there’s nothing that sticks out as a good user name. My stomach grumbles, and I stretch and rub my abs. Probably should get some lunch.
Getting up, I head back to the kitchen to raid my cereal collection. Fruit Loops, Frosted Flakes, Lucky Charms. I pour a little of each into a bowl and splash in a hefty amount of milk. Lucky Charms could work, but it sounds dirty. It would probably lead to the wrong sort of attention, which under normal circumstance would be the right attention. I roll my gaze to the ceiling. Any interest on this app is the wrong kind. Just here to exterminate bugs.
I snag the box of Crunch Berries from the shelf and top my bowl up to the rim. The jolly old Cap’N stares at me from beside the slogan that isn’t dirty, but sounds a little off to my brain. Putting the carton back on the shelf, I grab a spoon and wander back to my office.
Once I’m signed up as Cap’N Crunch, I zip through the process of setting up my profile. I fill in the appropriate information; gender, age, likes and dislikes, etc. I keep it pretty vague. There’s no need to get personal. Then I snap a picture of my cereal and post it.
The app immediately starts processing my possible matches based on the criteria selected.
I leave it to do its thing and spend a couple of minutes on another project while I eat my cereal. Taking my bowl into the kitchen, I wash the few dishes in the sink. I need to shower and get ready to go to the bar since I’m working tonight. It might be the quietest day of the week, but there’s still plenty to do.