~ Isla Fairfax, Playing with Matches Confessionals
I’m sittingin the car with the windows down, fighting off a headache while I take a call with my investors. It’s hot and humid, even in Ephron. The dog days of summer are setting in.
The app just isn’t performing, they say. They talk about the “issues” in the soberly hushed and clinical terms that doctors use when they discuss erectile dysfunction with a patient. Not that I’ve ever had that issue. But it’s the same tone as a med commercial.Talk to your doctor if you’ve experienced negative reviews and an unacceptable churn rate.
“There are still things that can be done,” Geoff, the venture capitalist says. “Marketing. Although we don’t have a lot of budget to put into a big campaign. But there’s grassroots stuff if you’d be willing. But we need to act fast.”
“Hit me,” I say. I’m not going to give up just yet. I’ve been working on my algorithm-driven dating app for the better part of a decade. It’s not about the money; I don’t need more of that. It’s about making a difference. It’s about opening up new and enlightened ways for informed, would-be couplers to make optimized matches. It’s about preventing the kind of train-wreck relationships that my parents had. Love is overrated. It makes people do crazy, toxic shit. Security is where it’s at. If you’re looking to make a long-term investment in a life partner, an AI-enhanced match is a smart way to go.
“So…” Geoff pauses. “Have you ever considered being on a reality show about dating?”
“As what?” I ask. I already have an inkling where Geoff’s going. My friend Dean, who’s a bit of a Hollywood who’s who mentioned that one of his LA contacts asked about me and was interested in having me on his Summer of Love reality TV special.My best friend Dean, who’s also my future brother-in-law.I’m still not used to the idea.
Geoff obviously thinks that as a data guy, reality TV wouldn’t be my thing. But my podcast co-hosts and I often discuss what happens on shows likeThe BachelorandLove Island. Studying the tropes and behavior patterns exhibited on these shows has helped me train and perfect my algorithms. By the end of the third episode of most dating shows, I can predict who will end up together with greater than sixty-seven percent accuracy - just by scraping public data from the contestants' Instagram profiles.
“I mean, I’d consider hosting a dating show, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say. I could see myself providing wise counsel and hope to the heartbroken contestants. Explaining to them that there’s a better way.
“Yeah. That’s not exactly what they were thinking, Jackson,” Geoff says.
“Well, I hope you weren’t thinking I’d sign up as a contestant,” I snort. “There’s no way. No way in hell.”
“Relax, Jackson,” Geoff says. “Nothing so demeaning. A production company reached out. There’s a new show filming at one of our partner properties next month. Short format - it’s a three-episode special, and it’s coming together quickly. They’re looking for experts and some software to feature. It seems right up your alley. Matchmaking 2.0. They’re pitting old-fashioned ideas about setting people up against newer, better, data-driven models.”
“Interesting concept,” I consider this, a small thrill coursing through me. This could be a great thing. “What’s it called?”
“It’s calledPlaying with Matches,” Geoff says.
My heart sinks. “Playing with Matches”is also the name of the one, and only, hit single my father’s band had back in the 80s. Of all the stupid things to call the show.
“Listen, if you’re free to fly down to LA tomorrow, we can get you in with the producer before lunch. They are anxious to meet with you.”
“You think doing this will make a difference?” I ask. On the one hand, I think it sounds like a tailor-made opportunity. But something about the name is giving me pause. I hadn’t thought about my dad in a while, but Dean and Chelsea finally getting together has stirred stuff up recently. Stuff I’d rather not sift through. I shake off my misgivings.
“I think that this might be our best option. We can’t afford to pour any more budget into ads, but if this show is giving you a shout-out over the Labor Day holiday weekend when it’s set to air? Dude, this is a national primetime audience. It could bring the app back from the dead. Think of it as the blue pill.”
“Fine,” I reluctantly capitulate. “I’ll at least hear them out. What have we got to lose?”
“Our shirts,” Geoff says. I can hear the stress in his voice. “We’re not all as independently wealthy as you, Jackson.”
After this long and uncomfortable call, I’m running late for my meeting with Emily and her writer friend Isla who’s here in town visiting for the week. Emily’s been talking about Isla’s visit for weeks. She’s so excited to introduce us in person. But I’ve just been so damned busy dealing with issues related to the app release. I don’t even really have time for this coffee date, but I know Chelsea and Emily won’t let me live it down if I don’t show up, smile, and nod. Chelsea has already texted me twice, forbidding me to talk about any pagan rituals.
Not a problem. I’m still thinking about my conversation with Geoff when I race towards the corner booth where my sister, Emily, and Isla are waiting. But those thoughts fly straight out of my head and into the ether the moment when I first see Isla Fairfax.
Perhaps it's her fluorescent yellow sweater. Or maybe it’s the unapologetic combo of flaming-red hair and hot pink glasses framing bold, blue eyes. She’s not a normal human being. She’s a neon tetra. She’s electric.
I blink a few times, trying to get my eyeballs to adjust. I feel like I need sunglasses to look at her.
“Sorry I’m late,” I mumble.
“Better late than never,” Emily smiles.
“You remember Isla Fairfax, Jackson? She wroteThe Mystic MatchmakerSeries,” Chelsea reminds me. “I recall you said youlovedthat series.” My sister smiles sweetly at me, all the while staring at me with squinted eyes. She’s pissed that I’m late even if Emily and Isla aren’t.
Loved would be a strong word. I do appreciate the solid plot structure and whimsy of the series. She’s a decent writer. I’ll give her that. Even if her wardrobe choices are a bit overwhelming. I take a seat next to my sister.
“Yup. I remember her,” I say, making eye contact with both of the other women in the booth. “Lupercalia.” Then I dive into the black-and-white ocular security of the diner menu, pretending to peruse it, even though I know I’m just going to order my usual black coffee.
I can’t help stealing another quick sideways look at the psychedelic author though. Her pale blue eyes have thick, golden-tipped lashes. Her freckles make her look slightly younger than she actually is. She’s probably in her early thirties, I’m guessing.
