The Many Daughters of Afong Moy, page 17
Anjalee pointed to the monitor as numbers flew by. “That’s how fast your world is going to change. Buckle up, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”
“I’m just a coder, I solve problems,” Greta said, shaking her head. “Dating has always been such a riddle. I was really just trying to solve it. To improve my anemic track record with fellow humans of the opposite sex, or any sex, really. I guess I didn’t realize I was…”
“Creating a cultural phenomenon?” Anjalee asked. “Positioning us as one of the most desirable start-ups to be acquired in a mega buyout? For someone who doesn’t date, you’ve given Syren a dozen corporate suitors. Also, investment bankers will be lining up around the block for your hand in marriage, or merger, or some combination.”
“I’m… just…,” Greta stammered. “I’m just stunned, I guess.”
Anjalee led her down the hall, which was flanked by floor-to-ceiling portraits of Simone de Beauvoir, Betty Friedan, Angela Davis, and Yoko Ono. They breezed past the programmers’ bullpen, where forty women stood and clapped, then up the stairs to the loft where the executives worked. She pointed toward a corner office. “That’s yours now. We’re setting you up with a publicist and we’ll get you some media training so you’re more comfortable doing on-camera interviews. Oh, and there’s one other thing.”
“There’s more?”
“There’s a handsome young man waiting for you in your office. He came early and has been here all morning.” Anjalee smiled coyly, her eyes seeming to twinkle with mischief. “I’m going back to my corner, but I expect a full report.”
Greta closed her eyes and suppressed a groan as she remembered her meddling, overeager, boundary-oblivious parents fixing her up with a total stranger and how she’d been tempted to go through his file, his résumé, his family history, but in the end, she left it unread. She shook her head as she took the papers out of her messenger bag and tossed them into a recycling bin.
There’s no way I’m falling for this.
Even though the photo of Sam briefly carbonated her hormones, showing up early, hanging around her work, was inappropriate at best and creeptastic at worst.
Greta shook her head as she stood outside of her new office.
She liked the idea of a new space, even though it probably had a sweeping view of Puget Sound, the Olympic Mountains, and her ennui. She chewed her lip as she pictured opening the door, meeting Sam, someone she would be socially awkward with in two languages, two cultures. She readied her pretend smile, preparing to thank him for his interest and graciously show him the way out while saying, “See you later,” when what she actually meant was See you never and I’m going to murder my parents.
Greta gathered her courage and politeness as the silhouette of someone in a dark blue suit, with dark hair, moved behind the frosted glass.
She opened the door and saw the man staring out her new window, appraising the view. She cleared her throat and said, “Hey, I know our parents mean well, but…”
He slowly turned around.
Instead of the man in the photo, it was the man she’d spent the last year avoiding. The silent partner who had been footing the bill for this view, this building, her salary, and all her hard work. Syren’s mysterious angel investor. He looked boyish, with a precocious innocence, something the magazine articles celebrating his success were quick to build upon. He was shorter too.
“You must be Greta. I’m so sorry for intruding like this. I know this is your new office, but considering you haven’t moved in yet, I hoped you wouldn’t mind.” He looked back out the window. “Sometimes sunrises demand to be seen and appreciated. Just like special people.” He turned back to her. “I’m Carter Branson. I’m in your debt for turning my modest endowment into something, well, absolutely spectacular.” He offered his hand, which was warm and soft, holding on for a beat too long as he smiled at her with knowing eyes. “I wanted to meet you so I could personally show my appreciation and pledge my continued support for your incredible…” He cocked his head and squinted as though solving a complicated math equation. “It’s more of a social experiment, isn’t it?”
Greta froze. She heard the rumors. The whisper campaign about Carter’s executive assistant inviting new staffers—young, slender, and fit—to dinners, pool parties, or meetings that involved heels by Christian Louboutin, lingerie by Honey Birdette, and jets by Lear. There was also the hushed speculation about what happened to their CEO, who went on a trip to London with Carter and never came back. The gossip was that she was living in the San Juans, on some luxurious private island, or she was inpatient in Costa Rica, recovering—her silence bought off by lawyers and PR flacks. No one knew for sure, only that she’d been gone a long time.
“It’s human algebra,” Greta said. “People are abstractions.”
They stared at each other as a police siren wailed in the distance, quickly fading.
“I’d like to hear more about your theories—how you think. Would you indulge my curiosity and let me take you to dinner tomorrow night?” He smiled innocently, with a hint of bashfulness, as though he were a nervous schoolboy, afraid of rejection. Instead of a man who had rung the opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange, hired Elton John to play his thirtieth-birthday party, and dined with two presidents.
“Dinner?”
“You know, a bit more formal than supper, and taken late in the day. Louis the Fourteenth ate dinner at noon, but with my schedule I’m more of a late-night-dinner kind of guy.” Carter put his hand on her shoulder, then brushed off a bit of lint. “How do you feel about Dick’s?”
Greta froze.
“Dick’s Drive-In on Broadway.”
“Oh.” Greta felt herself blushing as she laughed nervously. “I’d say their burgers and fries are appetizing in direct proportion to how much you’ve been drinking.”
“I wholeheartedly agree. It’s basically American street food, and I’m a fan of that particular type of cuisine. Would you be up for pan-African street food?”
For a moment Greta worried that if she said yes, she might end up on a private plane bound for Mogadishu, Nairobi, Cape Town, or Addis Ababa.
“My chef is really into it these days. Grilled langoustine on a stick with pureed mint, all kinds of pickled vegetables, mogodu and ugali—which is more like African school food than street food—but he puts his own creative spin on things. With your interesting heritage, I’m sure you’re up for the challenge. After all, you’ve probably partaken of some gastronomically questionable dishes in your time.”
Growing up in a Chinese household, Greta’s culinary adventures had taken her to the land of chicken feet, jellyfish, sea cucumber, and thousand-year-old eggs. She was mildly insulted and mildly intrigued.
“Sounds… weirdly appetizing.”
Carter sighed with relief. “Okay. Great. Thank you. Why don’t I have my driver pick you up here at around eight thirty tomorrow night? I know around here that’s probably like sneaking out early, but I guarantee it’ll be worth your time.”
Before she could tell him that she hadn’t actually said yes, he was gone.
Her colleagues watched him leave, then turned to Greta.
She saw the strange combination of confusion, worry, and envy in their faces. Then they all returned to their work, their conversations, their tasks, as though a master switch had been thrown. Greta closed her door. She sat in her new office chair, leaning back, eyes closed, trying to catch her breath.
* * *
By noon, Greta had almost made it through her email, her voice mail, her regular mail, as well as the dozens of cards and notes that accompanied the bouquets of flowers, helium balloons, edible arrangements, arrangement of edibles, baskets of truffles, and bottles of champagne that had been sent by her peers and competitors alike.
As she collected her thoughts, she stared up at her task cloud, a disorderly collection of notes that she brought from her old office and that now covered an entire wall in her new space. In her cloud of notes there were already dozens of new reminders: Prioritize in-app features to monetize Syren. Find love matches that the PR department can use for testimonials. Find a firm to analyze all the new incoming data. Assemble teams to code the app in Japanese, French, German, Spanish, and Chinese. Have human resources figure out workspace for new hires, night shift workers. Call Mom and let her know how lunch went. Take a nap. Hire an assistant. Schedule a massage. Have a nervous breakdown. Find a way to get out of “dinner” with Carter Branson. She put the word dinner in quotes as a cautionary reminder.
Greta was intrigued by how nervous the mysterious boy billionaire had seemed, how approachable he was, a self-deprecating kind of confidence. She also knew that Carter’s reputation was speculation. That the excuse men in his position used—whether they were sports stars, film celebrities, or plain-old wealthy men in positions of power—was that they were targets for opportunistic women. Greta shook her head. To her knowledge there were no formal charges of assault leveled against him, no lawsuits, just rumored settlements for inappropriate behavior, a storm cloud of conjecture. Many young, attractive female employees had been invited to special events at his home, his office, on business trips. Though recently his name had been anonymously added to an online list titled “Executives Behaving Badly.” There were no other details.
As she weighed possible excuses to get out of, or at least postpone, dinner, her watch lit up with a message: Sam is here for you. He says he’s meeting you for lunch. Shall I send him back?
Greta rubbed her tired eyes.
I can’t believe this is my life.
Grudgingly she pressed yes.
Despite the terrible timing, a part of her had to admit there was something sweet and charming about a blind date, embracing the unknown, tempting fate, flipping a coin. Even though Syren had been her brainchild, if anyone were to ask how she felt about relationships, she’d say, “I’m polynomial in a nonpolynomial world. I’m still searching for the right algorithm to bridge the uncanny valley of my heart.”
When she opened her eyes, a man stood in her doorway in jeans and a jacket, open collar, no tie. He looked like his photo, though his hair was in a topknot, and he was taller than she imagined, and a bit less tan, thanks to Seattle’s ever-darkening skies.
“I’m Sam.” His introduction almost sounded like an apology. He looked in awe of the place, perhaps embarrassed. “Um, in case you’re wondering, no, I’ve… never done this before. I’m afraid my parents got a little carried away…”
“I’d say both of our parents are at fault,” Greta said as she stood and introduced herself, which felt strange considering he probably knew all her secrets, like how she’d been kicked out of prep school twice, how she didn’t like the ocean because she always got seasick, and how she never wore sandals because she thought her feet were gross.
“They mean well. Yours, anyway. Mine—I think they’re just trying to save face—to not look like parental failures to their nosy neighbors.” Sam smiled. “Either way it’s quite generous of you to even consider lunch under such strange circumstances.”
“What can I say, there’s something in the blood.”
Sam looked confused.
“Filial piety,” Greta said. “I swear that’s part of our DNA. Maybe the next Human Genome Project will locate our highly evolved guilt triggers and the overwhelming desire to never let our Asian parents down. It’s like karma on steroids.”
“Indeed.” Sam smiled and nodded in agreement.
Greta closed her laptop. “So, knowing all of that, what do you think about dating apps?” she asked, folding her arms.
He smiled, as though to keep from wincing. He looked at her, then peeked his head out of her office, looked around, then turned his attention back to Greta. “Hmmm… at this point in my life, I’ve been stricken with what my friends call terminal honesty. So, if you ask, I’ll always tell you the truth. I’m not really an app guy.”
“Oh.” Greta respected his candor. “What kind of guy are you then?”
Sam found Greta’s coat on a hook behind her office door and opened it, offering to help her with the garment. “I’m more of a share-an-umbrella-in-the-rain kind of guy.”
She let him put her coat on for her. “Good answer.”
Too bad it’s not raining.
* * *
As they chatted and walked up the street toward the Space Needle, Sam listened with what Greta felt was genuine interest, instead of waiting for his turn to talk over her like so many other men had done on first dates, first lunches, even simple meetups for coffee. Nor did he treat the fact that she’d helped create a dating app as a sign that she was somehow more promiscuous or had slept with scores of men and possibly women, as research. She found herself relaxing in his company, even though she had a million things to do and a dinner tomorrow night to get through, or avoid.
“You know,” Greta said, “I’m afraid you might have become the unwitting victim of my parents’ irrational fear of me never getting married. It’s because my zou mou was a rebel flower. My dad’s mom got kicked out of some bohemian boarding school in England back in the twenties and remained single till the day she died, though she did manage somehow to get knocked up later in life.”
Sam shrugged. “Some women want a child but not a husband.”
“Not in my family. In my family that’s either a scandal or a tragic failure. Some sort of character flaw. But she raised my dad and he turned out reasonably okay.”
Greta brushed up next to him as they squeezed through a crowd of middle school children assembled on the sidewalk for a field trip. He felt strong but gentle. Solid but graceful. He seemed unhurried, unstressed. The opposite of what Greta saw whenever she looked in the mirror. “Where are we going for lunch?”
“Well, considering how busy you are and how you’ve probably eaten at every restaurant within walking distance of your office, and also considering how parking in this city is seemingly theoretical…” Sam led her around the corner and up onto the grass parkway of Seattle Center, walking in the direction of the towering sculpture of red cylinders known as Olympic Iliad. Near the sculpture, in the shade of a maple tree, a picnic blanket had been spread on a wide bed of grass. Standing next to it, looking bored and smoking a cigarette, was a young kid with a skateboard. Sam handed the boy some money and thanked him. Greta looked on, somewhat bewildered as he left.
“I thought we’d do something a little different,” Sam said, kneeling and gently removing her shoes. Then he removed his own and they sat down on cushions.
Next to the blanket was a large wicker basket and a round chafing dish, the kind Greta was used to seeing at catered office parties. Beneath it was a package of lit Sterno.
Sam smiled and then removed the silver lid. As steam wafted out Greta could smell rich bone broth with ginger and goji berries heated to full boil. She watched as he opened the basket and carefully lifted out several lacquered trays. He set them down and removed the plastic wrap to reveal elegantly arranged dipping items: noodles, dumplings, thinly sliced flank steak, pork belly, tofu, zucchini, squash, cabbage, bok choy, enoki mushrooms, and skewers with raw shrimp and scallops. He then set out two bowls and small bottles of chili oil and hoisin sauce.
“Is fo wo okay?” Sam said, looking up.
“You’re kidding, right? I love Mongolian hot pot,” Greta said. “How did you…” Then she realized her parents must have shared what her favorite foods were.
Sam smiled as he opened two bottles of sparkling mineral water. “I didn’t bring any baijiu, but I figured you still have a busy day ahead of you, and sending you back to your office with a hangover is a bad first impression.”
“This looks… amazing. I can’t believe you went to all this trouble,” Greta said, nervously looking around as tourists and businesspeople walked by, admiring their elegant lunch. A motorist honked and waved. “Are we allowed to do this?”
“I’ve been away from Seattle for a few years,” Sam said. “But I’m pretty sure urban picnicking isn’t a crime, though if the police come by we’ll just tell them this is a mobile soup kitchen and invite them to join. I brought an extra bowl.”
She watched Sam take out his phone. For a moment, she thought he might text a friend, or take a selfie with his food, or look for more viable dating options right there in front of her, as one disappointed dinner date had done. Instead he pressed play and Ol’ Blue Eyes began singing “Both Sides Now” through a portable Bluetooth speaker.
Greta looked around, smiled, then got comfortable and unwrapped a set of chopsticks. She felt the heat, smelled the Szechuan peppercorns in the broth. She sipped sparkling water and their eyes met as she listened to the crooner sing, “It’s love’s illusions that I recall, I really don’t know love, I really don’t know love at all…”
In that moment Greta realized she had such terrible luck at dating because she’d always imagined that there was someone out there looking for her, someone who’d understand just her, someone worth waiting for.
She stared at Sam, wishing she’d read his file. “Who are you?”
* * *
Greta left work early and went directly to her parents’ house. She could smell her mother’s cooking, hoisin sauce, five-spice powder, and sesame oil, even before she walked in the door. Inside, her father was in his favorite chair, chin tucked to his chest, fast asleep as the second game of a Mariners double-header was in progress. An untouched cup of tea sat cooling on the table next to him. Greta’s mother waved and smiled from the kitchen, where she was chopping vegetables. She didn’t look surprised.
Greta removed her coat and tossed it over a chair on the way to the kitchen. “Who is this guy?” She stared at her mother.
“Who, Sam?”
“Yes, Sam!”
“Lower your voice, I don’t want to wake your father. He hasn’t been sleeping well,” her mother said as she chopped green peppers, onions, and smashed garlic. “I take it you went on your lunch date. How was it? Is he as nice as we’d hoped?”
