Forty-three

THOUGH he’d left to give me privacy, the bedroom didn’t feel very private. Matt’s living space was nothing more than partitioned-off areas of a long, high loft—a simple wooden platform, really, built fifteen feet below the warehouse roof.

Each “room” had three walls. Where the fourth wall should have been was a railed open space that framed a view of the sealed, temperature-controlled coffee bean storage facility one floor below.

The loft didn’t have a proper kitchen—just another partitioned section of the high platform, with a sink, a refrigerator, a hot plate, and a few small appliances. There was a storage cart with a butcher’s block top, and a table barely big enough for two.

From the creamy-spicy-smoky scents wafting through the building, I knew Matt was cooking up something spectacular.

He was stirring a thick pink sauce with his shirtsleeves rolled up when I arrived. Only then did I realize he’d changed his look. His shaggy dark hair was cropped, and his beard trimmed to a shadow of its former self.

“Heat up the tortillas,” he commanded.

Matt had a million kitchen hacks he’d learned on the road—crazy, even goofy cooking techniques. He could make poached eggs in a drip coffeemaker, for instance, as well as ramen noodles, instant oatmeal, and broccoli (not all at once, of course). I’d seen him make crispy hash browns in a waffle iron; cook up a grilled cheese sandwich with aluminum foil and a clothing iron; toast bagels on a coffee burner; and cook a small steak sous vide–style with a bucket of boiling water and a sealed plastic bag. In a pinch, Matt could even use a simple French press to froth warm milk for a latte.

Remembering his favorite way to warm flour tortillas—even in a conventional kitchen—I cut four of the small circles in half. After folding them into foil, I plopped them into his wide-slot toaster, setting the time long enough for the inside of the packet to steam. As long as the foil stayed sealed, I could move the tortillas to the table and they’d keep perfectly warm until we were ready to nosh them.

“So, what’s on the menu?”

“Barbecued chicken with creamy chipotle sauce.”

“That’s some ‘bite to eat.’”

I glanced around the improvised kitchen. “How the heck did you barbecue chicken, Matt? You don’t have an oven, and I didn’t see a grill in the parking lot.”

“I have a tent set up on the roof, with two charcoal grills, a wine cooler, folding chairs, and blankets. You should see it, there’s a spectacular view of the bay.”

I double-checked the man’s trim waist and firm tush. “Obviously, you don’t cook like this every night.”

“Actually, this was supposed to be dinner for two. Marilyn and I had a date for eight, but she bailed on me—working late. So you’re in luck!”

“Are you talking about that Millennial Marilyn Monroe you matched with on Cinder?”

“Is that what you call her?” Matt thought it over. “Yeah, I guess that platinum blonde thing is Monroe inspired—and her name really is Marilyn. Marilyn Hahn.”

“This was supposed to be your second date?”

“Third.”

“Wow. On Cinder that’s like a long-term relationship.”

“Ha-ha,” he said. “Anyway, it’s not like that.”

“What’s it like, then?”

“Why do you want to know? I thought you didn’t care for the swipe-to-meet scene. You’ve made your disdain pretty clear.”

“Not disdain, Matt. Distrust. Have you ever heard of Hookster?”

He snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. Esther just told me about it.”

He waved his hand. “I dumped that thing after I read the terms of service agreement.”

“You actually read those?”

“I do. And the Hookster fine print, which went on forever, included the ‘understanding’ that the app was a form of interactive entertainment and employees of Hookster would be compensated for conversations on the app.”

“So the users were warned it was a fake?”

“They were.”

“I’m surprised you remembered all that.”

“The Wall Street Journal just refreshed my memory last week with their coverage.”

“Coverage of what?”

“The results of the Hookster civil litigation. The trial finally ended.”

“Did they win or lose?”

“Both. The jury sided with the users, believing Hookster employed deceptive business practices.”

“So Hookster’s owners did lose?”

“Not entirely. The jury found the users were at fault, too, for not reading the terms of service. So there were no punitive damages awarded. But Hookster does have to give back all the monthly premium payments they collected.”

“Then they’re finished.”

“They are—although, given the app’s ancillary earnings, the owners might be able to retain a few million or so.”

“Pretty nice payday for dealing out dating app addictions.”

“There’s that disdain again.”

I took a breath—and let it out. “Believe it or not, Matt, I honestly am interested in learning more about swipe-right dating. I need to know, actually . . .”

“Fine,” Matt said with a shrug. “Let’s have dinner first. I’m starving. Over coffee, you can tell me why you’re suddenly so interested in something you detest so much—and while you’re at it, you can give me a clue how I’m supposed to help you with some mysterious ‘important’ thing.”

“They’re actually the same thing.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think the answer will go down better when you’re stomach’s full. Let’s eat.”