Page 10 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
“Ninety-three percent predictable,” I say. “Almost a hundred percent.”
“Almost,” Vera says. “Almostleaves a gray area, room for error. It won’t be foolproof.”
“I already told them that.” I wave my hand, smiling to encourage her. She doesn’t smile back. “They know it’s not going to be totally accurate for every single person.”
“But they’ll pitch it that way,” Vera says.
“It’ll be implied.” We’re meeting with the legal team tomorrow, getting our claims in order before the partner match launch. “And it’ll mostly be true! Ninety-three percent.”
Vera’s eyes search mine, pale blue and watery. There’s something there I don’t recognize, sharp-edged and insistent as a doubt.
“No,” she tells me finally. “I don’t want equity.”
“Match day!” Maren shouts, swinging herself up into the cab of the truck. She has her hair in a neat bun, bangs perfectly arched over her forehead. “Today my virgin Rose falls in love for the very first time.”
“Okay, let’s manage our expectations.” I shift gears and reverse down her driveway. “He could be anyone.”
“Not just anyone,” Maren says, leaning toward me. “Yourone.”
It’s four o’clock on Friday and we’re headed to Denver for the MASH match party, XLR8’s idea to launch the partner match. We’ll push the function live and I’ll find out who my match is, the mysterious person I’ll be navigating the next six months with. It’s totally casual and very normal and I feel fine. Sawyer and Josie are on tap to amplify the announcement on social once it breaks.
“Man, you’re blowing up.” Maren picks my phone out of the cupholder, scrolling through my notifications. Since I posted the news this morning—GET READY TO MEET YOUR MASH MATCH—my DMs and comments and texts have been out of control. Sawyer’s called me no fewer than three times, mostly just to squeal.
“It’s because XLR8 put money behind my post,” I tell her. “I’m pretty sure everyone with even a fleeting interest in MASH has seen it at this point.”
“Wild.” Maren’s pointer finger hovers over my phone screen. “Rose Devereux from Switchback Ridge, Colorado—America’s tech sweetheart.” She flutters a hand over her heart, looking up at me. “How blessed am I to bear witness.”
“Shut up,” I say, and Maren laughs. She drops my phone back into the cupholder.
“Seriously, though. You’re doing the damn thing, Ro.”
I feel a rush of pride swell up my throat. Iamdoing the damn thing. And now I just have to fall in love.
Which, to Maren’s point, isn’t something I’ve done before. There have been boys, sort of—a senior from Elk Grove that Imade out with at a party last summer on the lake, a tourist that took me for ice cream before his family went back to Texas, Declan Frey in the spring of my freshman year. Maybe I’ll have better luck with my match, someone algorithmically perfect for me. Maybe, at least, I’ll be better at faking a relationship than I’ve ever been at nailing one down for real. How hard can it be? Hold hands a little, laugh at their bad jokes. I’ve seenThe Bachelor. I know how shit works.
Maren whistles when we step into the XLR8 lobby, but it’s drowned out by music thumping from the back. Through the glass door, all the desk chairs are unoccupied—streamers hang from the ceiling and everyone is milling around, dancing, laughing, holding beer. She looks at me. “Is this a frat party?”
“Nope,” a voice says, and Mia emerges from behind the desk. She’s grinning. “Just launch day. Come on back.”
Maren widens her eyes at me, hooking her arm through mine as Mia ushers us into the fray. A whoop goes through the crowd when people realize I’m here, and before I know it I’m introducing Maren around with a glass of kombucha in one hand and a party horn in the other. (The kombucha’s grown on me this week, okay? It’s not bad. Just kind of sour.)
“All right, let’s get you set up.” Jazz from marketing grabs my wrist, and I reach for Maren to tug her along.
“Get me set up?”
“We’re going to livestream you revealing your match,” Jazz says. Her hair looks as incredible today as the first time we met, back in the mountain-view conference room when she suggested bringingSawyer and Josie on board. Half her braids are shot through with gold thread, and she has the widest, easiest smile of anyone at XLR8. She’s maybe the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.
Now, she guides us toward a corner of the room that’s staged with a blue couch, a fig tree (fake), andMASH Match Dayin looping calligraphy across a whiteboard. “Don’t forget to smile.”
My lips pull wide automatically, and Jazz laughs. “Great, just like that.”
“Is it already time?” Maren asks. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s holding a MASH-branded water bottle. The swag came out of nowhere, showing up at the XLR8 office so quickly I’m half-convinced they had it made before I even signed my contract.
Jazz glances up at a huge screen on the wall, where a countdown’s running in emphatic red numerals: 3:22, it says. 3:21. 3:20. “Yep, it’s already time.”
She turns to me, then reaches to smooth a wrinkle in my shirt. “We gated your match parameters, just like we talked about, so it’ll be someone nearby.”
The matching functionality is self-gated, so users can select their own age ranges and location radiuses. Because we’ll be the poster children for this whole affair, my match and I need to be close—so we can work with Jazz and Evelyn and everyone else all the way up to Celeritas. He’ll be a Colorado kid, just like me.
