“OK, so... how is the research for Ditto going to be effective if you have no idea what dates are like nowadays? You have no contemporary frame of reference.” He throws up his eyebrows, opening the space for me to protest. To prove him wrong.
I suck in my cheeks, trying to remember the last date-esque outing William and I had... and come up short. “I’m not seventy! It’s only been like”—I count the years on my clay-covered fingers—“six years?”
“So you’re saying you’ve gone without a date for the equivalent length of World War Two?”
I side-glare at him. “Surely you have enough experience for the both of us?” The regret hits my chest like a volleyball as I remember his words in the garden the other night.
His jaw tightens and releases. “In your own words, I’m pretty well-versed.” He gives me a wink but the usual twinkle in his eyes is absent. “I’m just saying, if we’re working together, I need a strong partner. I can’t have you dragging me down with your Amish ways and terrible conversation.”
I straighten my shoulders. “Hey! I’m on Fate... I just haven’t seen anyone that’s piqued my interest. And even if I did... between this Ditto project and my normal job I barely have time to do my laundry...” My thumbs press into the middle of the ball, forcing around lip to appear on the edges. “... let alone go on a date where I waste a good outfit and two hours of my life with a person who I’ll inevitably discover down the line doesn’t match my needs and expectations.”
“I’m not saying go find a husband, Ms. Bennet!” He holds up his clay-covered hands in defence. “Fate just takes itself way too seriously; it’s not the place for you right now.” He pauses, contemplating. “You should create an Ignite profile.”
I snort. “Because you think my soulmate is someone with a pet iguana and katana sword collection?”
He smirks, shifting so our legs are nearly touching. “So you can enjoy some casual dating and maybe, God forbid”—he lowers his voice to a mock-whisper, tilting his head toward me—“some sex!”
Our gazes linger; his eyes flick to my lips. The orange glow of golden hour slips through the windows and illuminates his already intense stare. My fingers go straight through my emerging vase, ruining the shape I’d just managed to carve out. Bancroft’s lips curve up as I try to play it off as a deliberate artistic choice by poking another hole on the opposite side.
“You’ve never even thought about it?” he teases, pupils dilated. His voice sounds like a dare.
My cheeks flare: he knows I have. And he knows exactly when.
Sensing my awkwardness, Bancroft switches the subject. “All I’m saying is, you have this idea that seeking out your ‘one true love’ is actually going to lead to it.When, in my experience, the people who find something epic aren’t looking for it.” He swallows, staring intensely at his clay. “Real earth-shaking love can’t be forced or sought out. It happenstoyou, notbecauseof you.”
I arch a brow at him. “Funny coming from someone who doesn’t believe in true love.”
He glances up at me. “You assume I don’t.” We sit in silence for a moment, until his smile, eventually, breaks the tension. “You really think you’ve got my number, don’t you?”
I smush my ruined vase back into a ball. “I do, actually. It’s saved in my phone underSpawn of Satan.”
“Referring to my father as the devil is giving him way too much credit. He’s more your run-of-the-mill chaos demon. Anyway, stop changing the subject. You are making an Ignite profile.”
I stare at my vase-bowl-jug lump, considering the idea. “What would I even write on it? Besides age, sex, location and whether I’m DTF?”
He licks his bottom lip. “It’s not that hard. Just something simple but interesting about yourself.”
“Like what?” I push because I, like any normal person with self-esteem issues, can’t think of anything interesting about myself on the spot.
He ponders for a second, pouting out his top lip. “Your music taste: it’s bonkers.”
My cheeks are plump as I try to suppress a smile. The night before our monthly report meetings when we would both inevitably end up working late, Bancroftwould take my phone and hook it up to the Fate office’s speaker system and press shuffle. Whatever random song title it landed on first would have to be shoehorned into the meeting the next morning. There were some easy ones like Frank Sinatra’s “I Couldn’t Sleep a Wink Last Night” and the Strokes’s “Is This It”; upping the difficulty was Ariana Grande’s “God Is a Woman” and Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.” We peaked with me managing to drop an “It’s Not Easy Being Green” in the middle of a sentence with neither Susie nor Dharmash noticing. The only one we failed at was 2006 Eurovision winner Lordi’s “Hard Rock Hallelujah.”
I’m quiet, in the depths of nostalgia, when Bancroft offers a more enticing proposal: “OK, how about this? Weswitchapps; try out each other’s platforms. Then at our next trial date, we can discuss which features could translate to Ditto. What we liked, didn’t like, functionality, clientele, etc. But you can’t just be on it, you have touseit. Go on an actual date, not a fake date.”
“Wouldn’t Margeaux Bardin have a problem with you being on Fate?”
His jaw twitches as his eyes flick down and then back to me. “I stopped seeing her a couple of weeks ago.”
I blink. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” He goes to run a hand through his hair but hesitates at the clay on his fingers. “Looks likeSocieteurhasn’t caught up to that one yet.”
My brow tightens. “Well, as much as I appreciate this digital wife swap, I just don’t think I have the rightqualities for a casual hook-up. I’m not fun, like you. I like going to museums and—”
“If you say you’re ‘not like most girls’ I’m going to have to rescind your feminist card,” he interrupts.
“No, that’s not it. I mean I don’t have the qualities guys would be looking for in a chilled-out hook-up. I can’t be cool or casual and I’m...” I stop myself; this is the kind of vulnerability I could show him when we were friends, but not now.
