The first time we spotted Megan in Tim’s office, a few years back, it caused a ripple of interest. But on reflection, we felt almost sorry for her. The very fact that Tim had summoned her to his workplace for the initial interview suggested she’d bitten off more than any matchmaker could reasonably be expected to chew.

   Shortly after, a profile appeared on her website, under the heading BACHELOR #4:

ARE YOU A MATCH FOR BACHELOR #4?

    Our bachelor is an extremely successful entrepreneur; passionate, dynamic, and motivated.

 As CEO of his own highly successful start-up, he has many demands on his time. But he is also someone who thinks deeply about the future, and is now fully committed to finding the right person to share his own future with.

 A man of extremely high standards, used to making far-reaching decisions on a daily basis, he believes he would know within minutes whether he had met his lifelong partner.

 His perfect match is 22–25 years old, petite, brilliant, and ambitious. She has feminine curves, unfussy hair, and a natural, healthy appearance without heavy makeup, tattoos, or colored nail polish. She will likely have a background in molecular biology or calculus. She is smart, poised, loving, family-oriented, nurturing, altruistic, and a nonsmoker. She is excited to forge a remarkable future with a world-class partner.

 Candidates should apply, in writing, here, with a CV and six recent photographs.

That had been a while ago now, and if Tim had been dating since, we certainly weren’t aware of it. (There was that thing with Drunk Karen at the summer party: No one was surprised when, a few weeks later, now-sober Karen quietly moved on.) Megan strode into the office from time to time on her three-inch Manolo Blahniks, showed Tim some headshots on her iPad, then went away again, shaking her head. One time she was heard to sigh loudly as she climbed into her top-of-the-line convertible Jaguar.

   About three weeks after Abbie started her residency, Megan came in for one of her usual sessions with Tim. But afterward, instead of leaving, she followed Abbie into the break room. Sol Ayode was in there, assembling a bagel, so he heard it all.

“Megan goes up to Abbie all bright-eyed and smiley,” he reported. “And Megan’s like, ‘Hi!’ And Abbie goes, ‘Hi!’ right back. Then Megan introduces herself and gives Abbie her card, and Abbie says sorry, she doesn’t have a card to give in return, because she’s an artist. So then there’s a bit of discussion about Abbie’s art. Then Megan asks her straight out if she’s ever considered signing up with an executive dating agency, because she—Megan—happens to have some really good clients she thinks Abbie would be perfect for.

“To which Abbie says—” At this point Sol paused for dramatic effect. “Abbie says, I don’t think a dating agency’s my kind of thing. Whatever happens, happens, right? To which Megan says, No, really, we vet all our clients personally, you couldn’t hope for a better introduction to some of the most fascinating and successful men in the Valley. To which Abbie says”—another pause—“That’s really not what I’m looking for.

“Oh? says Megan. So what are you looking for? And Abbie goes…” Here Sol was clearly torn between his desire to insert yet another dramatic pause and his eagerness to deliver the next line just as quickly as he possibly could. “Abbie goes, Well, my last relationship was polyamorous.”

Her last relationship was polyamorous. Of course it was. What did we expect? She was an artist. She was so much cooler than us.

It was Ryan—workshop Ryan, not developer Ryan—who was the first to speculate, after hearing this story, that Megan Meyer might not have struck up a conversation with Abbie on her own initiative, but had actually been acting on Tim’s instructions. Had he expressed an interest in Abbie, even then? Or—we soon built on Ryan’s suggestion—had Megan picked up on Tim’s interest somehow and decided that, if a relationship was in the cards, it was better that it happen with her own involvement, and therefore commission, than not?

   And if so, had she pointed out to her client that Abbie barely met a single one of his stated criteria, from her height right through to the occasional hand-rolled cigarettes she smoked by the fire escape?

The fact is, we didn’t know if this was what had happened or not. But it fed into the obsessive mythology we had already created around Tim Scott. So that was what we chose to believe.

14

   You find a coat, then—remembering the disgust in the eyes of the Uber driver who brought you home—add a hat, scarf, and dark glasses.

At the front door, you hesitate. Tim didn’t actually forbid you from going out, but he certainly warned you against doing it too soon.

Screw it, you think. You can’t hide away at home forever.

As you reach for the door handle you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. You look ridiculous. You take off the scarf.

Once through the gates you turn right, heading south. When the sky doesn’t fall in, you start to feel less tense. A jogger runs past with a dog on a leash. Both ignore you. A young Latino gives you a brief glance, but it’s one of appreciation, nothing more. A child in a stroller smiles at you tentatively. His mother, chatting on her phone, doesn’t even look in your direction.

Mission Street seems different—cleaner, smarter than it used to be; there’s no sign of the guy, brain fried on crack, who used to drag an electric toaster around by its cord and talk to it as if it were a pet. But the phone shop’s still there, next to the Korean restaurant, its tiny window piled high with phones and SIM packs. The handwritten sign is still there too, almost crowded out by IPHONES JAILBROKEN and an illuminated dot-matrix sign flashing LAPTOP REPAIRS.

   Inside the shop a nerdy hipster with an elaborate beard leans over the counter, carefully picking a broken screen out of a phone with tweezers.

“Hi,” you say, a little nervously.

“With you in a sec,” he says without looking up.

You wait for him to finish. He has a mass of very curly black hair. You find yourself gazing at it, fascinated by the way it moves.

“How can I help?” he says at last, pushing the phone to one side.

“It’s this.” You produce the iPad. “I’ve forgotten the passcode.”

He takes it. “Sure you didn’t steal it?”

“Of course not. It’s mine.” You don’t seem to be able to blush, which is good.

“Just kidding.” He presses the POWER button and looks at the screen. “Why don’t you restore it from the backup?”

“I forgot to set a backup,” you say lamely.

“Hmm.” You can tell he doesn’t believe you. “Well, if it is yours, there’s a way of getting access to some of the apps.”