My smile fades, however, when he says, “Martin was talking about a truly innovative idea the other day. A dating game of sorts.”
My insides boil. Not Martin the Beetle. Yes, he is just like Marlin the Beetle, the annoying insect in our game that blocks your tiles and prevents you from making matches.
“Are you considering Martin for the role?” I dare ask.
“He’s been showing his potential, just like you.” Lars drums his fingers on the table. “There are many talented people here. I’m keeping my eyes open. Let’s see what happens, shall we?” Lars winks at me meaningfully, and I take my cue to leave.
Okay. Change of plans. I won’t be quitting today after all.
Now I must beat Martin the Beetle to get my dream job.
Which means I need to find a place to live. Like, now.
Once I sit back at my desk, I ask Chiara, “What were you telling me before about apartments? What is it I should do again?”
Her eyebrows rise as if she suspects I didn’t pay attention but won’t blame me for it. “You should talk to Mark,” she answers patiently. “He knows someone.”
A flush of excitement washes over me. “Oh. Right. Thanks!”
My phone buzzes. It’s my mom, desperate to know where I am because I haven’t answered her messages.
I take a deep breath and stand up to look for Mark, a programmer I’ve never talked with before.
“Erik Storm is renting out a spare room,” Mark tells me once I find his desk. “You should call him,” Mark says, and gives me Erik’s number. “He was a programmer here but quit last winter to work on a personal project.”
I thank him and walk back to my desk, watching my mom’s messages piling up. She saw I saw them, and is annoyed that I’m ignoring her, because she’s been very worried. I’m about to answer that I’m at work and can’t talk now. Instead, though, I tap on the new contact I’ve just added.
With a hopeful smile, I say a silent prayer.
Erik Storm, please give me a room.
Two
Erik Storm doesn’t give me a room.
I dive into my pillow and scream in frustration. My phone chimes, a quick succession of dings that make me detangle from my sheets at lightning speed, hoping to read Erik saying, Sorry. The other person bailed. The room is yours.
But it’s just Larissa, my best friend from Brazil.
Larissa: What do you mean, he said NO?
Larissa: Why?
Larissa: What exactly did he say?
I tell Larissa that I called and said, “Hi, I got your number from one of your former coworkers at Scorpio Games. I work there too. I’m looking for a room to rent in Copenhagen, and they told me you have one.”
He said, “Yes, I do, but I’ve been talking to some people already, and I’m about to close the deal with one of them.”
I then said, “Oh. But they might back out. You should interview me. I’m an excellent person to live with. And I really need a room.”
I was about to pour my heart and soul into an emotional application bordering on a plea, when he cut me off. “Sorry, but I don’t need to interview you. Good luck with your search.” And he ended the call.
I shouldn’t have mentioned that I work at Scorpio Games, I write to Larissa. That was probably the wrong thing to say.
Why would working there be a problem? Larissa asks.
I don’t know, I write. He quit his job. He might not want anything to do with the people there.
You’re overthinking this, Sol, she replies. He already found someone. It happens.
I groan, throwing the phone on the bed. My urge to curse compels me to babble unintelligible sounds like a cartoon character. I don’t say bad words. It’s a life mantra my religious mom taught me with resolute fervor.
I’m not done with you, Erik Storm.
This guy’s apartment is my last chance, and I’m going to fight to make him change his mind.
I open my computer and search for him on Facebook. There are five people with variations of the name, but filtering through location and educational background, I find him—or at least the one most likely to be him. A thirty-one-year-old, long-haired, sunburned dude on a tropical beach wearing a white T-shirt, sunglasses, and surfer shorts.
I check his public posts, and the latest, the only one from this year, is about the apartment. He posted it a week ago, and it’s written in Danish, but I translate it, confirming that he has been asking his friends if anyone is interested in living with him. There are no pictures of the place, just the rent (not too bad), the neighborhood (Østerbro, very central), and when it’s possible to move in (ASAP). It sounds great. I need it.
I call him again the next morning. Maybe if I invite him for lunch, he’ll say yes, and we’ll be able to talk properly. But he doesn’t pick up. I consider texting him, but Larissa says I should stop before he thinks I’m a creep.
I stare at my phone screen, sighing. On impulse, my thumb opens Cinder, the dating app topping the charts in Denmark since its release seven years ago. It’s just like Tinder, but its Cinderella theme was both so praised and so mocked that many people decided to try it—and then it became so popular it’s the top choice of those looking for a date in Copenhagen. I find it fun and, at the same time, uninspiring. I wish there was a dating app with less focus on looks and more on matching like-minded people.
That’s because you’re not supposed to look for a life partner in those apps, Larissa said one day when we were discussing the subject. Most people there are just looking for a hot person to spend the night with.
I’m aware of that, of course, but I’m an incurable romantic who keeps telling herself she’ll eventually match with a cute Dane who also didn’t delete the app because he’s a hopeless optimist.
