The First Fake Date
The restaurant was called “Empathy,” which Mira found deeply ironic for a place that charged forty-two dollars for a small plate of vegetables.
She stood outside the entrance, clutching her phone like a lifeline. The glass facade reflected her back at herself—a woman in a navy blouse she’d bought specifically for this occasion, her dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail that made her look like she was about to give a TED Talk rather than pretend to be in love.
Her phone buzzed. Leo: *I’m inside. Table by the window. Try to look like you’re excited to see me.*
She typed back: *I’ll try to look like I’m not plotting your murder.*
Another buzz: *Baby steps.*
She pushed through the door. The interior was aggressively minimalist—white walls, white tables, white chairs, and a single succulent on each table as if that counted as decoration. The lighting was dim enough to be romantic but bright enough to see exactly how much you were paying for your water. A server in a black apron glided past her with a tray of something that smelled like truffle oil and regret.
Leo sat at a corner table, his back to the wall, his posture relaxed. He wore a dark gray blazer over a white t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. He was scrolling through his phone, but when he saw her, he stood up and smiled.
It was a good smile. She hated that she noticed.
“Mira,” he said, his voice warm and practiced. “You look lovely.”
“You look like you’re about to pitch me a subscription service,” she replied, sliding into the chair across from him.
The smile flickered, then widened. “And you look like you’re about to audit my expense report. We’re a perfect match.”
A server appeared, materializing from the white void like a ghost. “Can I start you with something to drink?”
“Sparkling water,” Mira said. “With lemon.”
“I’ll have the same,” Leo said. “But make mine look more interesting.”
The server blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“He’s joking,” Mira said. “He does that. It’s a personality defect.”
The server nodded slowly and retreated.
Leo leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the room. “Not bad. The lighting is good for photos. We should take one.”
“We should what?”
“A photo. For the timeline. We’re supposed to have been dating for three months, remember? We need evidence.” He pulled out his phone. “Smile like you don’t want to strangle me.”
“I don’t have to pretend for that one.”
He laughed—a real laugh, not the polished one he used in meetings. It caught her off guard. He angled the phone, and she forced her face into something resembling pleasant. The camera clicked.
“Let me see that,” she said.
He turned the screen toward her. They looked like two people who had just been introduced at a networking event and were already calculating their exit strategies.
“We look like hostages,” she said.
“Hostages who are in love. It’s a specific look.” He set the phone down. “We need to work on our chemistry. Derek is going to be watching. The investors are going to be watching. If we look like we’re faking it, this whole thing falls apart.”
“We are faking it.”
“Yes, but we need to fake it better.”
The server returned with their waters. Leo’s had a sprig of mint in it. Mira’s did not. She didn’t know whether to be offended or impressed.
“Should we order?” she asked.
“We should order something photogenic. The charred octopus. The beet tartare. Nothing that looks like it came from a microwave.”
“I don’t eat octopus.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re intelligent creatures with complex nervous systems, and I don’t want to eat something that’s probably smarter than half the people in this room.”
Leo stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed again. “Okay. No octopus. What do you eat?”
“Pasta. Bread. Things that don’t require moral deliberation.”
“You’re a data scientist who has moral deliberations about seafood. That’s unexpected.”
“I contain multitudes.”
He flagged down the server and ordered the beet tartare, the burrata, and two orders of the cacio e pepe. Mira noticed he didn’t ask her what she wanted. He just ordered. It was presumptuous. It was also exactly what she would have ordered.
She hated that too.
“So,” he said, once the server had disappeared again. “Let’s build our backstory.”
“I already built it. I sent you the Google Doc.”
“I saw it. It’s thorough. It’s also boring.”
“It’s accurate. We met on the app three months ago. We matched on a Tuesday. Our first message was about the weather.”
“Nobody falls in love because of the weather, Mira.”
“People fall in love for all sorts of irrational reasons. The weather is as good as any.”
He shook his head, pulling out his phone again. “We need a better story. Something with texture. Something people will remember.”
“People aren’t going to interrogate us about our fake relationship timeline.”
“The investors will. Derek will. And if that tech blogger who took our picture decides to dig deeper, we need to have our story straight.” He scrolled through his notes. “Okay. How about this: we met at a coffee shop. You spilled your drink on me. I was annoyed, but then I saw your laptop screen—you were debugging a neural network. I was intrigued.”
“That’s a meet-cute from a bad rom-com.”
“Rom-coms are popular for a reason. They work.”
“They’re formulaic. They rely on coincidence and contrivance.”
“So does dating. Have you seen the data on how many people meet their partners through random events?”
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. He had a point. The data on serendipity in relationships was surprisingly robust.
“Fine,” she said. “But if we’re going to do this, we need to be consistent. No improvisation. No adding details on the fly.”
“Agreed. But we also need to look like we actually like each other. Right now, we look like we’re in a hostage negotiation.”
“I don’t know how to look like I like someone. I’m a data scientist. My emotional range is calibrated for spreadsheets.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Try this. Think of something you actually like about me.”
She considered it. “You’re competent.”
“That’s not romantic.”
“It’s honest. Most people in this industry are coasting on charisma and daddy’s money. You actually know what you’re doing.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late. I’m already writing it down.” He mimed typing on his phone. “Mira Kael, data scientist, thinks I’m competent. Emotional breakthrough achieved.”
The food arrived. The beet tartare was a small, perfect circle of crimson, dotted with microgreens and something that looked like edible gold leaf. The burrata was a white dome, glistening with olive oil. The cacio e pepe was a tangle of golden pasta, flecked with black pepper.
Mira picked up her fork. “This looks ridiculous.”
“It’s art.”
“It’s overpriced cheese.”
“Same thing.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The pasta was good. She hated to admit it, but it was good. The cheese was creamy, the pepper was sharp, and the portion was exactly the right size to leave her wanting more.
“Okay,” Leo said, setting down his fork. “Let’s practice.”
“Practice what?”
“Being a couple. We need to establish physical rapport. Touch each other. Laugh at each other’s jokes. Look at each other like we’re not planning each other’s demise.”
“I’m not touching you.”
“You’re going to have to eventually. The gala is in thirty days. We need to be ready.”
She sighed. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Reach across the table. Put your hand on mine. Say something nice.”
She stared at his hand. It was resting on the white tablecloth, fingers spread, nails clean. It was a nice hand. She hated that she noticed that too.
She reached out. Her fingers brushed his. His skin was warm. She felt a jolt, like static electricity, and pulled back.
“That was terrible,” he said.
“I know.”
“You looked like you were touching a dead animal.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“Clearly.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Let’s try something else. Tell me something about yourself. Something real. Something that isn’t in your LinkedIn profile.”
She hesitated. “Why?”
“Because we need to build a foundation. If we’re going to sell this lie, we need to know each other. The real parts. The parts that make us human.”
“I don’t like being human. It’s inefficient.”
“Humor me.”
She took a sip of her water. The mint in his glass was starting to wilt. “I’ve never been on a real date before.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I’ve never been on a date. A real one. I’ve had coffee with people. I’ve gone to networking events. I’ve been to dinner with colleagues. But I’ve never done this.” She gestured at the table, the candles, the overpriced vegetables. “This is my first date.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Mine too.”
“What?”
“My first real date. I’ve done the bar thing. The hookup thing. The ‘let’s see where this goes’ thing. But I’ve never done this. The restaurant. The candles. The pretending to be interested in someone’s hobbies.” He shrugged. “I’m always working. Or pretending to work. This is new for me too.”
She didn’t know what to say. The confession hung between them, fragile and unexpected.
“So we’re both amateurs,” she said finally.
“Looks like it.”
“That’s either very romantic or very pathetic.”
“I’m going to go with romantic. It makes for a better story.”
The server returned to clear their plates. “Dessert menu?”
“No,” Mira said.
“Yes,” Leo said at the same time.
They looked at each other. He raised an eyebrow. “Compromise?”
“Fine. One dessert. Something chocolate.”
The server nodded and disappeared.
Leo leaned back in his chair, his eyes on her. “You know, this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“What isn’t?”
“Faking it with you. I expected you to be insufferable.”
“I am insufferable.”
“Yes, but you’re also interesting. That makes up for it.”
She felt her face warm. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation. Take it however you want.”
The dessert arrived—a dark chocolate mousse with sea salt and olive oil. It was rich and bitter and perfect. They shared it, their forks occasionally clinking against the plate.
“We should take another photo,” he said. “A better one.”
“Fine.”
He moved his chair closer to hers. She could smell his cologne—something woody and clean. He held up his phone, angling it to catch the candlelight.
“Smile,” he said.
She smiled. It was still forced, but less so than before.
He looked at the photo. “Better. You almost look like you don’t hate me.”
“Progress.”
“We’ll get there.” He pocketed his phone. “Same time tomorrow?”
“What?”
“We need to build our history. Multiple dates. Multiple locations. We need to look like we’ve been doing this for months.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to say she had work to do, code to write, algorithms to optimize. But she also wanted to see if he would order for her again. If he would laugh at her jokes. If he would look at her like she was interesting.
“Fine,” she said. “Same time tomorrow.”
He smiled. It was a real smile, not the polished one. “I’ll send you the address. Somewhere with better lighting.”
“And less moral ambiguity about the seafood.”
“Deal.”
He paid the bill before she could argue. They walked out of the restaurant together, into the cool San Francisco night. The street was lined with string lights, and a group of tourists was taking photos in front of a mural.
“I’ll call a car,” she said.
“I’ll walk. I’m only a few blocks away.”
“You live nearby?”
“Mission District. It’s not fancy, but it’s close to the office.”
She nodded. “Goodnight, Leo.”
“Goodnight, Mira. Try not to dream about my incompetence.”
“I’ll try not to dream about you at all.”
He laughed, and the sound echoed down the street as he walked away. She watched him go, his hands in his pockets, his silhouette sharp against the city lights.
Her phone buzzed. A notification from HeartSync.
*You matched with Leo V. Send a message to start the conversation.*
She stared at the screen. The app had matched them. The algorithm had decided they were compatible.
She typed: *Nice date. Would recommend the pasta.*
His reply came instantly: *Would recommend the company. Even if she’s insufferable.*
She smiled. She couldn’t help it.
She was in trouble.
She stood outside the entrance, clutching her phone like a lifeline. The glass facade reflected her back at herself—a woman in a navy blouse she’d bought specifically for this occasion, her dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail that made her look like she was about to give a TED Talk rather than pretend to be in love.
Her phone buzzed. Leo: *I’m inside. Table by the window. Try to look like you’re excited to see me.*
She typed back: *I’ll try to look like I’m not plotting your murder.*
Another buzz: *Baby steps.*
She pushed through the door. The interior was aggressively minimalist—white walls, white tables, white chairs, and a single succulent on each table as if that counted as decoration. The lighting was dim enough to be romantic but bright enough to see exactly how much you were paying for your water. A server in a black apron glided past her with a tray of something that smelled like truffle oil and regret.
Leo sat at a corner table, his back to the wall, his posture relaxed. He wore a dark gray blazer over a white t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. He was scrolling through his phone, but when he saw her, he stood up and smiled.
It was a good smile. She hated that she noticed.
“Mira,” he said, his voice warm and practiced. “You look lovely.”
“You look like you’re about to pitch me a subscription service,” she replied, sliding into the chair across from him.
The smile flickered, then widened. “And you look like you’re about to audit my expense report. We’re a perfect match.”
A server appeared, materializing from the white void like a ghost. “Can I start you with something to drink?”
“Sparkling water,” Mira said. “With lemon.”
“I’ll have the same,” Leo said. “But make mine look more interesting.”
The server blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“He’s joking,” Mira said. “He does that. It’s a personality defect.”
The server nodded slowly and retreated.
Leo leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the room. “Not bad. The lighting is good for photos. We should take one.”
“We should what?”
“A photo. For the timeline. We’re supposed to have been dating for three months, remember? We need evidence.” He pulled out his phone. “Smile like you don’t want to strangle me.”
“I don’t have to pretend for that one.”
He laughed—a real laugh, not the polished one he used in meetings. It caught her off guard. He angled the phone, and she forced her face into something resembling pleasant. The camera clicked.
“Let me see that,” she said.
He turned the screen toward her. They looked like two people who had just been introduced at a networking event and were already calculating their exit strategies.
“We look like hostages,” she said.
“Hostages who are in love. It’s a specific look.” He set the phone down. “We need to work on our chemistry. Derek is going to be watching. The investors are going to be watching. If we look like we’re faking it, this whole thing falls apart.”
“We are faking it.”
“Yes, but we need to fake it better.”
The server returned with their waters. Leo’s had a sprig of mint in it. Mira’s did not. She didn’t know whether to be offended or impressed.
“Should we order?” she asked.
“We should order something photogenic. The charred octopus. The beet tartare. Nothing that looks like it came from a microwave.”
“I don’t eat octopus.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re intelligent creatures with complex nervous systems, and I don’t want to eat something that’s probably smarter than half the people in this room.”
Leo stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed again. “Okay. No octopus. What do you eat?”
“Pasta. Bread. Things that don’t require moral deliberation.”
“You’re a data scientist who has moral deliberations about seafood. That’s unexpected.”
“I contain multitudes.”
He flagged down the server and ordered the beet tartare, the burrata, and two orders of the cacio e pepe. Mira noticed he didn’t ask her what she wanted. He just ordered. It was presumptuous. It was also exactly what she would have ordered.
She hated that too.
“So,” he said, once the server had disappeared again. “Let’s build our backstory.”
“I already built it. I sent you the Google Doc.”
“I saw it. It’s thorough. It’s also boring.”
“It’s accurate. We met on the app three months ago. We matched on a Tuesday. Our first message was about the weather.”
“Nobody falls in love because of the weather, Mira.”
“People fall in love for all sorts of irrational reasons. The weather is as good as any.”
He shook his head, pulling out his phone again. “We need a better story. Something with texture. Something people will remember.”
“People aren’t going to interrogate us about our fake relationship timeline.”
“The investors will. Derek will. And if that tech blogger who took our picture decides to dig deeper, we need to have our story straight.” He scrolled through his notes. “Okay. How about this: we met at a coffee shop. You spilled your drink on me. I was annoyed, but then I saw your laptop screen—you were debugging a neural network. I was intrigued.”
“That’s a meet-cute from a bad rom-com.”
“Rom-coms are popular for a reason. They work.”
“They’re formulaic. They rely on coincidence and contrivance.”
“So does dating. Have you seen the data on how many people meet their partners through random events?”
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. He had a point. The data on serendipity in relationships was surprisingly robust.
“Fine,” she said. “But if we’re going to do this, we need to be consistent. No improvisation. No adding details on the fly.”
“Agreed. But we also need to look like we actually like each other. Right now, we look like we’re in a hostage negotiation.”
“I don’t know how to look like I like someone. I’m a data scientist. My emotional range is calibrated for spreadsheets.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Try this. Think of something you actually like about me.”
She considered it. “You’re competent.”
“That’s not romantic.”
“It’s honest. Most people in this industry are coasting on charisma and daddy’s money. You actually know what you’re doing.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late. I’m already writing it down.” He mimed typing on his phone. “Mira Kael, data scientist, thinks I’m competent. Emotional breakthrough achieved.”
The food arrived. The beet tartare was a small, perfect circle of crimson, dotted with microgreens and something that looked like edible gold leaf. The burrata was a white dome, glistening with olive oil. The cacio e pepe was a tangle of golden pasta, flecked with black pepper.
Mira picked up her fork. “This looks ridiculous.”
“It’s art.”
“It’s overpriced cheese.”
“Same thing.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The pasta was good. She hated to admit it, but it was good. The cheese was creamy, the pepper was sharp, and the portion was exactly the right size to leave her wanting more.
“Okay,” Leo said, setting down his fork. “Let’s practice.”
“Practice what?”
“Being a couple. We need to establish physical rapport. Touch each other. Laugh at each other’s jokes. Look at each other like we’re not planning each other’s demise.”
“I’m not touching you.”
“You’re going to have to eventually. The gala is in thirty days. We need to be ready.”
She sighed. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Reach across the table. Put your hand on mine. Say something nice.”
She stared at his hand. It was resting on the white tablecloth, fingers spread, nails clean. It was a nice hand. She hated that she noticed that too.
She reached out. Her fingers brushed his. His skin was warm. She felt a jolt, like static electricity, and pulled back.
“That was terrible,” he said.
“I know.”
“You looked like you were touching a dead animal.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“Clearly.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Let’s try something else. Tell me something about yourself. Something real. Something that isn’t in your LinkedIn profile.”
She hesitated. “Why?”
“Because we need to build a foundation. If we’re going to sell this lie, we need to know each other. The real parts. The parts that make us human.”
“I don’t like being human. It’s inefficient.”
“Humor me.”
She took a sip of her water. The mint in his glass was starting to wilt. “I’ve never been on a real date before.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I’ve never been on a date. A real one. I’ve had coffee with people. I’ve gone to networking events. I’ve been to dinner with colleagues. But I’ve never done this.” She gestured at the table, the candles, the overpriced vegetables. “This is my first date.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Mine too.”
“What?”
“My first real date. I’ve done the bar thing. The hookup thing. The ‘let’s see where this goes’ thing. But I’ve never done this. The restaurant. The candles. The pretending to be interested in someone’s hobbies.” He shrugged. “I’m always working. Or pretending to work. This is new for me too.”
She didn’t know what to say. The confession hung between them, fragile and unexpected.
“So we’re both amateurs,” she said finally.
“Looks like it.”
“That’s either very romantic or very pathetic.”
“I’m going to go with romantic. It makes for a better story.”
The server returned to clear their plates. “Dessert menu?”
“No,” Mira said.
“Yes,” Leo said at the same time.
They looked at each other. He raised an eyebrow. “Compromise?”
“Fine. One dessert. Something chocolate.”
The server nodded and disappeared.
Leo leaned back in his chair, his eyes on her. “You know, this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“What isn’t?”
“Faking it with you. I expected you to be insufferable.”
“I am insufferable.”
“Yes, but you’re also interesting. That makes up for it.”
She felt her face warm. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation. Take it however you want.”
The dessert arrived—a dark chocolate mousse with sea salt and olive oil. It was rich and bitter and perfect. They shared it, their forks occasionally clinking against the plate.
“We should take another photo,” he said. “A better one.”
“Fine.”
He moved his chair closer to hers. She could smell his cologne—something woody and clean. He held up his phone, angling it to catch the candlelight.
“Smile,” he said.
She smiled. It was still forced, but less so than before.
He looked at the photo. “Better. You almost look like you don’t hate me.”
“Progress.”
“We’ll get there.” He pocketed his phone. “Same time tomorrow?”
“What?”
“We need to build our history. Multiple dates. Multiple locations. We need to look like we’ve been doing this for months.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to say she had work to do, code to write, algorithms to optimize. But she also wanted to see if he would order for her again. If he would laugh at her jokes. If he would look at her like she was interesting.
“Fine,” she said. “Same time tomorrow.”
He smiled. It was a real smile, not the polished one. “I’ll send you the address. Somewhere with better lighting.”
“And less moral ambiguity about the seafood.”
“Deal.”
He paid the bill before she could argue. They walked out of the restaurant together, into the cool San Francisco night. The street was lined with string lights, and a group of tourists was taking photos in front of a mural.
“I’ll call a car,” she said.
“I’ll walk. I’m only a few blocks away.”
“You live nearby?”
“Mission District. It’s not fancy, but it’s close to the office.”
She nodded. “Goodnight, Leo.”
“Goodnight, Mira. Try not to dream about my incompetence.”
“I’ll try not to dream about you at all.”
He laughed, and the sound echoed down the street as he walked away. She watched him go, his hands in his pockets, his silhouette sharp against the city lights.
Her phone buzzed. A notification from HeartSync.
*You matched with Leo V. Send a message to start the conversation.*
She stared at the screen. The app had matched them. The algorithm had decided they were compatible.
She typed: *Nice date. Would recommend the pasta.*
His reply came instantly: *Would recommend the company. Even if she’s insufferable.*
She smiled. She couldn’t help it.
She was in trouble.