Page 69 of The Matchmaker

“Just leave, Azar. I’m serious. Go to Zayna, have a great trip together, and leave me alone. I have work to do.”

Before he can reply, I turn. I walk past the glittering trees to the ribboned white seats facing the altar. I sit in the back row.

Tears prick my eyes. I’m not going to cry. I can’t cry. Not here. Not now. If he leaves, good. I’m glad. It’s not like I’m waiting for him to tap my shoulder. To slide into the seat next to me. To take my hand in an implicit apology…

The minutes tick by. He doesn’t come.

The bride walks down the aisle toward her starry-eyed soon-to-be husband. I think back to the other day at Azar’s place—how he’d held me when I cried. And this evening, when I’d gotten out of the car. The way he’d taken me in. His hands over mine. His eyes gazing into my own. In that moment, I could have sworn something was shifting between us. I was wrong. It’s like Khala says: We can’t trust ourselves to be objective about those we care for.

I scan the crowd, wondering if anyone saw our argument. Azar was here to be my cover—the matchmaker with her dashing partner—but if a potential client was watching, they wouldn’t have witnessed two people in love; they’d have been witnessing the end.

Deep breath. In. Out. It’s game time. I cannot look like a frazzled mess. I focus on the nuptials, whicharebeautiful. Even more beautiful given that the last wedding related event I attended ended in disaster. I take in the personalized vows exchanged over a violin quartet. The flower girls hold pink and violet flowers to match the deepening colors of the sky.

After, I grab a seat under the sprawling white tent, strategically choosing a spot near the gas heaters going at full blast. It’s June, but there’s an undeniable chill in the air.

“Hey, Nura,” a man’s voice says.

I look up, my smile automatically in place to introducemyself to the potential new client. But it’s not a new client. It’s Logan Wilson.

“Nice wedding.” He sits down at the empty seat next to mine. Casually. Calmly. “I got turned around on the drive over and nearly wound up in the middle of an apple orchard. I didn’t even know you couldgrowapples this far south.”

He’s got a leg crossed over his knee. He’s talking to me as though he belongs here.

“What are you doing here?” Disbelief is rapidly displaced by anger.

“I know. This is a bit unorthodox. But I figured now was as good a time as any for us to chat.”

“Who told you where I was?”

“That’s not important.”

“I’d say it’s extremely important.”

“I have my sources, but”—his expression grows somber—“we really do need to talk, Nura. For your sake as much as mine.”

“How very altruistic of you.” I grip my clutch so tight my knuckles go white. How long has he been here? Watching me? Did he wait until Azar was safely gone before pouncing?Did he witness our fight?I look around, feeling exposed. Most people are still lingering by the cocktail tables. Servers are setting up dinner. No one else is near us. “I’ve already been through enough drama to last me several lifetimes,” I say through gritted teeth. “I don’t need any more stalking.”

“Stalking?” he repeats. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but stalker’s a first.”

“I saw you getting lunch at the chaat house,” I tell him. “You were two doors down from where I was. Are you trying to tell me that was just a coincidence?”

“Oh.” He startles. “Well, sort of. I didn’t know you were there, but yes, I was talking to people in the area who are in the marriage space—for background.”

“So you admit it.”

“I admit to being a journalist. Not a stalker,” he replies. “Your story keeps getting bigger and bigger. I was of two minds coming out here to meet with you. My editor keeps telling me to do a write-around, but I need your perspective to do this story justice. When I read your email, I figured you were up for talking. I thought this was simpler, so you didn’t have to set aside a separate time to speak, since you’d mentioned how busy you are.”

“My email?” I repeat. “Does gaslighting pay off in your line of work?”

The anger almost drains out of my system. Azar was right. It was too soon to get back in the game. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with Logan on top of everything else.

“Wait!” He hurries after me as I march out of the tent. Toward the parking lot. “I’m not trying to play games here. I did get an email from you. Earlier today.”

I swivel toward him. “I’m not rewarding your harassment.”

Logan pulls out his phone. He hands me the device.

My stomach lurches. Thereisan email with my name in his inbox.

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