Page 4 of Most Likely to Match
Jasmine stands in the doorway of Moonbar’s tiny office, backlit like an angel descending to save me. She steps to the side and gestures for me to slip in.
Truly. An angel.
We don’t speak for a few moments after she shuts the door behind me. She takes her seat at the desk, and I fall into the one across from her. The music playing in the bar is audible here, though without the cacophony of voices overlaid.
Jasmine frowns at her laptop screen. She wears her red hair up in a high ponytail, with pearls on her ears and a matching choker pearl necklace. Her black Moonbar t-shirt, withJazzembroidered across the left breast, is casual in comparison to the classic, preppy style she sports, but somehow, she makes it work.
I sigh with relief when I pull my phone from its compartment in my bag. I tap theMagmaapp, which simulates a lava lamp on my phone screen, but I keep the volume off so Jasmine doesn’t have to listen to the “music for calm and focus” playlist that comes with it.
“What’s wrong?” she asks after I stare at the screen for I don’t know how long.
I close the screen app and drop the phone back into my bag. “Nothing. What? Why?”
“There’s something wrong,” she says, continuing to study me.
Well, shit. People aren’t actually supposed to see it when you’re different. That’s what I’ve been led to believe.
I open my mouth to give her an answer I’m not prepared for yet— truth or excuse or flat-out lie— but I’m saved by her boyfriend, Nick.
“Ladies.” He smiles apologetically, leaning in the doorway. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, pleading.
He, too, enters the office, closing the door behind him. If we haven’t reached max capacity yet, we’re about one toddler away from breaching fire code. “Remember howyouaskedusto host these BIA events?” He’s all stern-faced, but his voice is teasing. “Tosupport the economic development of our district,” he says in what I assume is meant to be my voice.
He manages to slide between the back of Jasmine’s computer chair and the filing cabinets behind her, leaning his hands on either side of her on the desk. He kisses the top of her head, then her ear, and buries his face in a spot below her jaw.
She squeals and giggles and whisper-hisses an admonishing “Nicholas,” to which he immediately stops.
I look at the closed office door. It’s the only privacy I can offer in this negative square footage, though it’s more for me than their benefit. Jasmine, who was once my own matchmaking client, is not one for public displays of affection, a fact I know mostly because she told me about it in her onboarding interview. But Nick, who was also once a quasi-client— if signing up for matchmaking services only so he could potentially match with Jasmine counts— will take any opportunity to show her how he feels. She’s kind of gone for him, so she lets him. I generally don’t mind their intense couple behavior, but right now, it feels like he’s unintentionally rubbing my failures in my face.
“Are you okay?” Nick asks.
I scowl. Curses to empathic friends. “I am.”
He snorts, disbelieving. “’Kay. Pretty sure that BIA boss lady is looking for you,” he says.
Jasmine leans across the desk. “He means the executive director.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Can I leave my bag in here?” I ask. It’s too big to carry around out there, and if I don’t have it, I won’t be tempted to push people around with it.
Nick nods, already focused on Jasmine again. “You gotta get out there, too.” He plays with the end of her ponytail, trailing it across the back of her neck. “I want the photographer to get some photos of you.”
She bats his hand away, still focused on her laptop. “Creep,” she mutters.
“Do you think you guys qualify as a Core Cupid success story?” I ask as I shuffle toward the door.
Nick stops his obnoxious flirting, and Jasmine pauses her performative annoyance to stare at me.
“Uh…”
“Well….”
I shake my head. “Never mind.”
How fucking embarrassing. Asking to use a couple who didn’t actually ever match through my algorithm to hold up as a Core Cupid success story.
