Page 64 of Most Likely to Match
I had a mental list of topics prepared in my head for the people we’d see tonight. Of course I can’t remember a single one of them now.
“Oh my gosh.” Kayleigh stands and runs around the table, throwing her arms around Dean. He meets my eyes over her shoulder, clearly as shocked as I am. Her voice is that squeaky kind of high, only a few octaves below being audible to dogs, but from what I can make out, she’s very happy to see him.
And she’s sorry.
She pulls back, clasping his shoulders. “I was a total bitch to you. And so was my boyfriend. I don’t even know if he’s coming tonight. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.”
Dean shakes his head slowly, catching my eye but looking away quickly. “Um…it’s okay, I guess.”
She hugs him again before returning to her spot behind the table and writing out his name on his name tag. She eyes us as she hands it to him. “Wait. Did you two come together?” Her pointer finger flies between us, the sticker fluttering on the end like a white flag.
“No,” we say in unison. That seems suspicious.
“We work together, though,” I say. “At my matchmaking company.”
Kayleigh’s face lights up. “That’s so cool.”
“Barely,” Dean says. “I do the therapy equivalent of consulting,” he says. He turns to me. “See you in there.” He walks away before I can contradict him.
I find Dean at the bar set up along the outer wall, windows behind it displaying a view of a courtyard that was never used when we went to school here.
“Why’d you say that?” It’s loud, between the music and the chatter of our fellow former classmates. I have to lean in so he can hear me. “You’re not a consultant.”
His words are a warm gust against my ear. “It’s easier to explain that way.”
I pull back so I can see him fully. “Dean.” I lay my hand on his forearm. He wanted us to stay a secret. To be able to come here without having to explain anything to anyone. But hopefully he doesn’t consider light forearm contact a violation of those rules. “That’snottrue.”
“You built your business from your dorm room, Chlo. That’s a big fucking deal. I’m not going to take away from that.”
The bartender hands him two drinks, and he exchanges them for cash, giving one to me. Apparently half the proceeds from the cash bar tonight are going to student clubs and programs. It seems questionably legal for money made from the sale of alcohol to go to student programs, but I’m not here to ask questions.
“Slàinte.” He taps our plastic cups together.
“Huh?”
He shakes his head. “Something Nick taught me.”
I take a sip of what turns out to be slightly sour, possibly cheap sparkling wine. Dean winces and glares down at his cup.
Eileen Chu approaches us with a tall Black man on her arm, who she introduces as her fiancé, Mark. Perhaps unsurprising, as our class valedictorian, she’s now a medical researcher. “We met in med school.” She smiles up at him. Mark, almost a foot taller than the rest of us, seems fairly lost to the conversation due to the music’s volume, but he nods placidly whenever she looks to him during our conversation. “So what are you guys up to?” she asks as the music cuts out again, an awkward fizzle of silence causing everyone’s voices to drop until it comes back again.
“We work together. Dean is anintegralpart of my business,” I say before he can even attempt to defer responsibility. After Eileen and Mark wander away a few minutes later, Dean elbows me gently. “What?” I feign innocence.
He looks at me, warmly, happily. He looks at me, and butterflies and flower petals and confetti explode inside me, tickling my ribcage.
This is a secret.Weare a secret. If I say it to myself every thirty seconds or so, maybe that will help. Though even if it does, keeping this secret is going to be way harder than I thought.
“You’re something,” he says, quiet enough I know he’s meant it to be under his breath, but loud enough that I can still hear him in spite of the heavy bass.
“Was it a mistake?” I ask. “To come here?”
This auditorium reminds me of Moonbar on especially busynights. When it’s so loud with people and sound that it somehow also seems to affect my vision. When I can’t carry conversations because the crush of bodies borders on overwhelming. Usually I can escape to the quiet bathroom hallway, the office, or at least use Jasmine as an anchor.
Tonight, Dean is my anchor. But we’re standing far enough apart that I couldn’t lean into him without falling a little. I can’t smell his cologne or deodorant or whatever it is that makes me want to bury my face deeper in his armpits.
“You want to leave?” he asks. Maybe it’s just the slower emo song stuttering through the speakers, but there’s disappointment in his tone. His arm flexes where he leans against the side of the bar, his tattoos on display. He’s dressed in a sage green short-sleeve button-up, patterned with little cream-colored flowers. I’ve never seen him in it before, and I have to tear my eyes away from him in it, his tattoos, his bare bicep,him, now.
I focus on a slideshow that’s projected against the backdrop of the stage curtains. “No,” I say, going for breezy. “I’m fine.”
