Page 69 of Most Likely to Match
A bee buzzes nearby, gorging herself on Wendy’s flowers.
“I know that probably means nothing to either of you. Words mean nothing in the face of such harmful behavior.” Finally, I summon the courage to meet their eyes.
Wendy bites her lip, maybe sad? Or maybe physically holding herself back from verbally ripping me a new asshole. Neil remains stoic. He could be credibly accused of a vegetative state at this point; I don’t think he’s moved.
“I was going to go through all the reasons why I think I’m a good match for Dean, but maybe it would be better for you if there were any questions I could answer for you. About myself or…the past?”
Wendy looks at Neil again. She has Dean’s dark hair. She’s petite, but she feels feisty, in the same way the Jasmine’s little sister Jade feels feisty; both sweet, until they need to be something else.
“Well,” she says slowly. “It’s not really the past we’re worried about.” She looks at the side of her husband’s face as she speaks. I can’t tell if she’s waiting for him to jump in or if he’s simply her comfort. “Dean mentioned you’ve never dated before?”
I wince. That’s a strange fact for your boyfriend’s parents to know, it turns out. My stomach twists in the kind of embarrassment that makes me wish I was invisible. “I’ve never had a serious boyfriend,” I say. “Or a boyfriend of any kind, I guess.” There’s no use in sugar-coating this.
“I think what Wendy is trying to say,” Neil says, “is that you’ve hurt Dean once before. And while we can acknowledge you’re a very different person than you were in high school, we’re still concerned that you have the capacity to hurt our son.” His jaw works like he’s still trying to find the right words. “That you will hurt him.”
I nod. “That’s valid.”
“It’s just,” Wendy chimes in, “if you’ve never been in love before, how do you know you love him now, dear?”
I set my glass of wine on the table to hide its trembling. Spread my hands wide on my bare thighs. I wore jean shorts today, becauseheat still clings to the days, even though it’s September in Canada. Maybe that was the wrong choice. Maybe I needed to approach this like a business meeting. I have no problem talking to clients one on one. Maybe if I was wearing linen slacks or a pencil skirt, this wouldn’t be so hard.
Wendy and Neil do me the service, at least, of allowing me to collect my thoughts. I wouldn’t call what I’ve come up with a collection, more a random assortment gathered in one place, but I’ve been quiet for far too long to let this silence last.
“Dean told you I’m a matchmaker?” I ask. “And that’s how we started working together?”
They nod.
“I’ve had clients fall in love, get engaged. I’ve even been invited to some of their weddings.” I smile. “It’s an honor, you know. I imagine it’s a similar feeling to having a baby named after you. I’ve always been able to tell when a match is good,” I say. “It’s in the way the client speaks about them the next day. Every wedding started with that. Two people who seem lost in their own little world of happiness after a good date. It’s like something has changed in them, and they can’t say what it was. I can’t pinpoint it either. They look the same, talk the same, dress the same. They’re just…not the same.”
I smile, thinking of Dean. Of the moonlit shine of his hair that night we stood in our school’s parking lot. When he described the feeling ofrightness, theknowing, that comes with forever. I hadn’t known it then, not really.
I just knew that I was different.
“I’ve felt different for a while. Different in ways that were subtle at first, but now…” I spread my arms wide. “Now I feel it everywhere. All over. And it’s wild to me that no one else can see it, you know? I keep going about my days. I eat the same foods, wear the same clothes, follow the same skin care routine and running paths, but I’m not the same. I’ll never be the same again.”
I press my hand to my chest. The same place he put his that night in the parking lot. “That’s Dean.”
Wendy and Neil don’t frown, per se. But they don’t seemconvinced. Honestly, it doesn’t really matter anymore. I’m on a roll. I’ve started speaking up more, categorically a good thing, except now I don’t always know when to stop.
“I can’t promise you I won’t hurt your son again. I know that’s probably not what you want to hear. But I’m not going to lie to you, either. Of all the things we could be to each other, the least we can be is honest. I’m going to make mistakes. I’m going to be selfish or ignorant or naïve. But I’m also going to love him, to do everything I can to make him feel the way he makes me feel. Because the difference in me isn’t him. It’s me. I’m braver now. Brave enough to love him,” I say. “The way he deserves.”
I look down at my hands, spread across my thighs, imagine they’re his hands. “I asked Dean the same question once, you know? How can he know he’s in love? How can he know he’s with therightperson?”
The tears in my eyes aren’t sad ones, or even happy ones. They’re catharsis, understanding.
“He said relationships can’t be easy, but the loving someone part has to be.” I shrug. “Loving Dean is really fucking easy.” I glance up at them. “Sorry,” I say, but neither seems fazed by my swearing. “Loving him makes every other choice after that worth it.” I shake my head, in disbelief of myself. “I didn’t trust myself before. But I trust myself with him. And I hope, one day, that’s enough.”
The bee still buzzes nearby. The water laps gently at the pool steps, moved by the jets under the surface.
Neil says nothing. Wendy says, “Well.”
I look at them. Wendy’s eyes shine, like mine. Neil’s chair scrapes across the stones as he leans across the table. His big hand engulfs mine where it sits on the tempered glass. He pats me gently. “That’s enough,” he says, not unkindly. I think, for Neil, that’s a level of emotion I won’t often get to see.
I smile, dashing at my tears with my other hand.
“Chlo?” Dean says. He stands at the back kitchen door, half in and half out. His gaze bounces between his parents and me. “What are you doing here?” he asks. He steps through the door, closing it tightlybehind him, but only gets halfway to us before he stops. He’s clocked my tear-stained face.
“What is…are you…what’s going on?”
