Page 38 of Most Likely to Match
“Using me,” I say.
“What?” This time she plants her hand directly on my thigh as she leans in.
“You heard me.” I try my best to keep the harsh growl from my voice, but I hear it, nevertheless.
“I’m not using you,” she says. “Dean.” She covers my clenched fist with her palm.
“But you did,” I say. “Once.”
She sighs, slumping in the booth. “I…I did.” She nods. “I treated you horribly.”
“Here you go,” our server says. The table descends into awkward silence as she slides our plates in front of us. “Can I get you anything else, sweetie?” she asks, mostly to Chloe.
She shakes her head. “No thank you.”
“Thanks,” I say, but she walks away.
My stomach has turned on me again as I stare down at the hash browns, still steaming, and the hollandaise sauce, already congealed. But maybe it’s this conversation that’s making me sick. I pluck two roll-ups from the basket of cutlery in the middle of the table, handing one to Chloe. “Whatever,” I say, setting the napkin on my lap and cutting into the poached egg with a butter knife. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You’re the one who brought it up,” she says.
I poke at the egg’s innards. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
I cut smaller and smaller slices of egg and ham, push the potatoes around until the plate looks eaten from, even though it’s not. After long moments of silence, I finally look over at her, expecting to see anger, frustration, defensiveness. But there’s none of that.
Chloe looks devastated, like I’ve declawed her cat. Her eyes shine a bright blue, though no tears have fallen. She turns to me, a deep flush on her cheeks. “I’ve never had a boyfriend before,” she says, the words strangled. “I don’t date. I’ve had…hookups and casual flings. Situationships,” she says, batting the word from the air as soon as she says it. “But I don’t date.” She shakes her head. “Because…it’s complicated. And I’m not going to talk about ithere,” she says. Then, quieter, “With you.”
If that addition was meant to hurt me, it was successful.
The sound of the diner dims, like someone turned the volume way down on an unseen remote control and replaced the noise with static. It’s kind of obvious now that I’ve taken the time to think about it.
How confused she was last night when I was trying to describehow I knew I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with Caro. Her chosen profession, a job she crafted specifically for herself, out of her particular set of skills. Chloe is a matchmaker; she finds matches for other people because she can’t find them for herself.
“Wh— How…But,” I stutter, then stupidly conclude with, “But you’re, like, thirty-two.”
Her jaw is rigid, her eyes hard, and a shiver, like a thrill, zips down my spine at the look she gives me. “I. Know.”
I push my plate away to face her again. “But you’ve had…” I drop my voice. “Sex.”
She looks at me likeduh.
“I don’t just mean with me. I mean…” I gesture between us, hoping the back-and-forth motion can somehow convey that Chloe clearly knows what she’s doing; sheenjoyssex.
“People can have sex outside of relationships, Dean.”
“No, I know. I’m sorry. This is just kind of blowing my mind.”
She opens her mouth, closes it again. Licks her lips, blinks too fast, picks at her cuticles. I cover her hands with mine, keep them there until, finally, she stills.
Her hands are soft, the nails short and uneven in length. There’s a three-lined scratch along the fleshy part at the base of her thumb, and I rub the back of my fingers along the raised edges of the wound.
Finally, she finds whatever words were eluding her. “It must seem to you that I am using you. Or even that I’ve…used this as a means to an end. You said no to me hiring you, so I’ll just…” She shrugs. “Do this. You’re right, though.” I meet her eyes, my heart too high in my throat to ask what I was right about. “It is easy to fall into old patterns. But I meant what I said last night. I like being with you again. That’s the pattern, for me, at least. Just the ease of being with you, near you again.”
I nod slowly. Contemplative. I want to believe, am desperate to. Butwhat if?
In moments like these, I try to think of what I’d tell my own therapy patients, how I’d guide them through these feelings. Butthere are reasons why we therapists aren’t supposed to therapize ourselves.
We’re terrible patients.
