Page 7 of Most Likely to Match
“And the winner of the new headshots from Dean Westlake Photography is…” Nick sticks his hand into the Blue Jays ball cap he’s been using as a raffle bucket. “Come on up here, Dean,” he says as he pulls a name out of the hat.
Dean— the photographer— steps onto the stage with Nick.
And the weight in my stomach drops all the way to my feet, then through the floor.
The next few seconds stretch out in front of me, time yawning, an ever-widening gap between me and Dean and the past.
Time has done nothing to Dean Westlake. Except, maybe, somehow, make him even more beautiful than he was when we were eighteen years old. His hair is still dark, and now that his camera isn’t obstructing my view, I can tell it’s that same little bit messy it always was. There are the same thick brows and lashes over his perpetually squinting eyes. Then there are the poutiest lips.
Lips that could kiss me for hours. Days.
The only changes are his sharper jaw line, his chin with a more pronounced dip, and the subtle inference of facial hair around his mouth and cheeks.
“Chloe Morris of Core Cupid Matchmaking. Congratulations Chloe,” Nick says, finding me in the crowd.
Time snaps back, an elastic band whiplash of memory and pain, of guilt.
“Yes,” I hear myself say to Jasmine, my voice pitched high and reedy.
Dean’s eyes find mine. And it’s fitting that it’s like this, him on a stage and me frozen in shock.
He looks the same. Exactly the same, and yet there’s nothing recognizable about him. Not the tension in his jaw or the rigid set of his shoulders. Especially not the cold hatred in his stare.
“Yes,” I say again. “I know him.”
That’s Dean Westlake. And fifteen years ago, I ruined his life.
My legs are wooden as I begin my walk of shame toward the stage. I haven’t given much thought to how I would approach Dean in the last few years. Not after I spent most of my first year of university trying and failing to get him to pick up his phone or answer my texts before he changed his number outright. Thenusing the then fledgling social media apps to find him, only to be blocked.
Once it became clear that Dean well and truly wanted nothing to do with me, I stopped. I gave him space. I respected the boundary. It’s not like I wastryingto forget about him. It seemed like that was what he wanted me to do.
So I did.
But now, I’m about to see him again. I’m going to have my photos taken by him. And I am so woefully unprepared, becauseI’m sorrydoesn’t feel like enough. How could it?
My “friends” destroyed his life. It doesn’t matter whether I had any part in it. I hurt him, simply by association.
I try to smile in his direction.It’s so good to see you againis what I’ll say. It’s genuine and true. But before the crowd ahead of me even has time to part, Dean leans toward Nick and whispers something in his ear, all without taking his eyes off me— hisglareoff me.
And then he hops off the stage and stalks for the door, staying practically plastered to the far wall. As far as physically possible from me. Before I can utter a single word, apology or otherwise, Dean Westlake is gone from my life again. This time as quickly as he re-entered it.
A groupof runners blows past me on the wide path, throwing customary waves and smiles my way. I’ve attempted to join running groups in the past but found the social aspect to be a bit much. I run because it requires little equipment and even fewer participants. Ideally, I should be running in zone two, and the easiest way to measure that is the talk test, but I’m willing to sacrifice that data if it means I can avoid having another conversation about hockey with a Toronto Finance Guy.
I get my most productive reading done while running anyway. The thirty-to-sixty-minute loops along the Martin Goodman Trail I make three to five times a week while listening to an audiobookmake up most of the singular focus time I have that isn’t devoted to coding.
“You have a notification from…” The robotic voice from my phone’s virtual assistant app interrupts my book about the Donner Party to tell me about two new emails. I pause the narration and break stride to walk the rest of the way; I’m almost finished anyway.
Another group of runners wave their hellos, and I smile in response. While I’m not a fan of running in groups, I like the camaraderie between runners. How most go out of their way to acknowledge another runner. How I can still be part of a community even if it’s a completely solitary activity.
After losing clients and then coming face to face with Dean, I didn’t feel right again until I pulled my runners on the next day and took the route down the Leslie Spit. Then, like now, I’m not a business failure or a horrible person. I am simply another runner, part superiority complex, part slowest person on earth.
“Read it,” I prompt, and the VA begins reading the first email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: You’re Voted Most Likely to Reunite!
