Page 70 of Most Likely to Match
I stand, smile, tears and all. He smiles back, tentative and sweet. The boy I knew and the man I get to meet every day. “We’re good,” I promise. “We’re just meeting each other, again.”
Wendy turns in her seat to face him, a beckoning hand and big smile. “Come. Join us.”
And he does. We sit side by side. He smells like sunscreen and summer. His skin is warm where he holds my hand. Forget algorithms and matches, forget predictions based on the high school versions of ourselves.
There’s nothing worth more than his heart beating next to mine.
I’ve never felt prouder to be his.
EPILOGUE: CHLOE
1 YEAR LATER
Thunder rolls through the sky outside my office window, the sound so low and distant it’s easy to confuse the acoustic shockwave with the sound of one of my matchmakers rolling their chairs across the floor. But when neither Ayesha nor Leif pop their heads into my open doorway a few seconds later to interrupt my phone call, the origins are clear. The storm that has been pounding the city for the last eight hours is finally moving on.
My phone dings from its stand next to my laptop, but I keep my attention on the video call on my computer screen. “I’m so glad to hear it went well, Zoltan.” Core Cupid’s new client is a single straight man in his mid-forties with one adolescent child and a doctor’s salary. The matchmaking world calls him a unicorn; my algorithm calls him 97 percent compatible with Isobel.
Luckily, Zoltan agrees. “It did.” His smile beams brighter than any post-rain sunshine ever could. “We’re meeting up again on Thursday,” he says.
As I finish up the call and close the laptop, Lief does lean into my doorway. “Hey, boss. You all done for today?” They’re white, freckled, and fair, with bottle green hair and a look of eternal impish-ness, but today, their smile seems extra cheeky.
“Just about,” I say.
“Cool. Ayesha and I have some client meetings we scheduled off-site so—”
“Be caref —”
“So we’re going to be careful,” Ayesha says, joining Lief in the doorway. Her lilac hijab complements her brown skin and toothy smile.
They’re both freshly graduated from university. Lief with a degree in gender studies and Ayesha in business. I can’t help but feel protective of them. They whisper and giggle to each other as they leave the office.
“Check in with me after,” I call, which only makes them laugh inexplicably harder.
Once I hear the door click shut behind them and their feet stomp down the stairway, I turn to my phone. As I expected, it’s a text from Dean:
Lover: hey
hi xo
I’ve been too busy to check in all day.
Good sessions today?
Lover: I think so
Lover: can I ask you something?
Anything.
Lover: for a favor
Yes. Anything. What?
He types and then stops, again and again, the text bubbledisappearing enough times that my screen turns dark while I wait for his response.
Lover: send me a picture.
I roll my eyes. Dean has countless photos of me. He has a folder on his phone for black and whites, for color, for candids and selfies. He has another locked folder with other kinds of photos that are just for us. He hoards photos like currency, a miser for my likeness. But unlike the finance bros who insist on “high quality women,” I am happy to simply print him more money.
