Page 47 of The Matchmaker's Choice: A Lesbian Romance
Saturday morning at my favorite breakfast spot works for her.
After I tuck my phone back into my purse, I lean back
against the driver’s seat and shut my eyes. I’m actually
relieved that Richard didn’t show tonight. The bread and wine
were good. My own company was just fine, if not a little
humiliating, but worse things have happened.
I don’t like my next thoughts and I try hard to cram
them back down. If they were files, they’d be shoved in a
drawer labelled do not, under any condition, open this drawer.
I open my eyes and glance in my rear-view mirror,
more out of strange habit than anything. I spot my gym bag
lying there. What better way to blow off steam than to hit the
gym for a few hours? Exhaust myself? It’s a Friday night. It
will probably be just about empty. Maybe if I kick my butt at a
workout or find a class that I can get into that’s absolutely
brutal, I’ll be able to sleep tonight.
I only have one night to get through. Just one.
I can already feel the nerves building. The excitement.
The files trying to spring out of that carefully locked drawer.
I’ve spent my whole life keeping that drawer closed.
Carefully and thoroughly closed.
But this isn’t about that. This is just a meeting to talk
about more dates. More matches. Because that’s what I want.
That’s what I’m using the agency for. That’s it. Nothing else.
I can practically hear that drawer bursting open and
those files jumping out to shout at me, not accusingly or
harshly, but loud enough to get my attention. Begging me to
listen. Pleading with me. This is what you want. This is what
you need. This is who you are. I imagine myself shutting that
drawer, locking away those files again with a decided finality
