Page 83 of Game, Set, MatchMaker

He gestures toward a booth not far away. “I’m gonna get a couple pies,” he says, as he backward-walks away from me.

I answer the call and greet Claire.

Her usually business-like voice screeches in my ear. “Eeeek! First of all, I am so totally excited and happy for you. Congratulations!”

Is it my imagination, or does she soundnothappy for me at all? And frantic?

Her tone’s testy, like she’s upset with me. Also edgy, as though she’s on the brink of a panic attack.

“Um… thanks? What’s this about?”

“Your big news, obviously! Although—and I don’t mean to sound harsh, or like a downer—youknowit’s sort of crazy to spring this on us while you’re out of town, right? I mean, this isinsane, Gemma. Now I’m scrambling to lay the groundwork that should’ve been laid months ago.”

“Hey, could you maybe back up and start with some actual facts? Because zero of what you’re saying makes sense to me right now.”

“Mortimer’s post…? It started a major buzz in the media. We’re all super pumped for you, of course, but the phones are ringing like crazy and I have journalists emailing me, trying to get statements, and—”

“What post?”

She hesitates. “You’re kidding me.”

“Not even a little.”

Silence.

“Gemma, hispost.The one he shared this morning on all his social media pages.”

“I haven’t checked my accounts in days. Can you fill me in?”

“Oh my gosh. This is crazy. Okay, let me pull it up….”

Now she has me really worried. I pace over to a tree on the edge of the festival. With my back to the skinny maple, I slide down so I’m sitting on a carpet of damp grass and leaves.

“Okay, got it here,” she says. “He wrote:‘Can’t wait to speak at the hash-tag Economics Forum Pinnacle Series on Saturday with my number one fan in her front row seat.’Then, in parentheses:‘Hope she says yes’. Exclamation point.”

My heartbeat skips in a way that can’t be healthy. The happy sounds of the festival around me fade into a singularwomp-womp-womp, like a helicopter’s descending.

It’s not.

This is my own anxiety lowering down over me, all-consuming.

“Wait—what? That can’t be right.”

She ignores my statement. “And the photo to accompany the text is of you and him. Looks like you’re on vacation or something? You’re on a balcony and there's the ocean in the background. The two of you are smiling and holding champagne glasses, and you’re in a black, sparkly dress. This post is getting mega-attention. Hundreds of comments, people saying how happy they are for you two.”

Why would Mortimer share something like this?

He’s always been big on social media. It helps him sell his books, and more than that, I think he likes the attention. I remember when we were together, he loved mentioning me in posts. He knew that his audience loved seeing photos of us together.

Maybe seeing me in that hotel lobby reminded him of our relationship—and how much the public adored us, as a couple.

I can’t geta clear grasp on what’s going on, besides the fact that now the public thinks that Mortimer’s about to propose to me.

Which is impossible.

He’s with another woman.

I work on steadying my breathing. It won’t do me or my Head of Marketing any good, if we both have panic attacks. While I draw in slow breaths, I search the crowd for Parker and spot him across the way, paying for two pies.

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