Page 7

REMI

I’m tripping.

Hard-core tripping.

I continue to stare at the screen of my phone as if I’m seeing things, even though I know I’m not. It’s right there in bold, black letters.

There’s a message.

Actually, there are quite a few matches on my profile, but only one pack thought to message me. I really like that. When someone takes initiative, I think that’s hotter than anything else. It means they know what they want and aren’t afraid to pursue it.

I see we are a match. My pack would be honored if you would agree to meet so that we may become better acquainted with one another. Please reply with your interest. We look forward to meeting you, RemiWithAnI.

I can’t stop the giddiness that envelops me. I also can’t stop myself from replying. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m writing back.

Yes, I see we are. Thanks for reaching out. I would be honored to meet with your pack to become better acquainted. Can you do 6 pm this coming Saturday at Tesoro? I look forward to your reply, 3XtheCharm.

A smile brightens my face when I press send. I feel good about this. I know that as soon as I replied, Select-A-Mate was notified of the match and potential meeting. Now that I replied to 3XtheCharm, they will officially match us together in the system.

I hope something comes from this because I really love the idea of no longer being alone.

The anticipation buzzes through me, electric and unrelenting, leaving no room for stillness. I glance at my phone for the hundredth time, but the screen remains stubbornly blank. A reply could come at any moment—or not—and the thought twists my insides into a curious knot of hope and nerves.

I decide to channel my restless energy into something productive: cleaning.

My little home is a cozy sanctuary, a place that carries the weight of my laughter, solitude, and scattered dreams, yet it could always use a touch more order.

I start in the living room, gathering stray books and throwing pillows that seem to have wandered off their intended spots.

The rhythmic motion of fluffing cushions grounds me, a soothing contrast to the swirling thoughts in my head.

Next, I tackle the kitchen. The dishes in the sink seem to glare at me reproachfully, so I wash them one by one, the warm water running over my hands like a balm.

Each plate finds its place, gleaming and triumphant, as though it’s been restored to dignity.

I wipe the counters, scrubbing away the faint smudges of earlier meals, and the scent of lemon cleaner fills the air, crisp and invigorating.

The bedroom beckons next. I change the sheets with practiced efficiency, smoothing out the fabric until it almost feels like a clean slate.

Dusting the surfaces feels like erasing tiny fragments of time, refreshing the room as I go.

My eyes linger on the mirror, catching my reflection for a fleeting moment.

There's an undeniable spark in my gaze—the thrill of possibility mingled with the vulnerability of putting myself out there.

Finally, the bathroom gets its due. The tiles gleam under my careful attention, each swipe of the cloth a small act of renewal.

As I clean the sink, I imagine the reply popping up on my phone.

The thought sends a jolt of excitement through me, and I pause, almost tempted to rush back to check.

But no—I’ve committed to this task, and there's something satisfying about seeing each corner of my world polished and waiting, just like me.

By the time I finish, the house hums with a quiet contentment, a reflection of my hopeful heart.

I sit on the couch, the cushions now perfectly fluffed, and let out a deep breath.

The phone rests beside me, still silent, but the space around me feels lighter, brighter—as if ready to welcome whatever comes next.

A sudden knock breaks the stillness, sharp and unexpected.

For a moment, I freeze, my gaze darting toward the door.

My heart flutters in a strange, erratic rhythm, as if it knows something I don’t.

Rising from the couch, I smooth down my clothes and take a steadying breath, the silence in the room amplifying the sound of my steps.

When I open the door, the sight before me is both surprising and heartwarming.

Windy stands there, her familiar face framed by the golden light of the setting sun, a smile playing softly on her lips.

In her hands, she holds two to-go containers of coffee, their warmth visible in the faint wisps of steam escaping through the lids.

The comforting, rich aroma drifts toward me, mingling with the crisp evening air.

“I thought you might need a little pick-me-up,” she says, her voice light and easy, though her eyes hint at a knowing kindness. She holds the containers up slightly as if presenting an offering. “One’s your favorite—extra cream, no sugar.”

The corners of my mouth lift into a smile, gratitude washing over me like a wave. “Windy, you always know when to show up.”

Her grin widens, and she shrugs in that effortlessly charming way of hers. “What can I say? I have impeccable timing.”

I gesture for her to come in, stepping aside to let her into the freshly cleaned space, which now seems to glow with a touch more warmth. As she crosses the threshold, it feels as though the room itself breathes, alive with her presence.

I want to keep what I’m doing a secret, but at the same time, I want to share it with my friend to get her take on things. She’s always the more level-headed of us, and she will give me advice on what I should do. I know she will. Windy is good like that.

Sitting down on the couch, I take a tentative sip of my brew. It’s delicious, warm, and soothing. I take a deep breath, allowing calmness to settle my nerves. This is a big step I’m taking. One that Windy may disagree with. However, I won’t know her opinion on things until I ask.

“So,” I say, catching myself.

She laughs. “So …”

I take another sip. “I kind of did something.”

She looks at me expectantly. She doesn’t say a word, merely sits there slowly sipping her coffee. Her eyes twinkle in the early light, filled with mischief and something heartwarming.

“You know that paper that Jazmyn handed out at the last book club meeting?” I ask, fully aware she remembers.

“How can I forget? It’s all the ladies wanted to talk about instead of the next book we were going to read.”

“Well,” I say nervously. “I kind of …”

Her mouth falls open in an O. Shock twists her face as she slaps a hand over her open mouth. “No, you didn’t!”

I close my eyes, answering, “Yes. I signed up.”

“Have you gotten a match?”

A blush blooms across my cheeks. It triggers her giggling fit. She hops up and down on the couch, chanting, “Tell me more. Tell me more. Tell me more.”

“Well, the program is a little weird.”

“How so?”

“You don’t upload a profile picture. No picture at all.”

Confusion mars her brows. “Say what?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “You don’t upload any picture whatsoever. The program is based on the questionnaire you fill out. Select-A-Mate is a ‘no photo’ program because they think you should be matched based on personality and traits that match your matches instead of going off looks.”

She sits there for several seconds before she responds. “Well, that’s kind of smart. It could be why their success rate is so high.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“So, do you have a match?”

My cheeks pinken further, and she squeals while grabbing me up into a hug, being careful of our coffees. Her scent of Moroccan Rose envelops me as if it’s a soothing balm for my soul.

“Yes, I have a match. Their name is Three Times the Charm. I messaged them back today, and I’m waiting for their reply.”

“Ohh, this is so exciting!” she gushes, doing a little jig on the couch. “I hope they’re your happily ever after!”

“Well, I hope so, too. The moment I returned their contact, we were paired in Select-A-Mate’s system. We will not be able to match with anyone else unless we mutually split ways.”

Her eyes go round. “This program sounds like the real deal.”

“I think it is.” I nod, taking a sip. “I believe it’s why their success rate is so high.

They take their jobs seriously, and they meticulously pair people together based on their answers.

If someone lies on the questionnaire, then Select-A-Mate will know because we’re contractually bound to let them know that the person on the other end of the table isn’t who they say they are. ”

“It all sounds so serious.”

“We’re not locked in like a car loan or anything like that, but they did have me electronically sign something that stated all my answers were truthful to the best of my knowledge.

I guess if they find someone has lied on their questionnaire, they will kick them out of the program with no second chances to get back in. ”

I was pleasantly surprised when I read that portion during the sign-up process. It ensures that no one can lie and try to trap someone into a mating. That is the main thing I am worried about. I don’t want to be trapped with a bunch of assholes that lied on their questionnaire.

Being trapped with someone who turns out to be the opposite of what they claimed to be would be the worst thing ever.

In Select-A-Mate, you receive one match unless you mutually split.

With that one match, you have to make the best of it.

It’s simply amazing that Select-A-Mate has such a high success rate. They really know what they’re doing.

Her enthusiasm is contagious, and soon, we’re both leaning toward one another, caught up in a whirlwind of discussion about the intricacies of the Select-A-Mate program.

Windy’s eyes are bright with curiosity as she asks, “So, what happens after you match? Do they, like, give you a guidebook or strategies on how to approach your match?”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Not quite a guidebook, but they do provide resources—like communication tips and how to handle the first meeting. They even have a hotline you can call for advice if you’re feeling stuck or nervous.”

“Wow, that’s so thorough!” she says, her hand resting on her cheek as she listens. “I mean, it’s not like those random dating apps where you’re just left to flounder. This feels like... matchmaking with a Ph.D.”

“Exactly!” I exclaim, thrilled that she gets it. “It’s designed to filter out the noise and focus on genuine compatibility. I think that’s why it works—they don’t just throw people together and hope for the best. They’re invested in the outcome.”

Windy clutches a pillow to her chest, her voice turning dreamy. “I wonder what it would be like to go through something like that. To have someone completely invested in finding your perfect match? It sounds like a fairy tale but with actual science behind it.”

I chuckle, sipping my coffee again. “It feels like a mix of fate and logic, honestly. Like, they’re using data and algorithms to guide the universe’s hand.”

Our laughter fills the room, warming the air around us as we swap theories and engage in playful debate about the possibilities.

She asks about the questionnaire—what kind of questions they asked, whether I hesitated on any of my answers.

When I tell her about the dozens of questions on values, lifestyle preferences, and even conflict resolution styles, she raises her eyebrows in amazement.

“Conflict resolution styles?” she repeats, shaking her head. “That’s intense. Did you feel like you were being psychoanalyzed?”

“Yes,” I admit with a grin. “But it wasn’t invasive. It made me think deeply about myself, like what I truly want and need from someone else. It’s not just about finding a partner—it’s about learning who you are, too.”

Windy sits back, letting the pillow fall to her lap. “I love that. It’s like self-discovery wrapped in romance. You know, this program might just be revolutionary.”

“It’s certainly unlike anything else out there,” I agree, my voice softening. “And honestly, I feel... hopeful. Like, for once, this might actually work.”

Windy’s gaze meets mine, and she smiles. “I think it will. And when it does, I’m going to throw you the biggest celebration ever.”

We laugh again, the sound spilling over into the evening as we continue to lose track of time, diving deeper into the endless possibilities Select-A-Mate might bring.