Page 20 of Matchmaking for Psychopaths

Though he still had a key, Noah rang the doorbell.

The formality of it was painful. I hated the acknowledgment of what he’d done, that the town house had so instantly reverted to being solely mine.

He had moved in with me quickly. Molly pushed me in front of him; he pulled me up, tended to my wounds, and a month later he was spending seven nights a week in my bed.

I hadn’t considered that the easiness of his moving in with me was an indicator of the easiness of his leaving.

I couldn’t let it happen again. I would invite him in and make sure that he stayed.

I took a minute to answer the door, pretending that I was busy doing other things. I wasn’t waiting for you. I haven’t spent the day preparing for your arrival.

“Hi,” I said when I’d opened the door. I turned my face to stone, expressing neither joy nor sorrow. Only hysterical women glared and grimaced at the men who had hurt them.

He stood there, the same as he’d ever been.

He wore my favorite blue sweater, the one that matched his eyes.

I wondered when he’d taken it, and I realized with a sudden epiphany that he must’ve spent weeks preparing for his departure with Molly.

His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders hunched with apprehension.

“Hey, Lexie.”

He paused awkwardly in the doorway, like a vampire waiting for permission to enter.

“Are you cold?” I asked, noting his lack of a jacket.

He shrugged. I took it to mean that he was using the chilliness as some kind of self-flagellation for his sins.

“You can come in, you know,” I said after a moment.

“Okay. Thanks,” he replied, stepping across the threshold.

I shut the door, wishing that I had handcuffs and a chain so I could keep him inside forever. I pushed the thought away. Only hysterical women kept their ex-fiancés hostage in the houses they’d once shared together.

“Where’s my stuff?” he asked.

“Where you left it.”

In the kitchen, the oven timer went off with a beep. Perfect timing.

“Hold on,” I told him. “I need to get dinner out of the oven.”

Noah followed me into the kitchen. I did my best to bend over sexily as I reached for the pan, my hands covered by thick oven mitts.

“That smells good,” he said.

If I knew anything, I knew what my man liked to eat.

“Do you want some? There’s plenty.”

After a pause, he replied, “Okay. Just a little.”

I turned my back on him, smiled to myself, and poured more wine.

“Want a glass?” I asked, gesturing to the bottle.

“Why not?” he said.

No pause this time. I’d forgotten how pliable he was. It was one of the things I’d initially liked about him. As long as it didn’t interfere with his job, he was happy to go along with whatever I wanted to do. No wonder Molly had been able to break him between her fingers.

I cut us each a thick rectangle of casserole.

The cheese stuck to the spatula. I knew what my mother would’ve said about the dish: so pedestrian .

She was the type of woman who preferred to eat a luxurious meal or nothing at all.

That meant that I was hungry a lot as a child, and hungry people will consume all kinds of stuff.

We sat at the dining room table. It was a place where we’d sat a million times before, but it felt like new now. He glanced at the flowers, and I did my best to read jealousy into his expression.

“How have you been, Lexie?” he asked after a moment of silence.

The question was a test rather than a true inquiry.

Are you going to turn hysterical on me, Lexie?

he might as well have asked. He sounded like Dr. Noah, the man in charge of the exam room, instead of the person who’d had sex with me a thousand different ways.

He was assessing me, trying to determine whether I was ill.

“I’ve been okay,” I said, giving away nothing.

He nodded. I’d passed.

“Me too,” he said. “Okay.”

I took a bite of the casserole. Fuck. It was good. It tasted wholesome, like his family. If Noah hadn’t been there, I might’ve eaten the whole thing in a single sitting.

“How’s your mom?” I asked. Does she still love me? Does she miss me, her once and future daughter?

Some hurt came through on his face. Noah disliked disappointing his mother more than he disliked doing the same to me.

“She’s sad.”

And what about you? Are you sad too?

“It’s okay, you know, if she wants to text me. I miss her,” I said.

He nodded.

“I’ll let her know.”

Noah didn’t ask about my mother. We’d established early on in our relationship that I didn’t like to talk about my family, with the implication that they were abusive.

I appreciated how uncurious he was. Other women wanted men who asked them questions, but I wanted someone who accepted what I was willing to give.

“I’m sorry that you didn’t have a good relationship with your parents,” he’d said. “My parents can be that for you, the mom and dad that you never had.”

When he told me, that was probably the first moment I really knew I was in love.

I changed the topic, because it was difficult thinking about his mom.

I didn’t want my relationship with her to be altered.

People on television were constantly saying things like You’re like a brother/sister/mother/father to me to people they’d known for only a few weeks.

I’d wanted his mother to be that adoptive parent for me.

I’d wanted to be a daughter to her, even though she’d already birthed one of her own.

The previous week had shown how easy it was to sever the closeness we’d established.

The expression “like a mother,” it turned out, was just a simile after all.

“Work has been interesting. Better Love is going to expand into other cities soon, become a national brand. Serena is going to promote someone to take over her role at the original office.”

Noah’s face brightened.

“It’s yours,” he said.

“I hope so. Nicole wants it too.”

“Fuck Nicole.” A rare swear word out of his mouth. “You deserve it.”

I smiled. Noah liked that I was a matchmaker.

Though he hadn’t voiced as much, he seemed to believe that it was an appropriate profession for a woman.

I was responsible for the metaphorical heart while he was in charge of the literal organ.

Secretly, each of us believed that we held the more important position.

Despite the patronizing tone that he sometimes used to describe my role, I appreciated Noah’s belief in my abilities, as it was further proof that we were supposed to be together.

He believed in me as a matchmaker; ergo, he believed me when I told him that the two of us were a perfect fit.

“Thanks, Noah.”

“Do you mind if I have more?” he asked, gesturing toward his empty plate.

“Go for it,” I told him.

He went into the kitchen. I quickly checked my reflection in my phone screen, to make sure my lipstick was intact, and I saw that I had a text from Rebecca.

Paul is cute, but our conversation isn’t going great. Seems a little full of himself?

Give it a little more time! I responded, then put my phone down as Noah returned.

“You’re such a good cook,” he said. He wiped his mouth with a napkin after taking too big of a bite. He was a messy eater, which was incongruous with the rest of his persona. Most of his food consumption occurred in the hospital, where he hurriedly stuffed whatever he could into his mouth.

“Thanks. I’m trying something new tonight.” I didn’t tell him that I’d used one of his mother’s recipes, that I knew what he wanted because what he wanted was a replica of his own mom.

“It’s great. You should definitely make this again.”

His compliments were followed by several beats of silence. Say the word, and we can go back to normal. It doesn’t have to be like this. I hated how palpable the shift between us was. I could feel Molly in the room even though she wasn’t there.

“There are new episodes of that show you like,” I said when Noah was almost finished with his food.

“Which one?”

“The one about the detective.”

“Oh yeah. I haven’t had much time to watch television lately.”

The implication was that he was busy at the hospital, but I couldn’t help considering what he and Molly had been doing together.

I thought of all the stories that Molly had told me about her sexual escapades and her various boyfriends, including the time she’d actually vomited while giving someone a blow job. Now Noah was part of that lore.

“We could watch an episode if you want. Oliver gave me an apple pie. I guess someone he’s dating gave it to him, but he’s on one of his crazy diets where he’s off sugar, so he passed it along to me.”

Noah looked down at his smartwatch. I saw the numbers flash: six forty-five. Still plenty of time before my fictional plans at eight o’clock.

“You know I love pie,” he said.

I did.

“I’ll go cut us each a slice.”

Though Oliver was on a sugar-free diet—one that involved a conspicuous number of doughnuts during our weekly intake meeting—he hadn’t given me the pie.

I’d picked it up while at the store, shopping for dinner ingredients.

If nothing else worked—the casserole, the decorations, the dress, my body—I knew that the pie would hook him.

Outside of the hospital, where he was brilliant, Noah really was a simple man.

I refilled our wine glasses while he took a seat on the couch.

I was on my third glass, and drunker than I’d intended to be.

I told myself that I needed the alcohol to help me be brave.

I didn’t. I was brave enough on my own. I wanted to be drunk because it helped me block out thoughts of Molly and Noah, their bodies moving together as one.

I checked my phone and found another update from Rebecca.

He invited me back to his place. Should I go?

No! That’s against the rules, I replied.