Page 2 of Most Likely to Match (The Matchbooks #2)

CHLOE

PRESENT DAY

W hen you fall in love, or get engaged, there’s this weird transitory time when you feel different, but the rest of the world stays the same.

You walk the same streets, shop the same grocery aisles, ride the same subway trains.

You see the same people on your commute and bag your groceries with the same cashier, but you aren’t the same.

And you keep waiting for someone to see it, the sunbeams bursting from your fingertips, the love lifting the smile in your cheeks more perfectly than any cosmetic injection.

At least that’s what I’ve heard from the clients who’ve gotten engaged, the ones who’ve felt like they met The One after a date generated by my algorithm. I’ve never been engaged. I’ve never even been in love. But I still understand that feeling.

Just in reverse. The upside-down version of that feeling.

I’ve lost three clients this month. Three. And it’s not even the end of the month.

Not because they’ve been unsatisfied with my matchmaking services.

Not because they never found their perfect match or found them somewhere other than in the code of my algo .

I’m losing clients because I’ve never found my perfect match.

The guy who sells hot dogs at the top of the subway steps nods at me as I appear street side.

Even though he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even crack a smile, my skin feels painted in the most recent cancellation email.

Right there on the surface for him to read.

The one that said I just don’t see how I can take dating advice from a person who doesn’t date.

Which isn’t even true.

I do date. I simply am not dating currently. And when I was, I wasn’t dating seriously.

Because those who can’t do, teach.

Or for the J.Lo fans, those who can’t wed, plan.

Those who can’t love, match.

I smile at Chuck, Moonbar’s late-night bouncer and happy hour private event doorman, but avoid eye contact, because he knows me better than my favorite hot dog merchant. And even if it’s a completely irrational thought, if I meet his eyes, I know he’ll know.

He’ll know that, despite a successful algorithm and well-matched customers, I am losing clients. I am bleeding clients. And for quite possibly the stupidest reason ever.

Because I don’t have a boyfriend. Because I haven’t found my perfect match. Because apparently Core Cupid can only be a viable business if there’s a ring on my finger.

The bar is already packed as I descend the steps into the dive bar.

There’s a table set up near the door, where two women from the Downtown Toronto District Business Improvement Area hand out name tags and take down emails for various raffle, including: a thirty-minute call with a digital marketing service; three hundred dollars’ worth of free printing services; and new headshots from the photographer they hired for the networking event.

I manage to get through the registration process without anyone clocking my failure, which seems impossible. Failure oozes from my fingertips like a slick, corrosive oil. Disappointment hangs from my skin like heavy jowls.

I use my bag like hockey pads to get through the crowd of business owners and make my way to the back of the bar, pushing through the swinging door into the relative quiet of the bathroom hallway.

As the door finally settles on its hinges behind me, I shift the bag on my shoulder and open the zipper with enough force to almost rip it.

That is enough to give me pause and remind me to breathe.

I spent three weeks researching the best tote bags, taking into account versatility, zipper and fabric quality, and compartments— both quantity and size. Even after settling on this one, I made adjustments to it so it would be absolutely perfect.

Now is not the time to destroy my bag because I’m overwhelmed and overstimulated.

“ Psssttt …”

Jasmine stands in the doorway of Moonbar’s tiny office, backlit like an angel descending to save me. She steps to the side and gestures for me to slip in.

Truly. An angel.

We don’t speak for a few moments after she shuts the door behind me. She takes her seat at the desk, and I fall into the one across from her. The music playing in the bar is audible here, though without the cacophony of voices overlaid.

Jasmine frowns at her laptop screen. She wears her red hair up in a high ponytail, with pearls on her ears and a matching choker pearl necklace.

Her black Moonbar t-shirt, with Jazz embroidered across the left breast, is casual in comparison to the classic, preppy style she sports, but somehow, she makes it work.

I sigh with relief when I pull my phone from its compartment in my bag. I tap the Magma app, which simulates a lava lamp on my phone screen, but I keep the volume off so Jasmine doesn’t have to listen to the “music for calm and focus” playlist that comes with it.

“What’s wrong?” she asks after I stare at the screen for I don’t know how long.

I close the screen app and drop the phone back into my bag. “Nothing. What? Why?”

“There’s something wrong,” she says, continuing to study me .

Well, shit. People aren’t actually supposed to see it when you’re different. That’s what I’ve been led to believe.

I open my mouth to give her an answer I’m not prepared for yet— truth or excuse or flat-out lie— but I’m saved by her boyfriend, Nick.

“Ladies.” He smiles apologetically, leaning in the doorway. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, pleading.

He, too, enters the office, closing the door behind him.

If we haven’t reached max capacity yet, we’re about one toddler away from breaching fire code.

“Remember how you asked us to host these BIA events?” He’s all stern-faced, but his voice is teasing.

“To support the economic development of our district ,” he says in what I assume is meant to be my voice.

He manages to slide between the back of Jasmine’s computer chair and the filing cabinets behind her, leaning his hands on either side of her on the desk. He kisses the top of her head, then her ear, and buries his face in a spot below her jaw.

She squeals and giggles and whisper-hisses an admonishing “ Nicholas ,” to which he immediately stops.

I look at the closed office door. It’s the only privacy I can offer in this negative square footage, though it’s more for me than their benefit.

Jasmine, who was once my own matchmaking client, is not one for public displays of affection, a fact I know mostly because she told me about it in her onboarding interview.

But Nick, who was also once a quasi-client— if signing up for matchmaking services only so he could potentially match with Jasmine counts— will take any opportunity to show her how he feels.

She’s kind of gone for him, so she lets him.

I generally don’t mind their intense couple behavior, but right now, it feels like he’s unintentionally rubbing my failures in my face.

“Are you okay?” Nick asks.

I scowl. Curses to empathic friends. “I am.”

He snorts, disbelieving. “’Kay. Pretty sure that BIA boss lady is looking for you,” he says .

Jasmine leans across the desk. “He means the executive director.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Can I leave my bag in here?” I ask. It’s too big to carry around out there, and if I don’t have it, I won’t be tempted to push people around with it.

Nick nods, already focused on Jasmine again. “You gotta get out there, too.” He plays with the end of her ponytail, trailing it across the back of her neck. “I want the photographer to get some photos of you.”

She bats his hand away, still focused on her laptop. “Creep,” she mutters.

“Do you think you guys qualify as a Core Cupid success story?” I ask as I shuffle toward the door.

Nick stops his obnoxious flirting, and Jasmine pauses her performative annoyance to stare at me.

“Uh…”

“Well….”

I shake my head. “Never mind.”

How fucking embarrassing. Asking to use a couple who didn’t actually ever match through my algorithm to hold up as a Core Cupid success story.

I can picture the bus stop advertisement now: I don’t need a boyfriend. These two people matched by accident. Please don’t fire me!

“You should meet the photographer they hired, by the way,” Nick says as I open the office door. Immediately, yelled conversation hits all three of us like Grond, the battering ram. “He grew up in the ’burbs, like you.”

Now it’s my turn to snort. The Greater Toronto Area is surrounded by twenty-five urban, suburban, and rural municipalities. The implication that I may know the photographer because he and I both grew up in “the ’burbs” is like an American asking a Canadian if they know Joe from Canada.

“Sure thing, Nick,” I say, but his face is buried in Jasmine’s neck again and I’m not sure he heard me .

One of the things people loved about Core Cupid, back when people loved Core Cupid, was that I captured the best of both worlds: a near perfect algorithmic matching tech and one-on-one, face-to-face customer service. I thrive one-on-one, getting to know a person, especially a client.

What I can’t handle is crowds.

There’s not much point in me coming to these networking events, even though I’ve helped plan them for the Downtown Toronto District BIA for the last year.

I always end up finding a corner to hole myself up in and hope that if anyone does come up to talk to me, they’re someone I already know, since I’ve literally backed myself into a corner and can’t get away.

Luckily, Jasmine knows this about me, and she soon comes to find me where I’m perched on a stool at the end of the bar, close to the door and the high-set basement windows, with a glass of sparkling water sweating next to me, even though Moonbar offers two free drink tickets for all BIA members.

She’s a perfect buffer for the real businesspeople, who have no problem walking up to complete strangers and asking probing questions like Who are you? And What do you do?