Page 37 of Most Likely to Match (The Matchbooks #2)

CHLOE

M y bag is a black hole. Specifically for my keys and my lip balm, but mostly for my phone.

And I could really use it right now. Or, at least, I could really use the calming benefits, the soothing look of my Magma app.

This bag has a Place for everything, a pocket, a zipper, an insert, so that nothing can get lost. But those features only really work if you put your things where they belong.

Clearly, I have not done so.

I blink up at Dean’s house from my car. The garage is open, his mom’s sedan sitting in the middle of the two-car bay.

His dad’s truck shines on the driveway. The cement is still dark from the wash he must have given it earlier today.

Their front door is open, the screen door the only barrier to the cool early evening air and bugs.

Late summer smells cling to the air, cut grass and warm asphalt.

Somewhere not too far from here, children squeal and splash in a backyard pool.

Dean isn’t home. Matt is back in town, and he invited me for dinner with them, but I fibbed a little and said I’m training for a half-marathon and need to get some mileage.

I am thinking of entering a half-marathon hosted in Ottawa in October, but I already got any mileage I might need for it done earlier today.

Dean’s parents got home from their European vacation last week. I haven’t been to his house since. He said he told them about us, but he didn’t go into much detail about their reactions, other than to say, “they’re happy I’m happy.”

I get it.

My mom still holds a grudge against the boy who was mean to me at sleepaway camp between fourth and fifth grade.

I don’t even remember his name, but she remembers how he made me feel.

How I called her, sobbing, terrified that he was right and that my parents wouldn’t pick me up at the end of the one-week session.

Whatever distrust they’re feeling about me, they’re entitled to it.

I’m not sure if showing up at their home, without Dean here, to plead my case is the best way to go about this. Actually, now that I’m sitting here, this is maybe a terrible idea.

“Keys,” I say to myself, wrenching open the gaping mouth of my bag to find them in this black hole.

The squeaky sound of an old screen door opening wide draws my attention before I can find my exit plan.

I glance back up at the house to see Dean’s mom, Wendy, standing in the doorway.

She frowns until we lock eyes, and recognition slowly rolls across her face.

There goes the slinking away in shame option. I close the bag. Unclip my seat belt. Take a deep breath. And open the car door.

It’s pretty weird to sit in a deck chair with your boyfriend’s parents, staring directly at the spot on the deck where their son ate your pussy like he was being paid per lick just a few weeks ago.

To avoid blushing, I stare down into the glass of chilled red wine Dean’s mom gave me a few minutes ago.

“They do that in Venice, you know,” Wendy says as she takes the seat across from me. Her husband, Neil, sits beside her, drinking nothing .

“Oh?” I am not sure who they are or what it is they may do.

“Chill their red wine.” She nods emphatically.

“Oh!” I take a sip. “That makes sense,” I say. “’Cause of the heat.”

The table descends into silence, the pool water lapping gently against the steps a pleasant soundtrack to my awkwardness.

“Thanks.” I hold up the glass. “For inviting me in and…” I trail off, unsure of how to elaborate. Letting me speak feels too extreme. They’re not a high court where I’m to appeal my case.

Actually, they kind of are.

“Of course.” Wendy smiles at Neil, who has remained impassive and silent since she yelled for him to join us outside from the base of the stairs.

I take another sip of wine. The chill is kind of nice, though I’m too nervous to notice anything else. Fruity, dry, acidic, mouthfeel are all secondary to just cold.

“I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced.” Like the first time I saw Dean again, in my office, I have a speech of sorts planned out. “I wanted to speak with both of you privately.” But now that I’m saying it out loud, it’s all starting to sound wrong.

“Not because I want to hide anything from Dean,” I say quickly when the crease between Wendy’s brows deepens. “It’s just, you know, sometimes, it’s easier to be honest without barriers.”

Wendy’s brow lowers more.

“Not that anyone is lying.”

I stare down into my glass, to gather myself, and to, hopefully, stay the inevitable rush of tears that comes with this level of emotional overwhelm.

I swear, sometimes Dean feels positively psychic.

He’ll grab my hands and rub them between his, breathing intently, slowly.

If the setting is right, he’ll lie down on a carpet and invite me to join him, and whatever stress I’ve been feeling will slowly leak out of me, absorbed by the high pile.

I imagine his hands in mine now, the slow circle of his thumbs over my palms, the gentle way he pulls each finger, wiggles them in the socket. The soft kisses he’ll leave on my hands .

“I love Dean,” I say quietly. “I think I’ve probably always loved him.”

A bee buzzes nearby, gorging herself on Wendy’s flowers.

“I know that probably means nothing to either of you. Words mean nothing in the face of such harmful behavior.” Finally, I summon the courage to meet their eyes.

Wendy bites her lip, maybe sad? Or maybe physically holding herself back from verbally ripping me a new asshole. Neil remains stoic. He could be credibly accused of a vegetative state at this point; I don’t think he’s moved.

“I was going to go through all the reasons why I think I’m a good match for Dean, but maybe it would be better for you if there were any questions I could answer for you. About myself or…the past?”

Wendy looks at Neil again. She has Dean’s dark hair. She’s petite, but she feels feisty, in the same way the Jasmine’s little sister Jade feels feisty; both sweet, until they need to be something else.

“Well,” she says slowly. “It’s not really the past we’re worried about.” She looks at the side of her husband’s face as she speaks. I can’t tell if she’s waiting for him to jump in or if he’s simply her comfort. “Dean mentioned you’ve never dated before?”

I wince. That’s a strange fact for your boyfriend’s parents to know, it turns out. My stomach twists in the kind of embarrassment that makes me wish I was invisible. “I’ve never had a serious boyfriend,” I say. “Or a boyfriend of any kind, I guess.” There’s no use in sugar-coating this.

“I think what Wendy is trying to say,” Neil says, “is that you’ve hurt Dean once before.

And while we can acknowledge you’re a very different person than you were in high school, we’re still concerned that you have the capacity to hurt our son.

” His jaw works like he’s still trying to find the right words. “That you will hurt him.”

I nod. “That’s valid.”

“It’s just,” Wendy chimes in, “if you’ve never been in love before, how do you know you love him now, dear?”

I set my glass of wine on the table to hide its trembling.

Spread my hands wide on my bare thighs. I wore jean shorts today, because heat still clings to the days, even though it’s September in Canada.

Maybe that was the wrong choice. Maybe I needed to approach this like a business meeting.

I have no problem talking to clients one on one.

Maybe if I was wearing linen slacks or a pencil skirt, this wouldn’t be so hard.

Wendy and Neil do me the service, at least, of allowing me to collect my thoughts. I wouldn’t call what I’ve come up with a collection, more a random assortment gathered in one place, but I’ve been quiet for far too long to let this silence last.

“Dean told you I’m a matchmaker?” I ask. “And that’s how we started working together?”

They nod.

“I’ve had clients fall in love, get engaged.

I’ve even been invited to some of their weddings.

” I smile. “It’s an honor, you know. I imagine it’s a similar feeling to having a baby named after you.

I’ve always been able to tell when a match is good,” I say.

“It’s in the way the client speaks about them the next day.

Every wedding started with that. Two people who seem lost in their own little world of happiness after a good date.

It’s like something has changed in them, and they can’t say what it was.

I can’t pinpoint it either. They look the same, talk the same, dress the same. They’re just…not the same.”

I smile, thinking of Dean. Of the moonlit shine of his hair that night we stood in our school’s parking lot. When he described the feeling of rightness , the knowing , that comes with forever. I hadn’t known it then, not really.

I just knew that I was different.

“I’ve felt different for a while. Different in ways that were subtle at first, but now…

” I spread my arms wide. “Now I feel it everywhere. All over. And it’s wild to me that no one else can see it, you know?

I keep going about my days. I eat the same foods, wear the same clothes, follow the same skin care routine and running paths, but I’m not the same. I’ll never be the same again.”

I press my hand to my chest. The same place he put his that night in the parking lot. “That’s Dean.”

Wendy and Neil don’t frown, per se. But they don’t seem convinced. Honestly, it doesn’t really matter anymore. I’m on a roll. I’ve started speaking up more, categorically a good thing, except now I don’t always know when to stop.

“I can’t promise you I won’t hurt your son again.

I know that’s probably not what you want to hear.

But I’m not going to lie to you, either.

Of all the things we could be to each other, the least we can be is honest. I’m going to make mistakes.

I’m going to be selfish or ignorant or na?ve.

But I’m also going to love him, to do everything I can to make him feel the way he makes me feel.

Because the difference in me isn’t him. It’s me.

I’m braver now. Brave enough to love him,” I say. “The way he deserves.”

I look down at my hands, spread across my thighs, imagine they’re his hands. “I asked Dean the same question once, you know? How can he know he’s in love? How can he know he’s with the right person?”

The tears in my eyes aren’t sad ones, or even happy ones. They’re catharsis, understanding.

“He said relationships can’t be easy, but the loving someone part has to be.

” I shrug. “Loving Dean is really fucking easy.” I glance up at them.

“Sorry,” I say, but neither seems fazed by my swearing.

“Loving him makes every other choice after that worth it.” I shake my head, in disbelief of myself.

“I didn’t trust myself before. But I trust myself with him. And I hope, one day, that’s enough.”

The bee still buzzes nearby. The water laps gently at the pool steps, moved by the jets under the surface.

Neil says nothing. Wendy says, “Well.”

I look at them. Wendy’s eyes shine, like mine.

Neil’s chair scrapes across the stones as he leans across the table.

His big hand engulfs mine where it sits on the tempered glass.

He pats me gently. “That’s enough,” he says, not unkindly.

I think, for Neil, that’s a level of emotion I won’t often get to see.

I smile, dashing at my tears with my other hand.

“Chlo?” Dean says. He stands at the back kitchen door, half in and half out. His gaze bounces between his parents and me. “What are you doing here?” he asks. He steps through the door, closing it tightly behind him, but only gets halfway to us before he stops. He’s clocked my tear-stained face.

“What is…are you…what’s going on?”

I stand, smile, tears and all. He smiles back, tentative and sweet. The boy I knew and the man I get to meet every day. “We’re good,” I promise. “We’re just meeting each other, again.”

Wendy turns in her seat to face him, a beckoning hand and big smile. “Come. Join us.”

And he does. We sit side by side. He smells like sunscreen and summer. His skin is warm where he holds my hand. Forget algorithms and matches, forget predictions based on the high school versions of ourselves.

There’s nothing worth more than his heart beating next to mine.

I’ve never felt prouder to be his.