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Chapter One

Amara

The day I make the call to the matchmaker isn’t too dissimilar from other days, but it is the three-month anniversary of the death of my cat, Elvis. It seems that was the last straw.

I’m tired of being alone. Finding a male partner on Earth is difficult, if not impossible, since RVS blew through our society, and nearly two billion men were wiped off the face of the planet in a matter of months.

Believe me when I say I did try dating other women, but it wasn’t for me.

There aren’t a lot of options, then, if a man is what you’re after. Most people who want one simply remain, well, partnerless. Very few even consider the Galactic Matching Program. My friends certainly gave me the side-eye when I mentioned it.

This keeps me from placing the call for a while. What would Marguerite and Fiona think when they found out? I know they’d judge me for being “desperate.” But what’s a girl to do when her cat dies and she feels like she has nothing left anchoring her to life?

Well, she calls up the alien matchmaker, that’s what she does.

The female-sounding voice on the other end is nice enough once she gets her translator working properly. I don’t have one, but she promises that my future husband, should I get approved, will come with his own and should have no trouble communicating with me.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

They send me a long questionnaire, which I fill out as truthfully as possible. It asks some very invasive questions about my sex life, and I’m forced to admit that it’s basically non-existent. I have a very reliable dildo.

There are also questions about my work, how I spend my time off, my hobbies, and my preferred sleeping hours.

Once it’s submitted, I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I go to the office every day, and come home every night, wondering when I’m going to hear back. I still haven’t told my friends about applying. I won’t unless I have to.

And then, after two months have trudged by, I get a call from an unrecognized number. I answer it quickly, as I have every spam call I’ve received since sending in my application.

“Greetings, Amara Costin. This transmission is to let you know that your application for the Galactic Matching Program has been accepted. Please wait for further instructions.”

A few moments later, a real person gets on the line. “Hello, Amara?”

Eagerly I answer, “Yes?”

“Your application has been approved. Roth’kar, who has been chosen for you, will arrive on Earth in three days, four hours, and thirty-two minutes. Please come early to fill out additional paperwork before your meeting time.”

I jot everything down as fast as I can, including my new husband’s ring size, and then the operator tells me goodbye without offering anything else.

Oh, god. I’m about to marry an alien.

They didn’t mention that the husband they sent me has four arms. I feel like the number of arms is an important thing to bring up when pairing you with a potential life partner.

Would the extra arms have made a difference if I had known?

I’m not sure. Of course, I did sign up to marry an alien, so I expected some differences, but I’ve seen very few aliens in person.

Said extra arms are folded across his chest as we stand there on opposite sides of the dimly lit meeting room, the lower pair hanging at his sides.

The arms aren’t the most arresting thing about him, though.

His skin is a bright bluish purple, like the night sky right after sunset.

A pair of short stalks on his head twitch and bob as he regards me. Does he really have antennae ?

In the next room, we’ll get married, or so the matchmaker said. It’s really just a ceremony, and we won’t sign the official papers until the thirty-day trial period is up—er, actually, I think we’ll be using one of those fancy tablets all the aliens have.

Then we’ll officially be husband and wife, and he will earn his full residency on Earth. If we make it that long.

I hope we do. All I truly want is a partner at the end of this. I think we can make it if he’s here for the reason he says he is: to find forever. He must be, if he was willing to travel all this way just to be my husband.

I need someone as committed to this as I am. And I have to hope that the matchmaker knew what he was doing when he paired us up.

My groom is dressed in a smudged uniform that covers his shoulders and thighs, strapped around the middle with a belt. Underneath are a pair of loose leggings. It’s the same sort of thing the matchmaker is wearing where he stands between us, and the same thing that most aliens who visit Earth wear.

The galaxy has very mid fashion sense.

Gazargo, the matchmaker, hops off the stool that keeps him at eye level with us. Now I have to peer down to look into his squat face.

“Roth’kar, this is Amara,” Gazargo says, gesturing at each of us as he says our names. “Amara, this is Roth’kar.”

I hold out a hand to shake, which seems like the polite thing to do with a stranger. Roth’kar stares down at my hand with his ethereal blue eyes, then back up at me. His odd antennae follow the track of his gaze.

Gazargo clears his throat. “They do not have handshakes in Karthinian culture,” he tells me. “She is trying to greet you, Roth’kar. How do you do it where you come from?”

Roth’kar brings both pairs of hands to his chest, pressing his palms flat, then lifts his chin and closes his eyes.

“This is how we greet one another formally,” he says in a deep, booming voice.

Wow, that voice is even stranger than his eyes. It’s almost hollow, reverberating through my bones. I’ve never heard anything like it; it’s as if he’s playing an instrument.

I imitate his gesture, placing my hands on my chest and lifting my chin, and say, “It’s good to meet you, Roth’kar.”

The corner of his mouth tweaks upward. That’s good. I think that’s a smile, though I can’t take anything for granted with an alien. Wish I’d gotten some kind of primer on his species before this so I didn’t look like an idiot, but here we are.

“How are you speaking English?” I ask. “I thought you were going to have a translator, but it seems like you’re fluent.”

He gives me a perplexed look. “I do have a translator.” He taps his temple. “It’s been implanted here, so I can communicate with all Earthlings.”

My mouth bobs open and closed. It’s inside his brain? Okay, that’s wicked cool and also kind of scary.

“It won’t catch everything, but most of it,” Gazargo interjects. “And it can provide Roth’kar some cultural context to help him adapt.”

I stare at them both. “Neat.” Maybe that’s why his voice sounds so strange and otherworldly.

“Now that you’ve met, let’s get on with the ceremony.

” Gazargo waddles away to the adjoining room, and Roth’kar and I reach it at the same time.

He nods at me to walk through the door first and holds it open.

Up close, I realize how tall he is, almost whole head higher than I am, and I’m a fairly tall girl.

On the other side of the door is yet another dimly lit room, this time with a small window looking out onto the docking bay. This is where spaceships come and go, a port that was built not long after first contact was made.

The first aliens we met were all like Gazargo—small, gray, and kind of wrinkled with a face like a turtle. They’d gotten a permit from the Intergalactic Association of Civilizations to make contact with us so they could try to sell us… well, stuff .

Those aliens, the Frahma, opened the door for other alien species to take note of us. We had a unique plight here on Earth after the RVS plague, one that called for out-of-towners to be imported to fill the need. And so eventually, Gazargo established his matchmaking service.

That’s what the Frahma are good at. I think they could figure out a way to sell you your own clothes.

Gazargo leads us to a pedestal, pointing to each of us and then to either side of it.

“You, stand there.” Then he climbs up steps on the back until he’s about eye level with us and pulls out a tablet to read.

“On this day, the third of October, in this year of twenty twenty-nine, I hereby match Amara Costin, with Roth’kar, the Fifth of His Name.

These two will join in matrimony, to build a home together, and?—”

As the words go on and on, other thoughts float up to the surface. Roth’kar isn’t looking at me. He’s glaring intently at Gazargo, as if willing him to get to the end of his spiel faster. At least we have that in common. I want this to be over just as much so we can get on with our future life.

I was so excited about this, so ready to finally have a companion and a chance to fall in love, but now that I’m seeing Roth’kar with my own eyes—all four arms of him—I’m second-guessing myself.

Is it just my imagination, or does he not look happy to be here?

I know nothing about Karthinians, so I’m going to have to start from scratch.

I knew we’d have differences, of course, but I’d hoped my new husband would be a little more… excited.

Perhaps it’s just cultural. I’ll find out soon.

I got a futon for my office, since we don’t know each other yet and inviting a strange alien into my bed seemed like we’d be moving a little fast. But thinking about it now, I’m sure the futon won’t be big enough for Roth’kar. I’ll have to trade with him and sleep on it myself while he has my bed.

“Amara?” Gazargo asks, startling me out of my thoughts. “It’s time?”

Time for what? I search my mind for what’s involved in a wedding ceremony.

“Oh! Right.” I had rings made for us. The one thing the matchmaker did give me was Roth’kar’s ring size. I pull out the box and remove both rings, plain but plated with gold, which earns a curious look from Roth’kar’s freakishly blue eyes.

“What are these?” he asks, peering closer at them.

“It’s an Earth tradition, one of them,” Gazargo says, plucking my ring from my palm and giving it to my new alien groom. “Now put the ring on her hand, Roth’kar.”

Roth’kar grunts, never looking up at me as he reaches for my hand. At least he only has five fingers. I don’t know how I’d handle six or seven on top of the double arms.

Carefully, Roth’kar slides the ring onto one of my fingers—the index one.

“Wrong finger,” I say gently, then wiggle my ring finger. “It goes on that one.”

With a huff of impatience, Roth’kar does as I tell him, removing the ring and then plunking it onto my ring finger instead. He pulls away, and the band shines in the low light.

“Your turn,” Gazargo says to him.

Roth’kar holds out his lower hand for me—I’m glad he chose an arm himself, as I only brought one ring—and I slip the ring onto his ring finger, pushing the band down until it’s seated.

When I stand up straight again, Roth’kar is pointedly looking away from me, his cheeks stained a dark bluish color. He retracts his hand, flexing his fingers before returning them to his side along with, well, his other hand.

Gosh, so many hands.

Then an unbidden thought hops into my brain. If he has two sets of arms… does he also have two?—?

I can’t think like that. We’re still strangers. It will take time for us to get to know each other, which we’ll have to do before any funny business can happen.

“And now, you say your commitments,” Gazargo instructs.

“Commitments?” Roth’kar’s brow pinches. “I am committed now.”

“Yes, yes, they are just nice things to say before you agree to the marriage.” Gazargo waves a hand dismissively. “Come up with something.”

“I’ll go first,” I interject, because I actually wrote something down and rehearsed it at home.

“Roth’kar. I promise I will be honest with you, sometimes even when you don’t want to hear it.

I promise to be loyal to you, unless it’s at a game of Bullshit.

I promise to cherish you, and to have no others, until death do us part. ”

Roth’kar’s mouth drops open.

“Until death do us part?” he repeats, horrified.

“It’s a common phrase in human matrimony,” Gazargo says. “Now, yours, Roth’kar.”

The alien flexes his throat like he wants to speak, but all the words he had are gone.

“Uh,” he says, then curses something in his own tongue that his translator must not be able to translate. “I will also, erm, cherish you, and be loyal to you.” He doesn’t mention anything about honesty. “I will do all my due diligences as your husband, as they are called for.”

What? As they are called for? Well, at least he seems dedicated to his responsibilities, whatever he thinks those are. That’s a good sign.

“Oh, all right.” I smile brightly. “That’s nice, thank you.”

“Do you take Roth’kar to be your lawful husband?” Gazargo asks me.

I nod. This is what I signed up for, after all. “I do.”

“And do you, Roth’kar, take Amara to be your lawful wife?”

Those glowing eyes settle on my face, and I wonder who he is under that indifferent expression and if he’ll show me.

Eventually, he nods and says, “I do.”