What a Match Page 2

  Approaching the group, he spotted his landlords, brothers with wiry hair and ill-fitting coats, trying to talk to the agitated crowd.

  Anthony turned to one of his neighbors filming the scene with his smartphone. The two had never talked, but Anthony had deduced he was a city bus driver from the uniform he usually wore.

  “What’s going on?” Anthony asked.

  “Some bullshit, that’s what,” the man said, his eyes not leaving the screen. “Recording everything just in case.”

  One of the landlords geared up to say something when the noise ebbed, but another rush of incoherent questions cut him off.

  This was ridiculous.

  Anthony whistled sharply, and the people slapped their hands over their ears and fell silent.

  “Okay,” the taller landlord said. “As I was saying, the heating system is broken, and because of the dipping temperatures, by law, we can’t let you stay here until it’s—”

  “Didn’t you do maintenance on it last year?” someone asked.

  “That was the plumbing—”

  “How long is it gonna take to fix?”

  “Well, that depends entirely on—”

  “How long?”

  “Four weeks,” one of the landlords said.

  There was rumbling in the crowd.

  “Possibly six.”

  The groaning swelled and protests erupted, and Anthony couldn’t help but join in now. His days were consumed with running his boxing gym, and he looked forward to coming home and icing his joints in his quiet apartment.

  “Our stuff,” Anthony bellowed, cutting through the noise with his strong voice. “Can we get our things?”

  This question quietened the crowd once again.

  “Yes, you have an hour to collect what you need.”

  The process from there on out became a lot smoother. Anthony packed his belongings into a suitcase and a duffle bag, cleared out the perishables in his fridge, and unplugged the appliances.

  After exiting the building, he opted to stay behind and help the others. He dumped bags into trunks and backseats. Carried strollers and toboggans to tie on top of minivans. And let a mom of two scold him for his lack of appropriate outerwear. By the time he entered his own vehicle, not only was it dark, but he couldn’t feel his fingers or toes.

  As he blew into his cupped hands and waited for his vehicle to heat up, he thought of his options. It was late enough in the evening that he didn’t feel comfortable calling anyone up.

  So he searched for the closest and cheapest hotel with no bed bugs or ghosts and tried to end his day on a better note.

  While eating takeout in front of the TV in a room the front desk clerk guaranteed had no vermin or supernatural activity, a ping on his phone alerted him to all the different transactions he’d made in the last hour.

  He realized then he wouldn’t be able to stay here for a month or more. The landlords would probably be required to compensate all apartment residents for the displacement, but Anthony knew there’d be a cap. Being an owner of a small business a little over a year old meant he didn’t have the luxury of unplanned spending.

  He’d have to ask for help, sleep on someone’s couch or something. He was already dreading the task. After a childhood of “be seen, not heard,” living alone was preferable, and he’d been doing it since he was seventeen. But what choice did he have?

  That night, Anthony tossed and turned and had a nightmare that his entire apartment building grew literal wings and flew off into the ether.

  The following morning, he headed into work, hauling his suitcase and duffle bag. His gym, Spotlight Boxing Studio, was his dream realized, and for better or for worse, this place made up a big portion of his identity and worth. He hoped he’d have the privilege of seeing the red and white sign outside grow weather-beaten.

  When he entered the building, he found his best friend and business partner in the staff room deep inside the refrigerator.

  “How many kinds of yogurt do we need to keep in stock, do you think?” Duncan asked as he emerged from the appliance, holding three different types of yogurt.

  “One is soy-based, one is Greek, and one is actually good.”

  Duncan moved to return the food to the fridge but stopped short when he saw the bags in Anthony’s hands. “You leaving me? After all we’ve been through?”

  Anthony rolled his eyes. “The heat is out at my apartment. Won’t be fixed for a while.”

  “Damn. Where you staying?”

  This man was his best friend—someone he could trust in business and life. If there was anyone who would be more than willing to help him, it was Duncan. But it still felt uncomfortable.

  “Actually, I was wondering if I could crash at your place,” Anthony said.

  “Of course, brother. I’ll have to run it by Retta, but I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “Yeah, and if not, I’ll figure out a hotel or something.”

  “Stop. You’re not paying for a hotel. I know how much you make,” Duncan said, and Anthony dropped his bags and grabbed what he needed to make his protein shake.

  “Speaking of knowing how much you make,” Duncan said, nodding to a stack of mail on the counter.

  No doubt most of them were bills. The cost of running this place was humbling. They weren’t struggling per se, but they weren’t thriving either. As a professional boxer, Anthony had been used to training and “mind over matter”-ing his way to victory. But despite how much effort and hours he and Duncan poured into the business, success was anything but guaranteed.

  The sound of voices and laughter drifted from the front of the gym, alerting the two men that the other trainers had arrived. Their team was another reason Anthony and Duncan needed to make this thing work.

  “Maybe we should cut down on the three-different-yogurt thing,” Duncan commented glibly.

  “If that’s all it took,” Anthony said, “I’d throw out the whole damn refrigerator.”

  With the idea of hiring a matchmaker firmly planted in Gwen’s head, she got kind of obsessed and started looking up every single matchmaking service in the city.

  From her research, she found an agency where participants only met during lunchtime for fifteen minutes. Then there was one where it seemed like retirement savings and blood oaths were membership requirements. And another where the word “elite” was used just enough times to irritate her.

  In the end, the company her mother had suggested was the best.

  Hearts Collide Matchmaking Service didn’t feel like a glorified dating app, but the premium cost meant that her summer vacation to somewhere with a beach wouldn’t happen next year.

  That is, if she got accepted into the program.

  “So? What do you think?” Gwen asked her best friend, Raven, who she’d lured away from her post as the school’s receptionist with an autumnal Starbucks drink.

  Raven sat on the edge of Gwen’s classroom desk, reading the matchmaking application she hadn’t yet built up the nerve to submit.

  “I thought your favorite color was taupe, not yellow,” Raven said, popping her bright pink bubble gum.

  “It is, but it makes me sound boring. But never mind that, what do you think about it overall?”

  “Thorough. Very thorough,” Raven said. “But I’m not a fan of the picture.”

  “Well, that’s my face,” Gwen said, walking over to take another look at the selfie she’d attached. It adhered to the requirements detailed on the application.

  “It’s not your face, it’s the angle. Like, I’m not sure if you’re looking for love or renewing your passport, babe.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to do about that,” Gwen said.

  Raven rose from the table. “Stand against the wall. I’m taking a better one for you.”

  Unwilling to put up a fight this early in the morning, Gwen got in front of the whiteboard.

  “Okay, pout,” Raven said as she aimed the lens at Gwen.

  “Pout?”

  “Yes, like—” She pushed out her glossy red lips.

  “I’m not doing that,” Gwen said, shaking her head.

  “Okay, fine. Then prepare for those matchmakers to see the photo you chose and think,

  ‘Did this chick really submit her mug shot?’”

  Resigned, Gwen did her best to replicate her friend’s expression.

  “Great, all right,” Raven said. “I want you to make it more subtle this time. Think about sucking through a straw that you’re holding lightly between your lips.”

  She adjusted her mouth accordingly.

  “Now squint a little like you’re trying to read a menu on the wall, but you haven’t gotten your glasses prescription checked in a while.”

  The instructions were odd and very specific, but the result was pictures that were better than the dozens Gwen had taken in her living room a day before.

  “See? I’m a professional. I know what I’m talking about,” Raven said, tossing her big bouncy hair.

  Gwen gave her friend a look.

  “Shut up,” Raven said. “It counts. Three months of hand modeling counts.”

  After replacing her application photo, Gwen said, “Okay, I’m sending it.” She shut her eyes and brought her finger down on the submit button before throwing her phone into her desk drawer like it was a burning piece of coal.

  “Now try to relax, okay?” Raven said, coming over to place her hands on Gwen’s shoulders. “If you want, I can set up an appointment with my astrologer for a reading.”

  Gwen shook her head. “No, I’m good. Her accuracy scares me, and I’d rather live in delusion for a little bit.”

  “There’s no delusion. You’re going to have fun, find love, and live happily ever after.”

  Gwen nodded. She needed t
o hear those positive words regardless of how frivolous they were. Initially, she’d been reluctant about the whole idea of a matchmaker, but now she was scared at how much she wanted it.

  This process would streamline her entire dating life, and in some ways distribute the burden of finding The One. Less mental work. Less second-guessing. Higher probability of success.

  “Okay, I’m going to blot my face before the buses arrive,” Raven said, blowing a kiss and heading to the door. “Thanks for the latte.”

  Once alone, Gwen completed her prep for her first class of the day, an elective on career and life management. She’d been a high-strung student who’d have benefited from a bit of guidance and reassurance. So when the school district added this course, Gwen jumped at the chance to teach it on top of her English classes.

  As the minutes passed, the hallways grew louder with junior high kids talking about their weekends and the school day ahead. The bell rang, and she stood up to let her students in.

  “Good morning. Good morning,” she said.

  Some of the teens who were still trying to coax themselves awake ignored her greeting, while others waved.

  After the second bell sounded and everyone was seated and quiet, Gwen said, “All right, we have a full schedule today. We’re continuing our month of career profiles. This morning, we have two presenters because of the pep rally on Friday—”

  “Does that mean we don’t have to do journal entries today?” a student with glasses and curls dyed green asked.

  “Yes, it means you won’t have to do—”

  A burst of excited chatter swept across the class.

  “Okay, settle down. You’d think I make you draw blood for ink,” Gwen said, laughing as she turned to write on the whiteboard. “Our first guest, Tim O’Hara, is a food blogger. And our second guest will be my brother, Duncan Gilmore, who will talk about what it’s like to be a boxer and own a gym.”

  Gwen caught movement in her peripheral and turned to look out the small window of her door. “And it seems Mr. O’Hara is right on time. Give us one moment.”

  She exited her classroom and introduced herself to the writer. He was a lanky guy with thinning hair and a coat that sat heavily on his shoulders.

  “You have fifteen minutes to talk, and then the class will have five minutes to ask you questions,” she said.

  The food blogger nodded but then took an obvious swallow before asking, “Are they mean?”

  Gwen’s eyebrows shot upward. “The students? No, they’re good kids.”

  His question led her to read the sweat peppering his forehead differently.

  “Mr. O’Hara,” Gwen said gently, “they’re very excited to hear about your work. They’ve enjoyed all of the previous speakers and have had the utmost respect for them. You’ll do brilliantly.”

  The man rubbed his palms against the front of his khaki pants. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  He was, in fact, not ready because the moment he got in front of the thirteen-year-olds, he froze. When he eventually found his voice, it wobbled and stumbled across sentences. It was a relief then for everyone when the presentation came to a sputtering end several minutes later.

  Her brother, Duncan, arrived shortly after, wearing an ugly costume mask for some reason.

  “Why do you have that on?” Gwen asked her brother when she went outside the classroom to greet him. “Who is that?”

  Duncan removed the mask and grinned. “Muhammad Ali. Thought it might enhance my presentation.”

  “Well, it’s horrifying. And looks nothing like him,” Gwen said before ushering her brother into the room.

  Unlike the previous presenter, her brother was charismatic and natural in front of the students. Even with the questionable gimmick of the mask, he managed to sound sincere.

  The question period mainly consisted of the kids asking Duncan about fight techniques and boxing match stories. When the bell rang, the students scattered, barely staying long enough to tuck in their chairs.

  “Remember, if you need more time for the project or want to adjust the assignment, come talk to me,” Gwen shouted after them.

  She expected to find her brother on his way out as well, but he was leisurely strolling the perimeter of her classroom.

  “I appreciate you coming today,” Gwen said as she settled behind her desk.

  “Yeah, no problem,” he said casually as he continued his little journey around her classroom.

  He had a whole business to return to but had decided the fall decorations and posters on her wall were more important.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “What? Nothing,” he said, his voice pitched high as he turned to face her.

  “What do you want?”

  He shook his head and made protesting sounds before dropping the act and sliding into a tiny desk directly in front of hers. “Okay, yeah, I need a favor.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Before you reject it outright, have an open mind,” he said.

  “You sound like Mom.”

  “Well, you can be stubborn like her.”

  “Interesting tactic,” she said, chucking her pen cap at him. “Insult the person you’re about to ask a favor of.”

  “Fine, I’m sorry. I come to you as humbly as I possibly can to ask if you still have that pull-out couch?”

  “Yes…” she said carefully.

  Duncan smiled his oh-so-charming smile and asked, “Could Anthony move in with you for a few weeks?”

  Anthony. Her brother’s best friend and business partner. She didn’t know him that well despite the men being friends for almost a decade. She could count on one hand the number of real conversations they’d had—all unremarkable.

  “Ah, why?” she asked.

  “His apartment’s got some heating problems, so he’s been staying at my place, but I’m pretty sure I’m killing him.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “We’re doing renos around the apartment, and we’re fixing up the living room, and he’s sleeping in there. And I’m kinda worried about all the paint fumes and dust.”

  “I’m sympathetic, I am, but…”

  To Gwen, Anthony—Tony—was a sullen, moody type. He always seemed pissed about something, and that wasn’t exactly the energy she was clamoring to be around.

  “It would only be for a few weeks,” he said quickly.

  She hadn’t lived with anyone since college, and that had been a disaster because of a stolen house slipper fiasco. Not even Eric, who she’d dated for almost three years, had spent more than a few consecutive days in her apartment.

  “It’ll be weird. I don’t really know him,” Gwen said.

  “He’s chill, I promise,” Duncan said.

  She knew she was going to say yes, even if she didn’t want to. It was what older siblings did, but she wouldn’t be happy about it.

  “Okay, fine,” Gwen said on a sigh.

  Duncan banged the desk and stood up. “And this is why you’re the best.”

  “On one condition,” she said, lifting her hand to halt his compliments.

  “What?”

  “You burn that godforsaken mask.”

  Chapter Three

  While sitting in the empty staff room at her brother’s gym, Gwen waited for the impending interaction with Tony by scrolling through the Hearts Collide Matchmaking Service site on her phone. It was weirdly comforting, and it beat checking her application status every minute.

  She put on her headphones and pressed play on the introduction video she could, at this point, recite.

  “You’re tired, aren’t you?” the South Asian woman in the video asked. “Tired of scrolling and tapping and swiping for your next date only to realize the person you’ve decided to go out with is fundamentally not for you.”

  Gwen nodded like the lady might be able to see her.

  “What if I could assure you that you’d find your perfect match and also stay together for the long haul?” the woman asked. “Well, at Hearts Collide, we’ll be your guide through the dating world.”

  After filling out the application, Gwen believed that the agency knew almost everything about her. She provided information from her favorite snacks to which side of the bed she preferred.