The Single Matchmaker

by J.J. Arias

Was she going to kiss me? Am I the only one who forgot we were playing pretend?

After a couple of painkillers to ease the ache in her head, Libby was ready to take on the world. She told herself her good mood had nothing to do with Reagan’s sweet text telling her she’d gotten home safely and thanking her for last night. It wasn’t about a fun evening spent being the center of someone’s attention.

Reagan: Apparently we’re news. Libby smiled at the name on her screen. A moment later, Reagan sent the link to a blog post. She chuckled as she read the glowing commentary. Libby: I don’t know if I should be insulted that I was never called anyone’s girl crush before you came along. Reagan: Oh, come on, I’m sure you’ve been the subject of many a crush. Libby: Nope. At least never publicly. You must have rubbed some of your swag off on me last night.

Reagan: You were 100% enchanting last night . . . and I don’t use that term lightly. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ve never used it lol. My point is it was easy to look good with such a hottie on my arm. Libby laughed out loud. It was more nerves than amusement, but she let it go. Libby: Okay, Keith Sweat. Did you really just call me a Hottie?? Scratch that, does 1995 miss you and is time travel difficult?

Reagan: Just because a girl held on to her butterfly clips and jelly shoes does not mean she’s stuck in the 90s okaaaay. Libby’s laugh shattered the silence in her office.

Libby: A selfie of me in this moment helps you move through time and space how exactly?? Reagan: I can’t explain the intricacies but believe me. It’s like a point of reference. If I ever want to return to this time, I can use a photo of this moment . . . of you frozen in time. Think of it like a waypoint. Libby: And why would you want to return here? What’s so special about it? Libby knew she was asking the question to elicit a particular response, but she sent it anyway. Reagan: Because isn’t the beginning always the best part?

Reading the words over and over, Libby’s heart raced. What did Reagan think they were starting? What precipice were they leaning over and daring each other to jump? For the first time that morning, she allowed herself to think of the moment in the grotto. Her lips twitched into a smile of their own accord as she remembered the smell of Reagan’s perfume. The warmth of her breath against her skin. The curiosity that felt more like temptation as she looked up at her perfectly shaped lips.

“Are you texting her now? You were smiling like a schoolgirl before you turned white as a sheet,” she continued before sitting on the small sofa against the window overlooking the bay.

Reagan’s slew of baby pictures made her feel a little less hollow. Not wanting to appear rude, lest Emily Post roll over in her grave, Libby fixed her hair, applied a little lipstick, and posed with the city behind her. It was the first time in a long time anyone had asked for a picture of her. She couldn’t be rude.

Libby couldn’t suppress her smile as she stopped scrolling. Reagan posing in the middle of a pack of smiling octogenarians holding out brightly colored vases was beyond endearing. The passion oozed from her dark eyes like candlelight, and based on the picture, it was contagious. If she were a stranger pursuing her page, the image would be enough to make her sign up for a class.

Libby: What’s tomorrow? Reagan: Every few months I do a little art installation at the studio. Gives my students a chance to show off to friends and family. They love it. Libby: Is your GF invited? Every second that Reagan didn’t respond upped Libby’s anxiety. Had she pushed too far? Made it weird? Reagan: Do you want to come? There aren’t any fancy foods or free champagne. I don’t know if it’s your speed. Libby: Do you think I’m really that much of a snob?? Give me a little credit! Reagan: I’m just trying to set appropriate expectations! I don’t want you to get here and be disappointed. It’s really simple and something I do for them, you know?

The warmth that spread through Libby’s chest should’ve been getting familiar, but it still quickened her pulse. Libby: So . . . are you inviting me or what?? Reagan: Ms. Elisabeth Cassanova, would you like to come to my studio tomorrow afternoon? Libby: I thought you’d never ask! By the way . . . how did we meet? At one of your art shows? Or maybe I came to take a class? Reagan: And what . . . did we fall in love over a pottery wheel like in Ghost? Libby: Have you ever actually watched that movie?? That’s so not what that pottery scene is about lol.

Libby: You’ll have to let me know what you think when you watch it. Reagan: Or maybe we can watch it together on a date? It sounds like the kind of thing that can’t be enjoyed alone. It’s on my list of great romances to watch. I have a bad habit of just watching the same ones over and over. Since our NDA is in effect, I’ll confide in you that romance movies are a little like my comfort food. Skirting the question that made her suddenly nervous, Libby changed the subject.

As Libby leapt out of bed to blow dry her hair and get dressed, she couldn’t help but smile. What does one wear to their fake girlfriend’s real students’ art exhibition? Why do I care so much?

With one last look in the mirror, Reagan ran her fingers through her hair as she styled her long bangs to the side. It had been a long time since she dyed it blonde and was feeling the itch for a little change.

In the studio, Reagan busied herself with rearranging the table covered in hand-painted and glazed bowls before she fiddled with a large flamingo painted in a puzzle pattern. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a fidgeter. Before she could change the layout all together, the industrial metal door screeched open and blasted the studio with sunlight.

Every time the door lumbered open, Reagan’s head snapped toward the creaking sound like it was mounted on a swivel. Each time it wasn’t Libby her smile faltered. But only for a second.

As Reagan watched Libby and Freddie discuss possibilities, she couldn’t stop the warmth spreading across her chest. It reminded her of drinking hot chocolate by a fire the one and only time she’d seen snow. There was no way of knowing whether Libby was feigning interest, but the more she talked, the more Reagan guessed she was being sincere.

“Thank you for coming today.” Before Reagan could say more, Libby interrupted her. “I wouldn’t miss it,” she whispered, resting her hand on Reagan’s hip, sending a surge of electricity through her body. “How would it look if your fake girlfriend wasn’t here to support you? Fishy, right?”

“It’s really beautiful.” Libby looked up from the pitcher and into Reagan’s eyes, forcing her to shift her weight and glance elsewhere for a moment to break the connection. Her sincerity triggered a palpitation in Reagan’s chest. “You think so?” She stepped close enough to indulge in the fragrance clinging to her warm skin. “I still didn’t really have the hang of finishing off the rim yet. You can see a dip here.” When Reagan reached over to point out the flaw, Libby leaned back, pressing her shoulder to Reagan’s chest. The avalanche of desire the contact triggered was unexpected and unstoppable.

As she watched Libby saunter away, she wondered if Libby felt the spark between them too, or whether she was on her own.

As she swirled the red wine in her glass and watched the city twinkle in the moonless night, she thought of Reagan. Could anyone really be that nice? Having spent hours watching her interact with so many different kinds of people, she never dropped her act once. No matter who Reagan talked to, she treated them like they were the only person in the room and of the utmost importance.

She remembered how she’d made Freddie’s chest puff out with pride when she complimented his sculpture. Her expression was so similar to how she regarded Libby. Concluding that she couldn’t read anything into the way Reagan seemed to look at her sometimes, she picked up her phone and shot off a text.

The sight of Reagan’s name interrupting her video made her smile. Libby: I’ll have to take you up on that sometime. With her finger hovering over the winky face emoji, Libby stopped herself.

She chugged her wine before responding. The charade. Of course.

Reagan: Have they been asking to meet the love of your life?? A reasonable request I suppose lol. How are you getting around that? Libby: Oh, I didn’t tell you? You have a HUGE art show coming up. It’s keeping you incredibly busy. Reagan: Dang! Did I forget about it again?? Where’s my head? When is this event exactly? I should mark it on my calendar so it doesn’t keep slipping my mind.

Reagan: Damn. . . I wish I had a rep like that! She sounds intense and I can’t wait to meet her lol. Are you sure you can’t engage these heart-eye-making-skills???? Look pretty convincing to me. A moment later, Reagan sent the picture of them sitting on the bed of her truck in the sun, Libby half-smiling half-dazed while Reagan kissed her. The image brought more than just the memory. It caused a buzzing in her skin where Reagan’s soft lips had pressed against her. Her skin remembered the moment as well as she did.

Libby: Are you making fun of me or are you just jealous of my acting chops?? Reagan: Maybe a little of both. I definitely need to learn to act as well as you.

Was she not acting when she kissed me in the picture? Was I? Unable to resist temptation, she reached for the phone and looked at the photo again. The electricity dancing on her skin was no less powerful than it had been the first time.

The music streaming in her head stopped as soon as she saw what was waiting for her on her desk: a bouquet of bright blue irises sitting in a very familiar ceramic pitcher. Her stomach fluttered and her skin warmed as soon as she registered where she’d seen it. One of Reagan’s first creations.

Reagan: You know. . . I really should know when your birthday is and how did we celebrate last year?? There are so many holes left unfilled. . . Libby: And how do you propose we fill them? As soon as she sent the text, her face flushed with heat and her eyes were forced closed by the crush of embarrassment. It sounded far filthier than she intended. Reagan: I’ve got an idea or two. ;)

Reagan: Most people do often start to get to know each other with drinks or maybe dinner? Without her consent, Libby’s lips parted in a lopsided smile. She wanted to see her again more than she realized. It had been a long time since she hit it off with someone so effortlessly.

Libby: Is it that many? Reagan: Ugh . . . you wound me! Have you forgotten?? I’ve been called many things but mediocre isn’t usually one of them. Biting her bottom lip, Libby stifled a grin. She knew she shouldn’t play coy. There was no point. It’s not like they had to convince onlookers. Libby: I must have a bad memory I guess. . .

Libby: I guess it would be a bit suspicious if we don’t have any pictures in my house or yours. Reagan: An increased level of intimacy, huh? Bold move. I like it. We’ll have plenty of time to learn everything we need to know to convince Grandmother Cassanova.

Libby: That’s a lie. I don’t really cook, but I’ll have something delicious waiting for you. Reagan: I’m sure you will. . . Libby stared at the ellipsis and wondered what they meant. She shifted in her seat as her pulse raced. In a long line of firsts, she was trapped in an existential crisis over three tiny dots. Reagan: Tonight too soon? Libby: 8? It would give her time to shower and shave her legs, she thought before shaking herself out of the haze. It’s not a real date, she lied.

I saw the way you two were making googly eyes at each other. Is she a new sweetheart? There hasn’t been one around here since—” “Yes, actually. She might be pretty special.” It didn’t sound like a lie.

Maybe their acting was better than either of them realized.

Moments later, her thoughts landed on Libby and the texts from that morning. She’d only realized how flirty they’d been when she’d reread them. She’d gotten a little carried away, but she hadn’t been the one to start it, right?

Somewhere in her core, Reagan wasn’t convinced Libby was just playing at liking her. She’d noticed the goosebumps on her arm, the warmth on her cheeks. She couldn’t be that good a faker as to force a physiological response to her touch.

Lighting the last of a few scented candles scattered around her condo, Libby checked her hair in the bathroom mirror for a third time.

Hidden behind her closet doors were the few dozen outfits she’d tried on and discarded in a pile on the floor. They were all either too dressy or too causal.

Dressed in tight jeans, a loose blouse, and no shoes, she ran down the loft steps and answered the door with a racing heart. Standing in her doorway with slicked back hair, Reagan looked like James Dean and Charlize Theron had a baby. The sight short-circuited her brain.

“You’ve got a cute answer for everything, don’t you?” Libby asked as Reagan sauntered in wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. The scent of clean linen and sandalwood trailed behind her like an intoxicating tail curling around a curious cat.

“You say things with such unshakable confidence,” Libby said as she brought her a tray of huge, square ice cubes. “If I’m wrong, then you can have anything you want as a reward,” she replied without looking up from the orange whose peel she was slicing off.

Reagan’s dark eyes widened. This was exactly the game she was hoping for, and Libby was playing right into her trap. She was a mouse too drawn in by the cheese to care about the metal spring aching to let loose and snap her neck. “If this is not the best Old Fashioned you’ve ever had, then you set your terms. It’s your wager.” Accepting the glass, Libby didn’t break eye contact. They were locked in a game of chicken, but she didn’t know what the stakes were. “Okay, then. If I win, you have to give me a pottery lesson. On the house.”

The silence between them grew heavy like an unexpected pressure system sucked the air out of the room and made it hard to breathe. With her eyes fixed on hers, Reagan took another sip of her drink. Libby watched as her lips parted and her tongue peeked out just enough to make her pulse jump. In that moment, she realized it had been an awfully long time since she’d been kissed.

“A Capricorn,” she noted with approval. “No wonder we make such a great match. Our stars are aligned all over the place.”

“You know that ex of yours must have been a certified chump to let you go, right?” Reagan’s tone was so sincere. “You’re not the first person to come to that conclusion,” she joked, wanting to steer clear of the Davis topic. He’d ruined enough of her evenings for a lifetime. “Come on. Let me show you the best part.” Without thinking, Libby reached for her hand. It had been so natural that it wasn’t until Reagan intertwined their fingers that she realized what she’d done. As she started for the sliding glass door leading toward the balcony, she did her best to wrestle her jackhammering heart into submission. She failed.

“Not afraid a nefarious entity is going to push you to your doom?” Reagan joked as she glanced at Libby, who was sliding into the space next to her. “Looks like I’m willing to risk it,” she replied, her elbow grazing Reagan’s arm before she braced against the banister. “When am I going to see your place?”

“But you did,” Libby said, eager to hear the rest. In that moment, she realized she could listen to Reagan talk about absolutely anything.