The Matchmaker

by Catherine Walsh

wake at precisely three minutes past seven to the sound of the world exploding.

figure if she’s made it this far in life, she might as well do what she likes.

my mood worsened by her refusal to immediately and unequivocally take my side.

Well, that’s just unfair.

“I lied. You’ve also made me a liar. Happy?”

I’m nothing but a joke to him right now. Which, alright, fair, I guess.

Last week she asked me how I felt about arson. I’m still not sure if she was joking or not.

There is no television, no karaoke machine. There is just conversation, sometimes music, and always a huge sense of comfort. Of familiarity. Like you could have walked in fifty years ago or walk in fifty years from now and, bar a few changes in technology, everything would be the same.

Because just like how a few of our regulars always seem to relax after their first sip of the day, something in my chest eases every time I make a wish.

I’m so caught up in my little ritual that I don’t pay any attention to the sudden pinpricks at the back of my neck, that innate sense of being watched. I’ve completely let my guard down and the faint rustle of clothing a moment later is the only warning I get that I’m not alone, but before I can do anything about it, a man’s voice murmurs behind me, far too close for comfort:

I have no idea how long he has been on this green earth. Sixty years? Seventy? He could tell me he was thirty-eight, and I’d just have to accept it. I like that about him. His consistency. Makes me trust him more.

“People can get used to anything,” she says, growing solemn as Plankton comes in to curl up at her feet. “That’s what people like them rely on.”

Do I have a crush? I feel like I’m getting a crush.

“You could fight it!” I hiss. “You could act like you care.” “You don’t think I’ve tried?” He’s snapping now, or as much as he can, with our voices still lowered. “I’ve been looking for a way out of this for weeks. But I don’t have the kind of money to deal with what they’ve got. Or the connections. Of course I don’t want to let this place go. Of course I care. This is my life, Katie. How could you say that?”

The way he says my name makes me scowl. He says it like he knows me.

Everyone stares at him. I stare at him. This is the sincerest Adam’s ever been, and it’s kind of unnerving, if not appreciated.

didn’t mean that,” I say, as all my resentment rushes out of me. He shrugs, his expression carefully blank. “Yeah, you did.”

“You coming or what?” he asks, when I just stand there, and I dip underneath the shelter, only for him to immediately swap our places, sidestepping behind me so I’m not standing by the road. I’m grateful for it a second later as a car comes tearing around the corner, driving straight through a puddle and drenching everyone who happens to be too close.

“I never said that. He just cares.” Even though he likes to act like he doesn’t.

my brain so addled that any sense of social preservation has flown out the window.

Don’t get into cars with boys. My grandmother told me that when I was sixteen, and I am telling it to myself now. Just don’t do it. Don’t ever do it. Even when it’s raining. Even when you trust them. Even when they look at you like they want to do so much more to you than simply drive you home. Don’t get into cars with boys.

No one wants to sponsor or fund or loan me a cent. And turns out you need a lot of cents to host something like this. You need cents for bunting and posters and lights. You need it for food and alcohol. For music and insurance and first aid kits and photo booths and, to be honest, all the things I don’t think they necessarily worried about back when they didn’t have social media or, like, gluten intolerances.

“Swearing is a conservative social construct. Curse words can’t hurt you and only boring people are offended by them.”

“Mam says I’m not allowed to swear.” “Because your mother has become the man.”

I can almost feel this new core memory slotting itself into my brain, ready to be analyzed during future sleepless nights as the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.

I stay very, very still as if, that way, he’ll somehow just forget I’m in here.

I’m going to kill Granny. I am going to double-check her will and then I am going to kill her.

“She did,” he says. “She apologized. Said she had a headache.” “A headache girl.” I tsk. “You didn’t stand a chance. You should stay away from them in the future.” “You’re not a headache girl then?” “I’m a stomachache girl. Whole different vibe.”

He sounds very serious. Serious enough that the lingering embarrassment I still felt starts to fade. “It’s fine,” I sniff. “You just have to return the favor now.” His eyes shoot to mine, and I quickly backpedal at the spark in them. “I’m joking.” “I know,” he says. “I like it.”

Maybe I hallucinated him. That would be fun. A fun little thing to add to my list of things to tell my doctor. Give her something new to discuss with me instead of just period pain and low iron levels.

though, stepping away so I can do it myself, and I stare at the water, trying to remember what he told me while also what hands are and how to use them.

“It’s weird that you came here.” “Is it?” “Yes. You’ve been labeled a spy.” “Must be a pretty bad one if I’ve been found out.” “Well, if you’re not, then why are you here?” He looks surprised by the question. “I figured this is where you’d be.”

“You make me nervous,” I admit, and he nods like he knew that already. “Good nervous or bad nervous?” “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Or maybe,” he continues. “It’s because I don’t know how I’m going to tear down your favorite place in the world when I can barely stand the thought of you getting caught in the rain.” There’s a strange pang in my chest, one that hurts in the best kind of way. Green eyes, I decide. I like men with green eyes and men who look at me like that. Like I’m the only person in the world.

“You’re really bad at secrets, Katie Collins. You’re a bad liar and a bad secret keeper and you’re doing that thing where you obviously want to tell me something, but you want to pretend that I forced it out of you.”

“Nu-uh.” It’s all I can say. It’s all I can think, even as a little bit of doubt creeps in. A little bit of doubt followed swiftly by a whole lot of hurt.

“Because this isn’t the Cold War. This is rural Ireland, and you are hosting a matchmaking festival. Let’s just calm down.”

“It’s because you shouldn’t trust people. You shouldn’t trust people with their bananas, and you shouldn’t trust people with their kisses.”

I came to the pub the other night because I wanted to see you. Because that’s all I’ve wanted to do since I met you.

The words are clipped and a lie, but Gemma doesn’t call me out on it.

“It doesn’t matter what you know or don’t know,” I tell him. “Kelly’s is my home. And if you think I’m going to be able to forget that you’re one of the people playing a part in destroying it, even if you don’t want to, then you haven’t been listening to me. You haven’t been listening at all.”

I’ve never given up on anything before. Mainly because I haven’t tried anything before.

Our doorbell chimes through the house before she can reply. That’s a first. We’re knocking people around here. Peer-through-the-window-and-wave people. I didn’t even know the bell still worked.

And you were right. What you said yesterday about how it doesn’t matter if I want to see you? You were right. It doesn’t matter if my actions don’t back it up. So I made a decision. And my decision is you. I choose you.”

“Some men buy flowers,” I say weakly, and he nods like that was his backup plan.

“Yes,” I say. “I do.” “Well, then,” he smiles. “Where do you want me?”

“Is this a ‘would you still love me if I was a worm’ conversation?” he asks, and before I can even begin to react to the casual L word drop, he continues on. “Katie, you could tell me that your sole interest in life is snail migration, and I’d listen to every word you say so long as your eyes light up like that.”

“We exist and we matter.”

He eases back to sit beside me, his thigh pressed against mine as he laces our fingers together. “Anywhere you want to go. If you want me to, I’ll follow.”

“I feel like I must not have been clear before,” he says against my lips. “So let me be clear now. You want to do this with me?” “Yes.” “Then no matches. No dates. No open for business, even if it’s just for the cameras. Or I’ll kiss you just like that in front of them too. Got it?” “Callum—” “Got it,” I mutter, dazed. “Good.” He lowers me to the ground, and I clutch at his arms, my legs still a little wobbly. “By the way?” he adds. “I’m officially mad at you.”