Page 12 of Love's a Script
She was a recent grad looking for a job, any job, as she tried to figure out what came next. It was the first interview request she’d received after sending out dozens of applications. She’d been determined to land the role, reading sex and relationship columns on Cosmopolitan.com until she could parrot the jargon.
“I started as my boss’s assistant and later transitioned into matchmaking,” she told him.
“So you’re sitting here today is a coincidence.”
“Technically,” Mary said. “But if I didn’t like the work, I wouldn’t be here nearly eight years later.”
Ruben cocked his head slightly. “What do you enjoy about it?”
The question surprised Mary, and she took a moment before answering. “This type of work suits me, I think. I like working with people, and I like when things are in harmony,” she said. “And that’s what matchmaking is all about.”
Ruben didn’t say anything. He regarded her with a soft but uninterpretable expression, and heat spread across Mary’s face as the seconds passed.
“Enough of that,” she said, averting her eyes to the tablet in front of her and pulling up Ruben’s profile. “We should get started. Tell me about your date.”
“We went to the Windmill Poetry Club. Have you been?”
Mary shook her head. “I’ve heard good things, though.”
“Yeah, it’s cool. Nice ambiance and a fully stocked bar,” he said before talking about some of the poetry he’d heard and going on a tangent about the success of the city’s efforts to revitalize the art scene. But there was one notable element missing from his review of the night.
“And Gemma? What did you think of her?” Mary asked.
She had set the two of them up thinking Gemma’s artistic whimsy would pair well with the cultured Ruben.
When Ruben didn’t respond right away, Mary grew concerned. “Did something happen?” she asked.
“No. Gemma was great—is great, but I think I might be allergic to her. Well, allergic to the perfume she wears.”
“Like she applied too much of it?”
“Maybe. All I know for sure is that at the end of the night, I felt like I’d snorted lines of potpourri.”
With all the care Mary took to filter out incompatibilities, it was incredible how it was still possible for some unconsidered factor to push a match off course. “I’m so sorry that was your experience,” she said. “If you’re open to it, I can set up a do-over date. I’ll explain the situation to Gemma, and she can wear a different fragrance or, to be safe, nothing at all.”
“My only hesitation with that plan,” he said, “is I don’t feel great telling a woman to quit wearing a perfume she likes because I get the sniffles.”
Mary wondered if he was inspired by genuine gallantry or if he needed an excuse to label the match a failure. “Gemma’s not under court-ordered community service. If she doesn’t think you’re worth switching out her perfume for, she’s free to reject you.”
She had never uttered such harsh words in that office, but Ruben’s immediate laugh erased any regret she might’ve felt.
“All right, then,” he said. “Set it up.”
Chapter Eight
A worthwhile evening was guaranteed when Ruben found himself at the Bull Trout Pub on trivia night. The space, dimly lit by wall sconces and multicolored Christmas lights, was compact but possessed an aged charm.
People milled about waiting for the next round to begin. They refreshed their drinks or ducked outside for a smoke. Ruben had remained at his team’s table to safeguard belongings.
“As a reminder,” said the night’s host over the sound system, “the use of electronics is prohibited. Any violation will result in a place on the wall of shame and a permanent ban from future games.”
Ruben spotted his cousin on her way back from the bar with a grin on her face. He was confused until he saw the basket of French fries she was carrying.
“How the hell did you manage this?” Ruben asked, reaching for some fries and finding them still gloriously hot. It was a whole ordeal trying to request anything besides drinks on trivia night.
“I flirted with the new bartender. Got her number too,” Junie said, waving the cocktail napkin with the information before tucking it away into her tote.
“Bring that luck with you to the next round,” he said. Their team had blanked on the answer to the final question before the break that asked for the name of the singer-songwriter with credits on Aretha Franklin, the Ronettes, and a theme song for a 2000s TV comedy-drama.
