Page 4 of Love's a Script
“Guys, you’re not flagship,” Hugh said with vibrato in his voice that might’ve been humorous in a different instance, but this was a reminder to the cohosts to ration their obstinance.
“We’ll start brainstorming,” Chesa said.
Satisfied, Hugh left, and the cohosts took time to come to terms with their situation. Ruben had never been naïve enough to hope this job would last forever, believing budget cuts, robots, or the nation’s fried attention span would eventually make his role obsolete. But two years ago, when their show had a brush with cancellation, he’d learned how ill-prepared he was for the end. It was only coincidence that had saved their show when around that same time the host of another, more popular show from their network had old message board posts resurface. They were described in an official statement as “racially insensitive and not representative of the station’s values.” The powers that be couldn’t very well have followed up the debacle by pulling the show with the Black and Filipina hosts, so instead, Hugh was brought in to improve operations and analytics.
“All I know is I’m not hiring a damn matchmaker,” Ruben said, but when Chesa didn’t immediately agree and kept clicking her retractable pen, he turned to her. “You can’t be serious.”
“I think it would make things interesting.”
“Jesus Chr?—”
“Hear me out. We use your experience as a framing device.” She walked to the front of the room and wrote on the whiteboard as she spoke. “We playback your take on matchmaking from the interview at the start, and at the end, we see if going through the process changed your opinion.”
“Okay. What about the middle?” he asked.
“We explore what makes people choose one method of finding love over another. Add historical context. Some academic perspectives.”
Ruben nodded, thinking. “So maybe our central question could be”—he took his own marker to the board—“is there an ideal, scientifically backed way to find authentic love?”
Chesa agreed, and they spent minutes creating an outline. When complete, they stood back to appreciate the map of weaving lines, jutting arrows, and circled words.
“You see the vision now?” Chesa asked.
He sighed. “I see it.”
Chapter Four
Mary was steps from leaving her apartment for the day when she caught a whiff of something offensive. It was a cross between sour milk and whatever went on in the backroom of pet stores. With her keys, coat, and purse still in hand, she searched through her home for the elusive stink.
She lifted the frilly throw pillows on her sofa. Went low to look under the coffee table. She found nothing to blame inside the carts of the dishwasher or on the shelves in the refrigerator, and there was nothing more sinister in the garbage bin than a poorly flattened pizza box.
The source of the smell, it turned out, was inside the closet that held her laundry appliances. A load of clothing clung to the sides of the washing machine barrel. They’d been forgotten, left to fester for probably days.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, dropping her things. If she hadn’t been self-flagellating since the interview earlier in the week, she might’ve noticed the retching conditions sooner. With one hand, she poured liquid detergent over the smelly clothes, and with the other, she made a call.
“Hey, Willa!” Mary said brightly to the voicemail system. “Hope you’re doing good. It seems you forgot to remove your clothes from the washer. I’m restarting the cycle so if you could come pick them up when you can, that would be great. I’ll be home by six.”
What had started as a temporary arrangement between Mary and her neighbor had warped into a big inconvenience. An uncomfortable chat was obviously necessary, but she kept putting it off to endless tomorrows. After hanging up the phone, Mary noted the time and rushed out of the door. Despite her best efforts, she hit red lights throughout her drive and got to work minutes late. Her first appointment of the day was already seated in her office.
“Hello!” she said to the back of the person’s head. “I’m so sorry for the wait.”
Mary quickly moved around the room, talking about this and that as she unspooled her scarf and traded her soggy boots for heels. When she made it to her desk, she got her first good look at her potential client. He sat in the chair with his long legs crossed, somehow making the highly contemporary seat look comfortable. His coily hair was cropped, and a generous collection of freckles peppered his brown face and neck. He was dressed more casually than others typically did for first meetings in a gray sweatshirt with a faded print of the World Wildlife Fund panda on the front.
Handsome, she decided.
“As we wait for technology to cooperate,” she said, tapping the buffering screen of her tablet, “why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”
An impish half smile lit his face. “Well, I’m Ruben Byers. I’m thirty-four years old, and I’m a radio show host.”
Hearts Collide Matchmaking was located on the seventh floor of a downtown commercial building across from an orthodontics clinic. Ruben had taken in the white surfaces, angular furniture, and severe lighting, and it was as though he stood in a biomedical megacorp’s headquarters where they harvested organs for the elite.
The receptionist who led him to the office rattled off options on an extensive beverage menu and returned with Ruben’s chosen glass of water set on a decorative tray. He’d been inspecting the drink when Mary entered the room with a perky greeting. She moved around in a hurry, her short, straight hair—the color of butterscotch—swishing in tandem. She spoke with a forced effervescence one might encounter in a biomedical megacorp’s employee training video, but when she realized who he was, her grin waned. Her displeasure was the first thing that had felt real since he’d walked in.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Byers?”
“Ruben. And it’s nice to meet you in person.”
She was beautiful with a round face, dark eyes, and perfect brown skin. Naturally, a wisp of attraction took hold, but Ruben stamped it out, reminding himself of the purpose of the visit.
