Page 56 of Love's a Script
But it wasn’t like that with Ruben. He had seen her from the very beginning. He didn’t need her nice and saccharine. She felt bold in his presence, secure that he’d not recoil from her true visage. He was the type of person she wanted to love and be loved by.
She laughed then, the sound hitting her ears harshly. Her current state was unfortunate, but it could’ve been worse. She could’ve told Ruben her feelings and subjected herself to an excruciating rejection. This private humiliation was preferable.
Mary didn’t remember her drive home, consumed with planning the meal she would construct from pantry snacks and the action movie that would help her temporarily escape from reality. She’d just entered her apartment and was shedding her outerwear when a knock on her door sounded. Willa was on the other side with her laundry hamper in her hands.
“Great, you’re home,” Willa said. “I wanted to do a load.”
A reflexive smile appeared on Mary’s face. “Yeah, sure. Come in.” But as her neighbor crossed the threshold into her home, something within Mary sharply protested. “Actually, Willa, wait. I don’t think I can let you do your laundry here anymore. You use way too much detergent, you always forget to remove your lint from the dryer, and you’ve also never returned the handheld steamer I lent you. I’d like it back…please.”
Mary didn’t move a muscle as she prepared for a big reaction, but all Willa did was flatly reply “Okay,” and retrace her steps out of the apartment.
“Thank you for understanding!” Mary said, to which Willa mumbled something that Mary didn’t catch, but she quickly shut her door before she could reverse her decision or apologize. She pressed her back against the hard surface, and as her nerves began to settle and what she’d done came into focus, a smile sprouted.
Chapter Thirty-One
Ruben arrived at work after a restless sleep the night prior. He hadn’t been able to slow down his thoughts long enough to relax, but as a result, he’d come to a revelation that might’ve otherwise taken him weeks. On the ride up to the station’s floor, he placed his head against the back wall of the elevator and closed his eyes, steeling himself. Not many people were in the office yet, but Ruben was only looking for one in particular.
“Can we have a quick chat?” he asked Chesa when he found her refilling the water in the Keurig. His cohost followed him to the conference room where a box of muffins had already been positioned on the table for the upcoming morning meeting.
“What’s up?” Chesa asked, taking a seat as Ruben remained standing, his hands in his pockets.
“I’m ending the matchmaking.”
Calmly, Chesa said, “Okay.” She let the quietness hang, and he almost smiled at her using an interviewing tactic they often employed with guests. People were typically uncomfortable with silence and rushed to fill it, and in the process, they revealed more than they’d intended.
“My head’s just not in it anymore,” he said.
Chesa nodded. More silence.
“And it wouldn’t be fair to the women I’m matched with if I continue.”
A couple of evenings ago, Ruben spent three hours in front of a twelve-by-sixteen-inch canvas with his date Larissa, a hairstylist, in a beginner acrylic painting class where they worked on rendering a bouquet with pale petals and wide leaves.
The repetitive brush strokes and the ammonia from the paint had lulled Ruben into an almost meditative state. And for long periods, he’d forgotten he was on a date. The conversation that did arise was uninspired, and at one point, after posing a question to Larissa about her morning commute, she responded, “You know you already asked me that, right?”
Chesa leaned forward in her seat. “What happened?”
“I’ve lost perspective,” Ruben said, sighing. “I got too close to my matchmaker.”
His cohost did her best not to look shocked, but he saw her brain turning. “Are you dating her?”
Ruben knew the question was coming, but still, it sent a jolt through him. “No, it’s not a relationship I’ll be pursuing.”
He was frustrated that he wasn’t able to complete the matchmaking process. And while he didn’t blame anyone but himself for that, he was committed to maintaining his distance from Mary, if only on principle.
“She wasn’t an official source,” Chesa said. “And this was immersive reporting about your subjective experience, so no expectation of impartiality. We’re good.”
“Except we have commentary about Hearts Collide as an agency. But I’m ready to disclose conflict of interest.”
“I say we scrap the matchmaking angle from the feature altogether,” Chesa said, definitively.
Ruben shook his head. “No, absolutely not. We liked it as a framing device, and we’d have to rework the script.”
“So get out your red pen. It was a fun framing device that was never integral to the feature. And if I can be honest, your anecdotes about matchmaking were kind of a snooze.”
It was the first time he’d really laughed in days, and he was grateful to have Chesa as a friend and colleague.
“Plus,” she continued, “Hugh will be excited to hear that now we have space to talk about sex robots. I’ll give you the honor of informing him.”
