Page 17 of Heartwood and Hardware
I shake my head slightly and step behind a tall display, breaking our visual connection. I can't face him right now. Can't pretend everything's fine when my mind is spinning with doubt and hurt.
The irony is bitter. All day, I've been marveling at how easy it was to be with Dean, how naturally our connection formed. But it wasn't natural at all. It was engineered. Designed. Optimized—just like the algorithms I work with.
And I fell for it completely.
I make my way through the convention center, moving on autopilot. The crowds that felt overwhelming earlier now provide welcome anonymity. I'm just another face, another body navigating the packed aisles.
My phone buzzes repeatedly—probably Jamie. Or maybe it's Dean, noticing my abrupt departure. I ignore it, focusing only on finding the exit.
Outside, the evening air is cool against my flushed skin. I gulp it down, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside me. Part of me wants to march back in there and confront Dean, demand to know if he was aware of the setup. Another part wants to run as far away as possible, to protect myself from further humiliation.
My phone buzzes again. This time, I check it.
Dean
Are you okay? Did something happen?
The simple concern in his message makes my throat tighten. I start typing, delete it, start again.
Riley
Did you know about Zaftig?
Three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Reappear. Disappear again. Finally:
Dean
What's Zaftig?
The question seems genuine, but how can I trust that now? Maybe he's just covering his tracks.
Riley
The matchmaking agency that arranged for us to meet.
The dots appear and disappear several times, suggesting Dean is typing and retyping his response. My heart pounds as I wait.
Dean
I have no idea what you're talking about. What matchmaking agency?
Riley
I overheard Parker. This whole thing—me coming to your booth, us meeting—it was all set up by some agency called Zaftig.
This time, the response comes quickly.
Dean
I swear I knew nothing about this. Where are you? Can we talk?
I stare at the screen, uncertainty gnawing at me. Is he telling the truth? Was he really as clueless as I was?
Riley
I need some time to think. I'm sorry.
I turn off my phone before he can respond, slipping it into my bag. The wooden heart and fox go back into my pocket, where my fingers curl around them, unwilling to let go despite my confusion.
