Page 138 of The Matchmaker
She’s been planning to propose for weeks but can’t decide on how to do it, her plans growing more and more elaborate with each passing day. She wanted to do it at the festival. Then in Paris. Then New York. But I have a sneaking suspicion that nothing will be good enough, and she’ll end up blurting out the question one random evening when they’re both wearing sweatpants and eating takeout. Either that or Monica will ask first.
“The last bus is here,” she says to me now, a small line between her brows as she finishes off my hair. “The driver said the last drop back to the hotel is one a.m., and anyone who misses it will just have to walk. I liked him.”
The hotel. Or to use its full name, The Ennisbawn Hotel & Golf Club, the thorn in our side which opened to great fanfare two months ago, just in time for the tourist season. They had a red carpet featuring high-heeled influencers and famous golfers, and the man who reads the news when the usual people are on their day off. And all of Ennisbawn, of course.
Everyone accepted their invitations, too curious not to, and we descended en masse on the party, with a stubborn few of us determined to hate everything in sight.
And while Nush was still emailing the hotel management about some issue or another every other week, the rest of us grudgingly admitted that it wasn’t that bad.
It was kind of nice, actually. They built a beautiful space. Big and bright with views over the forest. Once the higher-ups changed their tune about how to deal with us, it became easier to wrangle back access to old walking routes and get included in planning decisions before they were passed and not afterward. But it was still different.
We didn’t get everything we asked for, and it would never be the village that we once knew, but we were adapting to it, we were making the best of it, and we were learning to work together.
Only right now, I really wish that I could work alone. At least for a little bit.
Nush sniffs. “Are you okay? You smell nervous.”
“How do Ismellnervous?”
“You just do,” she says as my mouth drops open.
Gemma glares at her. “You’re fine. Don’t listen to her.”
“I am not fine. Nush is right. I am nervous, and you are making me more nervous, and I just need a moment to— oh, for the love of God.”
“What did I do?” Adam asks, appearing through the flaps.
“This is supposed to be my freakout tent,” I remind them, as Nush sprays perfume over my head. “Mine. My therapist said I needed space to prepare.Alone. Nush, tell them I’ll be right out. Gemma, check with Bridget if we’ve got any no-shows. Adam…Adam.”
My business partner drags his gaze away from Gemma’s dress. “What?”
I manage to hold back my smile.
Unlike Nush, who’s thrown herself headfirst into all that love has to offer, Gemma and Adam have taken things slow. Snail pace slow. It was months before they made it official and, even then, they were so quiet about it I got scared they’d secretly called it off. And then, early one morning I passed Gemma’s house on my way to the pharmacy and caught Adam creeping out, looking like he had just woken up. I almost screamed in his face I was so happy, even though he acted like it was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
Even now, they’re still very muchdating. Game nights, dinners, trips to the cinema. They still live apart and act the same as they always did whenever they’re in public.
But maybe that’s less because they’re trying to be low-key and more because that’s just the way it’s always been. Adam has always been a part of Gemma’s life. A part of Noah’s. So from the outside, it’s like they’re carrying on as normal. It’s only if you’re looking that you notice (and I am always looking because I’m someone who’s happy for her friends but also a big giant creep). But it’s sweet, the shared glances and the small touches, the way she heads straight over to him now as though it’s inconceivable she’d be anywhere else.
“We’re ready to go,” he says to me, as she adjusts the collar of his shirt.
“So everyone keeps telling me. Go away. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“But we need to—”
“I’m not listening,” I tell them. “I’m doing my breathing exercises and I’m not listening.”
They indulge me, one by one trickling out until I’m left alone. But my solitude barely lasts ten seconds before the tent opens again.
“Isaidgo awa— oh. Hi.”
Callum lets the flap fall behind him, watching me with amusement. “The freakout tent is living up to its name, huh?”
“I thought you were Nush.”
“We do look alike,” he deadpans, before his eyes drop to my dress. “And you look beautiful.”
“So do you,” I say, taking in the simple black suit. I’ve never known anyone who can look as comfortable in mud-stained overalls and tailored formal wear as he does. Or pull it off as well.
