Page 34 of An Overdue Match
I owe it to Stacey to find her another match. She already thinks there’s someone secretly in love with her. If she only gets the one letter and then communication from her admirer stops suddenly, she’ll take it as a rejection. That’s something I can’t allow to happen.
Printouts from the library’s recording software are scattered over the surface of my bed—my very own bibliophile dating profiles. But instead of name, age, and hobbies, I have something better: their nonfiction intellectual interests combined with their fictional escapes. Of course, there’s the pesky problem of knowing if each person is actually single and looking to mingle. A very important point that I should’ve considered more carefully before getting myself into the mess with Tai.
Kitty Purry jumps onto the bed and walks across the papers I’ve divided into categorical stacks. Her tail flicks as her paws dislodge the top pages, making a disarray of my organization system. She lowers her head and nudges the largest pile with her nose before slinking her body to sprawl on top of it, rolling in a way that mixes the pages together.
“Kitty!”
She blinks her yellow eyes at me as if to say,Yes, peasant?
I reach forward to pick her up, but she anticipates my movements and launches herself into motion, a whirling tornado running a tight circle over the top of my bed before stopping and sitting primly on my pillow. She peers at the scattered papers on the bed, on the floor, and wafting in the air, and then looks at me. I swear one of her brows (do cats have brows?) arches condescendingly as if the mess is somehowmyfault. Then she curls up into a tight ball and closes her eyes, dismissing me entirely.
“You really are a diva, you know that?” I snatch a paper out of the air. Now I’m going to have to start the process of separating interests based on genres all over again.
I peer down at the list in my hand. Might as well start somewhere.
Westward Expansion: A History of the American Frontier
The Worst Hard Time
The Pioneers
My gaze jumps from the nonfiction historical titles to the name of the patron at the top. Caleb Chapman. I read the list of books he’s checked out again. Seems like Mr. Caleb Chapman is a fan of American history. And who else is a fan of American history, albeit of the fictional variety? None other than the woman of the hour, that’s who.
“I think I’ve found a match, Kitty Purry.”
My cat ignores me, her breathing even.
Now all I need to know is if Caleb is romantically unattached and not in any way related to Stacey.
Do you know Caleb Chapman?
Henry Crawford
Is that your next victim?
I’d edited Tai’s contact information the night before. If he can give out nicknames willy-nilly, then so can I. And what better moniker than a character of Jane Austen’s who’s vibrantand alluring while also being morally ambiguous? It’s a good reminder to myself to stay on guard around him.
I think you mean beneficiary.
Henry Crawford
If you say so, sweetheart.
I ignore the term of endearment. This is the South. Everyone is sweetheart; it doesn’t mean anything.
Can I safely assume you know him?
Henry Crawford
Since second grade when he moved here so his dad could take over being principal at our elementary school. Caleb is single and ready to mingle.
I ignore the fact that Tai uses the same exact phrase to describe Caleb’s relationship status that I had. It doesn’t mean anything except that rhymes are catchy.
Henry Crawford
Is it my turn to ask some questions now?
I have a feeling you’d ask even if I said no. Or find a way to coerce me into answering if I declined the first time. Is that not your modus operandi?
