Lunar Love (72)

I eye her doubtfully. “Did you not?”

“It’s like I said last time, the matchmaker needs, well, a matchmaker,” she says with a wink.

“I see.” I’m the matchmaker here, but I can’t be upset at a paying client.

“We grabbed lunch last week to work out some details. He had a whole plan. It was so sweet. I could tell there was something between you two at the dumpling festival,” Harper says matter-of-factly.

“Oh, no,” I say, shaking my head. My jaw clenches as I process what she’s told me. Bennett maneuvered me to get what he wanted: a date. How else has he manipulated me?

“And here I was thinking you only did strictly compatible matches. Aren’t you a Horse?”

I sit upright in my chair. “We do. Conflicting traits can pose real problems sometimes. A lot of misunderstandings, opposing opinions and values, qualities that might be endearing at first but end up being dealbreakers. Compatibility is tried and true. That doesn’t mean perfect, because nothing is, but it’s like mixing butter and sugar together for a cake. Incompatibility is like mixing butter and salt. Sure, someone might like that flavor combination, but when you eat enough of it, that cake’s going to make you feel not so good,” I say, starting to ramble. It’s starting to get exhausting defending the core of our business that no one but me seems to care about anymore.

“Got it. At the end of the day, I want someone nice who I can go to Italy with and gorge on endless pounds of pasta together. Is that so much to ask?” Harper asks with a laugh.

I guess for her that nice, pasta-loving person won’t be Bennett. A surge of relief runs through me.

“You and me both,” I tell her. At the thought of pasta, my mental rolodex flips to Parker T., the Rooster I matched with on ZodiaCupid. He loves Italian food, and if he likes historical landmarks, then he probably enjoys traveling. The hours aren’t great as a restaurant owner, though they’re typically better than a chef’s hours, so I won’t rule him out. If Harper doesn’t want Bennett, it’s on to the next.

But Parker’s a Rooster. If I can find out his birth hour, there might be a chance his ascendant aligns with Harper’s Dragon sign. I’ll message him on the app and find out, reveling in the irony of Lunar Love poaching ZodiaCupid’s clients. That’s what they get for invading our territory.

As soon as Harper leaves, I open ZodiaCupid and scroll through my matches until I find Parker’s name. I start typing and hit Send on the message before overthinking it.

A light pink swipe-through instruction panel pops up with illustrated peonies in the background, catching me off guard. Bennett went through with gamifying the app. Despite our conversation at breakfast and his saying he wanted to rethink things, I guess I didn’t make a convincing enough case to scrap the feature.

I hover over Bennett’s profile, recollecting his peony count. How much higher is it now? I press my thumb to the screen and soak up the information that appears. Apparently much higher. My stomach tumbles over itself. Who else has he been seeing and talking to besides me? In this moment, the past becomes my present. I can’t be hurt again. Not like this. Not by him. I’m nobody’s pawn.

To take my mind off Bennett, I click into one of our most recent tweets to respond to a comment. One person tweets asking if he can change his sign to a Dragon because it sounds cooler. I type up a friendly response informing him that all clients must be their real sign in order to find true compatibility. We’re not in the position to be turning paying clients away, but that’s just ridiculous. I check the numbers and see that the latest moon song pairing has over three hundred retweets. As much as I try to push Bennett out, in the back of my head I can practically hear him gloating about how useful data is. In a message, someone asks what our process and rates are. It’s small, but it’s something.

I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and listen to the sounds of Lunar Love. There’s a low murmur outside from the afternoon crowds, sporadic creaks from the building, and the sound of my own heartbeat, which feels like it hasn’t stopped racing since I took over the business.

The locals and tourists passing by in front of our window catch my eye, and I notice a woman’s pastel lilac suit. Carol? Not today. Not now. But she’s not alone. She comes bearing clients. Probably developers. I completely forgot to respond to her email. What else am I forgetting?

Carol strides down the path to Lunar Love. Her two clients catch up to her, the three of them walking side by side as Carol gestures excitedly at the building. I first notice red plastic glasses. Elmer? Is that Bennett next to him?

I jump up from my seat. Bennett’s here. Here. At Lunar Love. The nerve of that man.

I open the door and stand with my hands on my hips, blocking the entryway. “Can I help you?” I direct my question to Bennett.

Bennett offers a firm smile. “Hey, sorry! Ignore us. We’re leaving.” He calls out to Carol and Elmer, “Hey! We’re not going in there.”

Carol waves her hand toward the building. “I emailed you last week that I was bringing clients by,” she says to me, lugging the same bag, different color, up her arm. Poppy pops up from the depth of the purse and yips. “I never heard back from you but assumed it was okay. We won’t be long.”

To Bennett’s credit, he actually looks annoyed. He could win an Academy Award for that level of commitment. “I didn’t know this was the building she was talking about. We’re on our way to the next one,” he says to me. He’s wearing a button-down with the sleeves rolled up, a business casual type of handsome. As he leans in for a hug, I swing my arm around for a side pat, my brain fortunately taking over before my body has a chance to. By the way Bennett angles his body, I can tell it’s awkward for both of us.