“Of course I don’t!”
He stares at me. “But you need to. You are in danger. He will come after you.”
Suddenly he reaches out to his computer monitor and switches it on with a long slender finger. He has musician’s hands, I observe, then shake the random thought off as he hurriedly types something on his keyboard. And after a few moments of silence, a look of satisfaction creeps onto his face.
“I have something to show you, something that will make you believe in cupids.”
He grabs a scrap of paper and scribbles down a sequence of numbers. Then he abruptly stands, triumph glinting in his cool eyes.
“Follow me, Miss Black. You’re going to want to see this.”
3
I don’t move. Cal pauses, eyes holding mine.
“If you still don’t believe me after what I’m about to show you, we’ll stop sending the letters,” he says.
“And emails. And Messages.”
“I will see to it myself. Personally.”
I exhale. “You’d better . . .”
He inclines his head sharply, then spins on his heel to lead me through the chaotic office and into the indoor courtyard beyond the arch, where the statue I noticed earlier overlooks a stone-rimmed pond. The water is so clear that it reflects a perfect mirror image of the summer sky shining in through a skylight. Ivy creeps up the high walls and trails over the three other archways. The scent permeating the air is a strange mixture of old and sweet, like flowers in a museum.
It’s beautiful and still—a stark contrast to the bustling office we have just left behind.
Cal pauses to give the stone statue an odd look I can’t quite read before quickly striding across the courtyard to one of the arches on the other side. It might just be my imagination, but he seems to put as much space between himself and the toga-wearing
woman as possible.
The statue is clearly ancient, its face worn and its body chipped. Any recognizable features have been eroded. There’s something unnerving about her blank eyes, so I let my gaze wander down to her podium, where something’s been carved—a list, although the only line I can make out is: “No cupid must ever be matched.”
“Miss Black,” Cal says sharply. “I haven’t got all day.”
I look at him as seriously as I can. “Yes, being a cupid must be very busy work.”
He looks at me coldly. Then, as he disappears beneath the ivy-covered arch, I hear him mutter, “Should have known his match would have an attitude problem.”
We enter a long corridor that employs the same chiaroscuro color scheme as the office. Dimly lit by faux candle lamps, it’s lined by closed doors and wallpaper with jet-black swirls. Cal heads to the door at the very end, his footsteps echoing against the white linoleum. I walk behind him and we enter the room.
I blink a couple of times as my eyes adjust to my surroundings.
We’re in a huge, dark space. Artificial beams of light cut through the darkness, causing pools of white to collect on the black floor tiles. A vast screen surrounded by hundreds of smaller monitors dominates the opposite wall. On each small screen I can see a variety of different people going about their daily business—having coffee at a street cafe, eating ice cream in the park, waiting at the checkout line in Walmart, and some even sleeping in their beds.
The whole place smells like warm electricity—that overheating-
computer smell that reminds me of Dad’s old office before he was let go.
Cal walks over to a black control desk in the center of the room that has a joystick, a keyboard, and a range of red and amber buttons. He clicks something and the screens fade into darkness.
“Who are all these people?” I ask. “Do they know you’re watching them? You’re a dating service, not the freaking CIA.”
Cal doesn’t look at me. He types something into the keyboard and a serial number appears in the middle of the central screen.
“Hey,” I say, frowning. “You haven’t answered my questions.”
“We’re not a dating service. We’re cupids. How many times must I tell you?” He looks at me, and even in the near-darkness his eyes blaze silver. “Monitoring our clients is necessary when setting up a match. We use advanced statistical algorithms to ensure our clients end up in the right place, at the right time. But unfortunately, statistics cannot always predict human behavior. Manual interference is sometimes required. Now,” he says, looking at the screen once more, “I’m about to show you something a little shocking. Something that you may not be prepared to see. But I have little choice.”
Before I can protest, he clicks Enter and a crowded scene materializes on the largest monitor. When he clicks another button, the screen zooms in on a person who’s halfway through a laugh. I inhale sharply and feel a sudden jolt in my heart.
Bright eyes, dimpled cheeks; I’d recognize that face anywhere.
It’s my mother.
But how?
My mother died two years ago.
Cal presses a button and the image pauses. I can’t stop staring at the woman. It’s my mother, there’s no question, though on closer inspection she’s younger than she was when she died. A teenager.
I glare at Cal. “What is this?” I’m no longer finding this situation remotely amusing.
Cal’s gaze moves away from the monitor, his cold eyes softening momentarily before he becomes stone faced once more. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I don’t say anything, my attention fixed to the image of my mother. She looks beautiful and carefree, with her strawberry blond hair long and her green eyes sparkling. This was before the cancer diagnosis—before the battle she was forced to fight, before her hair thinned and her eyes lost their brightness. This was before I was born, before I loved her, before she was gone forever.
I feel a tightening in my throat.
“Do you know how your parents met?” asks Cal.
Part of me wants to leave. Part of me wants to grab Cal and slam him into the wall until he feels a fraction of the pain he’s just forced upon me. I feel the buildup of violence inside of me that I’ve been trying to suppress ever since she left us on our own. I grasp for the breathing exercise the school counselor made me learn after I shoved someone who made a comment about my mom into a locker.
Breathe in. Count to four. Breathe out. Count to eight.
I can’t just walk away from this recording of my mother.
I need to know why he has this.
I swallow my anger and calm my nerves. “They met at a bowling alley. The person behind the counter got their shoes mixed up.”
He nods, then presses another button on the control desk. The image zooms out and the recording begins to play.
It’s a bowling alley.
I watch as my mother gracefully approaches the counter, then gently slips off her bowling shoes and places them on the surface. An attendant in a striped uniform and baseball cap marked Castle Tenpin Bowling takes them from her and swaps them with a pair of shoes in one of the cubbyholes behind him. I can’t see his face as he places a pair of men’s shoes on the countertop.
She looks confused for a moment then throws her head back in laughter. Farther down the counter, a dorky-looking man with dark hair and gray eyes is clasping a pair of stilettos.
It’s my father.
He approaches her. The sound is muted, so I can’t hear what is being said, but I can tell my dad has just told one of his lame jokes; my mom’s face lights up the way it always did when he tried to be funny.
They swap shoes.
Cal pauses the screen.
I look up at him weakly, not wanting the recording to stop. “How do you have this?” I ask. “Why are you showing it to me?”
He doesn’t say anything, only turns back to the control desk and moves the joystick to the left. After the recording rewinds, he pus
hes the stick forward so the monitor zooms in on the bowling alley attendant as he bends over the cubbyholes. I start as I see him swap the shoes around.
“Wait, did he do that on purpose?”
Cal fast-forwards the recording and I watch my parents meet again in triple time. Then he again pauses and zooms back in on the attendant. I take a step backward in cold shock.
I can now see the face below the striped baseball cap.
This video must have been taken thirty years ago, but he looks the same as he does now—around seventeen years old, with sharp eyes, blond hair, and smooth skin.
It’s Cal.
4
Five minutes later we’re back in Cal’s office. Neither of us has spoken. I sit in the red armchair, clasping my hands together so tightly that my fingers have started to turn white.
“You matched my parents,” I say after a while.
Cal nods, then looks at me curiously. “You’re upset.”
I shrug. I don’t really know how to feel.
“Tea?”
He abruptly stands and makes his way to the corner of the room, where he fiddles about with an old plastic kettle on top of the file cabinet. I watch as it clicks and he pours the steaming water into a chipped mug.
He carries it over. World’s Best Boyfriend is written across the front.
“Who gave you this?” I ask, distracted, as I take it from his hands. “I thought cupids didn’t fall in love. You didn’t buy it for yourself, did you?”
Cal looks bashful for a moment before shaking his head and taking a seat in his swivel chair. “Long story.”
I bring the mug to my lips; the warm liquid smells sweet, like my grandmother’s herb garden in the summer.
“Chamomile and lavender,” says Cal. “Soothes the nerves.”
I take a sip and it does actually make me feel a little better.
“Do you believe me now?” he asks.
I set the mug down on the desk beside the photograph of Cupid. “Say I do believe you. Say that I take the video you just showed me as the real thing. . . . What does that even mean?” I glance at the ruggedly handsome portrait. “Even if it is true that this superbad paranormal being is my match, I have no interest in being with him. I have a boyfriend. His name is James—we’ve been together for almost a year now. And—”
The office door opens to reveal a tall guy with curly black hair standing in the doorway.
“What is it, Curtis?” Cal asks pointedly. “We’re in the middle of something here.”
“You told me to report to you immediately with anything regarding the”—he darts a sideways look at me then lowers his voice—“assignment.”
Cal leans forward in his chair and clasps his slender hands together. “Well? Did you find it?”
“Not yet. But the archives are huge.” Curtis steps into the office and closes the door behind him. “If I could have more resources . . .”
“I’ve told you—I don’t want anyone else knowing I’m looking for it.”
Curtis places a palm flat on the desk, seriously invading my personal space, and leans closer to Cal. He glances at me again.
I roll my eyes as I grab the mug of tea and shift back in the armchair. Like I care what they’re being so sneaky about. They’ve already told me about Cupid. Maybe they’re looking for the Easter Bunny too.
“Right,” he says, voice low. “Because you think people might question your . . . loyalties.”
Cal’s expression hardens. “Need I remind you who you’re speaking to?”
Curtis stares at him a moment longer. Then he exhales and takes a step back in clear submission. “Sorry. Of course. I’ll let you know when we find its location.” His eyes slide over me one more time as he moves to the exit. “Is this the girl?”
“Yes.”
“She’s not what I expected.”
I glare at him as the door swings shut behind him, and accidentally slosh a bit of hot tea onto my jeans. I curse under my breath.
“Curtis is . . . he’s undertaking a . . . a task for me,” Cal says in rare ineloquence.
I put the chipped mug down on the desk, and Cal stiffens. His eyes flit to the glass wall of his office.
“Yeah, I don’t care.” I glance at the picture of “Cupid” on the desk between us. “I was telling you that this whole thing is ridiculous. Because I have no interest in this guy. I’m perfectly happy in my relationship, thank you very much. And even if I was interested, I’ve never met this guy before. He could be anywhere in the world. How likely is it that our paths would even cross?”
Cal rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yes,” he says, “that is where we have a problem, Miss Black. In usual circumstances, we would have deleted your records from our database to ensure he would never find out about this. And we did. But that was not before a slight, er, administrative error was made.”
I stare at him. “What administrative error?”
Cal fidgets in his swivel chair. “The path to the match was put into motion.” He clasps his hands together on top of his desk. “Your high school?”
“Forever Falls High.”
Cal nods and lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, I thought so,” he says. “Cupid starts there . . . tomorrow.”
5
The sky is burnt orange when I get off the bus at the Forever Falls town square.
This place couldn’t be more different than downtown L.A. There’s hardly anything here other than a small convenience store, a florist, a thrift shop, and the town’s only two hangout spots. My eyes drift over the dark alley that leads to the Love Shack—the “cooler” of the two—and focus instead on the run-down diner, Romeo’s.
James will still be working.
Turning off the travel podcast that kept me company on the hour-and-a-half ride, I pull out my earphones and start to walk toward the restaurant.
I hadn’t planned on seeing James today, but all the talk of cupids, banished love gods, and my boyfriend being matched with someone else has rattled me. Even if it is all ridiculous.
As I enter Romeo’s I wave at Martha, one of the older waitresses, before slipping into my usual booth by the window, where a half-drunk chocolate and peanut butter milk shake is still waiting to be bussed. It’s Charlie’s favorite.
“Not seen you in a while, honey,” Martha says.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah . . .”
She leans over to clear the table and I’m hit by the abrasive scent of floral perfume and disinfectant. “Usual?”
I smile. “Please. Is James—”
“I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Her heels click against the chipped black and white floor tiles as she heads past the booths to the kitchen. I glance at the security camera in the corner as she disappears from view.
After Cal told me about the “administrative error,” he walked me back to reception and told me he would be “monitoring the situation.” I think back to the room full of screens at the Matchmaking Service.
“If you’re watching me, Cal, cut it out,” I whisper. Then I sigh and lean back against the tattered red leather seat. “And now I’m talking to myself. I’m clearly going mad.”
“Lila!” James’s voice makes me jump as he slides into the other side of the booth. “Hey!”
I smile. James might not be model good looking like Cupid, but he’s definitely attractive—slightly taller than me, he’s athletic and lightly tanned, not to mention confident enough to pull off wearing his pink and black Forever Falls soccer jersey beneath his apron. He pushes a strawberry milk shake across the table.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “You just missed Charlie.”
I frown. “Charlie was here?”
“Yeah. She just got back from her journalist camp thing. Marcus dropped her off while he went to the store. Her family’s having a welcome back
meal, apparently.” He runs a hand through his light-brown hair and his forehead crumples at my expression. “She probably messaged you. The signal sucks in here, and the Wi-Fi’s down again. You’ll probably get it later.”
“Yeah . . . probably.”
I’m not quite sure why it bothers me to have not heard from her yet. The three of us have been friends since kindergarten—it’s not weird she would stop by the diner without me.
I force a smile and James leans across the table and brushes his lips against mine. Something tenses in my stomach.
Your boyfriend is not your match.
He is matched with . . . someone else.
I pull away, shaking Cal’s stupid words out of my head.
Maybe there was no big firework display when James and I got together, but he was there for me when I lost Mom, and we built something based on friendship and trust. That’s realistic. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.
The idea of matching is ridiculous. There’s more to relationships than compatibility statistics—or whatever Cal was talking about. And I certainly don’t believe in soul mates.
“So—what you doing here? Missing me?” asks James. He grins. “Or you just here for the free drinks?”
I take a slurp of my milk shake. “Can’t a girl can’t come and visit her boyfriend at work without arousing suspicion?!”
“Of course! Just surprised. You haven’t stopped by in a while. Your dad doing okay?”
I shrug. “Oh, you know. Ups and downs.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile but doesn’t push. Dad was let go from his accounting job a few months ago. He wasn’t doing well after what happened to Mom. He hated that job, but being stuck at home hasn’t been good for him.
“He said he’d make us pancakes for breakfast tomorrow, though,” I say, brightening.
“That was you and your mom’s thing, right? Pancakes on the first day of school?”
“Yeah. He forgot last year, but I think him bringing it up again means he’s trying.”
“Remember fifth grade, when Charlie and I stayed over the night before? We were almost late to school but your mom insisted we get our fill before dropping us off.”
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