Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  "And that's when you say, 'no thank you, Crazypants, I'm full up.'" Erica was shrieking loudly enough to attract the attention of some of the people passing on the boardwalk.

  "Yeah. Well, I'm a sucker." Also, I really liked her. And I thought there was a chance she actually liked me. Plus, Mr. Match matched us. That had to count for something.

  "You're kind of an idiot. What's in it for you, Trace? They just announced your engagement on the news. You're not going to keep this under the radar, if that's what you'd planned." She was shaking her head so much I was worried it might topple off. I reached out a hand to steady it and she ducked away from me.

  “I thought it would get you off my back, actually. We could pretend to be serious and you’d think I was dating someone and then I could focus on soccer.”

  She widened her eyes at me. “Am I that pushy? I don’t care if you date or not.” She slumped down into her chair. “I just want you to be happy, Trace. But now? What are you going to do about this?”

  I sighed. "I don't think it's a big deal. I just have to show up when her mom's around with this Henri guy, and pretend to be planning to spend my life with the girl." I tried to act like I really thought that was all it was. I wished that was all I thought it was.

  "I don't understand how two dates turned into this. And this was a Mr. Match connection too. Didn't you actually have anything in common?"

  "Well, she's pretty, and I’m pretty. So there’s that. We got along well, I guess." I shoved down memories of the kiss, of the way our bodies seemed perfectly matched, of the way it felt like she really saw me when she looked at me. "And I guess we share a mutual belief that I am not long-term relationship material."

  "Bullshit." Erica was fuming. I thought I might have seen steam escaping from the tight collar of her button down shirt. “You need to write to Mr. Match and let him know about this misuse of his site. You should definitely get a refund and I think he owes you another match!”

  "It's fine," I told her. I didn’t want to share with her how not fine it actually felt, or offer her the desperate little hope I was holding that I might be able to actually convince Magalie we could be something real.

  My sister turned and narrowed her eyes at me. "It's not fine. She's using you. And this is the opposite of removing distraction from your life. This is pretty fucking distracting. And Trace? You kind of look like your feelings are hurt."

  "Meh." Hearing the truth was harder than I wanted it to be. I practiced building a little goal inside me and blocking anything that tried to get past my defenses and inside that vulnerable box.

  "Just tell her no," Erica said.

  “It’s too late. I said I would do it.” And the thought of pretending was better than the idea of never seeing her again.

  "But she sounds like a horrible person," Erica said.

  Hearing my sister say something less than kind about Magalie brought my defenses up. "She's not a bad person. I think she's actually a pretty nice person." I thought about the way she’d put the waitress at ease the night before, how she’d talked about kindness.

  "You've known her for a few hours and she's asking you to lie for her."

  I thought about the stunned silence in which Magalie and I had walked back to her car in Del Mar, her staring at the ring on her hand the whole way. She'd hugged me goodbye with tears in her eyes, and whispered apologies. I was pretty sure she wasn't actually a bad person.

  "I don't know. It's only for a few weeks. It'll be okay." I tried hard not to feel anything about it, not to feel hurt, not to feel angry. "We'll pretend, we'll break up, she'll give me back the ring, and it'll all be like it never happened."

  “If you won’t write to Mr. Match, I will. Or I’ll ask Fuerte to talk to him.”

  “Fuerte knows Mr. Match?” I momentarily forgot my confusion over this revelation. “Wait, do you think maybe Fuerte is Mr. Match? Maybe this was all a huge ploy to get you into bed?”

  Erica rolled her eyes. “No. A guy running an enterprise as big as Mr. Match is not a professional soccer player, loser. I’m sure it’s his full-time job and then some. That’s probably why Mr. Match isn’t matched—his job is his match.”

  I stared at her. Erica had clearly thought this through. But she wasn’t distracted long.

  "I cannot believe you bought her a ring. Was it a big ring?" Erica shook her head again.

  “I’m not a ring scientist,” I said, dodging the question.

  “How many carats?”

  “Is two a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t two then. It was definitely less than that.”

  We sat in silence, watching the late September sun dip into the water at the edge of the world as the sky bruised blue and purple. I considered telling my sister that while maybe Magalie had a plan, I was starting to form one too. But then if it didn’t work out, I’d have to suffer through another round of her protective-sister act (and this wasn’t the fun kind of sister act with singing nuns and stuff).

  So I didn’t tell her that I planned to make Magalie fall in love with me for real. I’d only just decided it myself.

  After a period of silence, Erica said, “Trace, I don’t like this woman using you. And you look sad.”

  “I’m fine.” I knew Erica already understood much more than I had told her. After all, I hadn’t been alone when each of our foster families had decided we were not a forever fit for them. I hadn’t been the only one handed off to yet another social worker, everything I owned held in my arms as I wondered why some people got families and some people got something else.

  “Do you want me to get Wally for you?”

  I nodded. It might have been ridiculous, but the stuffed wombat I’d stolen from our second foster household really did make me feel better. It was something about the surprised look on his face. You couldn’t blame him for it though—what wombat expects to be stuffed and displayed on someone’s dining room table? I’d look surprised too.

  Erica went inside for a minute and returned, setting Wally on the small table between our chairs. He stood on all fours, his fat little body and eternally flabbergasted expression making me feel immediately lighter inside. It was the wombat effect.

  "You head out of town tomorrow, right?" Erica put a hand on my shoulder.

  "Florida."

  "Maybe the trip will give you time to come to your senses. Or maybe she’ll realize she’s being horrible and let you off the hook.”

  Maybe. So why was part of me wishing I didn't have to go and that I could stay and see Magalie again? Why did part of me still believe there could be a chance she'd get to know me and maybe actually like me? Maybe it was because it was just too hard to accept that she hadn't felt anything when we'd kissed. And I thought, if I had enough time, I could make her admit it.

  Interlude

  Max Winchell

  Erica Johnson would be the eternal thorn in Mr. Match’s side. Check out this email I just received:

  Dear Mr. Match:

  First of all, thank you for the interview. It was a huge win for me at the station and could really help me take the next big step at work. So that was nice of you.

  But today I’m writing to tell you about a blatant abuse of your site, which I’m sure you’ll be appalled to hear about. A woman named Magalie Caron signed up for Mr. Match under totally false pretenses, just because she wanted someone to pretend to be engaged to her when her domineering mother shows up from France.

  And she’s convinced my sweet brother to pretend for her because your site matched them up.

  I don’t know if something broke on your back end, or what, but this is obviously not a real match and I think Trace deserves a rematch. Or a refund. Your choice.

  Thanks for your quick attention to this matter.

  Erica Johnson

  I got a pretty good laugh from this one. The back end? Not broken. My back end is all good.

  And no matter what Magalie thinks she and Trace are up to, I stand by the match. And
even if they think they can fool love, I’m pretty sure the algorithm will do its work. People who are a perfect match can’t spend much time together without figuring out what I already know – that I’m a fucking genius.

  Chapter 55

  Guilty Fingers

  Magalie

  The ring sat like a boulder on my guilty finger. I took it off for work, even though Adam and Chloe knew the plan. I still didn’t want to discuss it. Not yet. But I also took it off so it wouldn't get damaged. It didn’t feel like it belonged to me, and I didn’t want to ruin it. I should never have allowed Trace to buy it—people were engaged without rings every day.

  Maybe the bigger issue was that I should never have allowed him to go along with my ridiculous plan. I should never have asked him in the first place.

  Brunch had been light-hearted and fun, and the dinner afterwards . . . Well, there was something more there. I could feel it. And in the stress of my mother's impending visit and the weight of the intentions I'd set before actually getting to know Trace Johnson, I'd acted rashly. And might have sacrificed the potential for something real in the process. Because when Trace and I kissed, I know I hadn't imagined the searing tendon of connection between us or the cosmic buzz in the air. It was possible, I realized, that we might have been a good match. But there was a pretty good chance I had ruined everything by asking him to pretend for me.

  I went to work Monday morning carrying that guilt across my shoulders and under my eyes, and Chloe noticed right away. Here eyes were on me the second I came through the door to the tasting room.

  "You were supposed to rest this weekend," she said. "I know it is rude to say, but you look exhausted." Her kind eyes looked into mine with concern.

  "I know, but I had to deal with some things with my mother . . ." It was the best explanation I could offer without telling her everything.

  "She's coming soon, right?" Chloe asked.

  "About a week," I told her as we walked together into the winery where Adam stood waiting next to one of the huge steel tanks.

  "And was there any football in your weekend?" She winked at me, and Adam heard this last part, his face animating suddenly with interest.

  I sighed. "I met Trace." Soon enough I'd have to tell them the truth. Guilt bubbled up my throat and threatened to erupt out my mouth in the form of a confession.

  "Why do you look like you might vomit, then?" Adam asked.

  I cracked. I wasn't cut out for lying—not to people I cared about. How would I ever convince my mother? "Because I did exactly what we talked about," I told them. "I convinced Trace to lie for me when my mother is here, to pretend to be my fiancé so she'll leave me alone about Henri Rossignol and let me be."

  "Trace agreed?" Chloe's eyebrows knitted together, her hand finding my forearm in a gesture of comfort.

  I nodded miserably.

  "So everything is good?" Adam asked, tilting his head to one side as he looked down at me. "That was the plan, right?”

  Chloe clucked at him and shook her head. "Clearly, everything is not good, Adam. Look at her!" She ushered me to the corner where a patio table and three folding chairs sat, and she and Adam both sat across from me, worried expressions on their faces.

  I told them. I explained how well the date had gone, how much I thought I could actually like Trace, and then ended with the way his face had changed when I'd asked him to lie for me. I told them about the kiss. And the ring.

  "And you are upset because . . ." Adam said, waiting for me to finish.

  I lifted pleading eyes to Chloe, thinking she might understand. She did. She said, "Because she might really like Trace Johnson, and now maybe she's ruined everything by taking the potential for a real relationship and turning it into a pretense.”

  "I don't think I want a real relationship," I explained. "Or at least I didn't. I went into this telling myself it would be short and temporary, and then I could get back to focusing on the wine. On the competition for the festival. I just wish I hadn't ended up liking him. Then this would all be easy."

  "I think it will be much easier to be fake engaged to someone you do like, actually," Adam said. “And this won’t get in the way of the competition. We have time.”

  I exhaled in frustration, dropping my head onto my arms. "I hope you are right."

  Chloe's hand found my back and rubbed gently. "It will be okay," she said, and I took a little comfort from her friendship and concern, even if I didn't believe her words.

  "But now," Adam said in a booming voice that startled me into lifting my head. "Let's blend some wine so we can win that competition!"

  He was right. I wasn't here to mope and complain. I had important work to do. And for the rest of the morning and most of the next day, I tried to focus on doing that, pushing thoughts of Trace's blue-eyed gaze to the back of my mind. Still, I was very aware that I hadn't spoken to him, even by text, as the days ticked by.

  Trace and I had texted a bit after the weekend, mostly so he could tell me he was heading to Florida for a mid-week match. I tried not to think about him, not to worry about my mother, and to focus on work. But on Wednesday, I found myself asking Adam about soccer schedules.

  "Well, it's the end of the season, getting near playoffs," he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and frowning at the screen. "And they usually play Saturday or Sunday, but I know there's a game tonight—" he drew out the word as he swiped at something on the screen, and then confirmed—"at five. Which you can watch at our place since Chloe won't watch with me. Then you’ll see your fiancé and I’ll have someone to cheer with."

  "Okay," I said, part of me eager to watch Trace from a place where he wouldn't know I was watching, where I could stare at him unselfconsciously and maybe figure out some of the feelings I had surrounding him. Maybe seeing him again, seeing him do something I knew he loved, would clarify some feelings inside me. Maybe seeing him be the football star I knew he was would make me feel better about the ridiculous ring, or assure me I'd only imagined the hurt in his eyes. A wealthy, successful and famous soccer player probably wasn’t too worried about a silly little thing like a fake engagement.

  I followed Chloe and Adam out to their little house after work, which was situated down a lane leading away from the winery buildings. Down a low hill, their house sat beneath some tall shady trees, nestled between two vineyards. There was a tire swing in the front yard, though they didn't have any children, and something about the idyllic scene always left me feeling homesick, though my own home had been nothing like their cute pastoral house.

  Adam set us up with beer and a bowl of potato chips, and Chloe took a seat across the room, her nose buried in a book.

  We'd turned on the game a few minutes late, and the teams were already scattered across the wide expanse of the green field—athletic men in shorts with broad chests moving in every direction, and a ball that looked absolutely minuscule being batted around at their feet. Growing up without a father, I hadn't watched a lot of football, and I wasn't sure about the rules or any other details. I just knew Trace was responsible for guarding a box that looked ridiculously large behind him as he jogged around the space at one end of the field, looking handsome and intense and very muscular.

  "There's your boy," Adam said as the coverage flashed to Trace near the goal and then a photo slid onto the screen, along with statistics about his gameplay and history. "The man's a beast," he said, in a tone I assumed was appreciative. I was too busy staring at the cut of that handsome jaw, seeing those searing blue eyes and feeling the guilt wash through me again, along with a poignant physical memory of what it had felt like to have his arms around me.

  "Yes," I answered, for lack of anything better to say. And then, for the next almost three hours, I watched, mesmerized, as Trace and his teammates managed to defeat the other team by three points to none. It certainly wasn't for lack of trying, though. The competitors must have shot on Trace's goal at least ten times, and every single time, he moved with such graceful agility and co
mplete focus that I found myself holding my breath. He wasn't just good—it was like watching magic. Trace blocked shots I would have said he had no chance of stopping, literally flying across the leering mouth of his team's empty goal. I was impressed, and found myself wanting to talk to him about it, to see his face again.

  His focus was incredible, and incredibly compelling. By the time the game ended, and the Sharks were chest bumping and high-fiving each other (along with some butt slapping and one guy running a victory lap of the field, his hands raised in dual Vees, before dropping down and rolling like a little kid over the grass), I had become a fan.

  Trace's smile was a satellite, sending his pride and his joy over the miles between us until my own heart felt warm with his accomplishment.

  During the course of the game, I'd had three beers, and Adam and I had cheered and yelled, and even jumped up and down when the game was tense.

  "My goodness," Chloe complained from her curled up position in the armchair. "It's only football."

  "Yeah, but now we have a connection to it," Adam explained. "So it's personal."

  He was right. I had a personal stake in how the team did, and I wanted to see Trace win. It worried me how committed I felt after knowing him such a short time and under such tenuous circumstances.

  "Your boy is a phenom," Adam whooped as Trace blocked one final shot before the time on the clock was up.

  It wasn't a word I knew immediately, but I nodded anyway, confusion probably clear in my eyes.

  "A phenomenon," he explained. "He's amazing."

  "He is." He was. And I was compelled to pick up my phone and text him my congratulations. Even if he wasn't fond of me now, even if he suspected I was only using him, I wanted him to know I'd been watching and that I was proud of him, for whatever that was worth.

  Magalie: I watched your game on television. You were amazing. Congratulations!