The Matchmaker

by Kitty Parker

  I grinned, trying to convince myself that I wasn't nervous. This was it, the moment of truth. I had it all planned out, was ready to turn on all my vaunted charm, could hear myself saying the words – if only she would stop talking!

  "So I think we're all ready – which is good, because people should be coming soon – but I feel like I'm forgetting something, which I'm probably not, but you know that phantom feeling you get?" she rubbed her palms against the tight, dark fabric of her jeans. "It's so-"

  "Emma." I cut her off, looking down at her with a fond, exasperated smile, placing a single finger over her mouth to stop her. "You're babbling." I could feel warm, dry lips curve into a sheepish smile against my skin, but she obediently shut up, eyes shining nervously as green as her t-shirt. But why would she be nervous? I was the one who should be. Not that I was, or anything.

  "Can I talk to you?" I asked, giving myself a mental punch at how stupid I sounded. Of course I could, I was already talking to her! Why the hell did she make me feel so much like an awkward preteen asking his first girl out?

  "Umm… sure. But you already are, you know, so asking was pretty inane-" she started talking again as soon as I moved my hand, but before I could interrupt her, merry bells chimed throughout the house. "Oh, look at that, someone's here. We should go greet them." Apparently forgetting that she had left Lex out there for just that purpose, she rushed into the other room.

  I followed, totally bemused. What on Earth was wrong with her tonight? I had never seen her like this, skittish and discombobulated and barely in control of herself. In a way, that spoke of the trust she gave to me that she would show that tenseness, but it also scared me. Anything that made Emma so confused did not bode well for the rest of us. Could she know what I was going to – that didn't matter. I would get my say tonight, no matter how hard she avoided me.

  o0O0o0O0o

  Two hours later, the party was already half over, and I still hadn't managed to corner Emma. I should have known it would be difficult; this was the girl who could go as good as invisible at will. But she had to do that on purpose – why would she be fleeing me? She couldn't know what I was going to do, because that would mean she would find it undesirable, and that simply wasn't possible. Anyway, for all of her vaunted perception, she couldn't know. And what girl wouldn't want to hear me out?

  "Emma!" Finally, I identified the smooth black head and grabbed her sweaty forearm, yanking her out of the mass of dancing bodies. Surprised, she stumbled and nearly fell onto me. I caught her instinctively and pushed her upright, trying to forget the feeling of that lithe body against mine. Was she drunk? I had never seen her like this before, sober or not.

  "Oh, hi Darien!" she gushed, pushing wet hair out of her eyes. She must have been dancing for a while, because she no longer had the put-together air that she usually did. Sweat-soaked black strands stuck to her face, framing eyes that glowed feverishly, almost hysterically. Her shirt hung off center on her slim shoulders, the modest neckline falling tantalizingly to one side to reveal just enough pale skin to be provocative. "This is a nice party, isn't it? We did well. People are enjoying themselves, I think. Brock's having fun, anyway, which is good because it's his-"

  "Shut up." The glare she gave me was pure Emma, and I was glad to know something was normal. She was still herself, if in a really messed up mood. "Can you just keep still for a second and let me talk without running away? I have something to say, and I'm going to say it." She bit her lip but nodded, her head raised like she was about to face the firing squad, solemn as a criminal facing a judge.

  I took a deep breath. Now was the time for the speech I had written. It was a good one, too, striking just the right note between arrogance and self-deprecation. "Emma, we've been friends for a while now, and I do enjoy that. But-" she was staring at me now, and the look in her eyes, half terrified and half excited, drove my rehearsed oration right out the window. "Look, Emma, I like you. A lot. In a more-than-friends sort of way. So, umm…" Her incredulous gaze was working its magic on me, voiding my mind of words as only she could. Of course, it had to be the girl I actually liked who made me sound like a complete idiot. "Yeah," I finished lamely, waiting for the axe to fall.

  A moment of silence amidst the sea of noise. Time may have stopped as her eyes pierced through me, and I met them as squarely as I could. For that unending, infinitesimal instant, it seemed like she was judging me, considering if I was worthy, and I bristled with offended pride-

  Then she was kissing me like I had never been kissed before, and I only had half a second to reassure me that she had not, in fact, been drinking before all other thoughts had fled. This wasn't like the sloppy, drunken kiss of New Year's, but it wasn't the tender almost-kiss of a month ago. She attacked me with her passion, like she was trying to burn something from her lips – or into them. And this time I had no qualms, and my arms were finding their way around her waist as she buried her hands in my hair and damn she was so fucking hot and her lips weren't warm and dry anymore but wet and fiery.

  Then, as quickly as it had begun, Emma pulled away, a panicked look on her face, and before I could react she had slipped away into the mob.

  I stood, frozen, for a second. That was a yes. I had to be. She just had a habit of disappearing in times of intense emotional stress. A kiss had to mean she liked me, though, especially a kiss like that. Not even Emma could feign that sort of passion. Right?

  With that in mind, my paralysis broke and I was off, once more on the look out for Emma. After all, confirmation was always good. In words, that is. What were we supposed to do now, anyway? Were we going out? Did I, Darien McGavern, most affirmed of young bachelors, have a girlfriend? Or were we just friends who liked each other? Damn it, why couldn't she remember that I couldn't read her – there, that was definitely her shirt.

  "Brock." Emma entered the circle around the birthday boy just as I did from the other side, looking perfectly assured and calmly excited, most certainly not the girl I had just kissed. The dancing lights reflected off the absolute black of her hair and white of her skin, giving her an eerie air of otherworldliness. "I have a birthday present for you." And, as he looked up with laughter still echoing in his face, she stepped aside to reveal a tall girl with hair as red as fire and eyes the grey of molten silver, smiling with uncertain joy.

  The laughter vanished from Brock's face as he stared blankly at the girl before him. Moving as if he was in some sort of gel, with long, slow, uncertain movements, he stood, still gazing at her as if he was afraid looking away would make her dissolve. "Rhi?" he choked, one hand running through his auburn hair, "Rhianna?"

  "Brock," she said, and her very voice was a caress that made me feel indecent for being in the same room as them – as if she hadn't abandoned him a year ago. Her hand rose, as if to touch his face, but when he still didn't move she stopped, unsure. "Brock," she repeated with growing desperation, "I'm back."

  Still he stared woodenly at her, eyes hard and emotionless. The circle that surrounded them was frozen, as if to move would be to break the fairy-tale spell in the center. We were the backdrop, no more, and we all felt that and were trapped in it.

  "For how long?" he asked brusquely. Her hand dropped at the anger in his voice. Ha, take that. How dare she just come prancing in here, so sure he'd take her back after all the pain she caused him! She had broken his heart; she deserved all this and so much more. From across the circle, I caught sight of Emma, standing tense but poised to spring at any second. The silence stretched on as Rhianna studied the floor.

  Suddenly, her head went up, and, with a newfound resolution, she took a step forward. "Forever," she murmured, her hand rising once more to rest against Brock's cheek. His fists clenched into fists at his side. I could tell what an effort it was costing him to stand there, impassive – but he better stay firm. Throw her to the curb, that's what he should do. "I'll never leave you again," she said again in the horribly soft, tender, seductive voice.

  I could see, with agoniz
ing clarity, just when Brock melted. His large hand engulfed hers as he brought it to his chest. "Thank God," he muttered hoarsely, drawing her close, "I couldn't lose you again." She leaned closer and he bent his head down to meet her, and I ducked out of the circle, unable to stand it anymore.

  How could he do that? How could he just forgive her, like she hadn't smashed his heart to pieces? How could he-

  Emma wandered by the nook I stood in, trying to subdue my fury enough to make myself fit for human contact. I grabbed her roughly and wrenched her beside me, without any solicitude for her surprise. This time, she didn't stumble, nor did she gush. Her fey mood had passed, and she was cool once more. But that didn't matter.

  "How the hell," I hissed with tightly contained rage, none of the awkward, stumbling passion of only minutes ago anywhere evident in my voice. "Do you know Rhianna?"

  Emma turned calm eyes on me, no distress or anxiety or denial in them, only cool resignation. They were the eyes of a martyr at the block, who knows he is to die but has made peace with the fact, or of one of the old Roman patriarchs, about to drink his bitter cup surrounded by his friends.

  "She's my best friend," she answered tranquilly, her voice only loud enough to be heard by me but in no way hesitant or ashamed, as impassive as her face. "Has been for years."

  A veil lifted abruptly, night turned to day, the puzzle clicked into place. A cog finally fell into its gap and the whole mechanism began to turn. All the hints, everything I had learned in the past year but hadn't understood, came together, and I could finally see the awful, convicting whole.

  Rhianna, Emma's best friend. Emma had set her best friend up. The Matchmaker had set up Brock and Rhianna. How Emma knew so much more than she had any right to. Why she had my notepaper, way back when. How the Matchmaker knew about me. Where Emma's locker was, goddamit, right below the Matchmaker's! Everything finally made a horrible sort of sense.

  "Emma," I stated with a cold, absolute certainty that left no room for argument or doubt, "You're the Matchmaker."

  Chapter 34

  * * *

  Emma

  * * *

  The music still pounded around us. People still yelled and laughed and danced and cheered. Normal life was flowing on its accustomed path. But for me, the whole world had focused onto a single face and the four words that it had declared, words that I had dreaded and expected ever since our first meeting, just under a year ago. Emma, you're the Matchmaker…

  Then, just as quickly, my panic receded and the world returned with a blast of sound loud enough to stun me. Darien was staring at me, incredulous revelation warring with anger in his face as his own shock lessened. My brain was working on hyper-speed, the adrenaline of the confrontation to come already rushing through my body and making it tingle with anticipation. I couldn't let him explode here, where everyone could hear it. With any luck, I could contain this information, though my luck had apparently run out. Fast as lightening (or at least, faster than him) my hand was around his wrist and I was dragging him out of the party, up the stairs and away from the people who could be so fatal for my alter ego. Stuck in the paralysis of his surprise, he let me pull him into the den- the den where, only a few weeks ago, we had so nearly kissed- but when my grip loosened he shook off my hand instinctively, like it was contaminated. Hmph. He wasn't objecting to my touch twenty minutes ago.

  "You're the Matchmaker," he repeated slowly, as if connections were still being made n his mind as the whole, hateful web spread out in front of him in all of its fateful glory.

  There was no point denying it. Not after seeing Rhi, not after all I had told him in my stupid vulnerability, and certainly not after my too telling reaction. "Yes," I stated calmly, perching on the arm of the couch in carefully tense relaxation. He already had a height advantage over me; I wasn't about to sit to give him a larger one. "I am." I kept my voice resolutely even, not belligerent.

  He looked like too many thoughts were going through his head to voice any of them. I braced myself for a furious yell, or a hurt plea, or some sort of indignation. What I didn't expect was for him to say, in a voice so tight that I was half waiting to hear it snap like an overstretched rubber band, "Do you know what you've done?"

  The assumed condemnation irritated me. "I helped dozens of people find their match? I gave some people who wouldn't normally have it hope that there was somebody out there for them? " I inquired sardonically. I had done nothing wrong; he would not put any blame on me. I had done absolutely nothing wrong. "I added a bit of mystery to the prosaic high school life?"

  "You ruined lives?" he spat back, light reflecting weirdly off his blue-white eyes and making them burn with caged lightning. I refused to be provoked. I had always known he would react like this, known how much he hated the Matchmaker, although I still didn't know why, I would probably find out very, very soon. But if I was so damn omniscient, why did his fury hurt so much?

  "I've done no harm," I firmly maintained, standing my ground. I would not retreat, not now. To show weakness would be to be destroyed. Or, at least, destruction for the Matchmaker.

  "No harm!" for a moment, he was lost for words, his fists clenching and unclenching with ominous control. "You've broken hearts!"

  "So have you," I replied easily, leaning back against the couch. My disinterest was maddening him, I could tell, but I didn't care. In fact, I relished this fight: the fight to end all fights. It had been building for too long, had simmered to a boil. By the end of this, all would be decided.

  "Yes, but-" he gestured futilely at the air in front of him, grasping at nothing in a desperate attempt to articulate what seethed inside of him. He should have looked ridiculous. He didn't. "Those were… honest heartbreaks. You don't even have the courage to man up to what you did!"

  He didn't. He didn't just go there. For a second, I let loose the bonds of my own anger at being unfairly accused. "Honest? What the hell do you know about honest?" I asked with lethal, mocking sarcasm, my eyes never leaving his. "I know when I've messed up, and I try to set it right. You, you- you've broken more hearts than the Matchmaker ever could. Has even one of them mattered to you? Have you ever looked at the pain you created?" I hadn't moved from my lounging pose, but Darien stood straighter, resisting a blow, "Have you ever realized that you've caused Brock's heartbreak in far too many innocent girls, just because you were bored and they were there?"

  I had touched a nerve. Darien took a step closer, a tiger stalking his prey. "Those girls never cared about me like Brock did Rhia-"

  I laughed, a cold, contemptuous laugh that set my own teeth on edge. The voice that came form my mouth wasn't that of Emma, the girl who had a crush on Darien and who depended on her friends. It was that of a different Emma, who had graduated from the school of life with blood as her gown and tragedy as her diploma, and she neither cared nor needed anyone. And never would again.

  "Oh, keep telling yourself that," I chuckled without mirth, icy eyes boring into Darien's, who met ice with the fire of his own gaze. "You don't know anything about them. Maybe it was all puppy love, or hero worship. Maybe Mia Smith going anorexic and depressed after you dumped her was a coincidence." Darien opened his mouth, but I overrode him. I would have bet he had no reply to make, anyway. He couldn't argue with fact. "Or maybe," I continued, leaning in closer with my voice lowering to a sibilant whisper, "Those girls liked you in the way of teenagers, like Brock and Rhi, and you devastated them by using and tossing them away."

  "I did not-" he began to insist, but then thought better of it. He was too adept at this battle of words to let himself get trapped on the defensive. Attack, as my sensei always said, no one ever wins by defense. "Whatever I did or didn't do is immaterial. You- and Rhianna," the hatred in his voice as he snapped her name almost made me shiver. This ran deeper than a mere grudge against a girl who had stolen his best friend away from him. "The two of you broke Brock's heart. You nearly destroyed him."

  "You think I meant to do that?" I demanded, my icy calm mel
ting a little despite my best efforts. I might have been many things- liar, manipulator, coward- but he had no right to accuse me of that. None at all. "Do you think, even for a second, that Rhi wanted to leave? She was as attached to Brock as he was to her- how could you even conceive of her wanting to leave?"

  "Then why'd she go without a word?" he retorted. He had no pretense of his usual control; his temper, so rarely roused, had blazed into a raging fire. He had passed over the quiet, harsh anger that he usually indulged in- or maybe he just hadn't reached it yet. That was the part I dreaded. Ice could put out fire, but it had no power against something as frozen as itself. "Why'd she leave him to find out she had fucking moved to England by a fucking letter?"

  "I don't know," I shot, vaguely sardonic contempt. I wasn't Rhi's keeper, after all- and that decision had never made sense to me, for all she could say about wanting to protect him from knowing about her engagement. I wasn't going to make her choices for her. "Why don't you ask her? Maybe she didn't want Brock to know her parents had gotten her engaged. Maybe she thought that would hurt even more. OR maybe she was just a coward. I hate to break it to you," one of my lips twitched in an expression that was part sneer and part snarl, "but people who aren't as perfect as you make mistakes. We're awfully fallible creatures, humans; sometimes mortals fuck up. Not that you would know that- you couldn't deign to err." My irritation at his arrogance, buried for the months of friendship, come out in a rush of scornful sarcasm.

  "Well, forgive me if I don't make mistakes that demolish people," he growled, taking a step closer, one hand running through his hair in distracted fury. "But you don't know the cost of your mistake. You didn't have to put your best friend back together again from scratch!"