Matched

by S. E. Lund

  I look at the design specs of our latest drone and think about how it might have helped India's brother when he was deployed in Iraq. This is what keeps me busy and dedicated to Pacifica – the desire to develop technology that improves things for soldiers in war zones.

  When my watch says noon, I decide to acknowledge the grumbling in my stomach and grab my jacket, deciding to go down the street to get some food.

  I see India leave her office.

  "Hey," I call out. She keeps going, like she wants to pretend she didn’t hear me. She gets to the front entry before I catch up. "Where are you going?"

  "Home," she says, turning after she gets to the front door, a sheepish expression on her face. "I'm taking the rest of the day off."

  "You were going to leave without saying anything?"

  "I usually do," she says. "Nothing's changed."

  "Everything's changed, India," I reply, frowning. "I'm waiting for your answer."

  "I'm waiting for yours as well," she says, her voice low. She glances down the hallway to Grant's office a few doors away. "In case you didn’t remember that this is a two-way thing."

  "I already gave you my answer. I'm being patient with you, letting you take some time to say yes."

  She takes her hand off the doorknob and gives me a stare. "You're obviously not taking this very seriously, if that's the case. This is serious. We can't fuck this up."

  "We won't. We’ll do what's right."

  She shakes her head and sighs audibly. "You're so sure about this?"

  I step closer. "I've never been more sure of anything."

  I bend down and kiss her and she lets me this time, offering no resistance.

  Then Grant comes out into the hallway. When he sees us, he turns right back around and goes back into his office, a grin on his face.

  "Crap," India says and pulls away from me. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

  "Okay," I say and watch her leave.

  Then I turn leave to get my lunch, wondering how I'll make it through the week.

  Chapter 9

  INDIA

  I arrive back home and flop down on the sofa, my channel changer in hand, and stare blankly at the television. I flip between channels, but nothing catches my interest. My mind is still going over my almost-sexual encounter with Jon.

  What the hell have I done?

  My cell dings and I check to see who's texting me.

  It's Marina, of course. The very last person I want to talk to, considering.

  Oh, God… What do I tell her about what happened? She'll absolutely kill me if she finds out that Jon and I almost got the dirty on.

  MARINA: What's up, sug? Where are you? Why did you bail on Evan last night? You didn’t like him?

  INDIA: He really wasn't my type.

  MARINA: What do you mean? He's a perfect match for you, according to MATCHED. 100% match was the score.

  INDIA: Are you sure you used the right questionnaire for me? He and I did not click at all. In fact, I couldn't wait to escape. He reminds me of my father, and not in a good way. I don't want my father. I want a hunky sexy man in my bed. Someone who knows what he wants and takes it. Confident. Alpha. Not Mr. Metrosexual Man Bun.

  MARINA: Oh, you! You're just as bad as Jon. He skipped out on his date as well. What am I going to do with you two? I'll have to look down the list and see who’s next best. I’ll set up a date this Thursday. How's that sound? Do you prefer a dinner date or some other kind of event?

  INDIA: Maybe we should lay off the date this week. Jon and I have a lot on our plates. We have another meeting at the Pentagon to prepare for.

  MARINA: You got a second meeting? That's great!

  INDIA: Yeah, so maybe we should focus on that instead of our love lives.

  MARINA: Okay, but I have some good candidates for you. Let me look through them and get back to you. When you get back from Washington, we can do another meet and greet. Maybe this coming Saturday?

  INDIA: Okay, if you insist…

  Of course, I have no interest in another one of Marina's matches. Zero for two is not a good track record. Her match for Jon wasn't much better.

  MARINA: When are you and Jon going to DC?

  INDIA: Wednesday. We'll be back on Friday.

  MARINA: Okay. Saturday night, you'll both have a new date. I'll pick someone out for each of you, and maybe this match will work out better.

  INDIA: If you think so.

  MARINA: I know so. I've been working on the questionnaire and I think it’s working even better now. Give it a chance. You'll see. I have an instinct for this.

  INDIA: Uh huh…

  MARINA: Don’t you uh huh me, sug. I got this.

  INDIA: Later.

  MARINA:

  I shut off my brain and turned back to the latest episode of OITNB, trying to lose my own troubles by focusing on the troubles of the girls in jail.

  Their problems make mine look like successes.

  Monday comes and I spend an awkward morning at the office, avoiding Jon as much as I can, ducking into my office when I see him coming down the hall, hiding in the bathroom when he’s out by the water cooler talking to staff. But I can’t avoid him during our weekly meeting to set the agenda for the week. We always do the meeting together, sharing the duties.

  I go into his office a half hour before the meeting to make sure we have the agenda down.

  "Hey," I say and plop down on the chair across from his desk.

  "Hey," he replies. "How are you? Recovered from yesterday?"

  "I'm fine." I quickly change the subject. "What's on the agenda for this week, besides our trip to DC?"

  We discuss the big project and the various tasks we have to get done this month, and who will be lead on each one. I draw up an agenda on my laptop while we speak, print it off quickly, and we discuss it. After a final revision, I leave his office, glad he didn’t say anything else about what happened on Sunday.

  I pass the staff room and see Grant there, sitting on a sofa, talking to a couple of our staff. He sees me and stops talking, then nods to me. I hope he isn't gossiping about Jon and me getting undressed in his office or I won’t be able to face the rest of the staff.

  I spend the rest of the day hiding from Jon. I try my best to avoid doing what we would usually do together – coffee, lunch, more coffee, an after-work drink at the local watering hole, maybe a late supper after another couple of hours of work.

  In other words, things are not back to normal between us. In fact, they have never been so estranged.

  Tuesday comes, and we are scheduled to fly to Washington on separate flights because I cancelled my seat and quickly arranged a meeting with staff that prevented me from travelling with Jon. When Liz tells Jon that we're taking separate flights, I see a muscle in his jaw pulse.

  He turns to me, his eyes narrowed. "I thought we could use the time to talk about the meeting, but I guess not."

  "You can always text me."

  "Yeah, right."

  He grabs my arm and pulls me down the hall and into the stockroom, closing the door behind him.

  "You're not going to avoid me completely for the rest of the week."

  "I'm going to do exactly that," I reply. "I need to keep my distance. No more sneaking in kisses and gropes to influence my decision."

  "India," he says, exasperated. "We have to work together this week. We need to talk."

  "We'll talk about business. If you need to ask about something, just arrange a meeting."

  He lets go of my arm and I leave the stockroom, noting the barely-suppressed grin on Liz's face as I pass her.

  "What are you smiling about?" I ask, stopping directly in front of her.

  "Nothing," she says. "You two are so cute."

  "What?" I lean forward. "What do you mean by that?"

  "You know," she says, a coy smile on her face. "Sneaking into the stockroom like that for – well, whatever."

  "Have you been talking to Grant?"

  "No," she says and f
rowns. "It's just that we all know you two are in love."

  "We aren't in love," I say, more forcefully than I intend. "We're partners. Business partners. Nothing else."

  Liz shrugs. "Sorry. We all thought…"

  "You all thought wrong."

  I turn on my heel and march to my office. When I get to my door, I turn and see Jon come out of the stock room with a couple of packs of paper in his arms. He's pretending that he needed some photocopier paper and that's why he went into the stock room.

  Yeah, right.

  It's not like Jon loads paper in the photocopier on a regular basis.

  "I can do that," Liz says and steps around her desk, taking the paper out of Jon's arms.

  "Thanks," Jon says and comes down the hallway. He shrugs helplessly and smiles at me.

  I enter my office and close the door behind me. Once alone, I lean against it and close my eyes.

  One stupid kiss and look where we are now – the entire office thinks we're in love and hiding in the stockroom so we can get it on.

  I sit behind my desk, open my laptop, and try to finish work on my new project.

  Plus, I have to get some work done before I have my fake meeting with a few staff tomorrow morning about something I could have put off until after the trip. I just didn't want to spend the entire day with Jon, waiting at the airport, on the plane together, on whatever layover we might have, then waiting for luggage, taking a taxi together to the hotel, and then dinner at the hotel or whatever.

  Later that afternoon, Jon pops his head in my office.

  "I'm going home early. I guess I'll see you Thursday morning before the meeting. Should we meet for coffee? Go over the presentation?"

  "Sounds good," I reply without looking at him. "I'll text you once I arrive."

  "Okay."

  I nod and glance at him, feeling like I have to make eye contact at least once before he leaves. He has this expression in his eyes that is somewhere between amused and angry.

  I hear him sigh heavily like he's resigned to my efforts to put a distance between us.

  The door closes behind him and I relax, leaning back in my chair.

  I close my eyes for a few moments, relieved that he's gone and out of my hair for at least twenty hours. Maybe now I can focus on work instead of imagining what it would be like if the two of us were lovers on top of being business partners.

  The next day, after my total-waste-of-time meeting with my staff, I grab my luggage and bag and take a taxi to the airport, checking in and sitting in the lounge to wait for my flight.

  Of course, I get a text from Jon.

  JON: I'm in the airport in Atlanta waiting for my flight to Washington. You really should have come with me. I have a beautiful first-class seat and you would have had one too if you weren't so damn stubborn.

  I can't help but smile at his obvious frustration and attempt to make me regret my decision.

  INDIA: You always told me that my stubbornness is why I'm successful. I refuse to compromise. I want the best and am willing to work – or wait – to get it. That's true. I want the best, Jon. In all parts of my life.

  JON: You've made that perfectly clear. Let me know when you have your answer. I can wait.

  I can tell that he’s frustrated. If he had his way, we'd be going at it in the airport bathroom right now. That thought makes me squirm a bit and I feel a little breathless at the thought. Knowing him, he'd wear me out.

  I can’t help but think I want him to wear me out.

  I want to feel well-used, my body aching from him and for him.

  My trip goes as planned, with only a short delay when I get to Atlanta due to some storms in the region. I arrive in DC and gather my luggage, take a taxi to the hotel we always stay at, and I check in. It's late. I put my suitcase on the stand, turn on the television, take out my laptop, and crash on the bed.

  In fact, I'm exhausted. The room is dark except for the television and my laptop. I fall asleep with the channel tuned to CNN and my laptop playing the latest Casey Neistat vlog.

  A knock at my door wakes me up and I check my cell. It's after midnight.

  Crap. That has to be Jon.

  I check my cell and see that he's sent me seven texts that I haven't seen. The sound of the television and the videos must have drowned out the sound of my cell dinging when each text arrived. I scroll through his texts quickly. He sent me a text earlier asking if he can come by and talk.

  Yeah, right.

  Talk. People don't talk at this late at night.

  They fuck.

  The next text is from a few minutes later.

  JON: Are you in your room? I think we should talk. I have a bottle of wine.

  Fifteen minutes later:

  JON: It's really good wine. Nice body. I promise I won’t touch you. I just want to talk. No nookie. I promise.

  Another fifteen minutes:

  JON: Are you purposely ignoring me? Come on, India. We're almost best friends. I need my ABFF.

  An hour later:

  JON: You haven't answered my text. Are you okay?

  Another fifteen minutes later:

  JON: Please respond so I know you're alive and not abducted by some serial killer who stalks expensive hotels.

  Another text comes, almost two hours after the first.

  JON: This wine is almost gone. Actually, it's completely gone. I hope you know that I blame you.

  Finally, a text from five minutes earlier.

  JON: I'll be right there.

  I get up and check the peephole and sure enough, there's Jon, leaning against the wall, his arm outstretched, holding himself up. He glances up, then presses his face to the peephole and all I can see is his blue eye.

  "Jon," I say, frustrated. "Go back to your room and go to sleep. We have an important meeting tomorrow."

  "I'm drunk."

  He laughs, grinning like an idiot.

  "Shh," I say, afraid he'll wake up other hotel guests. "Keep your voice down."

  "I will if you let me in," he says and holds up a bottle of wine. "I have some more wine left. It's really good."

  "Go back to your room and drink some water, take an aspirin. General Newton won't appreciate it if you're hungover."

  "General Newton can go fuck himself," Jon says. "Let me in or I'll start serenading you with a love song."

  Oh, God.

  "Jon, stop this. Go back to your room. "

  Then he starts singing, a horrible drunk warble.

  I can't liiiiiiiive…

  Oh, my God, he's singing 'Without You' by Harry Nilsson. He is so drunk. I cover my eyes and try not to laugh because as funny as he is, he's making a scene.

  I open the door and he stumbles in, mid-sentence.

  "Can't liiiiiive anymoooooore…"

  I have to catch him when he falls into the room.

  "Oh, so sorry," he says, a half-grin on his face, his arm around my shoulder. "Not very good on my feet for some reason."

  "Half a bottle of wine?" I say, checking the bottle he hands me. "Is that all you’ve had?"

  "Well, there was another bottle…"

  "Jon!" I stare open-mouthed at him. "That's way too much."

  "It was over several hours, so…" He flops on the bed. "I think I need to lie down for a while."

  Then he passes out.

  He actually passes out. Within about five minutes, he’s snoring.

  I'm afraid that he'll puke and drown in his own vomit, so I roll him over on his side. He doesn't fight me. Instead, he pulls up his knees and licks his lips before falling back into unconsciousness.

  I sit beside him and listen to him breathe.

  He figured out a way to sleep in my room, in my bed, with me. I have to hand it to him – he figured out probably the only way I'd let him do it.

  Usually, I'd go into the bedroom and get into my pajamas, brush my teeth and then crawl under the covers and go to sleep. With Jon lying on the bed, drunk, I don't. He's young enough to recover quickly from too muc
h wine and sneak under the covers with me.

  If he did, and if he got his hands on me, I don't know if I could resist him.

  So, instead of my usual routine, I go the bathroom and brush my teeth, and then I take a pillow over to the sofa, grab an extra blanket from the closet, and fall asleep to the sounds of Jon's intermittent snores and the talking heads on CNN.

  "Oh, damn," I hear Jon say when he wakes in the morning. I crack an eyelid and see that he's sitting up at the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes. He glances in my direction and our eyes meet. "Sorry. What a jerk."

  "My thoughts exactly," I say, but can't stop a smile.

  "It's not funny," he says, rubbing the heel of his palms against his temples. "I have a raging headache."

  "Serves you right. Harry Nilsson? At 12:38 a.m.?"

  He shakes his head. "I seem to recall singing a verse or two. I thought you loved the seventies."

  "I loved Harry Nilsson's version. Yours left little to be desired." I sit up and stretch. The clock radio beside the bed reads six forty-three. We have a meeting in two hours and fifteen minutes at the Pentagon.

  "I better go back to my room and shower." He stands up and gives me a smile. "Sorry about last night."

  "It's okay. It'll be one of those stories I get to tell the rest of my life whenever I want to embarrass you."

  He points to the door. "My room’s just down the hallway. Can you bring me some fresh coffee, black, in about fifteen minutes?"

  I nod. "I have to have a shower first, but I'll get us some coffee from the café downstairs. You should take some aspirin and drink some water."

  He nods and walks to the door. "See you in fifteen."

  I get up after he's left, smiling at the memory of him singing, and have a quick shower. I brush my teeth and get dressed for the meeting, choosing a silk blouse and pencil skirt. Then, I take my laptop and bag and go down to the cafeteria and get us some coffee, two bottles of orange juice, plus a couple of Danishes. That will have to do for our breakfast.