The Matchbaker (A Romantic Comedy)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  She walks from her side of the kitchen, until she’s right up next to me, and lowers her voice. “Why would you talk about periods in front of my boyfriend?” She seems really riled up over it.

  “Holly, we’re all adults,” I say. “And you guys are…you know…” I make a squeaking sound and pretend to hump the air. “Surely it’s come up.”

  Holly takes a deep breath and puts a hand over her face to cover the redness in her cheeks, I’m sure. She doesn’t want to talk, but I’m going to make her.

  “I mean, people who are having sex have to be able to talk about these things,” I continue. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Most women have periods, you know.”

  Holly is silent for a moment longer, but I see it in her eyes the moment she decides she’s going to divulge her secret to me. I’m only seconds away from confirmation.

  “Yes,” she says quietly, “but not everyone starts their period while…”

  I stare at her, trying to figure out what the hell she’s trying to tell me, and then it dawns on me. Shit. They are having sex. And she got her period mid-coitus, it would seem. “Well, that’s not so bad,” I say.

  But Holly shakes her head. I can tell I’m close, but I haven’t quite hit the nail on the—

  Oh, God. I’m going to throw up. “No,” I say.

  Holly nods, looking horrified.

  I want to wash my ears out, and my eyes, and maybe my mouth while I’m at it, just for good measure. “That’s—” I’m about to tell her how disgusting that is, but much to my dismay, a giggle bubbles to my mouth and I can’t even finish my sentence.

  “It’s not funny!” she yells at me.

  “I know, I know!” I cry, apologetically. “It’s just—” I break off again in another fit of laughter.

  Holly storms away from me.

  “Holly, wait!” I try to stop her. “I’m sorry, really, I am…What are you doing?”

  My laughter fades when Holly scoops up a big spoonful of batter and holds the spoon aloft, a murderous look in her eyes.

  “Holly, wait. Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” I say, desperate to keep my Juicy suit intact. But it’s too late. She’s pissed, and I probably deserve—

  Thwat!

  The batter has hit me where it really hurts: right on the rhinestone Juicy emblem. I’ll never be able to get the batter out completely, I’m sure. This means war.

  I spot the bag of flour and its giant scoop, and I’m suddenly reminded of every food fight I’ve ever seen where someone ends up wearing a face-full of flour. It’s brilliant. I reach for the scoop, dig deep into the bag to fill it, and then I fling it across the table at her.

  But that’s the thing about flour. It’s kind of light and airy, and doesn’t really fling all that well. Actually, it doesn’t fling at all, and somehow I’m the one who ends up wearing a face full of flour.

  Holly is laughing her ass off, which really gets me riled up. I cast about for something I can throw at her and my gaze lands on the ketchup bottles filled with the chocolate sauce we use for garnish on some of the cupcakes. Oh, this will be perfect.

  I run for the bottles, grab them like I’m a cowboy ready for a showdown, and start squirting. This time, I hit my mark. Chocolate sauce spurts out and gets Holly right in the face. But I don’t stop there, and within seconds, her white t-shirt is turning a murky brown. Ha!

  Holly only hesitates a moment before she does the unthinkable. I don’t have time to think, let alone react, as she grabs the sprayer from the sink and turns on the water in one fluid movement. And then it’s happening. She’s spraying me with the water, and I can do nothing as the flour turns to glue, and I turn into a giant papier-mâché art project.

  “What the hell is going on in here?”

  Holly and I both turn to find Mom, Dad and Colin standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Oh, God. Ohgodohgodohgod.

  There’s really no answer to that particular question. We’re both full-grown women, and we’re standing here covered in goop and chocolate sauce, when we’re supposed to be working.

  A clump of paste from my arm falls to the floor with a loud splat, cutting into the stunned silence. I’m horrified. I move my gaze from Mom and Dad’s equally horrified faces to Colin. Is that a smirk? Oh, my God. Before my eyes, his smirk turns into unmitigated mirth, and before I know it, he’s practically doubled over laughing. Laughing. This is no laughing matter. These Juicy pants will never recover, and my salary isn’t nearly enough to spend that kind of money on a tracksuit. Not only will I have to start shopping at K-Mart, but I’ll probably have to start shopping in their plus size department. The thought sobers me even more.

  Now he’s done it. Mom and Dad suddenly find the humor in the situation and have joined in with Colin. They’re all walking toward us now. Colin toward Holly, of course. Mom reaches me and starts scraping the glue off my arms with her hand while Dad comes around with paper towels to help clean up the mess.

  “I mean, really, girls! What’s gotten into you?” Mom is saying, her laughter finally dying away. “We have customers out there and they need their cupcakes.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” I say, feeling like I’m six-years-old again, apologizing for using her expensive makeup and hair products to give makeovers to all my dolls. (But really, they needed it and looked so much better afterwards. Even at six, I knew what I was doing.) I’ve been completely humbled by this day. Between finding out Colin and Holly actually have been intimate and being discovered mid-food fight, I’m ready to crawl under the covers and go back to bed.

  But I did promise myself I would check out the gym today. And I am going to need a new tracksuit replacement, so I might as well hit up the mall on my way back from the gym. However, I can’t go anywhere looking like this.

  “I’m going to have to go home to take a shower,” I say to Mom.

  “Why don’t you use my place?” Colin is on the other side of the big metal table, using wet paper towels to get the chocolate off of Holly’s face. “It’s just a few doors down.”

  “Yeah, and I have a bunch of clothes there that I can loan you,” Holly puts in. “Then we don’t have to get the car all mucked up.”

  I ignore the stab of jealousy when I realize Holly apparently has a wardrobe set up at Colin’s apartment. “Oh, well…sure,” I say, wishing there were some way out of this. I really don’t care to see their lover’s den. “That would be…great.”

  ~*~

  Okay, I am totally freaked out right now. How did I not know how serious this had gotten? Not only does Holly have some clothes here, he’s given her half of his bedroom closet. Half! Like they’re a married couple or something.

  The bathroom is even more horrifying. Her things are sprinkled throughout, as if they belong here. Her toothbrush and makeup haven’t been relegated to one drawer, as they should be when you’re sleeping with someone, but still not ready to commit. They’re set up on the counter! The lipsticks are all standing at attention, in perfect order, like a fortress around her eye shadow palates and pots of blush.

  And the toothbrush. Her pink Colgate toothbrush is nestled in a cup, snuggling Colin’s blue Crest one, and they’re crisscrossed, like a pair of lovers hugging in the rain.

  I hop into the shower, trying to shake off the depression that’s setting in. I mean, I have no right to be depressed. He’s not mine, he never was, and to pursue him at this point would be absolutely reprehensible of me. Besides, there are plenty of guys out there, I just haven’t put any effort into finding one. I’ve been so career focused—and Colin focused—that I haven’t taken the time to even go out on a date.

  That’s it. I have to start dating. My plate is pretty full with the bakery right now, but I can’t let that stop me. I’m going to get my butt back in shape and start dating. I know Colin and I are meant to be—Madame Antoinette said as much—but I can’t just sit around, biding my time while he’s banging my sister. It’ll all happen when it’s supposed to happen. Colin and I have the rest of our li
ves to be together. This is just a little detour he’s taking on the way to me, that’s all.

  I’m sufficiently cheered by the time I get out of the shower. So much so that I don’t even let the fact that Holly has sexy lingerie hanging in the closet get to me. It’s totally fine.

  “Candy, what are you doing?”

  I jump, startled by my sister’s voice behind me. “Holly, you can’t sneak up on people like that!” I shout, exasperated.

  She ignores me as she draws her own towel tightly around her. “What are you doing with my lingerie?”

  Damn. She noticed. “Nothing,” I say as I pull it away from my body, where I’d been holding it against me and stroking the soft, pink satin. “I was just…trying to find something to wear.”

  “I’m not sure that’s appropriate work attire.”

  I give her what I hope is a scathing look and roll my eyes. “I thought it was a camisole.”

  She crosses her arms and taps her foot. She doesn’t believe me.

  Well, never mind her. It could very easily have been mistaken for a camisole. How tragic that my own sister thinks I’m a liar.

  “Here, this should fit you.” She walks over pulls a mu-mu-looking top out of the dresser. I stare wide-eyed for two reasons: 1) I didn’t realize she had drawer space in addition to having half the closet, and 2) I’m flabbergasted and down-right offended she thinks the only thing I’ll be able to fit into in her wardrobe is a mu-mu. A mu-mu!

  “Oh, well…” I turn back to the closet where there are a plethora of trendy pants and tops. “I was thinking of these pants with this blouse. Do you mind?”

  She looks dubiously at the articles of clothing I’m holding aloft, then she glances toward my waistline and raises her eyebrows. I don’t like to use the “B” word very often, but in this case my sister is being a huge B.

  Well, I’ll show her. I can fit into this outfit just fine. I mean, it’s a size 6. I’m a 4 at most. “Do you mind?” I say, glancing toward the door.

  Holly shrugs, grabs a few articles of clothing for herself and then leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I wait until I hear the latch click, and then I begin to get dressed. Thankfully, my bra and underwear survived the papier-mâché incident. I slip those on and then reach for the pants. They’re beautiful. The flat front has buttons down either side and then they flare out into a wide leg—a modern take on the sailor pant. The cream-colored blouse has tiny navy polka dots to match the pants and a ruffle down the front and on the cap sleeves. Frilly and girly, but still sleek and trendy. Maybe I’ll go sit at the coffee shop and read something smart while I scope out cute guys. My dating mission starts today.

  I put one leg into the pants, then the other, and hoist. Then I hoist again. But the damn pants won’t move past my hips. I seek out the side zipper. It must not be down all the way. I pull it and it moves. Hooray! I knew there was something wrong. Only, the zipper doesn’t move down quite as much as I hoped it would. A half-inch at most. But really, that should be plenty.

  I hoist again, and the pants finally move over my hips. Ha! I knew that would do it. I put the shirt on next, since it needs to be tucked in. My arms slip easily through the armholes and I start to button it up. Only the top two buttons, the ones that button over my breasts, don’t come anywhere near the buttonholes on the other side. Shit. Something must be wrong. I mean, really. There’s no way my boobs have grown that much in the last two weeks.

  I mash them down and let out my bra straps so they hang a little lower, and finally, the buttons close. There’s a bit of a gap there, but I’m sure it will be fine once the pants are zipped. I reach for the zipper and tug. I suck in my stomach and hold my breath, and the zipper moves easily to the top.

  Ah. There. Perfect.

  “Candy, are you ready?” my sister calls from the other room.

  “Coming!” I say as I grab my bag off the bed. “Do you have shoes to go with this outfit?” I emerge from the bedroom and ignore the look of shock on my sister’s face as she gives me the once-over.

  “Um, yeah…” She sounds a bit dismayed, but I can’t understand why. Obviously we’re the same size. It’s not as if I’m going to stretch out the clothes or anything. “Here.”

  She hands me a pair of Kate Spade wedge espadrilles that have cream-colored crochet straps. They’re perfect for this outfit. I bend over to put them on. At once I hear two of the most horrifying sounds in the world—the sound of a pair of pants splitting down the middle, accompanied by the click of buttons hitting hardwood.

  Oh, my God.

  I look up from my bent over position, afraid to move another muscle. Holly is staring at me, her eyes wide.

  “Did you just…?”

  Oh, God. What do I do? Do I play this off and blame it on sizing and fit models? Or do I let myself break down into tears, apologize profusely and promise to have it all repaired?

  I’m desperate for Holly to make the first move. Maybe she’ll start laughing. I mean, it is pretty funny, me busting out of her clothes and all. Or maybe she’ll start yelling and say something horrible to me, at which point I can turn the tables on her and make it all sound like it’s her fault. Either way, I just want her to say something. Anything.

  But she doesn’t. She just stands there, her nostrils flaring a bit. And then I can’t help myself. I burst into tears and wail, “I’m so faaaaaaaaaaaaat!”

  Eleven

  Holly and I return to the bakery an hour after having left covered in goop. I’m wearing the mu-mu and a pair of what Holly calls her “Fat Pants,” typically reserved for that special time of the month. Sadly, the fab shoes didn’t work with this disaster of an outfit, so I’m in a pair of boring old Reeboks. My hair and makeup that had been so beautifully done that morning are neither beautiful nor done now. I have mascara on, and lip gloss on my lips and cheeks. And my frizzy hair is pulled into a messy ponytail. I feel dreadful. I decide I probably shouldn’t do my coffee-shop man-hunt this afternoon, after all. Besides, I made a promise to myself to go to the gym today, and after the button-popping incident, that’s probably a better idea than guzzling a high-cal drink at A Latte Joe’s, anyway.

  We both return to our rightful sides of the kitchen. Mom gives me the run-down of what still needs to be done before we close, and then leaves us alone, but not before she issues a warning.

  “Neither of you is too big for me to put you over my knee,” she says. She’s trying to make a joke, but the look in her eyes tells me she might actually be considering it. “If you have any differences, I want you to settle them outside the kitchen, understood?”

  “Yes, Mom,” we both mumble.

  “Besides, Candy…” She turns to me. “You need to start focusing on what you’re doing.”

  Oh, right. The change. Which, by the way, seems like a bunch of hogwash to me. I mean, I’ve already had my birthday, and I don’t feel any different. It was probably just a ploy to get me to agree to all this, but now I’m in too deep. That must have been Mom and Dad’s plan all along.

  Holly and I don’t speak much over the next hour. We’re both working away on our respective jobs. By five o’clock, we’re both wrapping up, ready to clock out for the day. I kind of have to admit, as resistant as I’ve been to this whole thing, I’m really starting to warm to it. Aside from today’s food fight, I actually enjoy being lost in my own little world, mixing and pouring and frosting. Madame Antoinette is never wrong.

  Colin barges into the kitchen just as I’m hanging up my apron.

  “Hey, hon,” he says to Holly, planting a kiss on her cheek. “You ready to go?”

  “Yeah, just one sec.”

  I feel Colin’s gaze on my back as he’s waiting for Holly. I don’t want to turn around, but I must look like an idiot just staring at my apron on its hook.

  “Did you get all the glue out?” he asks, and I can hear the amusement in his tone. He’s trying to be playful, but I’m feeling rather sensitive about everything right now.

  My laugh
comes out fake and strangled as I turn around, but I manage a condescending “Very funny,” before Holly announces they can go.

  “Have a good night!” I say as they prepare to leave. I’m trying to sound cheerful, but I’m not. I wish I had someone to go out with tonight. I wish I had Colin.

  “Oh, hey…” Colin turns to me and is hemming and hawing while he’s sending silent signals to Holly. She shrugs. I have no idea what it means. “Did you want to grab some dinner with us?”

  Ah. Permission. That’s what the shrug was about. “That’s so nice of you,” I say, “but I already have plans.”

  “You do?” Holly looks surprised. What, does she think I just sit at home every night waiting for pity invites from her and her boyfriend?

  “Of course I do!” I get all huffy and punch my fists to my hips.

  “What are you doing?”

  Leave it to my sister to call me out on my lie. She can be so impossible sometimes. “I…have a date.”

  “A date?” Holly and Colin say this in unison.

  “Mmm-hmm.” I flit about the kitchen and pack up my things. “As a matter of fact, I better get going.”

  “Okay, well…have fun!” I know that tone. It’s the “I’m sad my sister isn’t willing to share things about her personal life with me” tone.

  I brush it off. “Thanks. You too!”

  Finally, they leave the kitchen and I slip on my jacket. I’ll head to the gym and take my time signing up and all. Then if by chance they find out I spent most of the evening watching TV in the basement, I can just tell them I didn’t like the guy and ditched him.

  I wave to the teens behind the counter on my way out the door and step into the crisp fall evening. It’s already dark, and the smell of burning wood permeates the air. I sigh. It wasn’t the greatest day on record, but this makes up for it.

  The gym is only a ten-minute drive from the bakery, and it’s huge. I mean, really, really huge. My fancy spin studio in Manhattan had two rooms big enough for about twenty bikes, his and her locker rooms and a front desk area. That was it. This place, however, looks like a compound. The welcome area alone is bigger than my entire spin studio.