Falling for the Matchmaker [ Chaennie ]

Chapter 6 : Roseanne

Roseanne

Eleven is my favorite number. I'm not sure why. I guess I've always kind of felt that it was lucky. I was born on February eleventh. Maybe it was natural and easy for me to pick my birthdate as my number. Whatever the reason, I've just always liked it. It's well rounded without being even. It's solid. Sure. Steady. Lucky number eleven ! I'm just about to sit down to a fancy dinner in a fancy restaurant with date number eleven. He hasn't arrived yet. I've already been given two menus, drank a glass of water because I'm nervous and I thought it would help, ordered a glass of wine to take the edge off, and been offered a basket of bread. I normally would decline it, since I'm one of those odd people who doesn't actually like bread that much, but I got it anyway and ate halfway through it out of sheer nerves. I'm not nervous about the date, so I don't know what I'm getting all sweaty about. My blouse is kind of damp under the armpits. Thank goodness it's black and hard to tell. I can't remember being so sweaty in my life. Maybe I'm coming down with something. Maybe I just don't want to be here. No, I want to be here. This one is going to work out. I can feel it.

Dates two, three, and four until ten met with mixed measures of success. And I do mean mixed. Date two was with a guy named Walter. He was extremely good looking, very athletic, and was also a teacher. Of course, he taught physical education and coached a bunch of sports. He was on summer break and said that his school never would consider summer classes. He believed in the one strike system. Lazy people didn't prosper, he said, then proceeded to spend the rest of the time talking about professional sports. Needless to say, I didn't ask for another date. I don't think he was that into me either. He was too busy being into himself. I think he got through Jennie's screening because he was one of those people who lied a lot or talked a big game online and were completely oblivious and obnoxious in person. I feel sorry for his students. He probably operates his class like a boot camp and makes the kids run until they puke.

Date three was with Shane. He was fine. He had two kids under the age of five. Was divorced two years ago. He was a chef at a fancy restaurant and is a self-proclaimed workaholic. He wanted to have me come over so he could cook for me—I guess his ex-wife had the kids since he never mentioned them—but I felt it was safer to go somewhere public. That was a mistake, as he criticized the food all night. He spent so much time picking it apart I don't think we talked about one meaningful thing. I left not knowing any more about him than I knew at the start.

Date four was Andrew. Andrew was just shy of forty. He was a banker, which I thought I wouldn't find interesting, but he was very nice. He was one of those guys who can talk about anything and make it interesting. He was funny. Had no kids, but very much wanted them. He thought it was wonderful that I was a teacher and asked me tons of questions about my job and about myself that I could tell he actually wanted to know the answers to. When I blurted that my parents owned a tire business and rattled off the name, he didn't even blink. He had to have known that it was worth a ton of money. Everyone does. The name is very iconic. He just told me that next time he needed tires, he'd be sure to get them from there. Everything went well. We had a nice dinner at a family style restaurant that wasn't classy enough to make me feel nervous. He walked me to my car, and when he leaned in to kiss me, I panicked. My first instinct was to kick him in the balls. I knew that was wrong, since he didn't mean anything by it and I was probably giving off vibes that I'd welcome a goodnight kiss. It was innocent. He was genuinely confused and felt terrible when I backed away like a caged animal. I made up some excuse about not being ready, apologized profusely, assured him it was me and not him, then got in my car and probably burned off half my tires trying to get out of the parking lot. I burst into tears a few blocks later.

Date five and the rest after that seems like a blur to me.

So here I am at date eleven.. I wait. And wait. I chew through the rest of the basket of bread. Drink the rest of my wine. Make apologies and muttered assurances to the flustered waiter. And still, I'm alone. I wait an hour, then give up. The guy, Richard, is obviously a no-show. I should have known that nothing good could come from someone named Richard. No wonder everyone calls them Dick. I pay the bill and leave, my pride holding me together until I get into the car. I lock the doors and fire off a quick email to Jennie. She responds right away when I tell her that Richard never showed.

Oh my god. I just messaged him online. He's signed in. He went to the wrong place. Apparently, there are two with the same name. I'm so sorry. I should have double checked the address. I feel so bad! Do you want me to reschedule? Or see if he will?

I think about that for a second, then, shaking my head, I type her a response, telling her not to bother, that everything is fine. I do end it by stating that maybe I just need to take a break for a bit. It's the wrong thing to say, and a panicked email pops up almost immediately.

Don't do that. Don't give up. I'm sorry that you had a few bad dates or ones that just weren't right. Normally I do have more success finding a match by now. I guess I'm off my game. That's my fault, not yours. I really, really need this job. Not that I mean to put pressure on you. I don't. It's just that my boss will absolutely fire me if you give up. So please, don't do that. Let me have one more chance. Please. I don't want to say that I'm begging you, but I'm begging you.

I sit there, getting even sweatier. My phone just about slips out of my hands. I can't put this on Jennie. I know it's me. I type out a few responses, assuring her that I'll make things right with her boss. That I'll leave a good review. That I won't ask for my fees back. That I'll say that I changed my mind. I delete all of it. I pause, my fingers hovering over the phone's keyboard. Before I can write a response, another email pops up.

Sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out or be pushy. That was extremely rude of me. I wasn't thinking. If you want to take a break, that's totally understandable. I should never have said anything about my employment status. That's my problem. It doesn't really have anything to do with you. If you want to take a break or stop, then you can just let me know. It's fine. I'll make sure everything is fine. I'm sorry again. If you want to meet up and maybe go over a few more questions with me to give it another shot, I'd really appreciate it. If not, that's totally fine too.

I don't hesitate. I find myself typing and sending off a response almost before I can even consciously think about it. I stare at the words after. A time. A restaurant. Jennie's response is immediate again, stating that Saturday morning at my favorite breakfast spot works for her. After I tuck my phone back into my purse, I lean back against the driver's seat and shut my eyes. I'm actually relieved that Richard didn't show tonight. The bread and wine were good. My own company was just fine, if not a little humiliating, but worse things have happened. I don't like my next thoughts and I try hard to cram them back down. If they were files, they'd be shoved in a drawer labelled do not, under any condition, open this drawer. I open my eyes and glance in my rear-view mirror, more out of strange habit than anything. I spot my gym bag lying there. What better way to blow off steam than to hit the gym for a few hours? Exhaust myself? It's a Friday night. It will probably be just about empty. Maybe if I kick my butt at a workout or find a class that I can get into that's absolutely brutal, I'll be able to sleep tonight. I only have one night to get through. Just one. I can already feel the nerves building. The excitement. The files trying to spring out of that carefully locked drawer. I've spent my whole life keeping that drawer closed. Carefully and thoroughly closed. But this isn't about that. This is just a meeting to talk about more dates. More matches. Because that's what I want. That's what I'm using the agency for. That's it. Nothing else. I can practically hear that drawer bursting open and those files jumping out to shout at me, not accusingly or harshly, but loud enough to get my attention. Begging me to listen. Pleading with me. This is what you want. This is what you need. This is who you are. I imagine myself shutting that drawer, locking away those files again with a decided finality because that is the only option. I punch in the address for the nearest location to the gym I have a membership for and start the car.