Falling for the Matchmaker [ Chaennie ]

Chapter 9 : Jennie

Jennie

Roseanne's house is nice. A larger two story with a two-car garage attached. It doesn't stick out in the neighborhood, where all the houses basically look the same. If I had to guess, I'd say that the subdivision was completed in the early two thousands or late nineties. Some of them have been updated with fancy, fresh, modern siding, while others still sport their white and pink stucco. I don't know what I was expecting. A gated community? A mansion? I'm relieved that Roseanne lives in a normal house, like normal people. She did say her parents' house was nice and that she hated taking her boyfriends there because they'd know right away her parents had money, but she obviously chose hers with care to blend in, not stand out.

The house is kind of like her. Down to earth. When I ring the bell, Roseanne opens the door immediately, like she might have been standing on the other side waiting. She looks different. Her hair is wild, like she's raked her hands through it all evening. Her eyes are huge, but it's her face. Something is wrong. She immediately makes me think about all those literary references to seeing ghosts and things walking about people's graves.

"Hey," she says, and swallows so hard I can hear it. She's making an effort to put on a brave face. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Uh, I'm okay."

"Water? Juice? Coffee? I can make an espresso."

I think coffee is the last thing Roseanne needs. She's already so jittery that I doubt she's sat still for the past few hours or has any chance of doing so anytime soon.

"I'm alright."

"Tea? I can make us tea. Mint tea?"

I give in because mint tea is supposed to be soothing. I do know it's supposed to help with upset stomachs, but maybe it helps with other upsets too. "Sure. Mint tea sounds nice."

"Okay."

Roseanne's house is big and open. The inside is also quite normal. Nothing stands out. It's not ritzy or flashy. She has normal people things. Regular furniture, an area rug, a vase here and there, the usual clutter on the kitchen's counter and the island. She has no uncomfortable looking furniture or expensive art on the walls. That doesn't mean that it's not tasteful. The walls are beige and she does have bright art here and there, just canvas reproductions, but they're of trees and one is of a fox with a flower crown, which is pretty. Her furniture is micro-suede, big, fluffy, and comfy looking. From where I'm standing, I can see both her kitchen and living room and the staircase to the second story.

"You can sit down if you want," Roseanne says nervously. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Okay."

I slip off my shoes. I know some people don't mind, but it's habit for me. I can't say how many times I've tracked mud, dirt, or one time, even dog poo, onto my apartment's carpet. That kind of thing makes it hard to get a damage deposit back. The couch is just as soft as it looks. It basically envelops me when I sit down. It's not hard, but it's not squishy. It's smooth and kind of feels like a big old couch hug. I just have a futon and it's hard as a rock, so I'm immediately jealous. At least my couch lets me focus when I sit on it. I can search through profiles for hours. This couch? This couch would have me enjoying a nap in under ten minutes. Maybe it's a good thing mine is uncomfortable.

Roseanne brings two mugs of tea, but her hands shake so bad that the liquid sloshes dangerously close to the sides. I'm glad when she sets them down on the coffee table, though I don't see any coasters anywhere and it makes me slightly horrified to think about the marks that are going to be left on the dark wood surface. I don't see any as it is, but maybe this isn't her normal behavior. No, this seems far from normal. This isn't the easygoing, focused, down to earth Roseanne that I've met before. This Roseanne sits on the other end of the couch and tucks her legs up under her. She keeps one arm wrapped around them. Her lips purse and she studies the floor right in front of the couch. I know she's not really seeing it. She's somewhere else. Thinking about something else. I just need to wait and let her tell me what it is that she called me over here for. I'm not usually known to have a ton of patience, but this time, I know that staying silent is better than saying something that might get in the way of her telling me what's really on her mind. The quiet in the room wraps around us. The house is still. I live in an apartment, so things are always loud to some degree. There's always someone above me, below me, or beside me making some kind of noise, so the silence seems louder somehow.

"I felt that I owed you—no. That I needed to tell you that it wasn't your matches that were the problem," Roseanne whispers.

I'm not sure why she called me over here. I'm glad I came because she really looks like she needs someone to talk to right now and I'm glad to be a friend, even if it's taking all my concentration and willpower not to shift closer and set my hand on her arm or leg. As a friend. Comfortingly. To take her hand in mine. Because that's what friends do for each other. They offer comfort when something is wrong. I expected her to tell me something drastic. That she has a secret fiancé that her parents don't approve of and this was all for show to throw them off track. That she's moving away. That she's made the decision to go back to college like she was talking about and she won't have time. I did think, from her panicked tone, that there might be something truly wrong, and that scared me nearly senseless, so I made myself not think about it. But this? She's already told me this. Over breakfast. A few times before. So I'm confused about what the emergency was. For once, I don't say anything. I just wait, sensing that there has to be more.

"I- 'm the problem. I'm always going to be the problem. I haven't been honest with you. With myself. With anyone. Ever. I...I'm not... That is..."

This is getting weird. Is she secretly married? Was she really just doing this for show? Did her parents know about it? Maybe that was the point. She wanted her parents to know so they'd stop trying to hook her up with guys she didn't want to go out with. Family friends. Things that made her life messy and complicated. Maybe she was just doing it for them and not for herself at all. Roseanne looks longingly at her mug, but steam is still curling in thick wisps above the tea, clouding the air around it. It's way too hot to drink. I imagine she'd like to wrap her hands around it, for a sense of security. I wish I could take her hand. I wish she'd reach for me. Look at me longingly. I wish yet again that I could be the one to comfort her. Just as a friend. I don't, because I'm painfully aware that we don't really even know each other yet. Sure, we've worked together, but that hardly constitutes a real friendship. I don't want to do anything to make her feel awkward. To regret asking me to come here. All I can do is wait. And it sucks.

"There was this—no, that sounds stupid. I don't know how to tell you, so I'll just tell you."

Roseanne can't look at me, but her tone changes, getting both serious and nearly frantic. I can feel the fingers of my left hand turning into claws, biting into the inside of my palm as I brace myself. Now I wish I had my mug too. When there's nothing but silence and I just can't take it anymore, I gently prompt Roseanne.

"You can tell me. You can tellme anything. It will be fine, I promise."

Roseanne sighs so hard that the couch vibrates. I didn't realize she was holding her breath like that. It reminds me of when I was a kid, how I used to try and hold my breath in the bathtub, under the water, while I counted to sixty. I thought that was a minute, but it was probably longer, given that I'd mess up and have to start over and I never took a breath to reset. Just went back to one. I'd pop up to the surface when I reached sixty or when I just couldn't take it any longer, and I'd take that huge, first gasp of air. That's the kind of sigh Roseanne made. Like she's drowning, sinking down, with no hope, but then suddenly decides to kick for the surface and finally reaches it this time. She turns and studies me in bewilderment like she's not really sure who I am or how I got here. But then she purses her lips and I see her determination come back. Her face is shockingly pale, but I can literally see some of the color coming back into her cheeks. Another big inhale floods the room. A long exhale. At least now Roseanne is looking at me. I can usually read people pretty well, especially when they're making eye contact, but right now, I'm completely confused. Roseanne's face is a mixture of fear and exhilaration. Like she's been waiting a lifetime to say this. And suddenly, I know. I just know. Because I felt the same way when I first told my family and my friends.

"The matches were perfect in every way. You did the best job you could have. It was just that they were never going to work, because I'm not—I've tried, but I-I'm not interested in men. In that way. I-I'm actually attracted to...women."