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“Hey Madeleine, just wanted to remind you that the meeting starts in ten minutes.”
Her constant droning could give the boss from Office Space a run for his money.
“Is that Lori?!” Daisy asks through the phone. “What is she wearing today? Describe her outfit in excruciating detail!”
My hand muffles her voice enough that Lori can’t overhear. Meanwhile, I smile with every ounce of false congeniality I can muster. Honey is positively dripping from the sides of my mouth.
“Yes, I can’t wait for it. I’m about to head over.”
She doesn’t relent. “Hmm, okay, it’s just that you’ve already been late for multiple meetings this quarter, and I heard that you’re on parole.” She says the word like it’s a slur, even glancing over her shoulder to confirm no one else has heard her. “Or was it probation? Either way, it’s just probably best if you aren’t late again.”
I want to take a pair of scissors to her loud highlights, but I misplaced the scissors I usually keep in my top drawer a few months ago. Instead, I’m forced to stand, hang up on Daisy, and follow Lori over to the conference room with pen and paper in hand. We’re the first two to arrive.
She takes her usual spot beside Helen’s chair, and I pick a spot on the opposite end of the table. Her perfume is strong. Chanel number five, she told me once, bragging. Oh really? On you it smells like a number two.
“I think I’ll be closing on two properties today,” she announces to the mostly empty conference room. Gloating is her way of making small talk.
“Wow. Congrats,” I say, trying to wring out just a few more ounces of artificial sweetness. I’m aware that my reserves are running low, and I need to ration if I’m going to have to endure alone time with Lori for the next few minutes.
“Yeah. One of the properties is downtown, in the historical district. It should bring in quite the commish.”
I hum as though I’m interested, but really I’m texting Daisy S.O.S. under the table.
“What about you? Do you have any new clients? Helen mentioned something about you working with Adam Foxe last week, but I didn’t believe it. When I approached him, he said he wasn’t in the market for a house.”
I should tell her the truth. I should explain that I probably won’t be selling him anything—a house, a condo, a shoe. I should confirm that he isn’t in the market, but then I’d have to endure her pitying gaze, and I just can’t do it. Not after my weekend from hell. Not after Mr. Hall cornered me this morning and demanded I pay last month’s rent before he logs on to LegalZoom and figures out how to serve an eviction notice.
“Yes, well.” I shrug, not meeting her eyes. “It happened really naturally.”
Nice and vague. Good, Madeleine.
“Has he signed anything yet? A contract to work with you?”
She’s fishing, trying to pick apart my lies and force me to admit the truth.
“I sent it over to him today.”
She nods as if impressed. “Right, well…we’ll see if he actually signs them.”
And then because I have nothing productive to add to the conversation, I look down at my phone and busy myself by adding a pair of scissors to my Amazon cart. Snip snip.
…
I’ve been to a few Hamilton Singles events in my day. The organization has hosted them at buffets, bars, and parks, but this is the first one I’ve seen at a bowling alley. It’s a massive space, and the coordinators have cordoned off half of the lanes specifically for the event. There are balloons and a bright purple banner hanging on the wall that says, Get the Ball Rolling for Love!
I’m half inclined to back up slowly and bolt, but my principles won’t allow it. I’ve paid for the event—only $5, but still. For five bucks, I refuse to not at least get my fill of greasy nachos and stale beer.
When I check in, I’m handed a pair of size 8 bowling shoes (which of course look like size 13s) and a pin that is supposed to differentiate us from the normal Wednesday night bowling alley crowd. The pin is a two-inch hot pink circle that announces to everyone in big, bold letters that I’M SINGLE AND READY TO MINGEL! I think they meant mingle, but it appears no one caught the typo before the pins went to print, and I feel too bad pointing it out at this stage in the game.
“All right, so pin that onto your shirt and then head over to lane six to join your team!”
“Oh, we’ve already been assigned teams?”
The coordinator’s smile falters slightly. “We thought it would be easier that way.”
Easier for them, sure, but I’ve been stuck with Allen, Mitch, and Judith—my gym teacher from middle school who was painfully old even back then, a forty-year-old widower, and a woman who looks to have ten years on my mom, respectively. Allen pretends he doesn’t remember teaching me middle school kickball, and Mitch is too busy downing his fourth beer of the night to be much of a conversationalist. Judith and I decide we’ll be partners, and I try really hard not to let my disappointment show. These events are rarely worth my time, but I’ve met one or two guys over the years. At the very least, it feels like I’m being proactive about my love life. I’m throwing myself at fate and giving love a chance, but tonight, this team of mine is almost a slap in the face. When did my situation become so hopeless? When did my old gym teacher become an eligible bachelor for me?
