Page 2 of Her Age Gap Match

“I do the scheduling,” she said, a blush on her cheeks. “How are you feeling about it?”

It was such a direct question. I appreciated that about her too; she was always direct, which actually made the awkwardness of this whole thing easier.

“Honestly?” I said. “Like a man about to be told his money’s no good here.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Sophie doesn’t fire clients. I haven’t seen her fail—not once. If she took you as a client in the first place…she saw something in you. I swear. I mean, I can’t imagine someone turning you down⁠—”

She paused, fixing her eyes on her computer.

“Anyway…I think this is the one,” she said. “I just—have a feeling.”

“Ah…” I nodded, smiling.

“Mmhm.” She nodded too, very focused on her work. “I mean, more than a feeling. It’s based on—your file and stuff.”

I waited.

“She’s really great,” Poppy said. “Your date. I mean, I haven’t met her, obviously, that’s not—Sophie handles all of that. But from what I know she seems really great. And like…you’re the whole package, you’re successful, you’re kind, you’re good-looking⁠—”

She stopped.

The word "good-looking" hung in the air between us like she'd dropped something breakable and we were both watching it fall.

"—which is, you know." She cleared her throat. "Relevant. To matchmaking. Scientifically."

"Scientifically."

"People are more likely to—there are studies—" She gave up and looked back at her computer. "Anyway. I'm sure it'll go great."

I should have let it go.

"You read my file?" I asked.

"I file all the files," she said. "It's in the job description."

"Right."

She typed something. Deleted it. Typed it again. The flowers she'd just arranged were listing slightly to the left and she still hadn't noticed.

I looked at the bulletin board. The Christmas cards. The evidence of this place doing exactly what it was supposed to do for people who were supposed to be here for that reason.

I was a client. She worked here. I was forty-five years old and she was—young, and crooked-shirted, and currently pretending to be very busy with something that was clearly not real work.

The stairs creaked.

"Mr. Lawson," Sophie said warmly, coming down to meet me.

I stood and extended my hand, Sophie taking it in the usual handshake. She was a short, curvy woman with brown hair cut to her shoulders. Always well-dressed, always crisp, but with an edge that suggested she did it for show more than because it was how she was comfortable.

“I hope your ride in was comfortable,” she said as we walked into her office and she shut the door behind us. “I saw your bike outside.”

“It was good,” I said. “Not long, though—I was staying in the city to see Elle and Kim and the kids anyway.”

Sophie smiled as she took a seat. Her office was more like a therapist’s place than a doctor; cozy chairs, warm lighting, a window on the back wall that looked out on a well-kept green space. “It’s sweet that you spend so much time with them,” she said. “Your dates haven’t been receptive to that?”

I sighed, shaking my head. “It…raises uncomfortable questions. If I talk about the kids, Harlan comes up. Prison comes up. Then it’s just…” I raised my hand to gesture a downward spiral. “Turns out old ex-cons aren’t marriage and family material.”

Sophie tilted her head slightly. “Do you believe that?” she asked. “That you’re not marriage and family material?”