Page 40 of A Match Made in Error

I stare at the ceiling, counting my breaths in an attempt to steady them. And there, I make a promise I don’t believe even as I think it.

This means nothing. I am not falling for my best friend. I will survive this month, and we will go back to how things were before.

Waves lap gently against the bungalow, and outside, the lanterns are flickering to life. It’ll be dark soon, and Riven isn’t back yet. Maybe he did go to the hot springs.

Maybe he’s with her. Or another faceless female on the island. I mean, the man could charm a tree with little effort.

A pit of white-hot jealousy flares through my gut.

I know it’s ironic.

I went to the Festival to watch him match with someone else.

I didn’t expect Fate to aim him at me, and now that it has, I don’t know what to do.

I force myself to calm down and think about him getting in a bar fight instead of charming the skirt off another female. He wouldn't do that to me, not while we are fake dating and a curse hangs over our heads. But he would fight. And fight for me even. Fate knows he’s done that a time or two.

One Festival Ago

POPPY

Three years in, the wonder of the Festival has begun to wear thin. Sure, it still glitters, but I can see the seams of the Moirai’s tapestry weaving now. My match and I decided to come to the Foxhole tonight. Well, it’s more like I grew tired of him only a week in and left for work, and he followed me. I wipe down the counter with a rag, rolling my eyes when he orders another drink from me. There are other matched couples here, some laughing and genuinely having a good time, others forcing it, but none are as miserable as I am.

The drunken revelry around me is only contributing to my hollowness because I haven’t had fun like that in months. The days leading up to my third entry into the Festival were wrought with anxiety and tiny specks of lingering optimism, but the week after the matching ceremony has drained me dry of hope and desire to try anymore.

This match is worse than the others. Bartholomew is the most arrogant and emotionally dense man I have ever met. The type who assumes himself to be someone worth having and anyone with him lucky to be chosen. He’s relaxed back in his chair like he owns the place, his elven ears lined with gold hoops that glint in the soft lantern light.

“It’s so strange you like it here so much,” he begins, and I have to force my eyeballs not to roll. “Why would a beautiful woman be content to spend time with an ex-soldier and gamblers every night? I mean,” he snorts and points to the painting of a stag that Riven and I picked to hang above the fireplace, “did a drunk pirate decorate this place?”

I open my mouth to respond, but the door slamming open to my left distracts us both. Riven saunters in like he owns the place, which he does. Laughter follows him, and his arm is slung over the female he picked up in here last night. His hair is windswept, like he was at the docks, and his grin is cemented in place. He is in his element.

People greet him as he moves through the room to the bar where I stand. A woman winks at him, and a man slaps him adoringly on the back. Riven has never struggled to find friends or lovers. The world loves him, and he loves it right back.

He slides into the seat in front of me, taking the drink I’ve been nursing all night like it was his. He tips it back and then winces. “Your taste in both wine and company is deteriorating.” He jerks his head to my match, I accidentally let slip a snorting laugh, and Bartholomew grows irate in seconds after this.

“Her taste?” he chokes back the rest of his drink and stands. “I’m in a run-down bar with a girl who only has a job because her boss is her friend. She’s not exactly Festival-wife material like I was promised.” Promised? I laugh. Promised by whom? I’ve been in the Festival three times now, and I assure you that there are no guarantees.

By the time I’m done with my internal dialogue, the bar has gone still and silent. Riven’s shadows hover around me like a protective barrier.

“Apologize to Poppy and leave while you still can on your own two feet.” Riven’s threat comes casually, as if he’s encouraging the man to take an umbrella with him out into the rain. He’s calm and collected, which is somehow scarier than his being enraged.

Bartholomew rolls his head to the side to look at me. “Poppy, I’m sorry.” Honestly, I’m shocked he’s apologizing. “Sorry that you’re not better looking or more interesting.” There it is. I step back knowing what’s about to happen, my feelings unhurt by his words in the wake of his impending consequences. Three years ago, they might have crushed me, but now, I’m hardened by life and coming close to thinking love might not be in the cards for me.

Riven doesn’t hesitate. His chair scrapes against the floor as his shadows grab hold of the man. A sharp crack shatters the silence, Riven’s punch landing clean across Bartholomew’s jaw. A few patrons gasp as my match stumbles backward, eyes rolling back in his head.

Riven shakes out his already reddening hand, standing over the fallen man before him. Bartholomew looks embarrassed and sputters out a demand for an apology and looks to me for support. I know what the Moirai would want. For me to support my match and build a bridge of mutual respect, the hopeful building blocks of love.

I walk around the front of the bar, planting my feet beside the only man here worthy of my support. My fingers brush the warm skin of Riven’s wrist, and I lift it to look at his knuckles.

“Did you break anything? I can make a healing potion quickly if you need it.” Nearby patrons chuckle, a few cheering.

“A healing potion for him?” Bartholomew blurts. “Look at my face!” I do, an ugly purple bruise is blooming over his soft jaw, curling up around his dull eyes.

“There’s a potion shop around the corner if you need one.” My voice is flat, perfectly showcasing how little I care about his bruised face and fragile ego.

Bartholomew scoffs and storms out, likely going back up to my apartment. Curse the Moirai and their month-long cohabitation clause. Looks like I’m sleeping in the back room of the bar again tonight. On the bright side, the mood lightens as soon as he’s gone.

Riven shifts toward me. “You probably shouldn’t have done that. Taken my side. I think that match is done for.”