Page 69 of A Match Made in Error

Images flash through my mind before I can stop them: sticky tavern floors and laughter after midnight, stolen pastries in the kitchen, Riven slouched behind the Foxhole’s bar with his sleeves rolled up, arguing passionately about the proper amount of citrus in an old fashioned. Him carrying heavy crates because he noticed I’d been rubbing my shoulder. Him saving the last cinnamon bun because he knows they’re my favorite. Him sprawled across the apartment floor above the tavern, talking about absolutely nothing until the sky began to lighten outside the windows.

“Yeah,” I say quietly, “it really has.”

Rodrick follows my gaze when it drifts away again.

Toward Riven.

Toward Angora.

Toward the familiar golden head bent close enough to another woman that my chest aches.

“Your match seems nice,” Rodrick says casually.

I turn back too quickly. “He is.”

Rodrick lifts both hands in surrender. “Relax. I was being sincere.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks.

“I wasn’t⁠—”

“Poppy.” His voice gentles. “It’s okay.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then Rodrick traces the rim of his glass thoughtfully. “You know,” he says, “I think, when we were younger, I spent so much time trying to be interesting that I forgot to be interested.” I stare at him. The old Rodrick never would’ve admitted that. “I wasn’t very good at seeing people,” he continues with a small shrug. “I mostly saw what they could mean for my story.”

I don't know what to do with the unexpected honesty sitting between us.

Because he’s right.

The boy I loved had been possibility wrapped in excitement and promises. Adventure. Escape. The future I’d imagined for myself. Sitting across from the man he's become, I realize something terrifying.

I don’t miss him.

Not really.

I miss the version of myself who thought love would be easy.

Across the terrace, Angora laughs again and touches Riven's arm.

The sight hits me like a blade slipped carefully between my ribs.

Rodrick notices my attention wandering and asks softly, “Are you happy?”

The answer rises immediately.

I think of home above the Foxhole. Of shadows carrying boxes up impossible staircases. Of peppermint tea and terrible jokes and the certainty that if everything in my world fell apart, Riven would stand beside me while I rebuilt it.

I think of the fact that I never have to earn his attention.

He’s simply there.

Steady.

Choosing me in all the little ways that matter.

My best friend.