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Through the tears obscuring her vision, Libby read a slew of accusations. Understanding the bits and pieces her brain allowed her to absorb, the author was accusing her of not really caring about the LGBT community. She called her a fake dyke du jour, no better than sad Hollywood has-beens playing gay for attention. According to the article, her latest cattle calls seeking diverse hopefuls were nothing but empty pandering.
Gripping her chest, Libby tried not to puke or faint, a tall order considering she wanted to do both very badly.
Reaching for her phone as she fought back the overwhelming desire to hyperventilate, she hit the person near the top of her recents list.
“I’m so sorry. I never meant to use you as some kind of prop,” she blurted as her tears broke through her dam of self-control.
“Libby? What are you talking about? Why are you crying?” The alarm in Reagan’s voice only made her feel worse.
“I’m not Katy Perry,” she shrieked between sobs, unable to string coherent thoughts together. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“Where are you? I don’t really understand what’s going on, but you’re scaring me,” she said, sounding like she’d stepped into a quiet, echoey space.
Libby tried to speak, but all she could do was cry until her jaw hurt. It was the strangest reaction she’d ever had to anything and she couldn’t control it. She hadn’t even cried like that when Davis dumped her.
“Are you in your o ce? Are you home? I need to know your safe, okay?”
Every word Reagan uttered in kind compassion made Libby cry harder. She didn’t deserve it. She was a fake. She was everything the author called her. Except she’d been
sincere in her e orts to diversify. Once her eyes were open to how narrow she’d been with her services, she’d traded longstanding clients for the possibility of serving every adult who wanted to find love.
“Libby, are you there?”
Shutting her eyes to stop the burning, Libby croaked all she could manage. “O ce.”
WEAVING IN AND OUT OF HIGHWAY TRAFFIC, REAGAN RACED TOWARD
downtown. Libby hadn’t been able to explain what the hell was happening, but after she texted her a link to the article, the source of her distress was clear. Reagan had barely managed to get through half of it before she tossed the phone into her truck in disgust. Libby wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t the opportunistic scumbag the blog post described.
As she drove like a woman possessed, Reagan imagined showing up to the author hiding behind a pen name and stock photo and ask if they would like to be attacked by a total stranger for no reason. Gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white, Reagan imagined doing a little more than shouting.
When she’d finally broken free of the bumper-to-bumper hellscape, Reagan turned into the valet parking in Libby’s building and gave the kid twenty bucks to let her park it herself. The elevator to Cassanova Matchmaking was eternal.
It stopped every few floors, raising her blood pressure a little each time.
Who the hell wants to be in a building this high? We’re not birds. This is unnatural, she thought, frustrated at how absurdly long it took to get from her parked car to where she needed to be. By the time the doors opened at the top, she
was sure no building should ever be more than four floors tall.“Can I help you?” One of the receptionists greeted her with open confusion.
Reagan looked down at herself. In clay-covered overalls and an equally dirty tank top, she was sure she wasn’t the kind of person they saw very often. If ever.
“I’m here to see Libby,” she said, unsure which of the doors connected to the waiting room led her to her goal.
“I’m sorry, but Ms. Cassanova is not expecting any appointments,” she explained, looking like she’d press some secret security alarm if she could.
“No, I know, I’m not an appointment. Taylor!” she called when the familiar young woman crossed a corridor on the other side of the glass wall.
She did a double take before her eyes widened and she rushed out. “Reagan? What are you doing here?”
Reagan rushed toward her, hoping to get behind the barricade. “Where’s Libby? Is she alright?”
Taylor cocked her head to one side exactly like Libby often did. “She’s in her o ce. I don’t think anything is wrong.”
Her expression turned from confused to alarmed. “I’ve been in a meeting. Is something wrong?”
“Take me to her?”
Taylor hesitated.
