Page 55 of Matchmaking On The Menu

12

QUADRI

INTERVENTION PENDING

“You’re probably wondering why I called you here.”

They are. Mary’s watching me, waiting for a story to unfold—wide-eyed, taking everything in, her sweater sleeves pushed up to reveal the soft, rust tones of her shirt, like she dressed to match the season without realizing it. Shelly, on the other hand, is seconds away from interrupting, her foot tapping a sharp, relentless rhythm against the floor, bright pink jeans impossible to ignore.

I let the silence stretch. Just long enough for them to lean in without realizing they’re doing it.

I chose the library garden deliberately because it’s public enough to discourage theatrics, quiet enough for a conversation that doesn’t need witnesses. Round tables sit beneath the oak trees, dappled shade shifting with the breeze, chrysanthemums and goldenrod lining the paths. No corners to get boxed into. Just enough ambient movement—pages turning, distant conversation—to dull anything said too loudly.

Also, if someone happens to wander through at the right moment, it won’t feel staged. It’ll feel like coincidence.

People trust coincidence.

“It’s pretty here,” Mary says softly, glancing at the leaves drifting down in slow spirals.

“That’s not the point,” I reply.

Shelly hooks a boot around the bench rung, posture loose, eyes already probing for weak spots. “What is the point, then? Because you dragged us out here like we’re about to plan a heist.”

Not entirely inaccurate.

“In a way,” I say, “we are.” I lace my fingers on the table. “We need to talk about what happened between Dannica and Mystery Man.”

“Oh my god, finally,” Shelly says.

Mary presses her lips together, but she’s smiling.

“Those sparks,” Shelly continues, practically vibrating. “Actual sparks. I’m surprised the fire department didn’t storm the place. That’s why I booked it out of there and went to get you guys.” She says it all in one breath, words tripping over each other in their rush to get out.

Exaggerated, but not entirely wrong.

Mary sighs—the kind of sigh that belongs in an old romance film. “I’m so glad you did.”

“What made you instigate the whole thing in the first place?” I ask Shelly.

She doesn’t hesitate. “He took her picture. With a real camera. Right there in front of everyone. With the flash on! It’s like he wanted her to know.” She leans in, eyes bright. “That’s putting yourself out there.”

“Or he just forgot to switch the flash off,” Mary offers.

Shelly glares at her. “Why do you always have to spoil the fun?”

“I’m not trying to. Either way, it’s still romantic.”

I don’t weigh in on that. Whether it was deliberate or not, Mystery Man still stepped forward and took the shot. That’s not nothing.

“A couple of days ago, you two thought he was a criminal,” I say.

Mary turns a fallen leaf between her fingers. “That was before I saw the way he kissed her.”

“Bundy was charismatic.”

“This guy isn’t another Bundy,” Shelly says, nodding like she’s just settled something. “I have a vibe about it.”

“Again with the vibe. We don’t even know his name.” That lands the way I intended. A small silence follows. “Which is why I called you here.”