“My whole life I’ve been pretty unlucky in love. It seems like no matter how hard I try, I always pick the wrong person.”
Leaning forward in her seat, Libby listened while making sure to keep her expression soft. She wasn’t sure what Jennifer was leading to that might implicate Libby’s personal life, but she waited for it anxiously. Because of the nature of her questions, clients often batted them right back at her, usually out of their nervousness rather than genuine curiosity. A well-placed joke about how Libby’s sex drive wasn’t going to help them find a partner, combined with reassurance to just be as honest as possible and reminding them it was a judgment-free zone, usually worked.
When Jennifer was finished sharing some of her dating history, she gripped her hands together as if praying for strength. Libby reached out and covered them with hers.
“Whatever you want to share with me, please feel free,”
she encouraged.
Taking a deep cleansing breath, Jennifer nodded. “I read about your relationship,” she admitted as if mortified by the disclosure. “It’s the reason I finally had the nerve to reach out to a matchmaker. I never really thought this was for me, you know. So old fashioned, but then I thought maybe this
person,” she straightened, “this non-traditional woman, will understand me.” She smiled. “And for the first time, I said out loud what I’d been starting to discover about myself.” She took another breath. “I’m pansexual and I want to date all kinds of people. Not just straight guys.”
The proclamation was followed by the woman’s tears and a wide smile, prompting Libby forward to embrace her trembling body. “Thank you so much for sharing that with me.”
“It’s taken a long time to understand myself. I’ve been unlearning a lot of bullshit,” she admitted with a laugh as she accepted the tissue Libby o ered.
As Jennifer talked more about her road to self-discovery, Libby tried hard to suppress feeling like a fraud and just focus on celebrating her prospective client. After nearly two hours spent talking, Libby set out to do the hard work of finding her possible matches.
Normally, she wouldn’t take on a prospective client when she had such few suitable matches, but after meeting Jennifer, she was making it her mission to find her just the right person. Losing the restriction of gender identity and the roles and expectations surrounding it was unexpectedly freeing. As intimidated as she was by the likelihood of taking a wrong step in the new landscape, she was eager to find Jennifer’s match.
Striding back to her o ce, she was brainstorming ideas for how to expand her possible match portfolio, when Taylor called her name. She held her breath as she turned her head toward the sound of the woman running down the corridor and toward her.
Please don’t let it be bad, she prayed. Lately Taylor rushing toward her was a terrible sign.
“We got it!” Taylor shouted, waving a large, square envelope.
Libby waited for Taylor to reach her. “Got what?”
“The invitation to the Ruiz Art Museum Ball,” she explained before shoving the crumpled and stained invitation into her palm.
Libby gasped. “No way!” Tearing open the envelope, she grinned before pressing the linen invitation to her chest. She savored the moment of relief. “It’s this Saturday. I assumed I’d been left out thanks to my scandal.”
“Apparently there was some kind of mishap in the mailroom.” Taylor pointed to the black streaks. Libby didn’t care, all that mattered was that she hadn’t been left out. The benefit crowd wasn’t particularly understanding. “What’s the theme this year?”
Taylor’s voice brought her back to the present. She scanned the hand-painted card crushed on one side.
“Midnight in Havana,” she read aloud. “A 1920s inspired casino night with a silent auction.”
“Less creative than last year’s murder mystery theme, but probably a lot less obnoxious.”
Libby chuckled. “I don’t care what the hell it is. I’m just glad I’m invited!”
“Are you thinking of taking Reagan?” Taylor asked as she followed Libby into her o ce and plopped down into the chair across from her glass-top desk.
Libby eased into her white leather chair. “If I’m going to take this for a real test run, I suppose there’s no time like the present.” She smiled through her pounding heart and mildly perspiring palms.
Ignoring the overly formal text from her grandmother asking about dinner dates for the second time that week, Libby pulled up Reagan’s name and texted her.
Libby: What are you doing this Saturday night?
Twenty minutes later, while Libby was putting together the ad to attract new, diverse, singles to the agency, Reagan
responded.
Reagan: I’m guessing doing something with my girlfriend??
Libby grinned as she typed a quick reply.