“The other boot.”
“Uh-huh. You know what I mean, Bastian.”
He had me. I heaved a very melodramatic sigh. “I am so maligned. All right. It ispossiblethat I then started purposely tying it with the most nonsense knots and leaving it at all angles so my father would have a challenge. I was justchallenginghim. Providing himmental stimulationand training for manual dexterity!”
Jackson tried to maintain that stern look, but it cracked and he fell apart into laughter. “You are so full of shit,” he said. “Though I gotta say, he deserved it, for not letting you do your own.”
“I agreed. Bonus benefit, though. If I ever have to take up fishing, sailing, or ferry captaining, I now know an unholy variety of sailor’s knots.”
Go ahead. Try a reef knot for an extra dapper tie. I’ll wait.
The Broadmoor sits nestled at the foot of the Front Range, tucked away like a very expensive baby penguin at the feet of its looming, protective parent. Protests about the company aside, the grounds are beautiful, full of mature trees and green lawns that wandering deer love to snack on. The resort hasn’t maintained a five-star rating for nothing.
We gave the truck to a valet and wandered through the doors into the grand establishment. Jackson didn’t seem surprised about the gleaming floors or airy vault of the lobby. “Been here before?”
“Couple times. My folks used to take me out to dinner after deployments. We came here after that shitshow with Owen.” He smiled fondly at the memory. “My dad said we deserved a fancy fucking meal to toast the trash taking itself out. It was the best part of that whole damn situation. A good memory, you know? The first step forward out of that mess.”
“Your dad’s a really thoughtful, insightful guy when he isn’t acting like the Asshole Prime.”
“And sometimes when he is.” Jackson winced. “You get used to it. He likes you, you know. Tentatively. He said it’s too early to say for sure, but that so far, he’s impressed that computer found someone who’s ‘probably worth the carbon he stole from the universe to pull himself together’.”
“I think that makes me happy?” That compliment should have gone to Wimbledon with all that backhand. “I like him, too. Tentatively. Too early to tell. Might have stolen his carbon off the back of a truck in an alley. Can’t abide carbon thieves. All that.”
“Ass.” Jackson nudged my shoulder with his as we spotted the sign that indicated which ballroom we belonged in. “That’s us. Shall we?” He offered his arm.
A thrill ran down my spine as my hand closed over the muscular arm he presented. He lookedso incrediblein his uniform. Strong and brave and noble, proud of himself and – proud of me? Proud enough to walk in with me on his arm and show me off in public. We’d fallen into a comfortable fit since the first day we’d met, since our wedding, and I’d found I couldn’t wait to share my day with him. Talking and laughing with him brightened every aspect of my life, and it only grew brighter as he came out of his shell.
He had a quick, sharp wit and rapier humor. He had stoicism and duty and valor. He had tenderness enough to leave me thinking about what a tragedy had occurred when fainting couches went out of style, because he could leave me in a swoon. I still didn’t know what interest he could have in me, a history teacher who’d failed out of every endeavor he undertook, but I couldn’t even complain.
Every day, he chose me. Every day, I chose to try to be worthy of him. Jackson Sadler made me a better man, and the blind of denial I hid in couldn’t last much longer.
I loved him. I needed him. I had failed at one more endeavor, that promise I made to myself that I’d pretend to love him, and it was the sweetest taste of failure I’d ever experienced. Trust me on that. I’m a failure connoisseur.
(He’d be mad at me for saying that, I realized, and vowed to do better.)
That thrill of pride and love I had when I took his arm proved that Mail Call Mates had perfected the matchmaking game. They’d engineered it with this mixer. Every “group” of matches received one of these parties to celebrate their new relationships, and if you look at it from the side, it’s just that: a congratulatory party.
It is, however, also far more than that. Beyond the catered, gourmet food and the award-winning string quartet lurked the stealth mission of romance and pair bonding. I walked in on Jackson’s arm, and even though I’d attended formal functions before, I straightened my spine and flushed with pride atbeing seenwith my husband. Eyes turned to watch us pass through the door, down a tiny set of stairs, and into the party, as if the room welcomed the most important pair to grace their gathering.
By providing a special event, Mail Call Mates offers new couples an excuse to dress to the elevens (the nines just don’t seem high enough for this) and see each other gussied up for a good time. Then they urge new couples to dance, to make friends, and to show the giddy new love budding between these nascent pairings. To say, “This is my husband, Bob,” and share the nervous, excited smile that no new spouse could keep off their face.
We didn’t have to worry we might look stupid wearing those expressions. Everyone in the room understood. In the people here, we could find supports, comrades, and understanding ears. We could step out for the first time as spouses and, as they did in the old days, promenade in our finest. Mixers tied us together and put the final polish on the match the computer had created.
Good for Mail Call’s success numbers. Good for their pairs. A masterstroke of event planning. If Mail Call Mates ever wants to take over the world, I don’t know how we’ll stop them – or if we’ll even want to. Humanity will just rent tuxes at reasonable rates and sashay off to enjoy gourmet canapés at the party to welcome our matchmaking overlords.
* * *
Jackson had debated attending this mixer. We both had, to be fair, but I’d hoped Elaine Prise might show up to see her machine’s handiwork. I owed her at least a hug and an embarrassing litany of thanks for all she’d done for us.
Those Elvis pictures had come in the mail. Magnificent. Chef’s kiss.
My husband had agreed to this because of Elaine, and Elvis, but as we sampled the food and chatted with other couples, I could see he stayed because hewantedto, no Elvis necessary. He’d started out stiff, formal and a little stand-offish as we mingled. I worried he might pull away, or that some of his previous hesitation about acknowledging that yes, he’d married me might show through, but neither happened.
He remained steadfastly by my side, and the specters of cheaters past stayed in their tear-soaked graves. A pained smile hinted that perhaps he’d progressed from “I don’t want to acknowledge that this is my husband because he might cheat on me and leave” to “it’s embarrassing to admit I had to go through a computerized matchmaker to find someone, because I’m a lame-ass who couldn’t meet good men on my own”.
Which I understood, let’s be clear. Unable to meet good mates on my own, I’d fled into the loving embrace of M4-CH+M4-KR to save me from myself.Thatpart of this experience still needed a spit shine with propaganda. They wouldn’t be able to take over the world until they could remove the stigma from marriage arrangements.
This party proved they could do it. By what I gauged as halfway through the planned festivities, we’d all started saying things like, “I don’t know why Margot is eventryingto date on her own. Why would anyone? Mail Call’s got this on lock!” Then we’d all sheepishly look at each other, wondering what the hell had just come out of our mouths and when we’d metamorphosed into shills for Our Lord and Savior M4-CH+M4-KR.