Page 27 of A Match Made in Error

Soon, Poppy is asleep beside her half-empty cup of cocoa. I stay awake much longer, watching the flames dance, my shadows curled around Poppy like quiet guardians as I turn the small wooden fox over in my hand again and again.

Solstice is meant for families. Or lovers. Or people with somewhere they belong.

I think I finally have the last one.

Chapter Nine

RIVEN

Current Festival

It’s afternoon before I rouse myself awake. Poppy had long been up by then and declared I was extremely boring, and she was going to go crazier stuck in the bungalow than faking it out in front of the other matches. I love it when she’s dramatic. It makes me feel like I’ve rubbed off on her in a good way, like my flair for dramatics makes her feel safe to express herself with me in a way she never did when we first met. Makes me feel like I did something good in the universe for a change.

The late afternoon sun is offensively bright, but the salt in my lungs and the light music drifting on the air ease that minor inconvenience. If the slight bob of her head is to say anything, I think even Poppy’s mood has shifted for the better now that we’re out here.

“Stay close, darling. I’d hate to have to kill someone before breakfast for looking at you too long.”

“You missed breakfast,” she reminds me, ignoring the other part of my comment.

“Brunch, then.” The tilting of her lips is a sign I’ve achieved lightening the mood.

The island, once again, looks perfect. Almost too perfect. Too curated. Blue water and laughter, and bodies huddled in Moirai-ordained mutual affection. Poppy’s brows furrow together, eyes passing over the beach, likely looking for a place for us to sit, and I can’t help but notice that she looks different here. Not her clothes or anything, but her energy. Like she’s holding herself differently. Tighter. Like the island is a threat, and she’s coiled, ready to attack at any moment.

The beach club sprawls along the crescent of white sand. Low tables and lounge chairs carved from pale driftwood are scattered beneath swaying canopies, draped in gauze that flutters lazily in the sea breeze.

Music hums through the air, and servers weave through the crowd with trays of cocktails, sweating in the heat. Most of the couples lounge together on cushions or woven chairs, laughter spilling easily from their lips, but a few sit far apart, displaying the physical signs of wanting to be anywhere but here and with anyone but their match. Beyond it all, the ocean glitters endlessly into the horizon.

“There are two chairs open under that umbrella over there.” I point without pulling my eyes from her. The suggested spot is private, close enough to be seen but not heard, and in a few strides, we are settling in there. I flop down, closing my eyes and listening to Poppy’s little frustrated huffs as she gets comfortable.

I feel her eyes on me. “You’re staring.” I open one eye and cock my head. “I get it. I’m gorgeous in island lighting.” The smirk is a reflex at this point.

Cue Poppy’s eyeroll in three, two, one. There’s my girl. “I was thinking you looked sunburned.”

She makes it so easy. “Hot, then. Same thing.”

Poppy does not look away, meeting my playful gaze with one much more intense. She’s more herself today than yesterday. When we arrived on the island, I could feel her anxiety like a cloak around me, and last night was even worse. The bed we shared was practically shaking with her nerves. But now, skin glowing in the sunlight and eyes filled with determination, she looks like my Poppy again.

That should feel like a win. Instead, it settles sour somewhere in my gut.

My eyes catch on a long sheet of blonde hair, pulling my attention to the approaching couple over Poppy’s shoulder. Angora and her match. He is tall, shirt unbuttoned, and shorts so short I can practically see what Fate gave him hanging out from the leg. Besides the terrible outfit, I can tell he is polished. Well-mannered and steady in a way I’ve never been comfortable allowing.

Angora’s hand is on his arm, and…is she laughing again? How funny can this guy be?

“Well, well,” Angora says, and finally Poppy notices them. Her reaction is subtle, but I can see the tension in her shoulders and the tightness around her lips. “Don’t you two look like quite the cozy pair.”

I know what Poppy is thinking. “We’re not together,” or maybe “I’d never be with him.” Which is probably also what Angora is thinking, and if she vocalizes anything remotely similar to a joke about it, I won’t be able to stop myself from obsessing over it all day. I won’t be able to halt the intrusive thoughts that will invade my mind about love never lasting and no one picking me for a long time, only a good time.

So I cut in before Poppy can say anything. “We’re allergic to distance.” I slide my arm over her shoulders, my subtle hand flex the only thing that betrays me. My smile is easy to put on, but it feels wrong. A little too sharp at the edges. All I can think is, perform. Don’t think too much. Look at her, but not too much. Don’t make it obvious.

Poppy’s weight shifting to me silences the chatter. I see her begin to reach for my hand, then stops herself. And, just like I thought, that hesitation hits me harder than rejection would’ve. Consciously, I know we’re faking it, but subconsciously, it stings for some unexplainable reason.

“You look perfect together,” Angora gushes, poking at the wound she opened when she threw me away the second she was matched with this prick. “Look at you, you’re attached at the hip.”

Poppy opens her pouty pink lips. “We’re not-” Fate, here it comes.

“Don’t be modest, Pop.” I tug her in, resting my head on hers. “Sweetheart, we practically share oxygen.” I can feel it in the tenor of my voice. The defensiveness of something I shouldn’t care about proving, but I want Angora to know she’s lost out. I want to be seen as something worth losing even when I didn’t want her that much to begin with.

There’s something wrong with me.