Page 70 of A Match Made in Error

“Yeah,” I whisper, surprising myself with how true it feels. “I think I am.”

Rodrick smiles then. Warm and genuine and free of regret. “I used to think leaving was the biggest mistake of my life,” he admits.

“Really?” My brows rocket up. “And now?”

“Now, I think it got us exactly where we needed to be.” He raises his champagne flute to me. “Looks like we turned out alright after all.” I clink my glass gently against his and rest my cheek against my palm as he tells me stories of his travels. Old Poppy would've heard stories of distant cities and wondered what could've been. Now, I just listen politely. I laugh when Rodrick says something funny. Time has changed him. Made him kinder. Better.

But every few minutes, my eyes drift across the dining hall. At a shadow fae who isn't even looking at me. And every time they do, my chest tightens and my heart betrays me. Because unlike Riven, sitting across from my past, I know exactly what I want.

I don’t want the one who left.

I want the one who stayed.

The one who, despite what I once thought, made sure I was never truly alone in this life.

And wanting him this much…that terrifies me.

6 Months Ago

POPPY

I can’t believe I forgot my keys again. It’s probably dramatic that I’m audibly grumbling as I stalk into the Foxhole to find them, but whatever. No one is here to hear me.

The bar is empty, a rarity, with chairs flipped onto tables and candle stubs put out. The fire in the corner is reduced to only glowing embers. Riven should have doused those before leaving. He was probably too high on my mom’s compliments to remember. All night, my parents raved about him and how strapping and kind he is. He’s too charming for his own good.

I push the door open quietly to the office in the back. It too has a small fire lit in the hearth. Riven is still here. Not drinking with a friend or bedding a maiden on the desk (which, rumor has it, he has done), instead, he’s alone, sitting in a chair by the fire with one boot hooked over the armrest. A half-empty drink rolls in his hand, and his shadows drift lazily along the floorboards. None of them have noticed me yet.

This isn’t the Riven the world sees, the one I spend most days with. No easy grin. No performances. Just stillness. It’s a little unsettling, honestly. I’ve seen Riven in every possible state of mischief, but never quiet.

I watch for a moment as he stares at the fire like he’s waiting for something, or someone, and even his shadows move restlessly now like they’re searching for something.

The sharp thunk of metal digging into wood rattles me. Riven is practicing knife throwing at a wooden crate in the corner. He flicks another, landing just a little ways from the other, completing a smiley face of knives in a humorous macabre design.

His shadows shift first, noticing me, and then he glances up. A grin appears instantly. Like armor snapping back into place. “Careful sneaking up on people like that. They might think you're plotting something.”

I scoff. “I just wanted to see if you ever miss.”

He flips a knife lazily, but it lands perfectly. “Rarely.”

I gesture around the empty tavern behind me. “Thought you’d have somewhere better to be.”

He shrugs lazily, as if he’s unbothered. “This is the best place in town.” Something about the way he says it feels rehearsed. Like when you ask someone how they’re doing, and they mockingly say, “Living the dream.”

“What happened to all your admirers?”

He lifts his glass. “They have homes and lives.” He hesitates a beat. “Very inconsiderate of them.” He says it like a joke, but the words land heavier than he means them to. “Best get home before witching hour, Pop.” I look around at the empty room and my best friend, who seems to be sulking in solitude, and instead of leaving with my keys, I sit down across from him. He looks mildly surprised, but it quickly shifts to amusement. “You staying to supervise my drinking?”

I shrug. “Someone has to.” I pick up a knife from the side table. “Show me how to do that.”

His smile widens. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got. Never know, you may be a natural.”

I am not.

My first throw clatters to the floor, sending the shadows—which can’t be stabbed, mind you—skittering away. The second throw hits the wall, chipping the dark green paint. And the third one spins wildly at the crate before hitting it handle first and falling to the floor.

Riven, of course, is snickering the whole time. Hand in front of his face like he’s trying to hide his abject amusement.

“Looks like you’re not a natural.” He steps up behind me, his hand over mine to guide my next throw. He turns my shoulders and nudges my legs apart. “Less arm, more wrist.”