3. Gemma
Chapter three
Gemma
Rule #2: No marriage. Find a house ASAP.
M ini slurped at my chin, coating my skin in dog drool just before she snuffled her wet nose against my cheek. I sat up from my glazed, post-coffee state and glared down at her. "That was gross."
Mini stared back, her pointy, bat-like ears twitching. Pure-bred Doberman Pinscher and exceptionally large for her breed, Mini could easily reach her nose to my cheek again as I sat at my kitchen table, and that was exactly what she did. I had a track of tears sliding down my cheeks, despite already having done my makeup, and Mini seemed determined to lick them away. I pushed her nose down. "I appreciate the sentiment, but ew."
Mini whined, flicking out a long tongue to swipe at her nose. I sighed, reaching out to scrub between her ears. "We've got three days until we're homeless, you know. You should be crying, too."
Mini's eyes rolled closed in satisfaction as I scratched under her glittery pink collar. She didn't seem concerned, damn her. But I was concerned. I was really concerned. I'd been scrambling for over a week to find a new apartment, but not only were vacancies nearly impossible to find in our area, they were outrageously expensive. Who had three months' rent sitting around in their bank account as a deposit? Not to mention utilities, moving supplies, and in some cases, appliances. I had a few appointments with large, completely unaffordable apartment complexes this afternoon, and I'd have to ask my boss, Janice, if I could leave early again. I wasn't sure what good it would do, though. Even if I could get into an apartment fast, I couldn't afford it on my salary.
I knew if it came down to it, Ruth would offer me a room in her house. She lived with her boyfriend, Callum, but I really couldn't stomach the idea of living in a house with those two. He was handsy as fuck, and I just knew I was going to get an eyeful of them having sex if I stayed in that house. I gave Mini a grossed-out face, and she grumbled as if she agreed with my train of thought.
Major ick, those two.
Sighing, I stood from my tiny, two-person table, picked up my mug, and went to the sink to wash it. My studio apartment was small even for a single woman, and it had been one of the only affordable places in Eugene five years ago. But that had been before the pandemic. Now housing was somehow even more impossible to find and retain, and I was sure that was why my landlord had sold it in the first place. They probably wanted to move somewhere the cost of living wasn't your firstborn and half your immortal soul.
I would miss this little apartment. It had a cute kitchen with teal cabinets and butcher block counters, and as I stood at the sink to wash my The Office -themed mug, I looked over my shoulder at the rest of the space that stretched out behind me. I took in the little white table with a fake succulent in the center of it, pretty, reclaimed barn wood floors, my computer desk with a gaming computer I used for my MMORPG games, and a daybed bathed in sunlight from the sliding glass doors that led out to a second-floor patio. It was charming and wholly me. It was also tidy and organized, and I just loved it.
Three days from now, I'd be booted from it. I couldn't bear the thought.
After I'd washed my mug and placed it on the hook above my counters, I adjusted a tea towel laid out flat and straight on the counter and turned the soap bottle so it faced out with the sunflower decal perfectly centered. Many people assumed that I would be disorganized or frantic in my personal life. They seemed to think that the zany, quirky types were spiraling tornadoes of chaos. Surely, if we were unusual, energetic, or bubbly, our personal lives would be variations of the same disordered, uncontrolled mayhem. But that certainly wasn't the case for me.
I had a need to put the fine details of my life into ordered, militant rows of tidy precision. I organized the minutiae of everyday tasks into a finely crafted grid of control, and then when I couldn't stand my tortured brain one second longer, I exploded into brilliant starbursts of blinding color. Because yes, I was unexpected and passionate, but only as much as I allowed myself to be. I allowed myself a lot of quirks, truthfully. But my calm, organized space allowed me to be free everywhere else.
After giving Mini another rub-down and several kisses so she didn't sulk when I got home, I grabbed my purse from the hook by the door, smoothed my hands down the scratchy wool of my plaid skirt, and took my yellow peacoat in case it got cold. I looked put-together; surely, I could pretend to be.
My commute was another reason I loved my apartment. I could walk to work in almost any weather, even the rain, because the businesses and trees managed to shield what my umbrella didn't keep out. Even in heels, it only took me eight minutes to walk to work, passing by historical buildings, charming storefronts, and bustling cafes. My morning walk filled me with energy and the renewed sense that people were full of palpable energy and potential. The last few weeks had gone spectacularly wrong for me, but today was going to turn it around. I could feel it.
I arrived at Kiss-Met to find a full list of clients for the morning. At first, many of my potential clients had been online or over the phone, but over time, we'd achieved a reputation for a certain mystical vibe in person. I attributed this mostly to Janice, who looked like the village kitchen witch with her long, flowy dresses, salt-and-pepper hair, and twinkling smile. It certainly wasn't because of our scientific, nerdy little Ruth and her pragmatic but oddly successful matchmaking calculations. She was effective, but certainly not mystical. I fell somewhere between the two, following my gut on several matches but also using a critical eye to look at their profiles and decipher what might make them compatible.
By lunch, I'd seen five clients, and I settled in at the computer to sift through matches based on criteria our computer software was able to filter for us. My office was a lot like my apartment—small, tidy, sunny, and safe. I had a row of windows to my right that let the bright autumn day illuminate the bookcase against the wall across from me, the neat rows of filing organizers, and the fake plants I had stashed everywhere. Janice had real plants in her office, but I was too scattered to keep anything but Mini alive. That was why I insisted on organization where I could. If I didn't put something where it belonged right away, my brain would fly away and never return to that thing again.
Ruth passed by my office, a stack of papers in her arms, but she paused in my doorway. Sweet Ruth. She hardly ever thought to come to my office because her head was in a cloud of numbers and facts and logic, but I usually did try to annoy her a few times a day. I hadn't been doing that lately—cold, reeling panic tended to do that to a person. So, when she stopped and gave me a pointed look over her glasses, I knew it must have been bad if she had noticed. "Gem, isn't this your lunch hour?"
I couldn't afford lunch. I had to buy a fucking apartment lease. Instead of saying that, I popped up from my chair. "Yes, but everyone wants dates this time of year so they aren't alone for the holidays. It's been busy." I took a file from my desk and handed it to her. "I think you should match this guy. He seems all nerdy and factual like you."
Ruth pushed at her thick glasses with her pointer knuckle before taking the file from me. She had shoulder-length, sleek curls that bobbed with every movement, and she usually dressed in boring corporate slacks and sweaters, but today she was wearing a bright orange sundress that clashed with her skin tone horribly. She cocked her head as she peered at the file. "He's a Pisces, huh?"
Dr. Ruth Coldwell turning her clever little brain onto the science of astrology had been a gift from the friendship gods. I still giggled about it randomly. "Yep, good luck. Hey, by the way, why do you look like a tangerine spokesperson?"
Ruth lifted a half-lidded look of irritation my way. "Cal."
That was all she needed to say. Her doctor boyfriend had definitely been a golden retriever in another life, and he was patently obsessed with Ruth. "He bought that for you, didn't he?"
"He saw it online." Ruth looked pained. "He said it matched my soul."
"It's hideous," I assured her.
"Thank you." She tucked the file under her arm with the rest of her papers. "I'll contact Greg and see if I can find him a decent match." Her gray-blue eyes sharpened on me with keen interest. Once Ruth was focused on something, she didn't miss a thing. And she was clearly focused on me now, despite my attempt to distract her. "What's going on with you?"
"The usual," I replied airily, moving back to my desk. If I told Ruth about my problems with my apartment, she would tell Cal. And then there would be no escaping their disgustingly sweet sex den because he would insist that I move in with them. No one said no to Cal. It wasn't physically possible.
"Gem, you're a worse liar than I am."
Ruth was a pretty bad liar, so that was saying something. I perched my ass on the edge of the desk, flicking a piece of lint off my burgundy and cream plaid skirt. "I don't know. I guess I'm just lacking some… direction. It's no biggie."
That was appropriately confusing for poor Ruth because she got a pucker between her brows and her lips pressed into a thinking pout. "Oh."
"Direction?" Janice asked from just behind Ruth.
I stifled a groan. Of course, my boss would have passed by right as I'd confessed that I was having an existential crisis. Janice loved existential crises. She loved to whip out her eerily accurate voodoo witchery and fix them. Ruth shuffled to the side to let Janice into my office, and our boss swept inside with her brightly patterned, multi-colored skirt swishing around her legs and the bangles on her arms clinking. Janice pressed her weathered hands together as she approached me. "Gemma, you've been on my mind. I'm glad I caught you."
I hoped I was on her mind for my stellar performance and not for something worse. Maybe she would give me a raise and I could afford a studio apartment. "It's nothing really," I assured her. "I'm just—" my eyes flicked to Ruth briefly. "I'm figuring some stuff out."
"Ruth, would you mind giving Gemma and me a moment of privacy?" Janice asked without hesitation. I liked that about Janice, actually. She was soft-spoken and kind to everyone, but she also had a directness about her that was more comforting than off-putting.
Ruth nearly scurried away in her haste to obey. "Oh yeah, sure." She paused, hooking me with a suspicious glare. "Dinner later."
"You're on," I agreed readily. Hopefully, I would find a place this afternoon and could actually bitch about it the way I'd been dying to all week.
Ruth left, and Janice folded her hands in front of her as she regarded me. "Now, what's this about direction? You've been a one-winged butterfly all week."
Weirdly macabre, but accurate. I let my head fall back and released a breath of exasperation. "I got evicted."
Janice's gray-streaked, dark brows rose. "Oh my."
"And dumped."
Her expression took on a concerned tilt. "I see."
"And I just feel like nothing is going right for me, lately. You know?"
Janice nodded thoughtfully. "Those energy dips in life can be terribly draining."
I shrugged, looking down at my knees as I leaned back on the desk. "There's nothing anyone can do about it. But if I tell Ruth, she'll try to fix it. And I really can't stand it when people try to fix my life."
Out of misplaced guilt about her divorce, my mother had tried my whole life to “fix” all my problems. Even if I had never seen my entire personality as a problem. It hadn't gone well for either of us, especially when she had her head in the sand about our real problems. When my dad had left to live with his mistress when I was in elementary school, it had felt like the end of my world. But my mom had done this bizarre thing where she'd pretended absolutely nothing was wrong. Dad wasn't cheating, he was just living apart from us. Mom wasn't crying, she had allergies. They never did get a divorce, and to this day, she asserted that everything was totally okay . I'd never seen two people more out of control in my life.
Maybe that was why Mom had done everything she could to control my life, just so she felt some semblance of control in hers. She had nitpicked me to death—"that boy isn't good enough to date,” “those clothes don't look quite right on you,” “are you sure that's what you want to major in?”
She still lived in Colorado, and I preferred the distance.
"Understandable," Janice agreed gently. "Would you like me to read your palms? It's a silly little thing, but sometimes it helps."
I smiled to myself before glancing up. "Palms, huh?"
Janice held out her soft, time-weathered hands, palms up. "It can't hurt."
I didn't even hesitate. Janice did this for all of us from time to time, whether it was reading tea leaves, throwing bones, or reading palms. She had experience with divination, and we all had fun with her readings, whether they were accurate or not. If anything, they usually gave us a much-needed pick-me-up. I straightened, placing the backs of my hands in her palms, and let her bend down to examine the deeply etched lines.
The physical contact trilled through me with a happy melody. The way I yearned for touch was almost embarrassing, but I craved it like flora reaching for sunlight. I didn't care what form it took, whether it was Janice reading my palms, Ruth letting me squeeze her, or a lover exploring my body. I needed it in whatever form I could scrounge up. And yet, I rarely got it.
Janice hummed in thought. "How old are you, Gemma?"
"Twenty-five. I'll be twenty-six in November."
Janice pointed to my right hand where a line cut across the middle of my palm. "It is your head line that would show us how you feel about decisions and a surety of thought. It does have quite a few striations here." She cocked her head, looking at my left palm, and then my right. "The left palm shows what was or where you began, and the right gives a better picture of where you are now and where you are going. I do see some confusion in your head line."
"Imagine that," I muttered with a slight smile.
Janice studied my palms for a while, silent as she did so. I was dying to know what she saw, but she simply looked up, smiled with her eyes, and folded her hands over mine. "I have a client for you to see."
I blinked in confusion. "Um, okay." What did this have to do with work?
"Everything is going along just fine for you, my dear. I was due to see this client now, but I'll send her in for you instead." Janice let go of my hands and walked unhurriedly to the door. "Is that alright with you?"
"Sure," I said with a hefty serving of amusement in my tone. "Whatever you need."
"I'll send her in."
Whatever Janice had seen on my palms clearly indicated I needed to keep working. Sighing deeply, I took a seat at my desk and organized the already tidy surface. Honestly, that figured. The only thing I had going for me right now was my competence at my job. Maybe I did need to lean into that and stop worrying about stupid things like relationships.
When the client came into my office, I almost let my surprise show on my features. She had to be almost sixty, and with her designer silk blouse and smooth, black pencil skirt paired with a string of pearls and matching earrings—not to mention the enormous diamond ring on her left hand—she looked like a wealthy wife if I'd ever seen one. That was probably making unfair assumptions, so I tucked that away and stood with a welcoming smile and a hand outstretched. "Hey there, I'm Gemma Daise, one of the matchmakers here. How can I help you?"
The woman glanced at my hand with a faint look of distaste before she shook it limply. "Silvia Rook."
I almost fell over sideways. How many people could have that last name? "Rook?"
"Yes, I'm sure you've seen my son, Knox. He owns the practice on the second floor."
Well, I'll be damned , I thought with a trill of glee. Rook's mom was here looking for a date. How could I use this against him? That was uncharitable, but I didn't care. The bastard could use some humility. "Yes, I've… seen him. How can I help you, Silvia? What are you looking for in a relationship? Have you already filled out our intake paperwork?"
"Oh, not me," Silvia said, holding up her hands. "Heavens, no. I want you to find a match for Knox."
My brain went copy paper blank. "Uhm. What?"
"My son," she said slowly, her eyes a perfect match for Dr. Rook's with their light, startling blue color. She looked good for her age, though, and it wasn't because of any cosmetic or surgical procedures, I didn't think. She had the softness of age in the corners of her eyes and along her thin neck, but she looked healthy. And beautiful. I couldn't deny that Rook's good looks had definitely been due in part to the elegance of his mother. "He refuses to find himself a match, so I'd like to give him a healthy push in the right direction."
I found myself at a loss. Janice usually handled the marriage-hungry parents. Why had she sent Silvia to me? Ordinarily, in this case, Janice would read tarot cards for them, or go over astrological matches for the parents to look for. We'd give them a direction to follow on their own, but we never made matches for people without their consent. I tapped my lips, thinking. Finally, I said, "Mrs. Rook, I appreciate your feelings, but I really… can't. If Knox hasn't directly asked me himself, then I can't find a match for him."
Silvia gave me a discerning eye squint. "You said you know my son?"
"We've been acquainted, yes," I admitted. "And I'm pretty sure I know him well enough to tell you that he wouldn't sit idly by while I stomped all over his right to privacy by making a profile and finding him a match he doesn't want."
Her gaze sharpened like a deadly icicle. "You know him rather well, then."
Oh boy. "Only in passing. If you want to speak to Janice again, I'm sure she could—"
Silvia plunked herself down on the dark gray, padded chair on the other side of my desk. "What do you need, Ms. Daise? What can I offer you to use your expertise on this matter? If you know my son already, then we are well on our way. Money? Vehicles you desire?"
"Mrs. Rook," I sighed, sitting as well. "I can't accept—"
"A house?"
I faltered. The word raked across my worried psyche with sharpened teeth. Silvia homed in on my reaction, her gaze shrewd. I regained my mental footing and finished with a firm, "I can't accept any additional compensation to unethically match your son without his consent. I appreciate your concerns, I do, but that isn't how we operate."
"The housing market is lamentably difficult." Silvia crossed one stocking-clad leg over the other. "It's rather difficult to find a decent place to live."
"Any place is a home if you're delusional enough." I gave her a razor-sharp smile. "I'm happy to escort you back to Janice's office if you'd like."
The older woman watched me, her thoughts clearly slowing to a sluggish halt as her features fell in disappointment. Finally, she sighed, defeated. "Very well. You're right, of course. I know it's crazy what I'm asking."
It was, but I didn't say that. "I'm sure all parents want their children to be happy," I offered with a hint of my usual brightness.
She nodded. "I apologize if I offended you, Ms. Daise. I didn't mean to take advantage of your troubles. It was gauche of me. I just get desperate sometimes. I always dreamed of a wedding, of grandchildren and a happier home than the one I raised Knox in. It's the forlorn dream of a desperate, old woman, I suppose. But that wasn't a reason to exploit your personal weaknesses. Please accept my apology." She spoke so formally, but I heard a touch of genuine emotion in her words.
I am such a fucking softie , I thought with a groan. This woman should not be making an impression on me. "I'm sure a lot of people have trouble finding apartments in the city. It was a fair assumption to make."
"We have a real estate business," Silvia said, relaxing as well and looking out the window. She seemed to have let go of her insistent need to match Rook with an unsuspecting sucker, for now. "Honestly, we have benefitted quite a bit from the housing crisis, monetarily."
A squeeze of irritation tightened my throat. Good for you? Jesus. "Oh."
She returned her attention to me like something had just occurred to her. "We do often give back when we can. We had an apartment open up this afternoon. Would that be helpful to you?" She rushed to add, "Not as a bribe. I mean this genuinely."
Despite my confusion over her whiplash demeanor, my heart gave a leap of hope. "How… do you mean?"
Silvia sat up straighter. "I hope this isn't untoward, Ms. Daise. I'm speaking strictly from one human to another. Are you looking for a place to live?"
"I mean, yeah, I've been looking for over a week." I regarded her warily. "Are you saying you have an opening? My budget is a little tight."
She waved that away. "If I were to offer a lease at a price you can afford, would you accept that as an apology for my terrible behavior?"
I stared at her in blatant confusion. "Wait, are you serious?"
"Absolutely." Sylvia leaned over, and picking up her black, quilted purse with a shiny designer logo, she fished out her phone. "I'll show it to you. It's a beautiful place with plenty of room and a wonderful location."
I choked. "Mrs. Rook, I really don't think I can accept anything like that."
"Nonsense." Sylvia Rook spoke with the assured confidence of someone with all the money and power in the world. Like her suggestion had become an uncontested fact. "You must come see it. When do you need to move in?"
My equilibrium took a nosedive, and I felt my head swim. "I—are you positive?"
She turned her phone around to show me a picture of a sunny, open-concept apartment that was probably ten times more expensive than I could afford. "I really insist, Ms. Daise. You've made an impression on me for the better. If I can help, then please let me. Do you like it?"
I gaped. "It's… gorgeous."
"It is, isn't it?" she smiled, turning the phone to look at it herself. "And it's fully furnished. Appliances, furniture, decor—all of it is included."
This couldn't be real. "I really don't think I can afford that," I offered weakly.
"Price is no matter," she said again, as if I'd expressed worry over the color of the walls. "Do you need a home, Gemma?"
Hope crawled up my throat in a wave of tears. "I really do."
She smiled with a crisp snap. "Then you have one."