The Matchmaker

Chapter Four

Four

It’s half past ten by the time I arrive at the agency on Monday morning. Genevieve’s at her desk, typing. Her ginger hair is bunched up in a topknot, her brows furrowed in concentration. Borzu’s reclined in his gaming chair, AirPods in his ears, wearing a pink polo shirt and sporting matching pink hair.

The front door chimes. Darcy walks in with a tray of coffees. Her four-inch stilettos click against the marble floor.

“Perfect timing,” I tell her.

“Per usual.” She grins, setting the tray on the counter. “How was the follow-up with Yoga Lady? Did you get on the mat again?”

“It was core yoga today.” I groan. “Why is everyone multitasking lately? Surely she should be able to squeeze in a meeting without requiring me to don athleisure?”

“You got a two-for-one! A client meeting and core strengthening.”

“Except I can’t reach my drink now.” I gingerly edge my fingers toward the steaming cup. “I had no idea downward dog would be part of the business.”

“Everything can be part of the business.” Darcy nudges the drink toward my grateful grasp. “And since when do you get sore doing yoga? You dragged me to that local studio for nearly half a year!”

“I lost the motivation once you moved in with Samir.” I take a sip of the warm beverage. The foam from the latte tickles my tongue. “Why does he have to live all the way across town?”

“Aw, I’m sorry. I got priced out anyway after they raised their rates.”

“It’s fine. I barely have time to squeeze my run in these days, let alone a one-hour yoga session at the studio.”

The front door chimes again. When I see who it is, I frown. Beenish? She’s wearing oversized sunglasses and clutching a beat-up Prada bag. She’d flown in last week for her intake and to sign all the paperwork. Darcy sent her the list of therapist and life coach referrals on Tuesday. What is she doing here now?

“Beenish.” Darcy startles. She moves toward her desk to greet her. “I didn’t realize you had a meeting today.”

“I don’t.” She looks at me. “I really need to talk to you, Nura. Figured I’d trek over.”

From Raleigh?

Darcy shoots me a concerned look, then turns to Beenish. “I need to check Nura’s schedule to see if she has time right this—”

“Oh God. I just barged right in.” Beenish bites her lower lip. “I didn’t even stop to think that you might be busy. I can go. I’ll—I’ll leave.”

“You didn’t barge in,” I tell her. “Why don’t you come on back? I want to know what’s going on.”

Once the door to my office shuts, Beenish collapses into the chair across from me. When she pulls off her sunglasses, her eyes are puffy from crying. I ping the button on my desk. In thirty seconds, Darcy’s at the door with a glass of mint water.

Beenish takes a few sips. When she sets the drink on the table, her shirtsleeve shifts, revealing a bruise the size and color of an autumn maple leaf along her wrist. She sees my stricken expression and quickly folds her arms.

“He didn’t mean to do it.”

They never do. I shift my face to neutral. Nod encouragingly for her to continue.

“I thought we were over. I swear.” She takes another sip of water and steadies herself. “Austin called me last night and said he wanted to come by and talk. He wanted closure. You should have seen his face. He was completely devastated. He was crying, Nura. He begged me to forgive him and promised he’d do better. He looked like he really meant it—it was like a lightbulb finally went off in his head. Then after we ordered takeout and were settling in for the evening, he lost it because I wasn’t in the mood to watch basketball.”

“Is this typical? For him to pick fights over small things?”

I keep my voice gentle. Curious. Though it’s not easy. What I want to do is grab her by the hand and tell her she can’t let him keep doing this to her. That she needs to kick him to the curb and not look back. Because that bruise on her wrist won’t be the last mark he leaves. There will always be another apology. Another excuse. Another angry explosion. With my years of experience, I know I can’t say any of that, though. Beenish has to reach this conclusion for herself. She has to see for herself—and believe—that there is life after Austin.

“Oh yeah. Freaking out about the littlest things is, like, his playbook.” She takes the tissue I hold out for her. “Austin’s the crowned king of petty, but it’s like his fuse is getting shorter and shorter these days.”

“Was it during the argument that he hurt you?”

“He didn’t mean to,” she rushes to correct me. “He just grabbed me harder than he realized.”

“Beenish, if it was hard enough to leave a bruise…”

“I know. You’re right.” She dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “I gave him an ultimatum. I told him he had to go to anger management or we were done. When I woke up this morning, he was gone. No note. No text. So I guess I have my answer.”

“That’s another pattern of his, isn’t it?” I ask. “He picks a fight, gets physical with you, then storms off, only to come back a few days or weeks later with apologies?”

“It’s not going to work out with us. I get it. I know that in my brain.” Her lower lip quivers. “I just love him so much…. Yes, he’s got his flaws, but I can’t resist him. It’s been that way since we met in freshman-year bio. It’s like…there’s a magnetic pull between us, drawing me to him. I know soulmates can be a corny term, but as imperfect as he is, that’s what he feels like to me.”

There’s a special kind of mythmaking people do when it comes to love. This belief that if we’re continually drawn to someone, it’s because we’re meant to be. In my experience, the reality isn’t all that deep. It’s simply that the other person has become a habit. Like snacks with a movie. Smoking. Biting your nails. Just as hardwired and just as simple—or not—to quit.

“I get it, Beenish,” I tell her. “Really, I do. You have history together. Which means even his bad traits, they’re familiar, right? There’s something comforting about knowing someone that deeply. But that means you also know this cycle won’t end. Reaching out to us was a brave first step. It means deep down, you know you want to move on. You wouldn’t have gone through the interviews and the intake and the vetting process if you didn’t believe you could find happiness with someone else. From everything you’ve told me, Austin sounds like a bad habit you need to kick once and for all.”

“He’s more than a habit. He’s an addiction.”

“Did you end up talking to any of the therapists on the referral list Darcy sent you?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve seen a million therapists at this point.”

“These ones are truly the best of the best, though,” I tell her. “I really think Dr. Higdon might be a great fit. He’s more than a therapist, he’s like a superhero. Give it a few sessions? The acupuncturist I suggested is also great for stress relief, and not too far from your home. Invest in yourself, Beenish. Give this whole thing a real chance. It’s critical to let go of the past to create the better future that you deserve.”

“I think what’ll really help me move on is actually moving on, you know?” She sniffles. “There’s an Austin-sized hole in my life now. That’s how he keeps getting back in. If I met someone new, I’d finally know it in my heart that we’re history. When can you start matching me up?”

“Soon,” I promise. “But we need to close certain doors before we can see which ones to open. Austin is a pretty big door we need to make sure is properly shut.”

“It’s closed now.” She traces a hand over her bruised wrist. “I’m going to block his number. I’m serious.”

“Beenish—”

“Please?” Her voice cracks. “My mom said your aunt went straight to matching for her. There was no wellness aspect to any of it back then.”

I take in her tear-filled expression. Beenish is certainly not the first person to walk through our doors begging us to introduce them to their rebound relationship. The end of any relationship is hard, even if the end was long overdue. But even if Khala didn’t have an official self-care aspect to the matchmaking agency when she was in charge, she never set people up if they weren’t ready. Beenish’s parents were in the right head- and life-space for their happily ever after. But I’m not here to chide Beenish.

“You swore you were done with Austin weeks ago,” I remind her. “That’s okay! Backsliding happens. We want you to start whatever new relationship you embark on without the baggage of the past, though. A clean slate. I know this is difficult, Beenish. Really, I do. Please trust the process. You’re in the midst of the toughest part right now, but it will get easier.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she says. “It’s just…it’s a lot.”

I soothe her. I assure her the effort spent investing in herself will be well worth it. That when the time comes, we will do everything in our power to help her find the exact right match she deserves. When she leaves, I look at the clock with a start. Forty-five minutes passed in the blink of an eye. This is the part of the job that brings me the most personal satisfaction. The part of the job that truly centers me. Helping people like Beenish is why I do what I do.

Once Beenish leaves, Darcy hurries inside.

“I can’t believe she showed up unannounced like that,” Darcy says. “I’ll have a chat with her. This sets a horrible precedent.”

“She was really hurting. I think we made some good progress today. How’s the rest of my day looking?”

“Lighter than usual.” She scrolls her tablet. “You’ve got a client call at noon, and Genevieve told me she needs thirty minutes this afternoon to chat with you about a few cases.”

“Can you send out a calendar invite for us at four o’clock?”

“You got it. Oh—and good news! We have another matrimonial success! Sheraz proposed to Fatima. It was a basic ‘on one knee at a restaurant’ deal, but hey, a proposal’s a proposal. She said yes.”

“That was quick!” I perk up. “We should celebrate soon. You were instrumental in pairing them up. I can see if they have an open table at Meta Sushi on Friday. I keep meaning to take you there—they have the best nigiri I’ve ever had.”

“You’re busy Friday night,” she reminds me. “It’s Avani and Dev’s mehndi.”

“Right.” Darcy brought my sari from the cleaners this morning for the elaborate dance-filled night preceding the actual wedding day. It’s pressed and hanging behind my door. Avani was a personalized client whom we found a great match for through the Piyar app database. Dev’s laid-back style was a perfect complement to Avani’s type A personality.

“Are you going to miss the constant check-ins from Avani’s entire extended family?” Darcy winks.

“They’re great, but yes, very involved.” I laugh. The time between engagement and nuptials is often fraught with logistics and the myriad of emotions that can arise. While we don’t plan the weddings, we’re there for our clients from start to finish, whether as a listening ear, to help mediate disagreements, or to give references for whatever they might need. “I’ll need to swing by the bank to grab a jewelry set sometime this week. Not sure I’ll have time, but—”

“It’s already in the office safe. Pale gold always looks good with pink. I figured I’d save you the trip.”

“Darcy, really? I’m going to miss this level of service once you’re married.”

“I’m not going anywhere, silly.”

“I know. But Samir’s got his entire extended family in town. You’ll be exhausted from the million events you’ll be busy with after your big fat desi wedding.” I give her my best pout. “Samir isn’t all that great, is he?”

“He’s even better.”

Darcy in love. I smile. “After everything you went through with Andrei, I’m so glad you found someone as fantastic as Samir.”

“I wouldn’t wish Andrei on anyone.” She shudders. “But I guess sometimes you have to taste the bitter to appreciate the sweet.”

Bitter was one way to describe Andrei. They were dating back when I first met Darcy, when she was a barista at the coffee shop next door. I remember how he’d skulk about by her car after closing, arms crossed, while Darcy and I finished up our conversations. He didn’t take their breakup too well, either. Refused to take no for an answer. He began leaving threatening voice messages on her cell and, eventually, at the agency, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise because it got Darcy a restraining order against him once and for all. I’d never understood what she saw in him in the first place, but I guess love can blur the rough edges off of anyone.

“How’s wedding planning going?” I ask her. “November will be here before you know it.”

“We’re tasting cakes this evening. Even though I’ve already decided which one we’re going to choose. I’m getting the—”

“Three-layer chocolate mousse from Ponce Café,” we finish together.

“They’re the best priced, too, but when else do you have an excuse to hit up all the best dessert spots?” She settles down on the chair across from me.

“You might be the only person I know who can make wedding planning look fun.”

At this, her smile fades. “Cake tasting will be fun, but the rest of it, not so much. Weddings are expensive, even when you’re trying to go budget. Samir’s been great about covering most of it. He knows how much having a proper wedding means to me, but he just survived a round of layoffs at work, so he’s being a bit more cautious than he’d otherwise have been.”

“Oh, Darcy—”

“It’s fine.” She shrugs. “I guess I’d been hoping Samir’s parents would have come around by now and offered to pitch in, but no dice. Not like I have parents to turn to for help.”

Poor Darcy. She didn’t have a stable home growing up, but despite her difficult circumstances, she was determined to make something of herself. She worked hard all through high school only to discover, while applying for college, that her mother had stolen her identity and run up tens of thousands of dollars in credit card charges in her name. Even a Zen master would have a hard time moving past a betrayal like that. Thanks to her mother, Darcy had to juggle three different jobs in college and take out predatory loans just to make it through. My mother died when I was young, but at least I know she loved me dearly and had looked out for me. And when I became motherless, Khala was there for me—she had been my soft place to land. Darcy had no safety net. She’d had to make one for herself.

“Have you heard from your mother recently?” I ask her.

“She called me a few months ago to catch up, and then, of course, she just happened to mention that she needed to borrow money.” She rolls her eyes. “Like she hasn’t taken enough from me? Samir insists I should consider inviting her to the wedding, but I didn’t even tell her I’m engaged. She’ll find some angle to work me. He’s afraid I’ll regret it if I don’t. But she’s lost the right to make me feel bad about anything.”

“Absolutely.”

“He doesn’t get it. His parents set up a Roth IRA for him when he was five. They paid for his full ride through school, just like your aunt did for you. My mother saddled me with debt that will follow me to my grave. If you hadn’t done me a solid and rescued me from my dead-end job, I’m not even sure where I’d be right now.”

“Hey, you did me the favor,” I remind her. “And look, about your mother, your wedding day is about you,” I tell her firmly. “You and Samir are creating a brand-new life together and you should be able to savor your special day like you deserve. You can always make the call to invite her last-minute. There’s no rush.”

She dabs her eyes and smiles at me. “Hey, if we can’t choose our family, at least we can choose our friends, right?”

“That’s right.” I reach over and pat her hand. I pay my team nearly twice the going market rate, but even then, I know Darcy’s debts loom large. I make a mental note to touch base with my accountant to see if I can disburse at least part of the year-end profit share earlier this year.

“Speaking of weddings.” She clears her throat and shoots me a nervous smile. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something kind of important.”

“Don’t tell me you’re extending your sabbatical,” I say half-jokingly.

“I want you to be my maid of honor.”

“Darcy?” I set down my pen. “Really?”

I’m not sure why I’m surprised. We’ve known each other for five years—six if you include the small talk we did when she was the barista who made the best lattes. Outside of Azar, she’s my closest friend—I can’t imagine life without her—but I’m her boss too. I’m aware of the lopsided power dynamics.

“You can think about it,” she says quickly. “But I didn’t want to ask anyone else but you.”

“Who knew my caffeine addiction would lead to such a beautiful friendship?” I grin. “I’d be honored to be in your wedding party.”

I walk around the table and give her a hug.

“Glad to hear it.” She hugs me back. “First thing will be bridal outfit shopping.”

“Fun! Where are you looking? Styles by Simone? Aperti’s?”

“Savita’s.”

“Samir wants you to go desi?”

“He doesn’t care. If it were up to him, we’d elope at the courthouse. Which might be the financially advisable thing to do—but I’m only getting married once, right? I’m thinking I might have a white dress for the vows, and then a lengha for the reception. Desi jewelry comes out really good in pictures too. Maybe your aunt could loan me one of her sets?”

“I’m sure she’d be happy to lend you whatever you wanted.”

She pulls out her phone and shows me kundan earrings that dangle practically to the shoulders. I live and breathe weddings, so I’ve seen it all, and I’ve always cringed at the bride entering an intercultural marriage who can’t wait to play dress-up. Darcy isn’t doing it for the ’gram, though. I know Samir’s mother hasn’t been thrilled that her future daughter-in-law isn’t the Indian bride she’d dreamed of. Darcy must be hoping this is a way to help her come around.

Her phone vibrates. Darcy looks at it and grimaces. “It’s Lena.” She sends it to voicemail. “I need a shot of something stronger than caffeine for that call.”

“Their wedding’s almost here, so at least we’re nearing the finish line.”

“Hopefully the wedding’s still on.”

“Now what?” I groan.

“It’ll be okay. She’s just upset at the wedding venue.”

“Is it about the elephant?”

“It’s about the elephant.” Darcy nods. “She’s threatening to cancel the whole thing over it. Tanvir had his heart set on arriving that way to the wedding hall. I’m sure the wedding planner is tearing her hair out as we speak.”

“Wait until that leaks out to the press.”

“It’s already out there, unfortunately. Lena posted about it this morning. I’m sure it’ll spark a lovely wave of emails to the wedding venue and us. Why are we the scapegoats for everything our clients choose to do? We introduced them to each other; we didn’t plan the wedding.”

She leans back in the chair and massages her temples.

“How bad is the general inbox these days?” I wake up my computer. Clicking out of my emails, I open the general tab.

“You don’t need to see all that.” Darcy hurries to my side of the table.

Too late.

Now that I’m in here, all I can do is stare. There’s a flood of general inquiries. Impatient would-be clients. Journalists requesting interviews or comments.

Then the other emails come into focus.

GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM

NURA WILL PAY

MESSAGE FOR NURA AKA BITCH

YOU OWE ME.

ARANGED MARRIAGE ASSHOLE

FUCK YOU NURA KHAN

A chill passes through me. It’s not just that the subject lines are angry—some racist, and others who can’t properly spell—it’s the sheer volume.

“Seriously, Nura, I wouldn’t open them. You can’t unsee it. These days, I just delete without reading.”

“How long has it been this bad?”

“The haters swarmed after the article,” she says. “It was like an infestation. It’s eased up. The inbox looks better than it did even a few weeks ago.”

This is “eased up”? I balk at the subject headings. “It’s the one line they had to put in for clicks,” I say. “Calling us an ‘arranged marriage throwback.’?”

“Like Bumble and eHarmony don’t exist.”

“Exactly. They wouldn’t say any of this if I wasn’t desi.”

Of all the options, my agency offers the least shallow matchmaking service out there. Even our app is careful to dig deep, with a comprehensive questionnaire to ensure proper pairings. Yes, marriage is about attraction, mutual interests, and the undefinable chemistry that mixes it all together—but none of these on their own are enough, are they? Not even love is enough to guarantee a successful marriage. My team at the agency work like coaches, guiding our players to victory. We ask the questions better explored before one has two children and is staring out the window onto their concrete cul-de-sac wondering whom they signed up to spend the rest of their life with. Our goal is simple: We want you to be happy. Cheesy? Yes. The truth? Absolutely.

“I need a palate cleanser,” I mumble.

I skim through the media requests. Darcy’s right about us needing a temporary replacement while she’s out of the office. Managing the inbox looks like a full-time job. There’s an invitation to headline an app makers summit. A request for an Insta live with a lifestyle influencer. The interview requests from journalists are practically identical. A profile would be “a great free advertising opportunity.”…They’d love “a few moments of our time.”…Promises of a full Nura Khan spread…Direct appeals to my vanity…

As I’m reading, a new email dings.

“If it isn’t Logan Wilson,” I say. “Again.”

“From Rolling Stone, right?” Darcy rolls her eyes. “He just won’t quit.”

Hi, Nura,

I was checking in to see if you might have changed your mind about that interview? You’ve done what so many dream of doing but few actually accomplish. Your assistant explained to me that you don’t do profiles, but after listening to the latest disturbing episode of the podcast, I can’t help but reach out and try one more time to see if you might change your mind. Everyone who works with you has nothing but rave reviews about the personal touch you provide, but then there’s this other side: Those not chosen. Those who feel resentment. I would love to do an in-depth profile that paints the full picture about you and your business and puts it in a holistic light. I’m in town for a few days and would love to speak with you about what a profile might look like. Hope to hear from you soon.

Best,

Logan

“?‘Disturbing’?” I glance at Darcy. “Is there a new podcast episode?”

Darcy winces. “We were going to tell you. I kept trying to figure out the right time.”

I pull up my podcast app—there is a second one. This one is also short, a few minutes in length, and harder to make out than the last one. It’s like he’s recording it from inside a wind tunnel. His words clip in and out.

Fraud…shady…egomaniac…

But his final words ring out clear as day:

You want to call the agency “magical”? That might be right. Magicians are the masters of illusion, and let’s be real: Piyar Matchmaking Agency is just a mirage. They don’t help people. They fuck with people’s lives. Nura won’t quit UNTIL SOMEONE STOPS HER.

The recording abruptly ends. His final words reverberate through me. For a moment, neither of us speak.

“I’m sure he’s all bark and no bite,” I say slowly. “But you were right, Darcy. We should try to figure out who this is.”

“Definitely.” She looks visibly relieved. “This is too creepy to ignore. I bet Borzu or Genevieve can get to the bottom of it. There’s got to be a way to figure it out, on the dark web or somewhere .”

“Logan. Now this. They’re all coming out of the woodwork, aren’t they?”

“Well, don’t worry about Logan. I’ll tell him to kindly go fuck himself. In a professional way, of course. He’ll get the message.”

When she leaves, I look at the two-minute recording on my phone. I shouldn’t, but it’s like an itch you can’t help but scratch. I press play. The man’s voice quivers with rage. I can practically feel the spittle flying from his mouth. I play it again. And again. Straining for some sort of clue as to who it could be, even though I know: He’s a pissed off would-be client. There’s no getting around this unsavory reality. It happens.

Still. Those words: She won’t quit until someone stops her. Khala taught me to let things bounce off me like oil on water, but this is impossible to ignore.