Emmy hugged her. Harper hugged back—fierce and tight, the kind of hug that reorganizes your ribs. They sat there on Harper's secondhand couch, crying into each other's shoulders,and it wasn't pretty and it wasn't eloquent and Emmy wouldn't have traded it for anything.
When they pulled apart, Harper was laughing and wiping mascara off her cheeks. "Look what you did. I just put this face on."
"You look great."
"I look like a raccoon." Harper sniffed. "Are those Boston cream donuts?"
"Obviously."
"Then you're forgiven." Harper reached for the box, pulled one out, and took an enormous bite. "Okay," she said through a mouthful. "Tell me everything. Start with quitting and end with why you look like you haven't slept."
"Ryan's good?" Emmy asked first. Because she needed to ask it right this time—not as an expert assessing a match, but as a friend who wanted to know.
Harper's whole face softened. "He's so good, Em. He cooked me dinner last week. Chicken parmesan. He overcooked the pasta and it was the best meal I've ever had."
Emmy laughed. It came out watery. "Sometimes the spreadsheet is wrong."
"Sometimes the spreadsheet is spectacularly, magnificently wrong." Harper squeezed her hand. "Okay. Now start from the beginning. What happened?"
So Emmy told her. Cecelia's ultimatum. Beckanne's quiet loyalty. Sabine and Tyce—Harper's eyes went wide at that one, and she said "I knew it" with such conviction that Emmy almost laughed. The contract she needed to review, the reporter she was thinking about calling. All of it.
When she finished, Harper pulled her legs up under the blanket. “Tell me about Grant."
"There's nothing to?—"
"Emmy." Harper gave her a look. "You showed up at my door with donuts and an apology and you can't say his name without your voice doing a thing. Tell me about Grant."
Emmy opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I think I'm in love with him," she said. Very quietly. Like saying it softer might make it hurt less.
Harper didn't gasp. Didn't squeal. Just nodded, like she'd been waiting.
"Yeah," Harper said. "No kidding."
"How long have you known?"
"Longer than you." Harper bumped her shoulder. "Way, way longer than you."
Emmy pressed her palms against her eyes. "It doesn't matter. He doesn't feel the same. He's really happy with Bailey."
Harper squeezed her knee. "I'm sorry." Then, “wanna eat donuts and binge a K-drama?"
Emmy laughed. It was wet and awful and exactly right. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
That night, Emmy sat at her kitchen table with her employment contract and a yellow highlighter.
The document was twelve pages. She'd signed it in September without reading past the compensation section, which was exactly the overconfident shortcut that defined every mistake she'd made at Elite Connections. She read it now the way her mother had taught her to read primary sources—slowly, skeptically, underlining anything that mattered.
Page four: confidentiality. Employee agrees to maintain strict confidentiality regarding all client information, proprietary matching methodology, and internal businessprocesses for the duration of employment and in perpetuity thereafter.
Client information. Proprietary methodology. Internal processes.
Emmy highlighted the operative nouns and kept reading.
Page seven: non-compete. For a period of eighteen (18) months following termination of employment, Employee shall not engage in matchmaking, romantic consulting, or relationship services within the Greater Boston metropolitan area.
Matchmaking. Romantic consulting. Relationship services.
