My eyes narrow. “Don’t they normally mail their letters directly to their match?”
Rita just shrugs. “Trying something new this time. It’s a bit of a special case, wouldn’t you say?”
I growl low in my throat, wondering who Rita deems as her perfect match. Unable to stand the thought of someone else reading Olive’s words and responding, I snatch the letter from Rita’s hand and shove it into my inner jacket pocket. Rita gives me a shocked look but says nothing. I have a feeling I just stepped into a trap, but I don’t give a fuck.
For the first time in years, I actually resent the thought of brunch with my aunt. I want to go back to my office and open the letter. I want to read Olive’s words and see what she’s told this so-called perfect match. There are so many things I want to do, and none of them are wholesome.
I don’t even wait until I get back to the office to rip into the letter. I’ve barely dropped Rita off at her offices before I’m ripping into the envelope. I’m not sure how it’s possible, but the sweet scent of Olive’s perfume lingers on the paper. Did she spray the letter with it, or is it just my imagination? I unfold the thick paper, expecting to see a typed letter. I’m surprised to see elegant script written in purple ink scrawled across the page.
I take a moment to appreciate that she took the time to hand-write her letter. Of course she did. This woman is looking for romance, and what’s more romantic than a hand-written letter delivered by a matchmaker? Writing the letters long-handseems like she’s letting herself be vulnerable for her match. She’s showing how devoted to the process she is.
Guilt weighs heavily on me. Which is new for me because I don’t feel it often. Not even when I’m taking down competitors in business do I feel it. I’ve seen grown men cry over their lost businesses and not felt the slightest pang of guilt. So why does taking one woman’s letter have me plagued with the emotion?
Should I give this letter back to Rita? Let her real match have his chance? Rage floods my veins at the very thought. No, Olive is mine. Somehow, someway I will make her mine.
My attention is drawn back to the elegant script, and my eyes devour her words…
Dear Match,
Rita didn’t mention your name… I feel weird writing this letter to a nameless, faceless person. My name is Olive. I’m twenty-seven years old and work from home. I have a cat named Jet who is a total jerk. He’s actually my mom’s cat, but I inherited him when she passed a couple years ago. He hates me… the feeling is mutual.
Not that you care about my cat and his asshole status, I’m just nervous and ramble whenever I’m nervous. Apparently, writing what I’m guessing should amount to a love letter to a perfect stranger is nerve-inducing.
Knowing the fact that she’s writing this letter to someone she hopes to fall in love with makes that feeling of guilt rise up again for stealing it from whoever Rita was going to match her with. Rita asked me dozens of questions over brunch about whythe letter was so important to me, but I didn’t have a reasonable response.
Why did I take the letter? It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that my desire and obsession took over at that moment. The very thought of another man coveting what I want makes me feel feral with rage. No, if anyone is going to have Olive, it’s going to be me. Now, if only I can convince her that an arrangement without love can be fulfilling.
I can’t believe I just said that. Since I’ve restarted this letter a dozen times, I’m just going to keep going. It’s best you know now that I’m a rambler and apparently love to embarrass myself in front of perfect strangers… even by paper.
If you’re anything like me, you’re probably wondering why I chose to go with Rita Matches instead of one of the many modern approaches to dating… well, I tried and met the worst of the single guys that New York has to offer.
I growl at the thought of her dating some scumbag. Some scum bag who might’ve touched her… tasted her. I banish the thoughts before I go crazy with jealousy over some unknown man dating a woman I don’t even know.
I keep reading, wanting to soak up any tidbit I can about this woman…
Basically, my taste in internet men can’t be trusted. So here I am, letting a perfect stranger match me up with a perfect stranger. Though I suppose if we are supposedto be a perfect match, as Rita says, maybe we aren’t strangers after all?
I’m a bit of a romantic and won’t lie that I’m looking for love. I want the forever kind of love… one that I’m not sure even exists in this day and age. My parents had a love that burned so brightly it encompassed everyone around them. That’s what I want.
Hopefully, my words don’t scare you off, but I suppose if they do, then we aren’t a perfect match, are we? I have so many questions for you, but I don’t want to overwhelm you. So I’ll start small… what’s your favorite color? Mine is pink… but it changes with my mood.
Hopefully optimistic,
Olive
I reread the letter three more times, soaking in everything. She’s not only looking to fall in love; she’s looking for her one and only. Taking this letter from Rita makes me the biggest dick in all of New York, worse than any of those guys she’s dated.
That nasty feeling of guilt swamps me again. If I were a better man, I would give the letter back, but I’m not a better man.
CHAPTER
FIVE
OLIVE
It’s beenfive days since I delivered my letter to Rita. Five days since I bumped into the man who has single-handedly rekindled my muse. After weeks of no words, they are flowing like magic. It’s a wonderful feeling… every morning I wake up craving the feel of the keys under my fingers. It’s been a good distraction for my anxiety of awaiting a response to my letter.
To say I’m anxious is an understatement. It took me ten tries and countless hours to draft my letter. The whole process seems so romantic until you sit down to write a letter to a stranger. It was a lot harder than I expected. The letter is my first impression and, as they say, first impressions are everything.
