Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

BLAKE

Thor was right, I do have feelings for Molly, and I would like to ask her out. I just can't do that while I'm pretending to be just another single person on the prowl. I will not start something with her based on a lie.

After several long moments where I try to figure out the best way to proceed given my need for anonymity, I finally sit down in the chair next to Molly and blurt out the truth—or a portion of it anyway. "Gillian is my boss."

"Your boss," she repeats like I just declared that she was my pet iguana. Talk about irony. I finally come clean about something, and she doesn't believe me.

"Yes," I tell her. "Gillian is my boss. She's the reason I moved home to Chicago."

"Because you're dating her …"

Shaking my head, I say, "She recruited me."

"To make coffee."

"I do more than make coffee," I tell Molly. Borderline truth .

"What, you make the scones, too?" Her tone is heavily laden with disdain .

"I … um … rather …"

"Just tell me, Blake."

I cross my fingers behind my back like I did in grade school before I was about to tell a whopper. I know there's no scientific evidence this will have a positive effect, but at the moment I'm willing to try anything to lessen the reverberations of telling so many lies. "I'm going to spearhead some singles' get-togethers at the coffee shop and Gillian wanted me to come up here and get some ideas."

Molly rolls her eyes. "Your boss paid for you to come here to discover what you could learn from watching any romcom on Netflix?"

"I don't think she wants the Hollywood version of what dating events are like," I tell her. "She wants firsthand knowledge about what's going on in people's heads. That's why I'm talking to everyone."

"So, you really aren't here looking for yourself," she accuses.

"Correct. I'm on assignment."

"Are you the coffee shop manager or something?" she wants to know. "I mean, what are you so good at that Gillian would hire you away from wherever you were working in LA?"

The thing about lying is that once you start, there really is no end to it. But even so, that's the sinking ship I'm currently on. "Gillian is a friend of my family's," I tell her. "She partially hired me because my mom wanted me to come home, but also, because I'm really good at my job."

"Making coffee …"

"I also come up with ways for the businesses I work at to make extra money."

This seems to make more sense to her, because she says, "That's what I do with hotel gift shops. I come in and find ways for them to serve their clientele while still lining their pockets."

I reach for my coffee cup which is now cold. Undeterred, I take a giant swig before embellishing my story even further. "Everything has gotten so expensive, even a cup of coffee." I raise my mug for effect. "People can't even afford their daily latte anymore. And being that dating is so expensive, I figure that instead of dropping a hundred bucks on dinner, we could encourage people to get to know one another over coffee."

Molly ignores my genius and asks, "What's the name of Gillian's shop?"

Stumbling to make up a name on the fly, I tell her, "P… P … Perky Cups."

"Are you serious?" The look she gives me is enough to wither a cactus. "That sounds like the name of a store that specializes in bras for grandmothers."

She's not wrong, but I can't change the name now. Plodding forth, I say, "So, now that you know why I'm here, will you please do me a favor and not tell anyone?"

"You realize you're throwing off the numbers by not being interested in meeting someone for yourself," she says. "There are thirty women and thirty men for a reason." When I don't respond soon enough, she adds, "That's potentially thirty couples, Blake."

She and Olivia are clearly of like mind. "Maybe so, but at least I'm not purposely trying to mislead anyone."

"That's a lie," she hisses. "Every woman you talk to thinks there's a chance for her. You're taking time away from her potentially meeting the one."

I absolutely see her point but what are the chances of thirty couples pairing off by the end of this thing? Not high at all, if you ask me. "I'm not letting it go anywhere, though," I maintain.

Molly suddenly stands up in a huff. She sways slightly on her feet, probably due to the excessive blood loss, and then declares, "I will not promise to help you lie to these women, Blake. I think it's unethical, and borderline cruel."

I take a step toward her. "Please, Molly. I'm not hurting anyone, and I really need my job. I moved all the way from LA for it." At least I'm back to telling some version of the truth.

The look on her face makes me think I might have convinced her, but I don't want to push too hard. "Please … "

Flinging both her hands in front of her like she's shooing away a swarm of flies, she says, "Just stay away from me, okay?" I step aside as she teeters toward the door—she really isn't stable on her feet.

It's clear that if I decided to come clean and tell Molly the whole truth, she'd most likely be so mad that she'd tell Trina. Then my whole mission would be compromised, along with my employment status.

After leaving the room, Molly slams the door with enough force to cause a picture on the wall to tilt. Ignoring the food that's still sitting on the table, I pick up my laptop and find a place to sit and work.

If the future of humanity hinges on the success of matchmaking events, I fear for our species. People, I implore you to introduce your single friends to each other. Moms and dads, get moving! Surely you know someone whose child needs a mate.

In addition to old-fashioned intervention, we desperately need to allow courtship back into the workplace. While I understand sexual harassment has been a big problem in the past, we're not currently living in the Mad Men generation. People should be allowed to flirt at the office. Co-workers should be free to co-mingle. If we continue to impede people's access to organic coupling, then our civilization could be in real jeopardy!

I know I sound dramatic, but other than Olivia and Ronald, I have not seen one successful match that has been made, and it's too soon to say whether theirs stands a snowman's chance in Bermuda of making it.

Releasing a giant sigh, I close my laptop and try to figure out how I'm going to spend my day. There's a group going cross-country skiing, and another snowmobiling, but I'm not in the mood to put on a happy face and pretend.

Turning on the television, I search for one of those movies Molly was talking about on Netflix, when out of nowhere I suddenly get inspired. What if I put my time to good use? I've met nearly every person here, so why not play matchmaker myself and introduce people I think would be a good fit. It's not like I'd be anything like Trina. In fact, I'd be the anti-Trina. I'm not profiting from getting people together. I'm helping them the old-fashioned way—friend to friend.

With a renewed interest in the day, I put on my coat and head out the door. My first stop is the breakfast buffet that has been set up for our group. After the first night, there's been one shared meal a day along with a group activity and a morning coffee or evening mixer, depending on which meal we have. For instance, if the meal is breakfast, then it's an evening cocktail mixer.

On my way to the elevator, I run into the mom of the family that I keep seeing. "How's Ben?" I ask her.

She looks tired, so I'm not surprised when she says, "He had a long night."

"Having too much fun, huh?"

She smiles like the action takes all her energy. "He's a little overstimulated. Life at home is nowhere near this exciting."

I don't want to be nosy, but I am curious, so I ask, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but is there something physically wrong with Ben?" Her eyes immediately become watery, which leads me to believe that there is. I should have kept my mouth shut.

"Ben has leukemia."

I'm not a doctor, but I've noticed his greying pallor. That leads me to guess he might not be doing well. "I'm so sorry," I tell her before offering a platitude I'm sure she hears all the time. "I'm sure he'll get better soon."

Tears silently start to fall down the woman's face. "He won't be fine," she says. "In fact, if we had any hope that would be the outcome, we would have never brought him here and risked him getting sick with something else." She adds, "His immune system is shot from all the chemo."

I say a silent prayer—actually, more of a plea—that God helps this family. "I'm so sorry. I wish there was something I could do."

Her shoulders sag wearily. "Thank you." Reaching out her hand to mine, she says, "I'm Francie, by the way. You know Ben, and my husband is Ward."

Taking her hand, I ask, "Is there anything I can do?" I can't imagine what that would be but honestly, I'd do anything I could to help this kid have a great vacation.

"Not unless you can get him courtside tickets to a Bulls game. The Make-A-Wish Foundation is working on it for him, but you wouldn't believe the number of dying kids who want to score dream tickets like that."

Dying. Just hearing the word causes my nervous system to backfire. Pulling out my wallet, I take out a business card and hand it to her. "I'm the new sportswriter at Chicago Wind ," I tell her. "I don't start until the current guy retires, but I would be happy to contact my boss and see if there's anything we can do."

Francie takes the card like it's the answer to her prayers, which it probably isn't because I don't really have any pull yet. And I'm currently not Gillian's favorite employee. "Thank you, Blake. That would be amazing."

Francie grimaces when she sees the look on my face, which I'm sure conveys the doubt I'm feeling that I can come through for her. "Don't worry, I won't say anything to Ben. I know this is a huge ask."

I decide then and there to do everything in my power to help this kid. I can't imagine anything would be too big to ask if it would bring some joy to a dying child.

I'm reminded of the last weeks of my brother's life. My sister and I were so young we couldn't sort out what was happening to him. All we knew was that he wasn't going to get better and that he was going to live in heaven with Jesus. We had no basis for processing the reality of that concept .

I assure Francie, "I promise you, I'm going to do everything I can." And while I'm at it, I'm going to try to sweeten the pot in any way possible.

Looking as though she's carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, Francie says, "Thank you, Blake. I'd better get back to Ben now."

My heart nearly breaks in two as I watch her walk away. Instead of going down to the mixer, I go back to my room and call Gillian again. I'm transferred straight through this time.

Her first word is, "What?"

"I need a favor," I tell her. "A big one."