Chapter 18
It’s ten minutes past 11:00 a.m., and Harper still hasn’t arrived for her session. Is it possible I scared her off for good with Bennett or she already found someone using ZodiaCupid? Did I miss an email about her canceling? In a panic, I google small business loans. Dozens of links populate the page, and I scan over topics like fixed assets and working capital.
I log in to the online banking dashboard to check on Lunar Love’s financial health. The numbers have dropped, even with the addition of Harper and a few others. Social media and the live podcast episode have drawn some attention, but they’re still not converting enough clients.
I lower my head into my arms, racking my brain for ideas. I remember Pó Po’s offer to loan Lunar Love part of her savings, but I can’t accept that. There’s something there, though. I log in to my own bank account and do some budgeting and calculations. If I significantly cut back on going out to eat, don’t buy new clothes, and limit travel for the next few years, I could invest my own savings into the business and still be able to make rent on my apartment. Barely, but it’s doable. It would be owner’s equity. Not a lot of owner’s equity, but enough to cover the past-due bills and the ones for next month.
I initiate a transfer and watch my personal savings drop down to a terrifying new low. I’m betting big on Lunar Love. I should put my money where my mouth is.
As I’m on the verge of having a full-blown panic attack, the front door swings open. Harper!
“I’m sorry I’m so late. My previous meeting ran long, but the good news is we locked in that client I was telling you about.” Harper exhales a happy sigh as she settles into the chair in the session room.
After a flood of cancellations, I’m just thrilled she showed up at all. “Congrats! That’s exciting.”
“Their social media presence is not great right now, but we’re going to turn it around. Speaking of, I noticed you joined the world of social media. Welcome! Your last tweet was great. I like that you’re keeping the messages true to who you are as a business. Don’t lose that.”
“Thanks. Coming from you, that means a lot,” I say, relieved on many different levels. We just need that content to result in sign-ups. “Let’s start by talking about Bennett. I know you said on the phone that he’s not what you’re looking for. Can you elaborate on that? For my learning purposes.” Saying his name out loud feels revealing, as though I may have said it too affectionately.
Harper adjusts the waistline of her jeans and props her left calf under her right thigh, getting comfortable before divulging her emotions.
“I understand why you paired me with him. He’s confident, opinionated, enjoys good food, and is easy to talk to,” she reports.
I maintain a neutral expression. I’ve made out with one of my clients’ matches. One of my clients’ dates! The word professional doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. I’m a complete fraud.
“But…” She trails off.
“But what?” I grip my pen tighter.
“He wouldn’t stop talking about you!” Harper says with one raised eyebrow.
I wrinkle my nose. “I hope my being there didn’t dominate the conversation. I shouldn’t have shown up like that.”
“No, I didn’t mind that. I mean, he kept bringing you up in conversation. Whether he was aware of it, who knows, but he did.”
“I’ll have to discuss first-date etiquette with him,” I mumble, scribbling into my notepad. “So just to confirm, you don’t want another date with him?” I hold my breath in anticipation.
Harper grins. “You think I missed that last date on accident?”
I eye her doubtfully. “Did you not?”
“It’s like I said last time, the matchmaker needs, well, a matchmaker,” she says with a wink.
“I see.” I’m the matchmaker here, but I can’t be upset at a paying client.
“We grabbed lunch last week to work out some details. He had a whole plan. It was so sweet. I could tell there was something between you two at the dumpling festival,” Harper says matter-of-factly.
“Oh, no,” I say, shaking my head. My jaw clenches as I process what she’s told me. Bennett maneuvered me to get what he wanted: a date. How else has he manipulated me?
“And here I was thinking you only did strictly compatible matches. Aren’t you a Horse?”
I sit upright in my chair. “We do. Conflicting traits can pose real problems sometimes. A lot of misunderstandings, opposing opinions and values, qualities that might be endearing at first but end up being dealbreakers. Compatibility is tried and true. That doesn’t mean perfect, because nothing is, but it’s like mixing butter and sugar together for a cake. Incompatibility is like mixing butter and salt. Sure, someone might like that flavor combination, but when you eat enough of it, that cake’s going to make you feel not so good,” I say, starting to ramble. It’s starting to get exhausting defending the core of our business that no one but me seems to care about anymore.
“Got it. At the end of the day, I want someone nice who I can go to Italy with and gorge on endless pounds of pasta together. Is that so much to ask?” Harper asks with a laugh.
I guess for her that nice, pasta-loving person won’t be Bennett. A surge of relief runs through me.
“You and me both,” I tell her. At the thought of pasta, my mental rolodex flips to Parker T., the Rooster I matched with on ZodiaCupid. He loves Italian food, and if he likes historical landmarks, then he probably enjoys traveling. The hours aren’t great as a restaurant owner, though they’re typically better than a chef’s hours, so I won’t rule him out. If Harper doesn’t want Bennett, it’s on to the next.
But Parker’s a Rooster. If I can find out his birth hour, there might be a chance his ascendant aligns with Harper’s Dragon sign. I’ll message him on the app and find out, reveling in the irony of Lunar Love poaching ZodiaCupid’s clients. That’s what they get for invading our territory.
As soon as Harper leaves, I open ZodiaCupid and scroll through my matches until I find Parker’s name. I start typing and hit Send on the message before overthinking it.
A light pink swipe-through instruction panel pops up with illustrated peonies in the background, catching me off guard. Bennett went through with gamifying the app. Despite our conversation at breakfast and his saying he wanted to rethink things, I guess I didn’t make a convincing enough case to scrap the feature.
I hover over Bennett’s profile, recollecting his peony count. How much higher is it now? I press my thumb to the screen and soak up the information that appears. Apparently much higher. My stomach tumbles over itself. Who else has he been seeing and talking to besides me? In this moment, the past becomes my present. I can’t be hurt again. Not like this. Not by him. I’m nobody’s pawn.
To take my mind off Bennett, I click into one of our most recent tweets to respond to a comment. One person tweets asking if he can change his sign to a Dragon because it sounds cooler. I type up a friendly response informing him that all clients must be their real sign in order to find true compatibility. We’re not in the position to be turning paying clients away, but that’s just ridiculous. I check the numbers and see that the latest moon song pairing has over three hundred retweets. As much as I try to push Bennett out, in the back of my head I can practically hear him gloating about how useful data is. In a message, someone asks what our process and rates are. It’s small, but it’s something.