The Perfect Match. Kristan Higgins
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sneaking around this house, creeping up on people?” Mrs. Johnson said.
“We were just kissing!” Dad said.
“Is it safe to come back in?” she asked, feeling a laugh start to wriggle around in her stomach.
“Yes! We weren’t...we were just... Oh, jeesh. Is that the phone?”
“Don’t you move, John Holland. We were not kissing, Honor,” Mrs. Johnson said darkly. “Your father, the ridiculous man, asked if he could kiss me just the one time. And just the one time it will be, John Holland, if you can’t keep track of which of your many children is skulking around corners.”
“Okay, okay,” Honor said, going back into the kitchen. Dad’s face was bright red, and Mrs. Johnson looked like she was about to kick a baby dolphin, she was so mad. “I’m sorry I didn’t make more noise. I didn’t know there was a romance unfolding here. I’ll tie a bell around my neck next time.”
“There are no bells required! There is no romance!” Mrs. J. thundered. “It was an experiment only, and one of complete failure, given your intrusion, Honor. We thought you had left with the others. Your father said we were alone.”
“Mrs. J., I’m sorry, okay? Don’t murder my dad.” He sent her a grateful look.
The clock ticked on the wall.
“So,” she said. “Dad and Mrs. J. I like it.”
“There’s nothing to like, you wretched child,” the housekeeper muttered.
“Oh, stop. Your guilty secret is safe with me. But let me tell you, if I’d been Faith, you’d be packed into the back of her car, on your way to a justice of the peace this very minute. And Jack would be dead on the floor of a heart attack.”
“My poor Jackie,” Mrs. J. said. Honor rolled her eyes.
“Anyway, more power to you,” she said. “I’m going on a date. Mrs. J., would you watch Spike?”
“Of course. Where is the little baby now? And why did you name her Spike? She should have a delicate name. A girl’s name. Princess or Sugar-Paws.”
“Or Hyacinth,” Dad said. It was Mrs. Johnson’s first name, and he was gazing at the housekeeper with a dopey smile.
Well, well, well. Honor said good-night and walked out to her car.
Last fall, Dad had decided to start dating...sort of...but after a few failed attempts, he seemed to give up. Mrs. Johnson was single (they all thought; she was a mystery wrapped in an enigma), and she’d been with the family since Mom died.
But a romance between the two of them, huh? If there’d been handwriting on that wall, Honor had missed it completely.
It could work, though. Certainly, Mrs. Johnson was a wonderful (if terrifying) person. She took good care of Dad and all his kids. Certainly, she knew all of them inside out and out.
It was nice to picture her father with someone. Not so alone anymore. He’d always had her, of course, which was a little pathetic when she put it like that. But still. They’d always been two single people alone together.
A surprisingly strong band of loneliness tightened around Honor’s chest. If Dad and Mrs. Johnson became a couple, where would that leave her? She’d have to move. She couldn’t be the spinster daughter, living with the newlyweds, sneaking Bugles into her room and misery-eating as she watched I Didn’t Know I Had a Parasite.
All the more reason to put the pedal to the metal and get going, the eggs said. We want to be fertilized.
“You have a point,” Honor muttered, starting her car. If Dad could find a honey, surely she could, too. eCommitment had recently come up with two matches for her. One was married, a Google search had revealed (thank you, Faith). So Droog it was.
See? She was trying. Really hard. She did need to get a life, and not just because Dad might beat her to the altar.
Three days ago, Dana emailed, asking if she was ready to hang out. Honor had been out of town on a sales trip to Poughkeepsie and had only responded to say so. Then yesterday, Brogan left a message, saying he was back from Tampa and would love to see her for dinner.
And last night, Honor had a panic attack, abruptly terrified that she’d die in this bed where she’d slept most of her life, and Dad, not the most observant man in the world, would think she was traveling, and Spike would chew off the tip of her nose for food, which would mean closed casket, definitely. This pleasant little fantasy had led her to visiting OnYourOwn.com and cruising through profiles of sperm donors, and then panicking a little further. She’d soothed herself by making a list of things she needed to do for the Black and White Ball, which was only a month and a half away, and ended up working until 3:00 a.m.
“Mom?” she said as she drove out of town. “I could use a little help finding a man. Okay? Be my wingman.”
Please God, Droog Dragul would be nice.
* * *
“HONOR?”
Honor’s head snapped around. Oh. Oh, dear. “Droog?”
“Yes. How luffly you look,” he said. He grabbed her by the shoulders and leaned in to kiss her (eep!). She leaned back as far as possible, which caused his lips fall on her chin, where they stayed for a horribly long moment before she wrenched away.
“Um, hi. Hi, Droog. Nice to meet you.”
Don’t judge on first impressions had been the advice from Faith and Colleen. Droog was lucky, in other words.
They were in the middle of the student center at Wickham College, where Droog headed up the Science and Engineering department. The Droog in front of her bore little resemblance to the Droog in the eCommitment photo (she should really stop thinking his name, which was not improving with repetition). No, his photo had apparently involved Glamour Shots, a spray tan and many dedicated hours with Photoshop. The actual live Droog (there it was again) looked ten years older and was considerably whiter. Also, he carried a purse. Not a cool, battered leather satchel, but a purse that Honor had been eyeing last week at Macy’s.
“Come. Vee vill go in my car. I heff Dodge Omni. It is old, but very good gas mileage.”
“You know, I think I’ll drive myself,” she said, wiping sweat from her forehead. “It’s, uh...it’ll be easier for me to get home.”
“As you vish.”
It was possible, Honor thought as she followed him outside, that Droog Dragul’s accent would grow on her. After all, hadn’t she loved the Count on Sesame Street? Perhaps his narrow face would be more attractive in a softer light. And she herself was no supermodel.
She wondered if he could see himself in a mirror. If he sparkled. Stop judging, she told herself. He couldn’t help being Transylvanian or Romanian or Hungarian or whatever it was.
She smiled firmly (though hopefully not like a wolverine) as he led the way to the parking lot. If nothing else, this date would be practice. It had been several years since she’d been on a first date. Years.
The sound of feminine laughter, and lots of it, made her turn her head. A gaggle of girls clustered around a man. He turned her way.
Oh, fungus. It was Tom Barlow.
Without thinking, she ducked, pretending she dropped her keys. Hey, why not actually drop them for authenticity purposes? She did. Kicked them under the car a little so she could have more time. Hopefully, Tom and the gaggle would move on.
“Heff you lost something?” Droog asked, bending to help. He was very tall.
“Um, no, no. I just dropped my keys.” Right. So she should pick them up and not just stand here, hunched over like Quasimodo. She squatted down and reached under the car, feeling only gritty pavement. Took a peek. Great. She’d effectively kicked them out of reach.
“I vould