Page 25 of Experiments in Offline Dating

“I’m sorry—was that the wrong thing to say, Jackie? It’s not that I don’t believe in love—that’s indisputable. And I also believe in what you do. I think it’s really wonderful. I hope I didn’t . . .” I bit my lip and glanced at him, but he didn’t look angry, more thoughtful.

“No, no, you didn’t say anything wrong. Honesty is a rare and beautiful thing. Lets you know where you stand with a person.”

“Really? Oh, good. My friend Simone says honesty is my worst quality.” That made him smile. “I just think . . . Well, matchmaking can’t work for everyone, can it? I think I’m just one of those people who, for all your skill and experience, it probably won’t work for.”

He hummed.

“Does that make you sad?”

“I’m not sure. Does it make you sad?”

“Not at all! I’m happy with my life. I have all that I need. But at the same time, this whole dating experiment, I guess I kind of think of it as a challenge to the universe. Show me I’m wrong! You know? Show me what I’m missing.” I laughed.

Jackie looked at me sideways, and I didn’t know if it was a trick of the light, but I could swear his eyes actually glimmered. His smirk looked mischievous, and a little crackle of energy raced down my arms.

“Well, we’ll just have to see about that, then, won’t we? I do so love a challenge.”

Chapter 7 An Experiment in Talking to Strangers in Panel Vans

I agreed to go with Jackie again to the Matchmaking Festival that evening. Deep down, I was hesitant to leave the quiet cottage with the ticks of its clocks and the soft noises of contented animals that called in on the breeze through the open windows. But it was time to go to work. Others had their cubicles. I had a matchmaking festival.

“I’ll call ’round to a few boys I know to see if they’d make the journey over to meet ye tonight. And you should be getting calls in a day or two. Be leaving in about an hour, will that work for ye?”

“Oh. Um. Sure. Thanks, Jackie.” He nodded and walked on to do some chore or other before my brain could stop twisting long enough to ask him what any of that meant. Would people be traveling for a date with me? Tonight? What people? Who were they? Was he going to tell me anything about them? And what sort of calls? My stomach did a bit of hand-wringing.

“HEY, MOM.”

I was glad that I had gotten an Irish SIM card in advance and paid for unlimited international calls. Having instant access to Mom, Dad, and Sims felt like a vital lifeline.

“Hey, pumpkin.”

“Oh, hi, Dad.” I was on speakerphone, their preferred method of conversation, even in, say, a restaurant or at the supermarket.

“How is Ireland? Are you calling to invite us to a wedding?” Mom laughed. Probably less because she thought this was a funny joke and more because she knew it would rankle me.

“What a comedian. Not yet, Mom. I did have a date already, though.”

“A date already? You’ve only been there for a few hours!” Dad said.

“Our girl works fast. Keep those morals good and loose, honey.”

I laughed. “Mom! Stop it. No danger of that, anyway. It was . . . explosively bad. He hated me so much. They burned the pub to the ground when we left, to kill the bad vibes.”

“Ah, well. He’s an idiot, then,” Dad said. “You can’t please everyone, pumpkin. So don’t try to. Just do like you’ve always done. Hang up your ‘closed’ sign and move on to the next opportunity.”

This was an old thing from my childhood, when I was an awkward little nerd and making friends was hard. Kids were often mean, but the tools that Mom and Dad had taught me—don’t take things to heart, never try to change myself to please other people—they were easier said than done, of course, but over time I had mastered them, and they had served me into adulthood and actually helped to make all of these terrible first dates fun and manageable instead of soul-crushing.

“Thanks, Dad. We’re heading back to the festival tonight. And get this: I think I might . . . have to dance.”

They gasped in unison.

“Morty, get my smelling salts!”

IT WAS NOT my first time walking toward the music in the square, but where I had been blissfully ignorant of what was awaiting me the night before, this time I knew all too well. Something writhed a little uncomfortably in my gut. I might actually have to dance. Totally unpracticed. In front of a crowd. With touching. I lied to myself and suggested that maybe I could somehow successfully dodge it again and spare myself this particular humiliation for at least one more night. Or maybe I’d get lucky and no one would ask. Or maybe I’d get lucky and the world would end.

But as we walked up to the square, heads turned, and I realized all too late that walking anywhere next to Jackie Kelly during the month of September in Lisdoonvarna was tantamount to wearing nothing but a sandwich sign over one’s otherwise naked body that read: “HUSBAND WANTED. APPLY WITHIN.”

People swarmed Jackie. I felt my breaths coming a little too fast and told myself to slow it down. You’ve got this. Smile. Don’t let them smell your fear.