From conversations I’ve overheard, Zoe first started thinking of Ben romantically several weeks ago, when she ducked into the parking lot in the middle of a cotillion New Year’s ball to escape her date. Ben and his band had just finished playing a dance in the neighboring building: a retirement home. As the guys loaded their equipment into the van, Ben was joking around with his little sister, who’d accompanied them to the show. The music from Zoe’s dance was loud enough for them to hear, and Ben was spinning his sister around the pavement while she laughed. Zoe ran across the parking lot and said, “May I cut in?” His sister agreed.
Eleven minutes and three songs later, Zoe’s stiff-upper-lipped parents found her doing the Cupid Shuffle (cursing Romans!) with Ben and his sister while Ben’s bandmates heckled them. Zoe told her best friend later that dancing with Ben was totally worth getting grounded.
Sweet, right?
Thanks to my nudging, Ben hasn’t gone out with anyone new in weeks. His heart is locked up as tightly as a Quartermaster vault, but I don’t have to be Hephaestus’ progeny to solve this problem. Ben needs to let his guard down. He needs love. I could have matched Ben and Zoe instantly, but Deya and I did a research project a couple of years ago showing that matches have fewer problems when they’re primed prior to being matched. That’s why I’ve inspired in Ben a newfound school pride—attending basketball games means watching Zoe cheer. It’s why he’s started inviting her to his concerts, after months of her dropping hints. Hector told me once that musicians are suckers for people who love their music. Zoe loves Ben’s band; how could she not?
As I watch Zoe talk to Ben, he ducks his head down to hide something that isn’t quite a smile but definitely isn’t a frown. His ash-brown hair falls in front of his face, and Zoe has an urge to brush it aside. At least, I imagine she does.
These two could be great together. So what if her idea of good music is Top 40, or if the future her parents have mapped out for her doesn’t include a boyfriend until she has her MBA, let alone one in a garage band? And who cares if Ben doesn’t actually like sports, has always thought cheerleading was a bit of a cliché, and that his life goals include touring with Arcade Fire? They’re good for each other. They push and stretch and support each other.
They’re ready.
“Check out Red,” Deya says of Zoe. “How bold she is? Looking to take what she wants? If she’s not his match, I’m a three-winged harpy. You may not even need the arrow.”
Zoe is twisting her hair and taking a deep breath. I see the way her blood is flowing faster in her body, adding a pink tinge to her skin that no mortal could notice. With a little focus, I hear her pulse speed up until it sounds like it’s going to drum a hole in her chest. Holy Hades, is she going to ask him out?
“Of course this case needs an arrow,” I say quickly, touching my bronze necklace. “It never would have come to us otherwise.” My bow appears in my left hand and the arrow in my right. I feel the soft, yet crisp feathers on my fingertips as I nock the arrow and draw it back in one fluid motion, lining Ben up in my sights. He doesn’t know what’s about to hit him.
Ben glances at Zoe. It’s go time. I blend myself into obscurity so that even the sweaty, jostling bodies can’t affect me. No one in this hallway is going to thwart the power that masks my kind when we’re working. If their eyes spot me at all, they’ll pass right over me.
But if that’s the case, then why does it seem like Ben has caught a glint of something in the corner of his eye? And why is he, impossibly, turning his head from Zoe and looking right at me?
My hands falter, and I put my bow behind me, like a backpack. I twirl the arrow nervously in my hands. He doesn’t see either the bow or arrow, of course. He sees something innocuous: a pen. At least in theory. But in theory, our eyes shouldn’t be connected right now. And he definitely shouldn’t have a small smile on his lips.
For the first time in my life, I fumble with my arrow, and I’m reaching for it before I’ve even looked away. Something pricks my finger. With a squeal, I pull my eyes from Ben’s to look down.
I gasp. My arrow clatters to the floor.
My dad is going to kill me.
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