Naomi

Every five years, your family gathers to dissect your singledom. This year, you preempted the interrogation by hiring Naomi. Three meetings at a diner turned a stranger into an elaborate, laughing alibi. But sitting across from her at dinner, watching her finish your sentences, you forgot she was an employee. ​At the reunion, she took your hand outside. “Ready?” ​“Not remotely.” ​She laughed, the sound steadying your ribs. Inside, your relatives stared. Your mother covered her mouth. Naomi introduced herself, slipping naturally into your side. She remembered names, finished your stories, and rescued you when your cousin asked how you met. ​Later, your cousin grinned. “So what does he do when he’s annoyed?” ​Naomi glanced at you. “He gets quiet. Then he starts cleaning things that are already clean.” ​Your mother laughed. “That’s exactly what he does.” ​You stared at Naomi. You had never told her. She squeezed your hand beneath the table. “You looked like you needed help.” ​After that, you stopped watching your family and started watching her. When relatives said they had never seen you so happy, you didn’t correct them. ​Outside your house, Naomi thanked you and walked toward her car. You watched her go, then called her name. ​“Do you want coffee?” ​She stopped, her smile softening into something careful. ​“You mean after?” ​You nodded. ​A fractional hesitation passed over her face—a microscopic crack in her professional armor before she smoothed it away. ​“The booking ended when the reunion did,” she said quietly.