1.3 | the art of cupidity ✓ - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

SORA LEE DOESN'T REALLY KNOW HOW TO PLAY CUPID. It's a tricky game, she'd once thought, as she paired acquaintances together in her head just to see if they worked. Because relationships lack an equation and an absolute value symbol (math is her favorite subject), and there's absolutely no way she'll take the gamble of silver heartbreak and honey-lined tears.
Cupid is unpredictable. Cupid is maddening. And Cupid, at least to all the general public, lacks a personal love life—so the nickname stuck, and Sora Lee officially became one of the greatest (at least in her opinion) matchmakers of all time. She spent her shifts at Sue's Corner talking to some of the girls sitting on the leather circular seat and determining whether or not the object of their infatuation would return the blushing affections. They paid her, too, and her customers discreetly passed over white envelopes of crisp cash to express feelings of gratitude.
Growing up in Los Angeles and finding it one of the easiest places to get around while absorbed in miniature pockets of colorful culture, deciding to attend UCLA was one of the easiest decisions she'd ever made in her short nineteen years of living. With her competitive ice skating, rigorous academic schedule, and part-time job at the diner, the university was luckily centered in the middle of those two locations, and so Sora oftentimes doesn't complain about having to walk just to get by.
She skates, she writes orders down, and most importantly: she gets to learn about the people who unknowingly have an admirer—not just men, she often reminds herself. Women with blue hair and nose rings that glint under the hot sun; athletes with terrible sock tans; shy art majors with dried acrylic lingering on their skin and hair and shoes, paint brushes sticking out messily in jean pockets.
Sora must admit, though, that her matchmaking job brings her quite a bit of drama. There was one time last Halloween where Jennifer McClaugh slapped her across the face at Andrew's party because she thought that the Korean girl was making a move on her two-timing boyfriend. After this borderline traumatic experience, she came up with a rule (her only rule) that stated that her people of investigation (POI's, she called them) must be single. No exceptions.
The process was quite simple, really. If someone was really desperate enough, they'd come tip-toeing into Los Angeles's most beloved diner and hand her slip of paper that contained every bit of information she'd need: the name, the grade, and a location. Whether it was after sports practice or a club meeting, Sora demanded that she know just a bit about her customer's object of affection before organizing a detailed plan. And then, after confirming the money lying in the small envelope (she was just a broke college student, after all), Sora began her mission.
The most recent task was completed for Adrian Chalmetón, who surprisingly came up to her as she wiped the counter down and handed her some cash along with a strange request.
"This is going to sound really fucking weird," he started, a hand running through his blond hair. She noted how attractive he was, but he fooled around just enough for her to label him as someone who wasn't ready for commitment, and that fact made him far more approachable in her eyes. "But there's something I need you to do for me."
At the end of their conversation, Sora was a bit—baffled. She'd never been asked to casually watch someone before, and although it sounds a hell of a lot creepier than it was, she wasn't so sure in the beginning. In her normal routines, she'd befriend her customer's crush for just a couple days, feel out the atmosphere between the two, and drop hints so subtle that a slight manipulation was made for human attraction. But it was never forced, and if things didn't work out, she always promised a full refund but requested that he or she keep her secret as UCLA's official matchmaker.
Oftentimes, if her past customers saw her in the street or glanced at her in a casual coincidence, some either looked away and down at their feet in embarrassment, and others would offer a smile and wave. It was a nice concept, she always remembers, but it was ironically lonely.
To watch others flirt and tease and hold hands was some sort of a mental trophy to her to rest on a mentally-polished shelf (keep in mind that these couples originated because of her), and if she counted correctly, she now had twenty trophies.
Twenty-one, if she accepts Adrian's offer.
And right now, as she lies in her dorm while everyone enjoys themselves at the Friday night soccer game, Sora begins to think as she looks down at the name on the paper.
Rylin Carter.
This might have been one of the dumbest decisions I've ever made, she thinks morbidly as she paces right outside the rink at Skating Edge Ice Arena—her favorite place to cool down (literally) and to take a breather. Exams this week were rough, and the start of a new year consists of more business than usual at the diner, and Sora just needs a nice, hot cup of cocoa.
People always call her a straight lace, and the title doesn't bother her anymore compared to her reactions twenty-four months ago; Sora can't imagine bending over backwards for someone else. Can't imagine being so infatuated that she can't even think properly anymore, because if there's one thing that will never stop working, it's her goddamn brain. But she really needs the extra cash, so the side business isn't something that'll be going away for a while.
"Hey, Wells," she greets the owner, and the old man sends her a polite wave as he enters his office. As Sora looks at the available ice rinks ahead of her, she grimaces at her rare thoughtlessness as she remembers that today is Tuesday.
Fucking Tuesday.
Tuesdays are when the elementary schoolers have their weekly lessons on the ice. Tuesdays are when the neighborhood associations come in to have a fill of falling down on their faces and blaming it on a poor job done by the zamboni. And Tuesdays, just her luck, are when UCLA's hockey team holds their ridiculously long practice.
A quarter until five o'clock, Sora decides to wait impatiently for the last fifteen minutes as the boys finish up, because she knows she'll feel a small prick of guilt if she pushes the senior citizens out of the rink. But teenage boys were a completely different story, and so she enters the double doors during the last five minutes with her white, pretty, delicate skates in one hand.
The rivalry between skaters and hockey players was certainly real, but not because one party deemed the other not worthy enough or because ice skating apparently wasn't a real sport, but rather because each team had a particularly bad habit of hogging the entire damn day with filled slots.
She always wanted more time, and so did they. It was like a sub-zero war, and Sora continues to never let them win; in the rubber stand, she laces up her skates and hobbles over to the entrance where she waits until the clock hits five o'clock. Their helmets are off, and it still surprises her how tall these players are (even with skates), and Sora lets her eyes linger appreciatively over a few of them before it settles on—
Holy shit, she thinks, and ducks around quickly so that she's out of his field of vision. Because Adrian lacked quite a bit of information when he informed her of his target, and right now, as Sora confirms her suspicions as she reads the last name Carter on his back along with the number 9, she curses.
Rylin Carter.
Now to her knowledge, the popular French boy isn't gay or even in the LGBTQ community, but if he was, she can't really find any room to be shocked. Not when the boy looks like he's the collection of violet-tinted heartbreak poetry and soft, silver snow as ferocious intensity settles itself in the sharp dip of his cupid's bow. His beauty is devastating, and the blade polish in Sora's right hand is forgotten for a small moment as she takes in his black hair damp with sweat and a slender set of collarbones revealed by a slightly worn jersey.
The boy looks like an angel and a siren all at once, a gentle but determined glint in his irises as she watches him listen to his coaches intently. And then: don't get attached, Sora reminds herself. This is a job where you'll get money. Money! And maybe Adrian is in love with him, so that's definitely a negative. Get your head out of the clouds.
But damn it all to hell if he isn't the prettiest thing she's ever seen. Even prettier, in her own opinion, than Jonah Kim, her old childhood (and current) friend that also doubled as a retired crush in middle school. He seems completely head over heels for some girl with wild, curly hair, anyways. And if she's perfectly honest, if he's happy, then Sora's happy.
A sound of a whistle pulls her out of her glazed daydream and as the team heads for the exit, Sora smoothly skates towards the center of the ice rink and shakes her head subtly. There will be other times to talk with him, she confirms. This encounter is unplanned, so don't approach the target.
The coaches give her a greeting nod along with some of the other boys she shares classes with, and just when she thinks she's successful in avoiding their stench of teenage recklessness and sour sweat, a hand gently—almost timidly—brushes the inside of her wrist, and Sora pulls back suddenly to see someone bending down in front of her and tying her left skate. She must've forgotten a couple minutes ago as she got lost in her own inner turmoil.
But the vision in front of her: a tall, lean boy with slender fingers and lashes so perfect that she hides the urge to take a picture (just for future references, of course) stops her right in her tracks. That, and the touch he still maintains on her wrist.
It takes exactly thirty-one seconds to snap out of her daze.
"Thanks," she says honestly, voice a little too full and a little too breathy, but she blames it on the adrenaline firing through her veins.
Rylin stands up to his full height, and he has about five or six inches on her; he must be tall, she thinks, considering the fact that she's five foot and six inches. The boy in front of her appears to be a shy mess, cheeks a watery crimson from the cold and hair as smooth as fine silk.
He smiles softly, a small but faint beauty mark near the corner of his right eye. "Don't mention it," Rylin consoles. "Wouldn't want you to trip and fall on your laces, right?"
Sora pauses, and she hates how she's awkward when the encounters aren't planned.
"Right," she says, stumbling over her words. "I mean, yeah. Thanks. For tying my laces, even though I could've done it myself, but—"
The boy in front of her laughs, and it's a bit husky. "I'll stop you there," he interrupts, saving her further embarrassment. "You're cute when you ramble, though."
And even though she doesn't say if often, Sora wishes she had the charm she possessed when talking to her targets—she was passively aggressive while bold and feminine and dominant, and with a mere sentence, Rylin Carter has the ability to reduce her to a young girl talking to an infatuation for the first time.
She glances at the white ice and gestures to the space ahead of her. "I have to practice, if you don't mind," Sora dismisses, and secretly, she's proud of how quick she bounces right back to her usual, cold self. "You're a distraction."
If Rylin seems surprised at her sudden change of behavior (simply a lapse of judgement, in her opinion), he doesn't show it. Instead, he smiles again, lets go of her wrist, and gracefully skates away before leaning down to set his helmet on the bench. As Sora glides easily for a few laps around the rink like she always does to warm up, her nerves turn hyper-aware of her audience of one and it's only when he casually walks out that she's able to relax.
Double axel. Double salchow. A toe loop using the outer edges of the two silver blades. The casual swinging of her arms slows her heartbeat to homeostasis, and Sora loves this—she loves feeling the cold nip at her cheeks and hearing the sharp crack as she comes back down from a leap and collides with the frozen surface. There's nothing like this sensation in the entire world, and while others paint or kick around a soccer ball, she stays in freezing weather while the world around her remains the epitome of an isolated heatwave.
She spends the next few hours skating her worries and stress away, and when it's finally time to come home, she finds herself wishing she could stay just a bit longer.
"Hey," someone says, a slim figure leaning against the wall and currently half-hidden by a dark shadow. Sora jolts and wipes the sweat from her brow, frowning in the general direction of the arrogant greeting. It's only when the low murmur slides across her skin again does she recognize its owner: "You're the Ice Queen, right?"
Rylin Carter emerges from the corner of chilled brick and runs a hand through his messy hair. He's changed and freshly showered into a cotton shirt and black jeans, and the only thing she can blurt out is a poorly put-together question.
"What the hell?"
This version of Rylin is completely different than the version she'd first met, where he gave off the impression of a blushing, shy sophomore who didn't have an ounce of smooth confidence in his bones even if he tried. But now—
Now, the look in his eyes is different, too. Bolder. Sharper. Quicksilver.
"Or should I say UCLA's Matchmaking Queen, instead? It's all your preference."
Sora narrows her eyes at him and makes sure to (accidentally) brush past his shoulder as she heads for the sidewalk. It would be more dramatic if she had a car, but she's poor and broke and, well, a college student. That's really all there is to it.
When she feels him trail her, she rolls her eyes. "What do you want, Carter? I have things to do."
Lies. All she has to do right now is take a nap in her dorm.
"Does the name Adrian Chalmetón ring a bell?" Rylin asks bluntly, mouth tense and one corner slightly tilted downwards. He's so handsome it pisses her off.
But Sora stills for a moment, sends him a quick glance over her shoulder, and shrugs. "He's co-captain of the soccer team," she tries to say, avoiding the question altogether. "Of course I know him; everyone knows him."
The boy behind her still seems unsatisfied with her answer. "Not what I was asking, and you know it," he declines, a borderline genius look in his eyes. Adrian might be in love with you, she wants to say. And you're my next target, so please leave me alone.
"I don't know what you want me to say."
The boy brushes his thumbs over his cheekbones and lets out a small laugh. "So you're telling me golden boy didn't hand you a pretty envelope filled with cash and ask you to keep an eye on me?"
What the fuck? How does he know?
Sora sends him a cool grin—thank goodness her cool exterior is back—and flicks the air as her pace slows to allow him to walk next to her. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she drawls, "but I'd really like some peace and quiet right now, so get lost." A pause. "Please."
When he fails to keep his mouth shut, a part of his tenacity amazes her, but she feels more annoyance at his stubborn persistence. "Everyone knows of your little side business, Sora Lee," Rylin elaborates, and she grits her teeth. His voice feels like liquid mercury: toxic, chromatic, and smooth. "There's always a new rumour involving a new happy couple and the gorgeous girl with the dark, dark hair."
As if on instinct, Sora reaches out behind her and brushes her fingers against the ends of the long strands (she needs a haircut, it seems). "And what about it?"
"You're telling me Adrian didn't pay you a little visit last week?"
"No," she lies. "He didn't—I'm sorry to disappoint."
She isn't sorry in the slightest.
Rylin sighs and grins a devilish smile. "Look at me in the eye and say it, Sora Lee," he requests. Why the hell is he saying my full name?
And so she does. Sora faces him, and when she's face to face with the boy that looks like he could be an underground model, her heartbeat escalates as if in betrayal. "Adrian didn't visit me at Sue's Corner," she says quickly. "Quit bothering me, alright?"
The boy beside her stops altogether, and she eventually does, too. "I didn't say it was at the diner," he states brazenly, tilting his head in princely arrogance and she watches as a small smirk crawls its way across his cheek and settles in the crook of his mouth. "I thought good girls like you didn't lie, hmm?"
Sora breathes in sharply. "Kkeojyeo," she sighs. "Get lost."
Rylin tucks one hand in the pocket of his black denim jeans, admitting, "I'll go anywhere with you, pretty girl." A tug of his lips lead to a small smile. "Take me with you?"
Sora feels herself flush the color of Korean red pepper paste and turns around, dreading having to tell Adrian about this encounter and how the target knew of their deal.
And then: "Wait," the boy breathes, and then gently grabs her wrist again. He might seem a bit rough on the outside along with the arrogance lining his collarbones, but every time he touches her, it's surprisingly soft. "Wait."
She raises a brow.
"Don't tell him I know, alright? I have to teach the asshole a lesson," he explains. When she doesn't respond, he continues. "Just pretend that I'm your target, okay? Chase kissed me when she was drunk at a party once, and he's got the wrong idea, but he doesn't know that yet."
"Are you dating her?"
"Dating who?"
Sora rolls her eyes again—it's become a bad habit. "Chase Kennedy."
Rylin shudders. "Kennedy? No way," he winces. "She's like my sister. I think she only kissed me because he was watching, but I'm not sure yet."
She nods slowly, and the pieces come together slowly. "So you want me to play double agent," she processes, and he nods.
"Why?"
The boy smiles roguishly and a bit crookedly, if she's being honest—but it's the most genuine she's ever seen him today. "Why not?" Rylin asks. "And for the record, I'm not into guys."
She doesn't miss a beat. "You might have to be, considering that I can't ever see a girl who can deal with your bad attitude."
Rylin presses his hands to his chest in mock pain. "Your words hurt, Ice Queen," he pouts, eyes glistening and all too innocent. "So are you in?"
"Depends," Sora admits. "Will I get paid?"
He thinks for a moment. "Not exactly," Rylin says, "but I can drive you anywhere you want."
A smile blooms on her lips, and she's too triumphant to notice the way Rylin's breath hitches and he takes a small step backwards, as if her aura is too potent, too powerful for him to breathe in.
"Deal."
That was the first time Rylin Carter ever let the girl with the sharp tongue and wild smile walk away.