Chapter 28: THE OFFICE
The filing cabinet weighed approximately the same as a small car.
"I've got it," Marshall said, his face turning an interesting shade of red as he maneuvered the metal monstrosity through the office doorway. "I've definitely got it. Don't need any help. This is a one-man job."
"Marshall, just let Ted help you," Lily said from where she was organizing my desk supplies. "Your masculine pride is not worth a herniated disc."
"My masculine pride is worth exactly one herniated disc," Marshall grunted. "Maybe one and a half."
It was moving day at Red Thread Matchmaking, and somehow the entire gang had shown up to help. Ted had organized the operation with architectural precision—floor plans, timeline, designated roles for each person. Marshall was handling "large furniture transport." Lily was on "organizational systems." Barney had appointed himself "creative consultant," which so far had involved criticizing everything while contributing nothing.
And I was standing in the middle of my new office, surrounded by boxes and chaos and people who had no reason to care about my business but did anyway.
"The couch goes against the far wall," Ted directed, pointing with the clipboard he'd brought. "It'll create a natural conversation flow from the waiting area to the consultation space."
"You designed a floor plan for my office?"
"I designed three floor plans. This is the best one."
Marshall finally wrestled the filing cabinet into position. He stepped back, triumphant, and immediately stepped on the edge of a moving box.
The filing cabinet tipped.
Time slowed down in that particular way it does when you're about to witness an accident. Marshall tried to catch the cabinet, which was a mistake. The cabinet's center of gravity shifted. His foot was still tangled in the box.
The cabinet won.
"MARSHALL!" Lily's voice hit a frequency I didn't know humans could produce.
The filing cabinet landed on Marshall's foot with a metallic crash that echoed through the empty office. Marshall went down, clutching his ankle, making sounds that were somewhere between a wounded animal and a surprised child.
Ted panicked. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Should we call an ambulance? Do you need a hospital? Can you feel your toes?"
"I can feel everything," Marshall wheezed. "Everything hurts. The toes hurt. The foot hurts. My pride hurts."
Barney, predictably, was taking photos.
"What are you doing?" Lily demanded.
"Documentation. This is going in the group text."
"Barney!"
"It's already in the group text."
I ran to the small freezer I'd installed in the corner—one of the few things already set up—and grabbed the only cold item available: a mysterious bag of frozen peas that I genuinely did not remember purchasing.
"Here." I pressed the peas against Marshall's elevated foot. "Keep this on. Lily, can you check if anything's broken?"
"I'm not a doctor!"
"You're the closest thing we have!"
Lily knelt beside Marshall, gently probing his foot while he made increasingly dramatic sounds of distress. After a minute of examination, she sat back.
"It's not broken. Probably just badly bruised." She glared at the filing cabinet. "That thing is a menace."
"The cabinet was provoked," Ted said weakly.
"The cabinet is furniture!"
We moved Marshall to the couch—which was now definitely staying against the far wall—and propped his foot up on a stack of boxes. The bag of peas looked increasingly inadequate for the swelling that was starting to develop.
"I can still help," Marshall said, attempting to stand.
Lily pushed him back down. "You're done. You're on couch duty now."
"But—"
"Couch. Duty."
Marshall slumped back, defeated.
The move continued around him. Ted and I handled the remaining furniture while Lily organized the filing system. Barney continued to offer creative suggestions that ranged from impractical to genuinely disturbing.
"You need a leather couch," he insisted. "Black. Intimidating. When clients walk in, they need to feel like they're in a power negotiation."
"I'm a matchmaker, not a Bond villain."
"Same thing."
"They're not remotely the same thing."
"You manipulate people's emotions for money. That's textbook villainy."
"I help people find love!"
"Villainy."
Ted interceded before the argument could escalate. "I think we should focus on ambient lighting. The natural light from those windows is good, but you'll need supplementary fixtures for evening consultations. I'm thinking warm tones, something that puts people at ease."
"Plants," Marshall called from the couch, his foot still wrapped in defrosting peas. "You need plants. They're scientifically proven to reduce stress."
"Everything is scientifically proven to reduce stress," Barney said. "Except things that increase stress. And even some of those."
"That's not how science works."
"Science doesn't know everything."
I let them argue while I set up the actually important things—my computer, my client files, the phone line that would connect to the building's system. The office was small but efficient, just like Frank had promised. Reception area by the door. Main consultation space in the middle. Private desk by the windows.
And on the floor above, Miranda Cross was probably plotting my professional destruction.
One problem at a time.
The door opened. Everyone froze.
A man stood in the doorway—early thirties, neat suit, slightly confused expression. He was holding a folder and looking at a piece of paper with my office number on it.
"Is this... Red Thread Matchmaking?"
It was Peter. My 3 PM consultation. The one I'd scheduled before I realized moving day would involve a filing cabinet casualty and a decorating argument.
"Peter!" I said, with a level of enthusiasm that bordered on manic. "Yes! Come in! We're just... finishing some renovations."
Peter looked at Marshall's elevated foot. At Lily's scattered desk supplies. At Ted's clipboard. At Barney, who was holding a throw pillow and making a face I couldn't interpret.
"These are my assistants," I improvised. "Moving day logistics."
"On consultation day?"
"It's a very efficient operation."
Marshall waved from the couch. "Hi. I'm the... couch quality control specialist."
"His foot," Lily added. "He's testing the couch. For comfort."
"During client hours?"
"Best time to test. Real-world conditions."
Peter's confusion was palpable. But he was also an accountant—someone who valued data over presentation—and he'd come here for a specific reason.
"Should we... reschedule?"
"No need." I guided him toward my desk, stepping over a box of files and around Barney's throw pillow. "Let's have a seat. We can do your intake right now."
Behind me, I heard Lily whisper to Ted: "Should we leave?"
"Too obvious. Just look busy."
"With what?"
"I don't know. File things. Look professional."
I conducted the most surreal consultation of my career. Peter sat across from me, answering questions about his romantic history and relationship goals, while behind him Ted silently organized books on a shelf, Lily alphabetized files with aggressive efficiency, and Barney held a plant he'd acquired from somewhere and pretended to examine its leaves.
Marshall, bless him, stayed quiet on the couch.
Peter's string was clear enough—it led toward the Upper East Side, toward someone in his professional sphere. Probably another accountant, or someone in a related field. His compatibility markers suggested a preference for stability and intellectual connection over passion. Traditional values. Long-term oriented.
"I think I have a sense of what you're looking for," I told him. "I'll be in touch within the week with some preliminary matches."
"That's... fast."
"I have a system."
Peter left looking slightly bewildered but ultimately satisfied. The door closed behind him.
"That was the most professional thing I've ever seen," Barney said. "In a complete disaster zone."
"It wasn't a disaster zone."
"There's a man with a bag of peas on his foot in your waiting area."
"He's a couch quality control specialist."
Marshall gave a thumbs up from his position of injury.
We ordered pizza an hour later. Everyone sat on boxes because the chairs hadn't been unpacked yet. Marshall's foot was still elevated, the frozen peas having long since become room temperature peas. The office was a mess, but it was my mess.
"To Red Thread Matchmaking," Ted said, raising a slice of pepperoni. "May it prosper."
"May it prosper," everyone echoed.
Best meal I'd had in the new space.
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