Page 21 of The Match Faker

“Is this a joke?” I ask.

“Why would I joke about that?” Zara asks, a line forming between her brows.

I close my eyes, shake my head to clear it. “Tell me exactly what she told you in the bathroom?”

Zara shifts her weight, avoiding eye contact and fuck, she’s gonna tell Jasmine I’m a creep. “Just that she signed up for Core Cupid and that you guys were a ninety-nine percent match according to their algorithm or whatever and…” She shrugs. “Now she’s going to meet your family?”

“Right,” I say as a muted ringing fills my ears. “Right.” I nod in her general direction, though I can no longer see Zara, or Mitchell and his bros down the bar.

Instead, I’m replaying the night we met. Jasmine, nervous and shy as she stepped into the bar, like she was waiting for someone. The way she spoke to me like I was supposed toknowher.

“And she saidIwas her match?”

Zara blinks at me like she’s worried I’m having a medical emergency. “Yes. She read me the email.Jasmine and Nick are a match,” she says in what I suppose is her fake Jasmine voice. “She was so nervous because they don’t include photos of your match, which to be honest is not something I could handle, but it worked out well. Didn’t she tell you this?”

Realization washes over me in a frigid wave, like I’ve just stepped confidently into a slushy puddle in waterproof boots with a hidden hole.

Jasmine thinks I’m Nick.

Not this Nick. Not me Nick.

A different Nick.

A matched Nick.

She thinks an algorithm took all her complexities and nuances and broke them down into data points that fit like puzzle pieces withmydata points. Shit. I don’t know her, not really, but I know enough that I can envision exactly how she’ll react.

Jasmine is going to flip the fuck out.

And so help me, I try to be a good guy. I do. I strive to be generous and kind, to tap into the well of empathy buried deep inside me without the help of psychedelics. To not be the kind of guy who would dump a woman over text message. If I’m not, then may the memory of Carrie Fisher strike me fucking dead. But in this moment, I’m not a good guy, not generous or kind and certainly not thinking about anyone but myself, because my first thought is not for her, the embarrassment she’ll feel, the anger. My first thought is that if she finds out, there’s no way she’ll laugh this off, and there’s no way she’ll come with me to my parents’ next weekend.

When she finds out I’m not the Nick she thought I was, I’ll never see her again.

That is untenable. Not just because she won’t help me, but because I fuckinglikeher. I’m plagued by this unquenchable thirst to tease her, to wind her up and pull her apart piece by piece. She is charming and shy, sweet and vengeful.

She offered to help me, and she hadn’t questioned whether purchasing the bar was a good idea or suggested I give it up. She saw that my dream was out of reach and offered me a ladder.

“Well, anyways. It was nice to meet you,” Zara says, though from her awkward tone and frown, she very obviously doesn’t mean it.

“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry.” I’m a fucking mess, but she’s already gone.

The music changes again, the easily bopable tune transitioning into a slower, more romantic sound. The band has changed again. Damn. By the number of bands here alone, cost is clearly not an issue for these people. The song is about falling in love, which isn’t a surprise; most songs are. What is surprising is the way their cymbals collide in my head and their bass beats from the inside out, how everything inside me shifts out of position with a few strokes of the piano keys.

Especially when I see her. On the dance floor. With him.

That douche canoe is dancing with his ex-girlfriend at his own engagement party. His fiancée stands with his parents, chatting amicably, but Jasmine’s shoulders are hunched. He swings her around the dance floor with her back to me. I don’t know her, have no claim to her, and even if I did, I’m not the kind of man who would stop a grown woman from doing whatever the fuck she wants.

But I’ve gotten really good at picking up subtle cues a lot of men can’t or refuse to see. Cues that mean a woman doesn’t want a man to keep fucking touching her.

I owe her a conversation. I owe her the truth. I am not the Nick she thinks I am. But I’ll tell myself, her, anyone who asks, that the music made me do it. The music made me stride across this mostly empty dance floor and stop a little too close to them.

I’m not supposed to want her. But it’s the music. It’s rearranging what I want, shifting my needs and desires out of place with each incremental beat. It’s the music’s fault. It’s not the soft glow of her bare shoulders or the way light glints off herfiery red hair. The music makes me do it. Not the memory of her smile, lips stained blush pink and tilted up at me.

They stop dancing mid-turn. He smiles. She doesn’t.

“Mitch.” I grip his shoulder. Not too tight. I’m a nice guy, after all. And even if I did, it wasn’tme, it was the music. “Thanks for keeping her company.”

Mitchell’s smile goes rigid, and he drops his hands from her lower back.

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