Page 25 of The Match Faker

I fuss over her as she leaves. Does she have a warm enough coat? Maybe she should take a different hat. Does she want her own snacks? The movie theater overcharges for popcorn.

She lets me, even though it annoys her. It makes me feel better knowing that I can dote on her now. After Dad checkedout when she was little and Mom gave up parenting her once she turned eleven, it’s become imperative for me to make up for them. It’s illogical, yes, but impossible to suppress.

I close the door behind her and sag against it in relief. A heartbeat later, my nerves are frayed again by the sound of my phone chiming from the kitchen. I rush for it so fast my downstairs neighbors will probably complain.

Nick Scott: still good to drop by tonight?

He texted last night. I’d spent the whole day fielding questions and comments from co-workers about Nick and how we’d met and what he does and where he grew up. The plan worked; everyone was so focused on Nick they all but forgot that Mitchell and I broke up just a month ago. But I can’t even celebrate our success. I feel too terrible about lying. To them, to him. To myself, too.

Me: Yes. See you soon.

He said he wanted totalk about something important. The wordimportanthad arrived separately. That alone emphasized its significance, making it seem more than just important. Scary important. My fake boyfriend is breaking up with me important. At least I’m not getting dumped over text message this time.

With all that in mind, I asked him to come here. It’s easier to perform my righteous indignation in my own home.

I’m pacing by 7:07 p.m. He said he’d be here between 7:00 and 7:30, so he isn’t late. But if I were the one who’d said I’d be somewhere within a half-hour time span, I’d be waiting outside their house five minutes before the clock even started.

But as Jade often tells me, that sounds like a you problem.

So, I pace for my own anxious energy rather than out of impatience or resentment.

I should journal about this. I believe this is called growth.

There’s a knock on the door. I freeze, my heart picking up its pace. It’s probably Enzo, the downstairs neighbor who hates when we make noise but has no problem verbally abusing his girlfriend for all of us to hear. He’s probably here to threaten a noise complaint because I step too loudly.

“Listen,” I say before the door is even fully open. “I have a guest coming and?—”

“Hey, Jazz.”

My mouth slams shut.

Nick leans against the doorframe, his hair messy like he’s had his hands in it, a canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder. And the man is wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses.

“How did you get in?” I ask. “Since when do you wear glasses?”

“A beefy white guy with a really thick neck.” He juts out his jaw, imitating Enzo’s familiar underbite. “And since I had trouble seeing the blackboard in seventh grade.” He straightens, his large frame crowding the doorway. “Can I come in?”

“Sorry. Right.” Mind still reeling, I step aside and survey him as he toes off his boots and hangs his coat up on one of the hooks. “Enzo shouldn’t have let you in. We’re supposed to open the door for our own guests only.”

One side of his mouth ticks up. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only person who follows those rules.”

Well, that’s unsafe.

“Here.” Nick hands the tote bag to me. It’s printed with a floral graphic and the wordsBe a slut do whatever you want, so I absolutely do not take it.

“Am I the slut?”

“Huh? Oh.” The grin that’s always tugging his lips grows wider. “I got it at a market last Pride. The bag is mine. The wine is for you.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He doesn’t strike me as a hostess gift–bringing type of person, but I appreciate the gesture.

“It’s your fave,” he says.

Frowning, I assess him, working to decode his meaning.

He laughs at my confusion. “Cab sauv. French. Ordered a couple cases straight from the winery.”

“That’s…surprisingly thoughtful,” I say, managing to make my gratitude sound particularly ungrateful.

---