Page 31 of The Match Faker

“Well, well, well.” The voice behind me is high-pitched and smug.

Above me, Jasmine’s face drains of all color.

I peer over my shoulder and find a tiny young woman.

It’s obvious she’s Jasmine’s sister, both in appearance and in the shit-eatingI’m never going to let you live this downgrin on her face that can only be produced by a person who has caught their sibling with their literal pants down.

“Looks like pussy is back on the menu, boys,” the little sister says with a forced growl.

“Is that supposed to be Lord of the Rings?” I ask. Despite the awkward moment, I can’t help but chuckle.

She points a finger gun my way. “The Two Towers.”

I nod my approval. “Nice.”

She steps into the kitchen, her hand lifted for a high five.

“Stop.” Jasmine uses a tone that is pure older sister and sends a shiver down my spine.

“Jade,get out,” she screeches. She turns her wrath on me next. “Andyou.” She pokes my chest. “Get your clothes andgo.” Then, despite having exiled both of us from this kitchen, Jasmine pulls up her pants and runs from the room. A few moments later, a door slams.

I wince. “I’m Nick.” Now that I’m not about to have a mouthful of pussy, this floor is actually really uncomfortable. I stand, grab the tea towel folded neatly over the oven door handle, and hold it in front of the engorged parts.

“Jade.” She waves. “Where are your clothes?” she asks, clearly unconcerned about finding a nearly naked man in her kitchen.

“In the wash.”

“Ahhh.” She crosses the kitchen, giving me a wide berth, which makes me feel better about her survival instincts. “I’ll flip those for you and then…” She turns in the laundry room doorway. “I think you better make like a fucking tree, dude.”

Fuckkkkkkkk.

By the timeI get home, my clothes are stiff and chafing. They were practically sopping when I yanked them from the dryer. I considered going to find Jasmine, to apologize, to explain, but when Jade saw me waffling at the door, she shook her head.

“She’s probably too embarrassed to be capable of speech right now. Give her some time.”

It felt wrong, but I did.

I slip through the back door, successfully fighting the urge to check in on the bar; it sounds like things are quiet, even fora weeknight. After peeling the wet clothes off, I drop them in a pile on the bathroom floor. Though I have a washer and dryer here in the apartment, I forgo laundry for now and immediately get in the shower. I don’t bother waiting for the water to warm up. It’s already warmer than my core body temperature. The one benefit of waiting for public transportation in wet clothes is that it completely and totally killed any lingering effect Jasmine’s pussy and my proximity to it had on my body’s ability to pop and maintain a boner.

Once my balls have thawed, I force myself out of the hot shower. I dig out my warmest fleece sweatshirt and a pair of flannel pj pants Mom buys all of us—in matching sets—for Christmas every year. My teeth are still chattering when I get into bed with my laptop. I have one thousand things to do before I drive to Muskoka on Friday. Bar prep things so Rocco and Bernie won’t be left floundering in an emergency. Business proposal things, the only way I can convince my dad to help me. He probably thinks I don’t even know what a business proposal is. Though, without Jasmine, there might not be a point in pitching this scheme anyway.

And there definitely won’t be a Jasmine there. Because Ihaveto tell her. I can’t put it off anymore. I don’t care how much I like her. Once I tell her, she’ll go off to find the real Nick, not this generic version.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I say to the furniture in my bachelor apartment. I flick off the bedside lamp; with the light pollution from the city around me, there’s not much need for it anyway. The hum from downstairs, conversation punctuated by laughter, the bass from music that doesn’t invite dancing but makes you feel good, has become so normal it can lull me to sleep almost as easily as my sound machine and the three milligrams of melatonin in the bottle sitting on my bedside table.

I roll toward it, arm outstretched, ready to take my dose even though it’s early. Early for me at least. All the things I need to do can be done tomorrow, the first of which will be talking to Jasmine.

Next to the bottle of melatonin, my phone lights up and beeps. My stomach sinks, and I consider ignoring it. But that little red notification bubble glares at me, shouting the existence of One New Email, and I am nothing if not a millennial, helpless when confronted with the tyrannical reign of my smartphone.

The glare of the blue light is so harsh that at first I’m sure I’m misreading the name of the sender. I blink and rub at my eyes, but when I open them again, it hasn’t changed: Dad.

I don’t want to deal with whatever he has to say and normally wouldn’t. But the subject line catches my attention before I can put the phone down:

Re:Your visit this weekend.

Fuck.I jab angrily at the screen. Fine. This better be good.

He starts it withNicholas,and I almost throw my phone. Taking a deep breath, I start again.

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