Page 32 of The Match Faker

Nicholas,

I hope you and your partner will consider bringing your ice skates.

Who writes an email like this?To their son? At this point, I have to assume the man I believe to be my father is AI.

The lake has frozenover and your mother is looking forward to a family hockey game. Does yourpartner skate? I’m sorry, I don’t believe you shared her name.

Regards,

Your Father

I flop backon the bed and laugh even though there’s nothing funny about this email. Except for theregards, I guess. Normally, I’d take a screen shot and send it to the family group chat. Miranda would ignore it, Mom would respond with something likeOh, Nicky,and Alex would call me ungrateful. Dad would see it and say nothing, but he’d fume. Claire and Charlie would think it’s funny.

Tonight, though, the urge to stir up shit feels empty. At this point, my father probably expects it and despite the total awkwardness of this email it does kind of feel like he might be…trying?

We haven’t had a family hockey game since I was a teenager, but Dad would always pick me to be on his team. It was the one time I could see myself in him. When he gets his skates on, he’s surprisingly chirpy for a sixty-year-old asshole. And if he’s trying, maybe I should too? Try to make him happy, to impress him. To show him, finally show him, that even if I didn’t follow the path he wanted, I can be successful. To show him that I still need him.

I sigh and pick up my phone, open my chat with Jasmine.

Me: Do you skate?

I’ll apologize, and I’ll tell her. After this weekend.

9

JASMINE

My gloves are missing.

I’m so nervous I could puke. I have to leave work in fifteen minutes, but Anaïs hasn’t stopped sending me emails all morning. I can’t remember if I packed the right bathing suit. I have two missed calls from Chloe, the matchmaker, even though I checked theprefers to be contacted by emailbox on the online form. The guy who was on his knees for me in my kitchen told me he “couldn’t do this” and yet I’m a fool and responded to his text about ice skating that very same night. And how did I respond? With a simple “no” instead any of the far more acceptable answers. Answers like, fuck off, go fuck yourself, I hate you, or, my personal favorite, COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW AND FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED.

I push the thoughts out of my mind and go back to looking for my gloves. My beautiful black leather driving gloves with eyelet details along the cuffs. I found them in a vintage shop in the height of summer, and after a good scrubbing with saddle soap they looked like new again. They’re impractical for anything other than scurrying from my door to the TTC but I love them anyway. And now they’re gone. Not in my purse,the overnight bag, the insulated soft-shell cooler, my pockets, my sleeves. They weren’t kicked to the side on the office floor, and they didn’t fall into a dark corner in the communal closet. They’re just gone. Somewhere between the subway and my desk, I lost them and this, more than anything else, might be the thing that absolutely destroys me.

“What are you doing?”

The voice startles me and I jump, banging my head on the underside of my desk. Mortified, I crawl out from beneath it on my hands and knees, and there, above me, Mitchell looms, his face caught between humor and concern. Shit. Now I want nothing more than to crawl right back underneath the desk.

“I’m looking for my gloves,” I say, head tilted back.

He holds his hand out to help me up, but I use the edge of my desk instead.

“I lost them.” To avoid eye contact, I take great interest in removing floor debris from my wool slacks.

“That sucks,” is all he says.

My heart clenches at the lame response. “Yeah.”

I don’t think I ever noticed before how very dull the sound of his voice is. It’s not that he soundsbored, like he’s never been entertained by anything in his life. He soundsboring. Because he is. When we were together, I made it my mission to get to know his interests, and in that time, I learned more about golf than I ever cared to know but…that was it. The man has exactly one interest and it’s one that he shares with grandparents and old white guys. I feel a yawn coming just thinking about it.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

“I have to leave in four minutes,” I say. Besides, aren’t we talking right now?

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says quickly. Except he knows I don’t have one.

“I’m good, thanks.” I collect the bags I brought with me. I’d wanted to take the morning off to finish packing for this great deception against Nick’s family, but Anaïs insisted I was needed, then acted surprised when I showed up.

“Where are you going?” He follows me from the open-concept office floor to the coatroom without offering to help me with my bags. As a feminist, I try not to hold it against him.

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