Page 46 of The Match Faker

She shrugs. “I kind of enjoy them.”

“We’re going to put a pin in that, weirdo.” Mostly because the image of Jasmine pulling herself out of the freezing cold lake, in a bathing suit, her skin pink, her nipples undoubtedly hard, makes me light-headed and I don’t trust her not to panic in an emergency situation.

Laughing, she slaps her hands to my chest and gives me a good shove. “We’re putting a pin in nothing. You grew up with an indoor pool?” she asks, her eyes wide.

I grimace because yes, I am aware of how that looks. “Yes, but it wasn’t installed until I was in high school.”

That only makes her laugh harder. “Yeah, completely normal. I had one, too. I shared it with everyone else in my apartment building. There were always used Band-Aids at the bottom and the change rooms smelled like dirty diapers.”

I find myself chuckling along with her, not only because she’s funny, but because her laughter is contagious. And that’s how Mom and Miranda find us when they open my bedroom door.

“Knock, knock,” Mom announces herself in lieu of actually knocking.

With a gasp, Jasmine jumps away from me like we’re sixteen and just got caught with my hand down her pants. “Hi, Mrs. Scott.”

Mom offers her arm, and after a moment of hesitation and a peek back at me, Jasmine takes it. Mom leads her away, chattingabout god knows what while Miranda hands me a flute of champagne, and we follow them downstairs. These stairs creak like the ones behind the bar at home and as we descend into the circus that is my family, it hits me. The chaos sounds a bit like the bar, too, on a Saturday night when we’re not at capacity yet and the air is already buzzing with excitement.

Mom points out her interior designer’s most recent changes. She might be under the impression that Jasmine gives a shit about that kind of stuff because of where she works, but I don’t think she does.

“Mom’s planning your wedding,” Miranda says.

I shush her, which makes her violent. She punches my shoulder.Ow.

“Look at you,” she teases. Her cheeks are already red and blotchy. After having kids, Miranda could no longer drink a hockey bro under the table, and that hasn’t changed in the months since I saw her last, but clearly that doesn’t stop her. “You’re half in love with her already.”

My throat closes at the accusation, enough that I wouldn’t mind an EpiPen. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Shut. Up. Miranda.” Great. Now I’m hissing.

She frowns in that suspicious way big sisters have, like she can smell the bullshit. “Relax, serial killer.”

“We haven’t said stuff like that yet,” I say quickly. “Lay off.” With a huff, I take a sip of champagne to keep my mouth busy. A trickle of cold sweat rolls down my back.

Once, without proof of any kind other than aI could tell by the look on your face, Nicky, Miranda clocked that I’d failed a math test and forged Mom’s signature. I’d even fooled my teachers. Of all the people capable of detecting our lie, or my lies upon lies, I expected Miranda to. Maybe the lack of sleepshe’s suffered from since becoming a mother is getting to her. Or maybe I’m a better liar that I used to be.

“But you are, aren’t you?” She winks. “Don’t worry, little brother. I won’t tell.”

I don’t want to be a better liar, though. I want to be able to come home and feel like I can be myself without judgment.

“She’s not your usual type.” Miranda narrows her eyes on Jasmine, who’s trying to speak to Grandma and getting scowled at for her efforts. “Seems a little…cold. Impersonal.”

Hackles instantly rising, I shoot a glare at my sister. Excellent. The criticism portion of the evening has started, and earlier than usual. “Not at all. She’s actually…really fucking kind. And she’s always worrying about other people. She basically adopted her little sister. And she brought Mom two hostess gifts.”

Miranda hums, like this evidence is circumstantial at best.

“Cut her some slack,” I plead. “She comes from a small family. She’s not used to all this. It’s like being the newest member of the Kardashians, without the cameras.”

“Thank god,” Miranda mutters, dribbling champagne from her glass as she wanders off, finished with her interrogation of me.

“Ready?” Jasmine asks, appearing beside me. Somehow, she’s in stealth mode despite wearing a pair of heels that could pass as the weapon she’ll use to happily murder me once I come clean. She leans against the back of the sectional couch, surveying my family like they’re chess pieces as they begin to take their seats at a dining table so long, my mom must have stolen it from the set of the villain’s hideout from the most recent superhero movie.

I tip my glass toward her empty hands. “Liquid courage?”

She shakes her head, her attention never leaving the rest of the Scotts. “Need to stay focused,” she says with absolute, endearing seriousness.

One second. I give myself one second to laugh, internally, at this earnest, beautiful, strange woman who asked a complete stranger to fake it with her on a whim. She deserves better than me.

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