Page 55 of The Match Faker

“Shit,” I whisper, holding it up in front of me. “Shit, shit, shit.”

I rummage through my bag again, pulling out one article of neatly packed clothing after another. But it’s not there. My modest, sweet, full coverage bathing suit, best suited for swimming laps, has vanished.

Nick chooses this moment to bang on the door. “Jasmine. Let’s go.”

Shit.

“Uhhh, just a second.” My voice is high and tremulous as I scramble to pull my suit on.

“What’s wrong?”

My heart lodges itself in my throat. How can he tell???

“Um. I…I can’t…” I rack my brain for a reasonable excuse but come up with nothing. “I packed the wrong bathing suit.”

“Oh.” He pauses, then laughs, sounding relieved. “I thought you were going to say you were on your period.”

Menstruation was right there, you dipshit.

“Why? Is that like, gross or something?”

A loud thump comes from his side of the door. “No, Jasmine. It’s not.”

“Well, I still can’t go swimming.” I grab a towel to cover myself. From myself.

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“It’s really, really not.” I’m starting to get shrill.

“Listen, I realize this will make me sound like a dick, but youneedto calm down,” he says, his tone drier than an overbaked sponge cake dry as a desert and muffled like he’s speaking right up against the door. “My parents don’t care about your bathing suit, Jazz. Pretty sure they love you more than they love me.”

I open the towel and peek down at myself. Boobs everywhere. Ninety-nine percent of the time I love my breasts, their size and shape. I even love them in this bathing suit, with its low-cut neck and lower cut back. It shows off the very best of my augmentation. Even so, this suit is best displayed poolside, on vacation, surrounded by strangers. Not in front of Nicholas’s parents and siblings. Not in front ofchildren.

I can scream about the unfairness of judgment until my boobs fall off, but there will always be people who say particularly nasty things about women who have implants.

“Let me see,” Nick says.

“No.”

“Open the door,” he says in the kind of tone that brooks no argument.

Fine. With a shaky hand, I unlock the door. Then, turning back to the mirror, I grip the towel tighter around my chest. Just in case he tries to snatch it away.

In the mirror, I’m hit with the perfect view of him. His swim shorts are short and red with white piping and his quads are…wow. The sight of his leg hair is as overwhelming as my internal panic about this stupid bathing suit. Nick stands behind me, frozen, until I force myself to meet his gaze in the mirror. His faded Arcade Fire T-shirt brushes softly against my shoulder blade, causing goose bumps to skitter down my arms. I close my eyes. What kind of fabric softener has the power to make his clothes so distractingly soft?

“Come on.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Lose the towel. Let’s see this thing so we can get down to the pool. I promised Tilly we’d chicken fight.”

I’ve never mentioned my surgery to him, but I’m sure he’s noticed considering we’ve been pressed up against each other more than once. The wise crack he hasn’t made is like a third, very loud, naked person shaking their tits at us from the corner. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and drop the towel.

Nick stays a silent presence behind me. When I open my eyes, he’s gripped the marble counter with one hand, his knuckles white with tension. His face is slack and his focus is zeroed in on my chest.

“Told you.” I cross my arms and frown at his reflection, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

“No, no, no, no.” Gently, he pulls my arms away. He abandons leering in the mirror for the real thing, moving to the side to see all of me.

Rounding my shoulders, I fight the urge to snatch my towel from the floor and cover myself. “You’re being gross.”

“You’re being…” He drags his hand over his mouth. “What was the question?”

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