Page 59 of The Match Faker

I don’t know what to do with my hands. Holding the business proposal is making them sweat, but the closest flat surface is the coffee table, and I can’t drop it there without standing and taking a step. That will draw Dad’s attention and then he’ll ask what it is.

Technically, that’s what I want, that’s what I’m here for. But not in front of my brothers, sleeping or otherwise.

Eventually, the game winds downs, we lose, and the feed switches over to a Western Conference game. The sun dips low over the lake. The caterers will be here soon. Jasmine will be back, and we’ll have to get changed. The guests will arrive, and Mom and Dad will be celebrated for their decades of successfully not hating each other. Then, tomorrow, we’ll leave. And all ofthis, the lying, the pretending, faking some things but not others, will have been for nothing.

I’ll have hurt Jasmine, for nothing.

“Dad,” I say.

He grunts again, gaze locked on the game.

“Can I talk to you?”

He turns slowly in his chair, scowling. Shit. For a moment, I’m sure he’ll say no, but he hits the level on his recliner, lowering his feet. He’s slow to stand, to stretch, and straighten. “I’ve got to clean up the woodshop,” he says.

Confusion and apprehension swirl in my gut. I guess I’m supposed to follow him.

The path to the pool and shop are lined with large pavers, and when Dad installed a hydronic heating system to the circular driveway a few years ago, he extended it to the path as well. Even on the coldest days, we can get from the house to the pool or the shop without having to put boots on or shovel. He’s always retrofitting the house with new technology and features. It’s his way of working with his hands even though he has to wear a suit for work most of the time now. Before he was a midsize office furniture and supply company founder and CEO, he handmade custom wood furniture.

When I was a kid, I used to sit out here while he worked. He had very strict rules for children in the woodshop. I had to sit on the bench off to one side; if my butt left the bench, I got one warning. If it left the bench twice, I was gone. Once he knew I could be trusted not to get underfoot or cut my hand off with a circular saw, I was invited to sweep. I had to sweep for a year before I was allowed to touch any of the wood, but finally I graduated to sanding.

As Dad opens the French doors to the shop, the smell of freshly cut wood—better than freshly cut grass one hundred percent of the time—hits me. Instantly, I’m overwhelmed by asense of safety and warmth. One that makes me feel like I’m eight years old again. I’ve helped Dad make a lot of cool stuff in here: a stained walnut chair of Scandinavian design, a chest used to store extra blankets and sheets at the foot of my bed, a full-length mirror frame with floral patterns—my first time using a router—and a rocking horse for Tilly that I don’t think she ever actually used.

I sit on my bench as Dad moves about the shop. He checks the tools’ safeties, inspects for hairline cracks in the saws and blades, and ensures every tool is in its place on the pegboards and in the cabinets. He even built his own tool mounts for the wall instead of using wall mounts and French cleats.

“Jasmine is impressive,” he says, frowning into a pair of safety glasses like he’s waiting for them to crack.

“Uhhh. Yeah.” I duck my head and rub at the back of my neck. It’s not that I disagree, it’s just a strange adjective to describe her. The Empire State Building? Impressive. The antlers on a moose? Impressive. An adult woman? There are a million other adjectives I’d use first, but I won’t harp on this no matter how bad I want to. So, I settle for “She’s amazing.”

From there, we fall back into silence. I set the business proposal on my lap and survey the crisp paper and ink-jet printing. “Dad, I—” I say, forcing my head up.

At the same time, he says, “Are you going to?—”

We both snap our mouths shut and stare at one another.

“Sorry,” I say. “You go.”

He shakes his head and lifts a hand. “You first.”

I take a deep breath, muster all the courage I have. “I wanted to show you something.” My butt leaves the bench; I don’t get a warning. That’s a good sign at least. I set the proposal onto the clean worktable and dive into details about Ed and the bar. When he doesn’t make a move to open the bound proposal, I do it for him.

I start with my elevator pitch, set the scene for him in a way I hope he’ll relate to. The bar isn’t for getting drunk—well, it is, but I don’t mention that part—it’s for community. I fill him in on the business, how well it’s doing and how it generates sufficient cash flow year over year. I lay out why I need the loan and how I’d use it, propose a repayment plan that benefits him. I talk about my experience as an HR, operations, marketing, customer relations, and property manager. I even provide business and personal financial statements so he can see that I’m far more responsible than he gives me credit for.

He’s silent throughout, letting me say my piece.

“I know I haven’t always made the choices you would make,” I say. “But I hope I’ve demonstrated how serious I am about this business and that you’ll consider this loan an investment in a future we can both be proud of.”

Forcing my fists to unclench, I drop my shoulders from my ears. Now that I’m not talking, I realize how dry my mouth is, that I’m sweating a little along my brow. Fuck, I hope he sees it for what it is, nerves, rather than a sign that I’m lying or untrustworthy.

“Anyway,” I say to break the silence. “I can give you some time to think about it if you need to.”

Dad makes a face I’ve never seen before. His eyes are bright, and a slow smile tips his lips. Holy shit. Is this what pride looks like? I better get Alex in here to verify it, the kiss-ass.

“Wow,” he says, regarding the business plan, then focusing on me again. “She’s really done a lot of work on you.”

“She being…?”

“Jasmine.” He slaps my shoulder. “This has to be her influence.”

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