Page 60 of The Match Faker

There are moments in every man’s life when he realizes his father is an irredeemable dick. This one is mine. Though I’m sure Jasmine could have contributed and even found ways tomake it better, she had nothing to do with my proposal. This was mine, all of it, the business, the presentation, the ambition, but god forbid my father see me as anything other than the family fuckup.

Clenching my fists and my molars, I force a slow breath in through my nose. It takes all the restraint I possess not to lose it on him.

He chuckles, clearly unaware of my turmoil. “When you said you wanted to talk, I thought you were going to tell me that you plan to ask her to marry you.”

“Whoa.” I slap his shoulder the way he slapped mine and resist the urge to squeeze a little too hard. “That’s moving a little fast, don’t you think?”

He shakes his head. “When you know, you know. I knew with your mom.”

Lips pressed together, I nod. Like a fucking automaton.

“I’m just relieved you’re finally settling down,” he says. “It shows real maturity.”

This has to be a dream. I just asked him for a loan so that I could become a business owner, and yet he’s steered the conversation to my girlfriend. A girlfriend who’s not really my girlfriend. A woman who hates my guts. Not that he knows that.

“Well,” I say.Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up. “Thanks, Dad.” My voice is as wooden as the shit in this shop.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, flipping through the proposal. “I have to talk to my financial advisor, but we’ll move some funds around and get this loan to you both.”

“To us both?” My voice is so cheerful, I sound fake. “That’s great.”

Really, really great.

It takesme about fifteen minutes to shower, shave, get dressed in the navy-blue suit. I forgo the tie, like last time. Though I’m sure my dad will air grievances about it. By comparison, three and half episodes of a syndicated 90s sitcom play before she comes out of the bathroom.

But I can’t even pretend to be annoyed, because I think this woman is trying to kill me. Death by boner. Her red hair, pulled into a tight bun—shocking—at her nape, shines. Not a single strand is out of place. It’s neat and proper, surely requiring an immeasurable number of bobby pins and hairspray and probably some other hair product I’ve never heard of. Every detail makes me appreciate her more. The care she takes in all she does, even when she does things for someone else, even someone who betrayed her.

Her makeup is sparse except for her lips, which she’s painted with the kind of red that probably comes in a tube labeled Medusa’s Kiss or Bad Blood or Revenge. Her dress is simple and black, with a square neckline that shows off her collarbones, sleeves to the wrists, and a skirt to mid-calf. She wears tiny-heeled black shoes with a strap of little diamantes across the top. She stands in front of where I lounge on the bed, fiddling with her pearl earrings, scowling at me.

“Nick?” she asks, waving her hand in front of my face. “Did you hear me?”

Oh shit. “Yes,” I lie.

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, she turns, then slips her other earring into her ear.

Good god. All the blood rushes south as I take her in from behind. First, the green jumpsuit, then that fucking bathing suit,now this dress. Another low back. I want to get back down on my knees for her and worship the dimples just above her ass, the subtle dip of her spine, her sharp shoulder blades?—

“Are you going to do up the buttons?” She peers over her shoulder, clearly annoyed. Probably because she’s already asked me this more than once. But as I inspect the dress, a line of small buttons wrapped in black fabric marching up one side, corresponding elastic hoops on the other, I breathe an internal sigh of relief and devastation. It’s not actually another low back.

“Sorry. Yes.” I’ve never felt like I have sausage fingers more than I do right now. The pads of my fingers brush her back as I slowly hide the dimples, then her spine, ending right below her shoulder blades.

“Thanks,” she says, stepping away when I’m finished. “Ready?” Though she stands in the doorway of the bathroom, she checks her fit again, adjusting the sleeves, smoothing her hair.

“Yeah.” My mouth is so dry, and my pants are suddenly tight.

“Okay.” She brushes past me, close enough that the smell of her body lotion or her shampoo or whatever fills my nose.

“Wait.” I turn on my socked heels, my shoes still lined up neatly next to all of her unworn ones.

She stands with her back to me, her hand on the doorknob, her shoulders rising and falling, and sighs before she slowly turns back to me.

“Thank you. And I’m s?—”

She shakes her head, lowers her attention to the floor between us. “Don’t apologize to me again.”

That’s fair. Words can only go so far. “I won’t,” I say. “You look lovely.”

Slowly, she forces her gaze back to my face, her expression distrustful. I get it. Why she has trouble believing a single word from me.

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