Page 69 of The Match Faker

Nick comes in three long spurts across my back, then presses the head of his dick to the top of my ass, leaving a small puddle there.

I am exhausted, my legs shaking, but I can’t move, not when he’s standing behind me, his hand on my hip, his breath warm gusts across my skin.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Nowwe’re even.”

I glance at him over my shoulder. “Fair.”

The next morning,it’s as if nothing has changed between us. Except, when he wakes up first, he brings me coffee, black. Except, as we eat breakfast with his family, most of who are hungover, he rests his arm along the back of my chair the whole time.

Mostly, everyone is quiet, minus the kids and Nick’s dad, who laments there’s not enough time for a Scott v. Scott hockey game on the lake.

Nick packs the car, gently placing my brown leather bag in the trunk. After thirty minutes of tearful hugs from Mindy, handshaking back pat hugs from the other men, and squealing hugs from Tilly—especially when he rubs his beard into her neck—he walks me to the car with his hand at the small of my back and opens my door.

I send Jade a text letting her know we’re on our way. Her only response is “Gucci.”

Mindy waves until we can’t see her anymore.

“She loves you,” I say once the Scott cottage-mansion is out of sight.

“She lovesyou.”

That sentiment causes a strange sense of pride to swell inside me. Until I remember that she won’t love me if she finds out I lied to her.

He passes me his phone. “Want to pick the song?”

I scroll his playlist, hoping to spark the memory of the song he said could be “our” song, because it feels like a test to be given this honor. When I spend more than thirty seconds searching in silence with no luck, I pick a song at random and press play. He smiles at me as I set the phone down.

“I never asked you”—I shift in my seat to face him—“how the talk with your dad went.”

“Yes, you did.” He drives exactly the speed limit as we travel through town. It’s a slow crawl compared to the street racing speeds most Toronto drivers get up to.

“I asked you if your dad gave you the loan. I didn’t ask how itwent.” The distinction is important based on their relationship.

“It went fine,” he says in a tone that sounds not at all fine. “He agreed to give me the loan.”

He shrugs. That’s it. Never before has a sign of indifference ended a conversation so definitively. Tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel to the beat of the random song, he hums. The humming turns to singing softly under his breath. I should have made a binder for the drive home. Without the anxiety and anticipation of the ride up, we don’t have anything to say to each other, which is more disappointing than I’d like to admit.

“If I ask you a question,” he says once we’re on the highway, “will you promise to give me an honest answer?”

Straightening, I assess him. “What kind of question is it if you need me to promise to answer honestly?”

He grins. “It’s not sex-related, perv.”

I tip my head against the headrest, close my eyes. “Okay, ask, then I’ll decide.”

“Why’d you stay?” he asks, glancing over with a frown before focusing on the road again. “After you found out. Most people would have left.”

Between the hum of the wheels on the road, the music, which has taken a folkish turn, the sun, bright through the windows, and the strangely quiet roads, we’re in our own little bubble.

My chest constricts as I work through my thoughts to formulate the best response. “Have you heard of the Veronika Gervers Research Fellowship?”

“I’ve heard of theFellowship of the Ring.”

I shake my head. “Not everything is a joke, Nick,” I say gently.

“I know.” His words are so quiet I have to read them on his lips.

“I’ve always loved fashion. Everyone thought I should become a designer,” I say, moving the conversation along. “But that wasn’t really what I loved about it, and I can’t draw anyway. In fifth grade, my class went to the ROM. I’d been so many times before but this time, as we were walking through the textilecollection, a curator was talking about this robe, this really old robe. She wouldn’t even touch it, she wouldn’t take it out from behind the glass, to protect it. She was explaining what material culture says about a period or a society, or what we can glean about gender and race based on…” I pluck at my top, a green and pink crocheted cardigan with short sleeves. “The things we put on our bodies.”

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