Page 71 of The Match Faker

I sigh. “I don’t want to be an academic anymore. Terrible pay, terrible job security, and then there’s the debt.”

I love to think about it; what the work would be like, what my life would be like now. But actually doing the job?

“It’s just not realistic anymore.”

Nick frowns, his brow climbing above the frame of my glasses. “So, now what’s your dream?”

“I…”

My dream? For the last few years, my dream has been Jade’s dream. My goals have been in service to hers.

“Well, I…”

This is embarrassing.

“You don’t have to answer now,” he says quietly, giving me an out that I don’t want to take.

I’m goal oriented, motivated. How can I not have a dream? How can I not know what I want? To some, my dream might look like marriage to a rich man, but that’s not the same as my Veronika Gervers Research Fellowship dream. That’s not a dream just for me.

“Thanks,” I say quietly. Ashamed, embarrassed. “I guess you could say I’m currently between dreams.”

He nods. “That’s allowed.”

“Anyway,” I say with a sigh, “I know what it feels like to lose your chance at your dream. That’s why I stayed.”

The song changes to the one he chose for us. Our song. Nick grips my thigh. There’s the lightest dusting of dark hair across his knuckles. A scar between his thumb and index finger, on the soft fleshy skin there. I trace my finger over it.

“Jasmine,” he says, his voice rougher, quieter. “Thank you.”

I cover his hand with mine and keep it there.

Nick pullsinto the parking lot of a small restaurant. The outside is painted black, and the sign on top is painted a striking black and white and readsBaker’s Burgers.

“Hungry?” Before I can respond, he shakes his head. “You know what? I don’t care. You’re getting a burger.” He throws the car into park.

“I told Jade we were coming straight home though.”

He pauses, staring down at his hand on the seat belt buckle. “We’ll get them to go.”

As I climb out of the car, my phone chimes, alerting me to an email notification. Nick is already halfway across the parking lot, but I rummage through my pockets for it. The preview screen reads:

From:Nick Carmichael

Subject:A Second Chance On A First Date

My stomach swoops.Nick Carmichael. Nick. The other Nick. TherealNick.

“Jazz,” this Nick yells, spinning and walking backward toward the restaurant, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans because he’s the kind of Canadian man who insists he doesn’t need a coat despite the temperature being below freezing. “Come on.”

I school my expression, hide the confusion and panic bubbling inside me, but Nick starts back toward the car.

“Can you just order for me?” I hold my hand up to stop him. Somehow, his proximity will make all of this worse, wrong. “I…I don’t want my clothes to smell like cooked meat.”

Nick huffs, but without ridicule, he nods.

“No tomatoes,” I call.

He holds his hand up in acknowledgment, jogging to the door. I don’t open the email until I get back in the car.

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