Page 80 of The Match Faker

I nearly jump out of my skin as I turn to face him and in this moment of panic, my brain spits out one word,No.

But I catch it, choke it back before it can escape, and say, “Yes.”

Jade narrows her eyes, like she heard that moment of internal confusion. My smile is plastic as I follow him to the door, Jade trailing behind us. Nick helps me with my coat, a gentleman, a mark for the matchmaking scoresheet.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Jade.” A lie, but he holds his hand for her to shake.

Her face softens, just a bit. She makes a miffed sound though, offering a limp hand in return.

A gracious gentleman, another point for matchmaking.

Outside the building, he opens the car door for me and confirms that I’m buckled in before he pulls out of the spot. He made a reservation at a nice restaurant, one that typically has a long waitlist, and while we order drinks, discuss apps and entrées, he asks me about myself. He doesn’t dominate the conversation, and he lets me order for myself. Then, despite claiming we’ll share the dessert, he lets me have three-quarters of it.

As we wait for the bill, he makes an offhand comment about how it’s the best meal he’s had in a while, and suddenly all I can recall is the taste of strawberry milkshakes and cheeseburgers from a mom-and-pop place on the side of the highway.

“Are you feeling up for one more stop?” he asks after the server takes his credit card. “There’s somewhere I want to take you, but it’s kind of a surprise.”

“Um…” I blink in the dim light of this lovely fusion restaurant that has not a single cheeseburger on the menu. “S-sure,” I stutter, sounding about as sure as I feel.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he says, as if he’s worried I’m nervous about going to a second location with him. How could I be? He truly is so perfect. The strange stomach swoop returns, one Iwantto identify as swooning but again, I’m not sure.

“Of course, I feel comfortable,” I say quickly, covering his hand with mine. “I’m just going to run to the ladies’ room.” Standing, I grab my purse. “Have to touch up my lipstick.”

The matchmaking scoresheet is a cornucopia of As, gold stars, ten out of tens, and one hundred percents. He’s done everything right, everything I could ever want. He’s exactly what I would expect from my perfect match, but something feels off as I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, wash my hands, and reapply my lipstick. The same lipstick I wore for Nick. My Nick. TheotherNick.

“Pull yourself together,” I whisper just as another woman walks in. I wave my hand underneath the automatic tap and wash my hands again unnecessarily so this complete stranger won’t think I’m in here talking to myself.

My brain is a disorganized binder, emotions and confusion like loose paper and too many disorganized tabs. I pull my phone from my purse and send Jade a text so she knows I’m headed somewhere else, and promise I’ll text our location when I get there. This small act of routine—sharing our locations for personal safety’s sake—helps; like a page righting itself within three-rings, like confirmation that I am on the right path. Slowly, I make my way back to our table, reminding myself of why I’m here as I go.

Because I deserve to find my perfect match.

Because this is me taking things seriously. Because I am serious.

Because this isn’t fake.Heisn’t fake.

“Ready?” Nick asks, standing next to our table, bill paid.

No.“Yes.”

He holds out his hand.

Are you a robot?The question haunts me. Nick said it to hurt me, but maybe it’s true. A robot is exactly what I feel like when I put my hand in this Nick’s. A mechanical windup doll who nods and smiles, devoid of thoughts. Even as a riot of feelings that I can’t control wreak havoc on me.

Nick helps me with my coat, a thrifted leather biker jacket that complements the silhouette of my close-fitting, long sleeved red sweaterdress and black over-the-knee suede boots. As he flattens my collar, his exhales are warm on the back of my neck. He’s tall; my boots give me another two or three inches, but I’d still have to stand on my toes to kiss him. I could do that, kiss my perfect match. Maybe I should. I probably would if the thought alone didn’t immediately make me feel kind of sick. If I kissed him now, he might taste a different man on my lips.

“I don’t think I told you yet,” he says quietly. “How amazing you look tonight.”

You look so fucking beautiful.

I blush; the dress is shorter than I’d usually wear, especially for a first date. “It’s Jade’s,” I say instead ofthank you. “She insisted I wear it.”

Something about it being a good luck charm, which I didn’t ask too many questions about when it became clear the luck she was talking about was sexual in nature.

…so fucking beautiful.

The sound of his voice over my own ragged breathing, how those words were ripped from him, I wish I could cover my ears to the memory.

“Thank you,” I say, strangled. “So, where are we going?” My voice is high, nervous. Obvious to me, if not him.

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