Page 91 of The Match Faker

Moonbar did.

And I won’t let him give up his dream.

20

NICK

The glass and wood façade of the Art Gallery of Ontario reflects the city back at me through the street-facing windows of the Core Cupid office. It’s gray and dull, judgmental on this cold winter day. Or maybe I’m just projecting. The leather couch in the matchmaker’s office squeaks and creaks whenever I shift. I try not to.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the matchmaker, Chloe, says from the open doorway. She takes a seat in an armchair across from me. Beside it, an adjustable lap desk is equipped with a notebook and pen. Strangely analog for the person responsible for creating a near perfect matchmaking algorithm. She clicks her pen. “Are you ready?”

Despite my best efforts, I shift on the noisy couch.

Chloe reminds me of Jasmine, though they don’t look anything alike. They’re both gorgeous. Chloe is blond and tan. Angular where Jasmine is curvy. They both sit with their shoulders square, backs straight, necks long. Chloe looks like she’d enjoy that fresh binder smell.

“Yeah, I guess.” If I thought pulling at my collar would help, I’d do it. “What should I be ready for, technically?”

She shifts in her chair, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward like we’re sharing a secret. “It’s pain free, I promise. I like to meet with all our clients first. Afterward, you can fill out your online interview at your convenience. It’s a bit repetitive,” she says, her tone apologetic. “But that’s by design. Don’t overthink it.”

I’m so good at not overthinking, it is basically my job. Except today I think I might get fired.

Chloe asks easy questions first: what does a day in your life look like? And can you summarize your dating history? Tell me your ideal date? Then, tell me your ideal partner?

It’s hard not to describe Jasmine.

What are you looking for in a relationship? Marriage, long-term commitment? Kids? Honestly, I’m just looking for Jasmine. I’m looking to prove to her that we’re a match.

“You know,” I say, scratching at my jaw. “Now that I think about it, maybe this isn’t for me.”

Chloe frowns, looking up from the notebook where she’s taken copious notes. “If you’re worried about finding a match, Mr. Scott, I can assure you?—”

“Please call me Nick.”

“Nick,” she says, her eyes softening. “I can assure you, you’ll have great success. Women outnumber men as clients, two to one, and I can already tell that you’ll make someone very happy.” She tries to be earnest, but she sounds like she’s reading from a script.

“Listen, I’m not going to ask for the deposit back or whatever. I just…” I sigh. “Honestly, I’m falling for one of your clients, but she won’t choose me because I’m not her perfect match.”

The office is silent for a long, awkward moment. Finally, Chloe clears her throat. “You were going to pay for matchmaking services in the hopes that you’d match with the woman you’re in love with to prove to her that you belong together?”

I laugh. “It sounds even worse whenyousay it out loud.”

Blushing, she ducks her head. “Honestly, it sounds romantic to me,” she says, which makes me blush back.

I run my sweaty palms down my thighs and stand. “I’m sorry to waste your time.”

“You didn’t,” she says quickly. “You’re not.” She stops me with her hand up. “Can I ask, would you have signed up for matchmaking if it wasn’t for this woman?”

I wince, running my hand through my hair. “Ummmm. Nah. Probably not.”

“It’s totally okay.” She smiles. “Why not, though?”

I sit back down on the squeaky couch as the answer hits me hard enough to knock me back. “Because I never bothered to take it seriously before.”

I say it like a question, but it’s not. It’s far too true a statement. I wish I could lie to myself and say it’s because of the cost, but that’s secondary at best. My face flushes with embarrassment, like this one confession tells her everything else she needs to know about me.

That I’ve always felt like the black sheep of the family and I thought that was their fault, or my dad’s at least. But that’s not true. It’s a role I’ve cultivated. I’m fucking proud of it. At some point I started to lean into it. Anything to piss off my dad. Anything to prove to him—to myself—that I didn’t need to follow his plans for my life.

But on the heels of the confession comes acceptance, because yeah, I make a joke out of a lot of things, but I wouldn’t change it, not any of it. Not even if I thought it would have somehow saved the bar for me.

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