Page 11 of The Match Faker

She sighs.

“Just as friends…”

“As much as I’d love to see your mom again, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Her tone is gentle but firm.

“Yeah, no.” I rough a hand down my face and swallow back my embarrassment. “I get it. It was a bad idea anyway. I already told Dad we broke up.”

“What happened?” she asks.

“Don’t worry about it.” I open the back door and sneak a quick look down the hall to where Rocco slings drinks behind the bar. “I just ran my mouth with my dad again and screwed myself. It’s fine. I’ll go alone.”

“It’s not like you have trouble meeting people, Nick.”

Two cabs duke it out with those classic urban orchestral instruments: car horns and asshole-puckering obscenities.

I jam my finger into my ear with a little more force than necessary. “Yeah, I guess.”

Rocco wasn’t exaggerating about the older industry folks who use their younger staff or clientele like their very own dating app. I’ve never pursued bar patrons, even if they were closer to me in age. Ed’s first rule of working here: don’t shit where you eat.

“Dating app?” she suggests.

I grunt a noncommittal response. I’ve downloaded and deleted plenty of apps. I can’t explain it, my disinterest in meeting someone that way.

Fuck. Maybe Dad’s priorities are rubbing off on me.

“My sister got engaged last week,” she says.

“No shit. That’s amazing. Tell her congrats.”

She laughs. “She met her fiancé through a matchmaker.”

“I remember.” Carrie’s sister, Mandy, wouldn’t shut up about Core Cupid and her matchmaker, Chloe, when she joined. She went on and on about how the company created an algorithm that can predict romantic attraction with a ninety-nine percent success rate.

“Have you ever considered it?”

“Carrie, come on. I cancel my thirty-day trials on the twenty-ninth day.”

“So?”

The door flies open, almost taking my nose off. Rocco breathes a harsh cloud into the cold air. “It’s getting fucked up in there.”

I cover the phone. “I’ll be right there.”

Without a response, they’re gone, the door slamming shut behind them.

“So,” I say into the phone. “I’m too cheap to pay for matchmaking.” Not to mention I’m not the greatest at planning nights out. Most of my dates with Carrie involved her having a drink at the bar while I worked before she’d slip up to my apartment until my shift was over. Unless the women I match with are willing to sign up for Underground Karaoke or taste test Rocco’s newest cocktail recipes, I can’t see it working.

If Dad knew what a workaholic I’d turned into, he might actually be proud.

Music from inside vibrates through the door and the brick wall into my bones. There’s a scream, and not on the street, but from somewhere inside. “Shit. I’ve got to go.”

Already, my brain is behind the bar. I’m three orders deep with a towel over my shoulder. I love my job, especially early in the night like this, when patrons are still wide-eyed and no one is even thinking of doing bumps off the toilet seat yet. Maybe I’ll fire up the karaoke. The people love spontaneous karaoke.

“Nick,” Carrie says, her urgent tone making it obvious it’s not the first time she’s had to say my name. “Just think about it, okay?”

“I will, I will.” I stop with my hand on the door, the cold creeping into my skin and under my layers. “Carrie.” My breath billows in a silver cloud. “I’m really glad you’re still friends with me.”

Her voice sounds like a smile. “Me too, Nico.”

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