Page 1 of The Match Faker

PROLOGUE: JASMINE

January

My nipples could cut glass; an unfortunate feature of Canadian winters, not a bug. There’s a certain kind of frigid that only exists in Toronto in January. The wind off Lake Ontario slices between buildings, hardens frozen snowbanks into dirty, jagged peaks, and cuts through all three of my layers, turning my fingers into popsicles and my nipples into razors.

If I had any sense, I would have at least stuffed my thick mittens into my bra. They make it impossible to grip the flimsy plastic handles of my cupcake carrier, so I can’t even wear them. But all my sense flew south for the winter. Because it’ssensible.

From somewhere in the depths of my thrifted baby alpaca wool coat, my phone vibrates twice in quick succession. Standing here, shifting from foot to foot while I wait for my light to change, I’m close to the glass building of Haüs Interiors, so I’ll save myself the trouble and respond to the texts when I get inside. And warm. And out of these cursed, secondhand, three-inch heeled booties. They’re beautiful, but they’re deadlyon ice, entirely inappropriate for the windchill and far too expensive to be purchased at market cost. I work with a lot of rich people, though—my boyfriend, Mitchell, included—and my thrifted finds help me play the part.

As I join the throng of commuters crossing the street, my phone buzzes again, a call this time that tickles somewhere around my hip bone. My breath clouds around me as I huff.

I’m not answering you, Jade.

My sister is just mad that I wouldn’t let her misappropriate one of Mitchell’s birthday cupcakes. For a man in his early thirties, Mitchell is weird about his birthday. He wants attention but he doesn’t want it to seem like he wants attention; a by-product of being the only child of a wealthy family, I guess. I wouldn’t know.

Jade’s one goal in life is to antagonize him. When we started dating two years ago, her favorite tactic was to call him the wrong name. Usually something like Michael or Marshall, sometimes Mickey. Now, she takes a more passive-aggressive approach, like “forgetting” that he was staying over and calling bylaw on him when he parked his car a little bit too close to a fire hydrant. Or like eating his leftovers. Or stealing his birthday cupcakes.

She’s not malicious, just protective. In her defense, I haven’t done a great job of picking partners in the past, between the boyfriend who casually asked if I’d be open to “showing” his colleague “a good time” and another one who assumed that since I had a breast augmentation at eighteen that I had “daddy issues” and “no self-respect.” The daddy issues may have been accurate, but I still dumped him. That’s why I wish she’d choose to see Mitchell’s good qualities. He’s never said anything that unkind. He’s hardworking, and he’s conventionally attractive like all those actors named Chris. Maybe he’s a little boring, butnot everyone can be funny, and there are more important things in life than laughter. Like stability. And Mitchell is rebar.

Our future is easy to imagine. We enjoy each other’s company. His family likes me—which is good since his parents are co-owners of Haüs Interiors and our bosses. In another six months, we’ll be engaged. Then married in a year. After that things will be easier, life will be perfect.

Because Mitchell is the perfect match for me.

My phone vibrates again, this time multiple messages in quick succession. “Jade,” I growl, the sound hanging in the cold air in front of me.

I put the cupcakes down on an empty bus stop bench. The move is gentler than my mood calls for, but the baked goods don’t deserve to suffer because of another sister squabble. Especially these cupcakes, with their perfect dollop of lavender icing, candied lemon slices, and sprinkle of lavender sprigs on top.

Commuters peer at me from inside the fogged glass of the stop’s enclosure. That alone is a sure sign that it’s freeze your tits off cold—when the weather-hardened Torontonians would rather brave a urine-soaked TTC bus stop than stand outside. I pat myself down for my phone, grumbling under my breath about little sisters. Finally, I find the device tucked into the inner pocket of my coat, my body heat the only thing keeping the early gen iPhone functioning in minus thirty windchill.

A bus pulls up, the brakes squealing, and the people in the bus stop rush the door before those on the bus can get off. The driver shouts at the crowd to make space and cabs honk at the delay in the early morning commute. Someone on the bus starts yelling, their words indecipherable but the frustrated tone clear.

All of it is muffled, like I’m behind a pane of glass, every sensory input organ devoted to processing the name on my phone screen.

The calls, the texts, weren’t from Jade. They were from Mitchell. In the time it takes for me to input my password, a million scenarios run through my mind. Mitchell texting is not alarming. It’s the calls. Mitchell never calls. Even with his sales clients, he’d rather meet in person than talk to them on the phone. If he’s gone as far as to contact me this way, then that means there’s been an emergency.

Or worse, he thinks I forgot his birthday.

My hands shake as I jab at the text message icon, alight with its glaring red bubble. Jade would tell me I’m being ridiculous. Rationally, I know that I am. It’s just that his birthday has to be perfect, nothing can go wrong.

I have to be perfect. For him.

I take a deep breath to quell my panic. His birthday will be perfect. I made sure of it. I mademyselfperfect. For the last ten years, that’s what I’ve done. Molded myself into the perfect girlfriend, the perfect catch. Jade hates it. I’ve lost friends because of it; but they don’t know what I know. That in the span of a day, your entire world can come crashing down. Your father can leave and take with him your mother’s sobriety, your tuition, and any semblance of family you had left. For the last decade, I have done what he couldn’t: I’ve sacrificed.

I’ve sacrificed my dreams of working for the Royal Ontario Museum as the textile curator. I dropped out of school. Found a full-time job so then-twelve-year-old Jade could move out of our family’s home and in with me while she finished grade school when it became clear our mom couldn’t provide her with stability and our father only had eyes for his mistress.

I started as a sales associate at Saks, modernized the booking system for their alterations department. From there, I worked as a personal stylist for the rich women of the GTA. Then I made the jump to interior design assistant at Haüs. And sure, maybe thirty-two feels a little old to still be an assistant. Maybe it’s notthe BA in Art History from U of T, the MA from NYU, the PhD from London Met. Maybe I’ll never receive the Veronika Gervers Research Fellowship. But I’m proud of what I’ve done for Jade and myself. She’s going to university debt-free and she’s going to be the best goddamn therapist there is; she’s had enough practice on me and my issues.

And yes, I’ve dated men from a certain tax bracket while doing it, chased the lifestyle I grew up with, and I adjusted some qualities to make myself more desirable to them. So, sue me.

If I can’t get what I want, shouldn’t I get what I deserve? Stability, security. The right to fall asleep at night without worrying about tuition and groceries, rent and back taxes.

The acrid scent of exhaust stings my nose as the bus pulls away. It’s official, my fingers are in stage three of frostbite. Even so, I take another steadying breath. I am the perfect girlfriend, the perfect partner. Mitchell’s call was probably a butt dial and the numerous texts various expressions of excitement for his birthday.

“You’re worrying over nothing,” I say to myself now that the crowd from the bus has dispersed and open our chat.

Mitchell <3: hey babe.

Mitchell <3: i tried to call you. this is really hard to say over text.

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