Page 37 of The Match Faker

“You wouldn’t…” I speak slow, searching for words that won’t make me feel like I’m blatantly lying even though I am. “Wouldyou not tell your family about matchmaking? If we were going to see them.”

Instantly, she looks away, flipping the binder closed. Tracing her finger along the plastic edge, she says, “Probably not.” That simple response is barely audible over the sound of the tires on the road, the wind whistling between the rust and duct tape holding this thing together. “It’s not something we’d talk about, and if we did, they’d likely see it as a personal failing on my part.”

With a sigh, she turns to the passenger side window, very clearly ending this conversation. Except I don’t want it to end.

“I’m sorry,” I say, almost as quietly. “We don’t need hard and fast facts though.”

Her shoulders sink. “I thought working together to create a favorable narrative about our relationship could be a good way to get to know each other.”

“Sure, but do I really need to know that your second-grade teacher was Mr. Knight and he wore space-themed ties?”

Finally, she turns back to me. “So, you were listening?” she asks, likegotcha!

I ignore that. Of course I was listening. “You know what we need? A song.” I tap out a beat on the steering wheel as a new track comes on my playlist. “You like The Cure? Should this be our song?”

She shrugs. “They’re okay.”

I jab at my phone screen to skip to the next track. A Bob Seger song. Fucking classic. I need to remember to add this to the Underground Karaoke library.

“Come on. Bob Seger. You have to love Bob Seger.”

Another shrug.

I screech out the next few lines. The wince on her face says one thing, but the way her knee bounces with the beat tells a different story.

“Yeah, this is it. This is our song, babe.”

She makes a face at the pet name and I laugh.

“Sing with me.”

Jasmine settles back in the seat, somehow managing to make a car that’s probably responsible for most of Canada’s CO2 emissions look regal. “I told you I don’t sing in public.”

“This isn’t public. This is my shitbox.”

“I’m not going to sing.” Her voice cuts cold through the music.

I turn the phone off. Poor Bob Seger.

Other than the whine of a motor belt and constant hum of the road on my winter tires, the car is quiet again.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“It’s fine.”

Ducking, she gives her head a shake. “I don’t like doing things unless I can do them well.”

“I know,” I say. “I remember.” And then, because I can’t help myself, “You don’t do things unless you can do them perfectly, right? If I lived my life that way, I’d never do anything.”

Her stare feels hard against my face, her voice cold. “You’re judging me.”

“No,” I say quickly. Fuck. How is it that I go from frustrating her on purpose to annoying her by accident, yet I can’t ever land anywhere in between? “Yeah. Maybe a little. I take a more casual approach to life, I guess.”

She snorts.

“Now who’s judging?”

Her only response is a noncommittal hum.

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