Page 45 of The Match Faker

I end up air-drying on the edge of my bed thinking about ways I can make her pinch her lips in frustration. When the shower shuts off, I bolt up and hop around the room, pulling on clothes so when she comes out, she isn’t confronted withmy bodyonce again.

I get my shirt on before she opens the door, but just barely. She walks out looking so hot I might have a stroke anddie right here on my childhood bedroom floor. Brow furrowed in apprehension, she smooths her hands down the front of her high-waisted skirt and loose knit sweater. The lingering humidity from our showers curls the hair around her temples and at the back of her neck. Her makeup is sparse. If I smoothed my thumb over her lips, I doubt a trace of pigment would rub off.

“You’re wearing that?” she asks.

I pluck at my favorite Tragically Hip T-shirt, the one I’ve owned since the first time I saw them live when I was twelve. “You’re nailing this girlfriend thing.”

“Sorry.” She worries her bottom lip. “I just mean…am I overdressed?”

“You look perfect,” I say, but my voice cracks. Great; loving my reversion to preteen. Anticipate wet dreams next. “It’s just family dinner,” I assure her. “Tomorrow night is the official anniversary party.”

She nods and sits beside me on the bed, leaving a hand’s width of space between us. A completely normal amount of space. Except that it feels too close and too fucking far at the same time. Apopcomes from downstairs, probably Alex opening a bottle of champagne that, while expensive, isn’t necessarily good.

“When are you going to talk to your dad?”

Embracing the opportunity to put distance between us, I hop up and grab the business proposal I put together for him. I splurged and had it printed and bound at an office supply store. Keeping it hidden behind my back, I turn to her.

“Don’t get too excited, but…” I pull it out and present it to her like I’m a game show hostess. “I’m going to talk to him tomorrow. Probably. I’m gonna give him this.”

“Can I see it?” Without waiting for my answer, she snatches the bound package with both hands.

“No.” I give an experimental pull.

“Why not?” She yanks back.

“Because I said so?” I am not about to let the perfectionist browse my business proposal so she can point out everything that’s wrong with it when there’s no way I can make changes before I talk to my dad.

“I just want to see,” she hisses.

She’s always hissing at me. Why don’t I hate it more? I hate that I don’t hate it more, the way her lip curls and her eyes squint.

“Why do you care so much?”

She huffs and lets go, the move causing me to stumble back into the desk.

“I’m not going to point out all your spelling mistakes or anything.” She pats at her hair, takes a few deep breaths, like she’s putting herself back together, making sure she’s public-facing Jasmine once again. Sometimes she’s so well put together it’s almost impossible to find a thread I can pull to unravel her.

“Thanks for assuming there’ll be spelling mistakes.”

She winces at my shitty response.

Dammit. Before her wince can turn into hurt, I sit beside her again and place the proposal on her lap. “Sorry.” I let my shoulders deflate. “I’m a little stressed out. Still. And I’m taking it out on you. Still.”

With a sigh, she draws her fingers along the edges of the bound pages, like she’s making sure each piece of paper is still in place. “I don’t need to read it.” She returns it to my lap and I’m imagining things, but it feels like her touch lingers a breath longer than necessary. “Why don’t you go find your dad now? Get it out of the way?”

“He’s probably in the workshop.” He holes up in there when the house gets full.

“You have a workshop?”

“It’s attached to the indoor pool.”

Her body goes rigid beside me. “You have an indoor pool?” she asks, her voice hitting a totally new octave. “Next to a lake?”

I bite back a laugh at her shock. “Why do you think I told you to pack a bathing suit?”

Head lowered, she peers up at me through thick lashes. “I thought you were going to make me do a polar bear swim.”

“And you were going to do it?” I ask, my voice now battling hers for octave supremacy.

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