Page 61 of The Match Faker

“That’s true,” I assure her.

She drops her focus again. “You look lovely, too.”

My heart pangs. I’ve never been called lovely before; it’s kind of…lovely.

“Well,” she says, lips twisting, “you will be once you put your shoes on.”

“That is also true.”

We walk downthe stairs to the kitchen together. The second we hit the bottom step, we’re greeted by my mother’sooohsandaaahs.She’s gone all out for this anniversary party, hiring a photographer to mingle with the guests to catch candids.

All of my niblings are dressed in what can only be described as modern von Trapp core, a combination of Oktoberfest-style suspenders and Navy neckerchiefs. Most of my siblings are already here, drinks in hand. Alex is outside on the deck with Philip, Claire’s husband, huddled under one of the outdoor propane heaters and sharing a cigar. Claire and Robert stand inside watching their kids and glaring at their partners, clearly unimpressed with them. Either for smoking, or for not helping with the kids who all seem to be running wilder than normal because of the general excitement of the evening, or maybe both.

The doorbell rings and Mom makes a high-pitched sound that’s just a few octaves short of only being audible to dogs. Her first guests have arrived.

“You ready for this?” I ask.

Jasmine’s face is pale and her eyes swim with trepidation. She looks like she’d rather drink week-old cab sauv than be here, but when she turns to me, she does her best to smile.

My gut twists at her discomfort. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Fake it.”

Hands clutched in front of her, she sniffs. “I’m not.”

“Jazz, you’re allowed to say you’re overwhelmed.”

“I’m not,” she says, the words more defensive this time. “I am not,” she says again, evening out her tone. “Besides, between the two of us, you’re faker than I am.”

Usually, I’m a pro at masking my reactions, but this jab takes me by surprise.

“Well, that’s kind of hurtful,” I say.

Jasmine falters, her pleased superiority wiped clean, but she gathers herself quickly.

“You’re the one who lied,” she says. Rather than meet my eyes, she focuses on the gathering group of guests congratulating my parents on their anniversary.

“Yeah. And I apologized for that. So many times that you asked me to stop. And let’s not forget that I wouldn’t have been in this position if you hadn’t asked me to lie first.” Now that I’ve gotten going, I might be madder than I thought I was. “So, it’s okay when you do it, but when I do, it’s unforgivable?”

“You pretended to be a completely different person,” she says through clenched teeth.

“I told you I’d take you home. I said I’d tell them the truth,” I hiss back.

In the back of my mind, I know we need to cool it. Fighting with Jasmine in the middle of my parents’ party is not going to endear my request to my father and it will just upset Mom. At this point, she’d probably keep Jasmine and get rid of me. With a long breath in, I lean away from her, unclench my jaw. I slip my hand into my slacks’ pocket. Because nobody who’s got their hands in their pockets is pissed.

“But you’re still here. You’re allowed to be mad, but what you’re not allowed to do, what Iwon’tallow, is treat me like your verbal punching bag when the person you’re really mad at is yourself.”

Damn, I’m on a roll. But rather than take the bait and snipe back at me, she steps in close and trails her fingers along the button front of my suit jacket, like she read my mind about cooling it.

She whispers, her words like cirrus clouds, almost insubstantial against my throat. “I don’t like you.”

Because I have issues best explored with the guidance of a mental health professional, I get an erection.

With a hand pressed to the small of her back, I lean into her ear and whisper back, “You’ll just have to fake it.”

She scowls.

---