Page 70 of The Match Faker

“Hmmmm.”

My heart sinks at the subdued response. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so excited before.”

That makes me warm and sad all at the same time. “I wanted to study that, material culture, specifically fashion and the intersection of clothes-making, sewing, textiles, things that are historically seen aswomen’s work, and capitalism, consumerism. That was my dream. I was going to be a Veronika Gervers Research Fellow.”

He frowns at the road, then me. “Jade,” he says, likeeureka.

I shrug. “Jade.”

“You had to drop out of school, right?”

“Yeah.” Despite the many years between me and that decision, my throat still tightens with tears. “I don’t regret it. Jade is brilliant. She deserves…” I shake my head, searching for the words to describe my little sister. Love isn’t the right word, isn’tenough. “Everything.”

“So do you,” Nick says quietly.

I glance out the passenger window, uncomfortable with the idea, although I’m unsure why. All I know is that I got a few good years with my parents before they totally gave up, whereas Jade was born into that relationship’s sharp decline.

“Is that still your dream?” he asks.

“The Fellowship?”

He nods.

“No. Not really. Not anymore.”

“Why not?” he asks, squinting at the road.

I shrug again. It’s embarrassing to say out loud. It kind of sounds like giving up.

“Can you pass me my sunglasses?” He motions to the glove compartment.

“Sure.” Relieved for the change in topic, I eagerly pull at the latch, but it doesn’t open.

“You’ve gotta hit it,” he says, eyes still on the road while making a pounding motion with the side of his fist.

I do, but it doesn’t help. All it does is hurt. “Ow.” I cradle my fist in my other hand.

He leans over, the scent of his deodorant or shower gel different than usual, though not unpleasant. With a quick bump of his fist against the glove compartment, it opens, and chaos spills out. Papers, manuals, hopefully a registration and insurance info. Cords of phone chargers dangle like vines, empty travel hand sanitizer bottles, one Band-Aid, and a tire gauge.

No sunglasses.

Nick notices the same time I do. “Fuck.”

“Here.” I pull mine out of my bag, wiping down the lenses with the microfiber cloth.

“Thanks,” he says. “How do I look?”

Handsome, of course. The round frames are perfect for his face, though the glasses themselves are a bit small.

“Great,” I say, and he smiles goofily.

I busy myself with putting away the glove compartment wreckage.

“Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook,” he says. “You still haven’t answered the question.”

Instead of answering him, I fight with the glove compartment again, slamming it over and over until it finally closes.

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