Page 82 of The Match Faker

He stops at the top of the stairs. Green, blue, and purple lights flash over my boots through crank windows set at ground level for maximum light into the basement bar. Music and voices compete from inside. He reaches for me. To not take his hand would mean having to lie outright and I can’t do that. Not again.

Are you a robot?I slip my palm against his, let him lead me down the stairs. Follow like I’m programmed to. Maybe Iam programmed, a robot. Following a path written for me, even written by me.

The bar is busier than when I was here last, louder. Hot.

“Do you want a drink?” He has to yell to be heard.

“I, uh, no thanks.”

He frowns like he can’t hear me, so I just nod. He points at the stage. “Start thinking about which song we’re going to sing.” With that, he turns and is engulfed by the crowd.

“Fuck,” I say out loud since no one will be able to hear me anyway. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I can’t do this. I can’t sing karaoke with my algorithm-approved perfect match in front of the man I let come all over me last week. At this point, my only hope is that Nick won’t be here; my only hope is the coward’s way out.

Since the universe relishes making a fool of me, I’m instantly struck by the sound of a familiar voice. Nick. The other Nick, my Nick.

“The first rule of Underground Karaoke is…” he says into the microphone as he adjusts the stand.

“Don’t talk about Underground Karaoke,” the crowd shouts back. There are too many people in here. There must be. No bouncer checked our IDs, who’s to say Moonbar isn’t over capacity yet?

“We have a packed set list tonight.” The rough edge of his voice is amplified, the sound sending fissures through my heart. He looks the same. Of course he does. It hasn’t even been much more than a week. But in that time, I’ve changed. I’m so different that there is no way I could look the same to him. But the longer I stand here, the bar howling around me, the more differences I notice.

His T-shirt is black, an image of Picasso-esque naked bodies andThe Tragically Hipprinted on the front; his wardrobe hasn’t changed. But his eyes are bruised by dark circles and hisever-present five o’clock shadow is thicker than usual, like he hasn’t kept up with the task of shaving with any regularity.

And I’m a terrible person. Because my first thought? I want to know what that feels like on the delicate skin between my thighs.

“Jasmine,” the real Nick, the new Nick, calls across the crowd.

I wince, even though there’s no way the other Nick could hear him over the din of the people in this bar. He makes his way back to me slowly, two short glasses with mixed drinks of clear liquor and lime wedges in his hands. Nick probably cut those wedges.

“Gin and tonics,” he says, a little breathless. “I hope that’s okay.”

I take it from him and drink it down in three gulps.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, an outright lie, shuddering as the gin burns my esophagus.

“We don’t have to sign up,” he says, angling in close so he doesn’t have to yell. His cologne is delicious; full-bodied and expensive. Not as light as citrus, not spicy like pine. “Are you nervous?”

Nick taps the mic again, a boon I don’t deserve. I take the opportunity anyway, straightening and pretending to be enthralled with his next announcement. “Before we get started,” he says. “Have some bad news.”

The crowd quiets, the frenetic movement slows, stills, making him easier to see, but also likely making it easier for him to see me. Part of me wants to hide, but a much bigger, selfish part wants him to find my eyes in this crowd. To see the recognition turn to want, then determination. For him to make his way through this crowd. To me.

“This will be one of the last Underground Karaoke nights at Moonbar.”

“What?” I whisper, my question lost in the echoes of the crowd. My heart sinks, my chest heavy with sadness.

He nods, but his expression remains blank, the opposite of the last time I saw him when his anguish was tattooed into his skin.

“Unfortunately,” he says. His skin is far too pale. “Moonbar is closing.”

The bar erupts in boos and groans, but the sounds are far away. There’s a buzzing in my ears, like every noise is filtered through cotton balls. I’m numb as Nick leaves the mic, stepping off the stage. Someone says his name. He looks up, and that’s when he sees me. First shock, then recognition. Then, worst of all, nothing.

He disappears into the crowd.

I don’t have any right to be hurt, but I am.

“Take me home,” I say, and I walk out.

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