Page 6 of Most Likely to Match
Her mouth twists, like there’s something she wants to say and is physically keeping the words from escaping.
“What? Just say it.” I sigh.
“Without getting into a critical analysis of the logic behind firing you because you don’t have a boyfriend, because that is, in fact, bullshit…what if you just pretended you had a boyfriend?”
I roll my eyes. “Just because that worked for you does not mean it will for me. You guys are the exception, not the rule.” I stab my fingerat Nick, who’s bobbing his head along to the barely audible music while he pours a beer from the tap.
Jasmine’s eyes go big, and for a split second, I want to run away because that is not a helpful face. That is a diabolical scheme face.
“The photographer,” she says, likeeureka.
“I don’t want to relive my high school glory days with a guy who may or may not have been on a rival lacrosse team right now, Jasmine.” I take a sip of my water for something to do that isn’t frowning.
She shakes her head and holds me by my shoulders as if preparing to shake me. “The photographer can be your boyfriend,” she says.
“Were you paying attention to anything I just said?”
“Just listen.” She leans in close, facing the wall covered in thrifted album covers and, inexplicably, license plates from across Canada. “He told Nick that he ran this boyfriend-for-hire business when he was at Western,” she whispers as I stare out at the crowd.
“That’s ridiculous.”
She ignores me. “He’d take girls out on dates where they knew their ex-boyfriends or crushes would be, in the hopes of making the dudes jealous.” I feel her shrug. “According to what he told Nick, they usually paid him in an exchange of services. Like they’d write his essays for him,” she says quickly when she feels me recoil. “Apparently it’s how he decided to get his psych degree and a master’s in counseling. He spent most of his time counseling both parties on how to be together or how to move on instead of actually making people jealous. Now he’s a couple’s therapist or dating coach or something.”
She pulls back as Nick, who has left his spot behind the bar for the center of the karaoke stage, taps on the mic.
“So you want me to hire a strange man to be my fake boyfriend?” I ask as Nick welcomes everyone over the sound system.
After a moment of consideration, Jasmine nods.
“We’re going to announce the raffle winners now,” Nick says.
“If he’s a couple’s therapist, why is he moonlighting as a photographer at a BIA event?” I ask.
I’m nottryingto be mean; I’m a skeptical person. This all sounds suspicious. I find it hard to believe he was providing “boyfriend-for-hire” services and not taking a little skin action on the side.
It’s not the sex work I have a problem with, either. It’s more an issue with power dynamics.
Jasmine huffs. “It’s a gig economy, Chloe.”
Nick calls the name of the first raffle winner, a handcrafted knife maker.
My skin feels too tight, like I haven’t moisturized for months and any sudden movements might cause deep cracks. The noise in the bar is somehow louder than before, even though everyone should be quietly listening to Nick make his raffle announcements. The sound makes it harder for me to focus on Jasmine right in front of me. I have the distinct feeling that she is mad at me or at least frustrated.
“Dean’s a nice guy,” she insists. “You should at least say hi later.” Her tone softens as she keeps talking. “And we can figure out how to save Core Cupid. We saved Moonbar. We can do it again,” she says, as if I had anything to do with that. As if the two businesses are alike in any way.
“Wait.”
The skin tightness, the sound overwhelm, all of it disappears as I finally register what she said.
Nick announces the next raffle winner, the owner-operators of a romance bookstore who now have three hundred dollars’ worth of printing from Hot Copy Graphics and Printing.
“Dean?” I whisper. “You said his name is Dean?”
“Yeah,” she whispers as Nick details the features of the headshot raffle prize. “Dean Weston or Westbrook or something?”
A weight drops in my stomach. “Dean Westlake?” My mouth is dry. “And he went to Western?”
She gets diabolical eyes again. “Youdoknow him.”
