Page 10 of The Match Faker
I laugh. “Rude, but please enlighten me as to why the hell not.”
Rocco points their knife at me, abandoning the limes. “I appreciate that you don’t date in the industry. Some of these bar managers work their way through the college-aged servers like they’re McConaughey in that movie all the straight guys love.”
“Not a predator. Good to know.”
“But Nick. Nicky. Nico. Do you know what would happen if I set you up with one of my friends?”
I lean against the bar, folding my arms across my chest. They mimic me. If I were a man who “took things more seriously”—thanks, Dad—I’d accuse them of insubordination.
“You’d be helping your best friend out because he really needs to find a woman he can pass off as his date before his parents’ wedding anniversary?”
Turning, Rocco rolls their eyes and picks up the knife again. “Though that sounds like a hilarious story I don’t actually want to get invested in,” they say, going back to cutting, “that is not what would happen. No, I guarantee she’d fall for you instantly because you’ve got that scruffyI’m a stray dog and just need some lovelook.”
I blow out an annoyed breath. Not a huge fan of the dog comparison, but I’ll let it slide.
“With your flannel and your band T-shirts and your daddy issues.”
I turn around, too, and scoop my limes into the container. “First of all, only I’m allowed to say I have daddy issues. Second, I thought I wanted to hear this, but it turns out, I do not. Thanks, Roc.”
“Nick.” They place a hand on my shoulder, their green eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. “Women love you from the start and I can tell you like them, too. But you leave them hanging.”
I flick a piece of lime pulp off my Man Machine Poem tour T-shirt. It’s hard to be self-righteous about the band T-shirt comment when I am literally wearing one.
And Rocco’s not wrong. I certainly left Carrie hanging.
A couple patrons trickle in, and Rocco heads over to take their orders while I finish up prep.
“I’m taking a smoke break,” I call down the bar.
They tuck their hair behind their ear with one hand while shaking a martini shaker with the other. “You don’t smoke, baby.”
The bar is quiet for now, but that’s the thing about King Street West on a Monday. It could be quiet for the rest of the night. Either I’ll cut Rocco and maybe even close early, orthirty people will pile in here in the next half hour and we’ll be slammed until last call.
Here on this block of King Street, life is always teetering on the edge of a party. The loudest place to be when a Toronto sports team is winning, the worst place to try to sleep after last call. For now, I’ll take advantage of the quiet.
“Just pretend.” I blow them a kiss as I pull my winter coat around my shoulders.
The alley behind the bar has one light over the door. I stick to that small halo, more for some semblance of warmth than out of a need for safety. It’s cold as balls out here. I shove my phone between ear and shoulder and stick my hands in my back pockets.
“Nico.” Carrie’s voice is the only warm thing out here.
Sinking into the comfort of it, I lean back against the cold bricks. “Hey, Care.”
Rocco thinks it’s unhealthy that I talk to my ex, but we didn’t break up because we weren’t fond of each other. We just want different things.
“Aren’t you working?” The sound of her television fades from the background. I can picture her moving through her Roncesvalles condo, the three steps it takes to get from her living room to her bedroom door.
“Taking a break. How’s work?”
Carrie launches into a description of her kindergarten class’s latest art project. For a few minutes, I soak in the easiness of our friendship.
“Nick?”
I blink out of the trance I’ve fallen into. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t call to hear about my kindergarteners.”
Traffic is picking up on the street, the noise building with it. “I need a favor,” I say, my heart suddenly in my throat. “Isthere any way you could come with me to my parents’ house in a couple weeks?”