Page 17 of The Match Faker
The smile that lights her face is the first genuine one she’s given me since she walked in, but even that slowly fades. “Why?”
Because you’ve got guts, I almost say. I don’t though, because that feels like revealing too much about me and becauseof the innate and unknowable instinct inside me that screams she would cringe at the use of the wordguts.
I’ll save it for later.
“If I do this, then you’ll owe me a favor, right?”
“What kind of favor?” she asks slowly. She leans away from me like she’s finally realizing the implications of spending time alone with a strange man she met in a bar.
I can’t help but laugh this time. “Not that kind of favor, you pervert,” I say quietly, just to see her blush.
“That’s not what I meant.” Her nose scrunches in annoyance. I think she might even call me a dick under her breath.
“I know.”
She doesn’t hear me. She’s too busy hopping off her barstool and pulling on her coat.
I give her my phone number and don’t bother asking for hers because of the firm look in her eyes when she says she’ll contact me “when she’s ready.”
She’s walking away when the childish part of me, the immature teen boy that exists like the devil on the shoulder of every straight man, pipes up just so she’ll turn around and look at me one more time.
“Cause it makes you happy.”
She spins on her heel. “Pardon me?”
I don’t actually think she means to come off quite so bitchy. But when she stands there in her expensive clothes, with her eyebrow arched and her perfect manicure already tapping away at her phone screen while she frowns at me, she embodies the archetype. She’s Cruella de Vil meeting a puppy, or Miranda Priestly interrupted by an intern.
I should probably interrogate my feelings about villainous heroines from older films at some point.
“You asked what the point of doing karaoke is if you’re not good at it. You should do it because it makes you happy. That’s the point.”
“Oh. Well, okay. Bye?”
A hold up my hand in goodbye, then throw a clean bar towel over my shoulder and turn my back to her. In the grand scheme of first dates and easy letdowns I’ve witnessed in this bar, that was nothing. It was nothing enough that no one even noticed.
“Oh, Nicky,” Bernie singsongs.
I wince. Almost no one noticed. She keeps pouring a beer while she grins at me over her shoulder.
I’m never going to hear the end of this.
5
NICK
Bernie was right. I look fucking spectacular in a suit. But I only have one. And tonight, I don’t feel spectacular at all. It’s not this suit’s fault. The sales associate assured me the navy blue, modern fit, single-breasted Italian wool was the kind of design that would never go out of style, which was perfect for me since I don’t have a lot of reasons to wear a suit. I pull it out of my closet once a year, tops. I’m about to set a new record, though; this is my second time wearing it this week.
I forwent the tie and opted for a light-blue collared shirt tonight, instead of the white shirt and gray tie I wore to my meeting with my bank’s business loans advisor on Tuesday. Like a few small changes would ensure tonight went better than that meeting did.
Still, the bad vibes cling to the wool like the lingering scent of a nut-and-lentil loaf from the vegetarian, gluten-free bakery and café run by the crunchy granola mom in my hometown.
The only thing with stronger lingering power was the collective look of disappointment Bernie and Rocco gave me when I told them my bank loan to buy the bar wasn’t going to happen.
Despite my surprisingly good credit, I don’t have the assets or collateral needed to be a good candidate for the loan, not with Moonbar’s annual revenue, cash flow, and financials. And while the advisor assured me those factors aren’t insurmountable, the loan amount is. It all comes down to location and Moonbar’s is prime, skyrocketing the valuation from a mid-six figures to an easy seven.
No amount of charm or offer of free drinks is enough to make a bank write me a check with that many zeroes.
Which is fair. If we all have to opt in to this capitalist hellscape, then the least the authors of our current economic construct can do is not bury me in debt.