Page 27 of The Match Faker
“Okay,” he says slowly, cupping his mug with both hands.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to imply you’re a disappointment, too.”Shut up, you loser.“He left when I was in my first year of university and he cut off contact with us soon after.” Hepreferred his other family to ours, but that’s too much to share. “But not before he told Jade that I was pathetic for dropping out of school.”
He whistles his shock.
“Ironic, since I only dropped out because our mom couldn’t deal after he left.” My tone is flippant, but if I let myself feel even an ounce of the pain he inflicted on us, then my voice will break. “And Jade needed stability. I got a job, and she moved in with me and…”
And that was that.
“You did a good thing,” he says.
I shrug. I did what had to be done, but his words ignite an ember of pride deep inside me, an affirmation I didn’t know I needed until I heard it.
“Is there anything else you need me to know about your family before we leave?” I ask.
“There is.” He stops there, finishing the dregs of his lemon water and hooking his finger into the handle of my empty mug. “Well, technically it’s not about my family.”
He turns toward the sink, where the stockpot still sits filled with soapy water.
“I can do that,” I say in a rush.
“It’s fine.” He waves me away. “Washing dishes is sort of my specialty.”
He means it as a joke. I’m pretty sure most of the things that come out of his mouth are meant to be jokes. But my next move is more a compulsion than a choice. I don’t let other people do dishes for me. I do the dishes for me and for them. Even if I really fucking hate dishes.
Besides, shouldn’t he get a break from dishes if washing dishes is part of his job description?
“No.” I put my hands over his, where he’s lifting the soapy stockpot filled with cold, stagnant sink water and the crusty detritus left over. “I got it.” I pull the pot toward me.
He resists me. “I said, it’s fine.” His voice is strung just the slightest bit tighter.
I pull harder. Because excuse me, this ismystockpot, and my dishes, and maybe I let him save me at the party, but I don’t need saving in this. I don’t let other people take care of me; I take care of them.
“Nick,” I say through gritted teeth.
The water sloshes in the pot.
“Jasmine,” he replies with a stubbornness I haven’t seen from him before. His jaw is clenched hard like mine, and he’s wearing that stupid fucking smirk. The same smirk I’ve wanted to wipe off his face numerous times since we met. Now, though, I don’t want to get rid of it with a slap. Now, I have the distinct urge to kiss it off his face, to smother it against my throat.
The way the curl of his lips tints the sound of my name alone is enough to make me dizzy. If he asks, I’ll tell him it was that unsteady, faint feeling that makes me do what I do next. Because I don’t just let go of the stockpot. I shove it back at him, with the kind of impulsivity I haven’t felt since before my prefrontal cortex was developed.
Nick stumbles back, his hip slamming into the counter and the water in the stockpot rising in a bubbly, orange-tinged wave. I shut my eyes before I have to witness the rest of the carnage.
Nick screams, not like a horror film’s final girl, but certainly an octave higher than I thought he was capable of. His torso is soaked with a combination of water, soap, and…other stuff that looks like it was once spaghetti sauce. Or maybe chili?
“My Chumbawamba T-shirt,” he says, his eyes bulging and his neck straining.
“Your what?” I whisper, bringing a hand to my chest.
He points at his graphic tee. “It’s ‘Tubthumping,’” he says with barely contained outrage. Though with easygoing Nick, I suppose it’s more like a tame amount of outrage.
“I don’t know what that means,” I cry.
He holds the fabric away from his body. The gray T-shirt is worn so thin that with the water, it’s starting to have a wet T-shirt effect. The image on the front of the shirt, a flexed bicep with a boxing glove encircled by the wordsTUBTHUMPINGandCHUMBAWAMBA, is absolutely soaked. There’s a dark stain in the most embarrassing spot possible on the front of his jeans.
“It’s vintage.”
“I can fix this,” I say with a confidence I actually feel for once. If there’s one thing I know, it’s fabric. This time when I grasp the pot, he gives it up without a fight. I drop it into the sink with a clatter. Dirty water soaks into my socks as I yank on the hem of his shirt and lift.