Page 51 of The Match Faker
It does not.
I clear my throat. “Can you give me some space?” I ask. “Go downstairs and tell them whatever you want. Say my sister is having a romantic crisis or something.”
I’m trapped here; the only place I can truly find peace is the bathroom.
He stands. “I don’t have to lie to them. I’ll tell them everything and then I’ll take you home.”
I shake my head. “You’ve been drinking.”
“I had one glass of champagne.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s late. Maybe I’ll just, uh, have a shower?”
I’m numb. Or maybe apathetic is a better word. My anger burned up all my emotion, there’s nothing left.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and when I nod, he wanders to the door and grasps the knob, before turning back around. “Do you like baths. It’s a soaker tub.”
I don’t answer him.
Murmurs from downstairs break in as he opens the door. The tone is more subdued, as if they’re winding down for the night. Though part of me is fearful they heard us and are trying to listen in. He closes the door with a quiet click, blocking out everything else, leaving me alone.
Which sucks, because I wish I wasn’t.
No matterhow much hot water I add to the bath, it’s not hot enough. While I’m still submerged, Nick returns to the room and goes through what I assume is his bedtime routine, the gentle creak of his bed, his padded steps across the carpet. The door closes again but he comes back a few minutes later. Music plays from his phone, but only one song before he turns it off. It’s a song I don’t recognize. The bed creaks again, the TV mounted on the wall comes on.
The water gurgles when I pull the plug, drips like rain as I stand and step onto the mat. His bathroom is stocked with bath sheets, the kind big enough to sleep under. They’re fluffy and warm and decadent and I spend longer than necessary drying myself, brushing my hair. I go through each step of my skincare routine with purpose and intention, all to prolong the inevitable: opening that door and facing Nick.
The worst part of all this is the disappointment that hit me like a wave when it sank in that Nick—this Nick—is not my match.
My pajamas were a gift from Mitchell’s parents; royal green silk with white piping. I wear them like armor, because not only do they feel amazing, but I look amazing in them.
Nick doesn’t look up when I open the door. He lounges on the bed, remote control in one hand, the other tucked under the waistband of his underwear peeking out beneath his sweats, his legs crossed at the ankles, feet bare. Not a care in the world.
“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” he says, like he’s expecting the demand.
“I never asked.”
His eyes follow me as I cross the room, putting things away, setting out my clothes for tomorrow.
When I sit on the bed, it’s at the very edge, my back to him. “Have you talked to your dad yet?”
He’s silent for a long moment, but finally, he responds with a simple “No.”
I nod. It’s not that I’m going to shrug off what he’s done. I don’t think I could. But he hurt my already bruised pride and the last thing I want is to leave here owing him anything.
I slide under the covers, pull my eye mask over my forehead, and rub lotion into my hands. Normally, I’d moisturize my feet as well, but Jade’s Gen Z sensibilities must be getting to me, because that strikes me as an obscene thing to do in front of him. He flips the channels as the sports highlight reel he was watching ends and lands on a sitcom rerun. The laugh track is obnoxious in the silence between us.
“Do you like this show?” he asks, still homed in on the TV.
“Sure.” I shrug. Silk slips against my chest, my stomach. Sitting next to him like this, the sensation is illicit, and it sends goose bumps along my spine.
“So, tomorrow?” he says. “I’ll take you home.”
I turn to him, pulling in a strengthening breath. “No.”
After a moment, he shakes his head. “Why not?” His voice is soft, how I imagine he’d speak to his girlfriend as they lay in bed together.
“Because you still need to talk to your dad,” I say, lifting my chin. “And I’m not an asshole.”