Page 62 of The Match Faker
Her hair remains perfectly set, but I pretend like there’s a loose strand, using it as an excuse to feel the soft curve of her ear. She’s frozen in place, all but her lips, which part in response to the touch.
“Are you worried you won’t be able to?” I ask. “You certainly didn’t fake it this morning.”
She clamps her mouth shut. Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. If possible, I think she’d happily wrap her hands around my neck, French tips and all, and squeeze until I turned purple. She’s fuming.
It may be true; she may not like me. She may hate me after this. But she didn’t hate me this morning. Didn’t hate my hands, my mouth, or the words I spoke into her skin.
“You look a little warm.” I rub my thumb along her cheek. It’s pink because of me, not the temperature. “I’ll get us drinks.”
“Feel free to choke on one,” she says cheerily.
I laugh as I walk away.
Between Jasmine and the bar set up at the kitchen island, I’m stopped by two couples, both friends of my parents’ I barely remember, and I’m stopped once more on my way back with two flutes of champagne. They all want to know what I’m up to, then act surprised when I’m still “just a bartender.” They double down on that surprise when I tell them I’m here with Jasmine. I get it, but also, rude.
Miranda and Claire have joined Jasmine by the time I get back to her, and the combination of her first few sips of alcohol and my sisters’ embarrassing stories about me, specifically the crush I had on my first-grade teacher, Ms. Sarah—I still maintain I had an outside chance with her—loosen Jasmine’s smile. Claire leaves to put her baby to bed, but Robert takes her place, with more champagne. Charlie and Rashida join us, both exceptionally drunk. I’m not on the clock, but at this point, it’s hard not to take notice of intoxication levels of the people around me.
Jasmine is incredible at small talk. She asks to hear Charlie and Rashida’s engagement story, coos appropriately over the professional family photos that Robert and Alex have done every quarter, and expertly sidesteps too much detail about “us.”
I’m in the kitchen, collecting waters for the group, when the familiarting,ting,tingof a butter knife on stemware cuts through the conversations around the place. As my dad clambers up on top of the coffee table, the crowd quiets, and as he delivers his speech, Mom beams up at him from the floor. She isn’t even pissed that he’s standing on the furniture.
“I’m generally known as a man of few words.” He pauses there, waiting for his audience to laugh. “But I want to thank you all for being here to celebrate what I can honestly say will never be enough years with my Mindy.”
Pause for obligatoryawwwwws.
The room is full, bright, warm. Alex and Robert stand with their arms around each other, Tilly half-asleep and clinging to Alex, her head on his shoulder like when she was a baby. Charlie hugs Rashida from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head. They’re both glassy-eyed and swaying but at least they’re doing it together.
Dad talks about how he thought Mom was gorgeous the moment he saw her and how she couldn’t remember his name.
Pause for obligatory laugh.
I find Jasmine in the crowd. Her cheeks are flushed but not too much. A small smile pulls at her lips. She toys with the base of her champagne flute, drawing her finger back and forth around it. I’m tempted to go to her, grasp her hand, squeeze her fingers, take her to another room, somewhere private; I know all the best hiding spots in this house. I’ve spent the most time avoiding my dad. She laughs at something my dad says, then she looks at me. Like she could feel my attention like a caress. The remnants of laughter are still on her face.
“And finally, we want to thank all our children and their partners for joining us this weekend. Especially my son Nick and his new partner, Jasmine, who is such a lovely addition to our family.”
More obligatoryawwwwwsand clandestine snickers from my siblings. My parents beam at me. So do their friends, people I don’t recognize or remember but who knew me when I was Tilly’s age.
Did Jasmine feel sick when we duped her co-workers? Probably not. But nausea builds as person after person turns my way. And as my father lifts his glass to toast, the champagne and finger foods sour in my stomach.
Jasmine is right. I am a faker. I’m fake. Is saving Moonbar worth lying for? Absolutely. But is lying to my family, accepting their pride in something that doesn’t exist, worth it?
I am an asshole.
Around me people toast, clap, and turn their attention back to the party. Holding my breath and snagging a bottle of unopened champagne from the nearest ice bucket, I leave.
The first timeTilly saw the automatic pool cleaner, she cried and refused to get in the water. She called it a creepy crawly. So that’s what we named it. Creepy Crawly chugs along the wall. Dad could have bought a new one by now, one that doesn’t sound like an underwater combustion engine, but he’d rather fix this one over and over again.
The bottle of champagne is tepid in the humidity of the pool room but the lounger I chose is the comfiest one, more like a chaise longue than glorified patio furniture. Between the sudden bursts of laughter and the constant muted thump of bass, with my eyes closed, I can almost convince myself I’m home in the bed above my bar.
When the door opens behind me, I lie very still in case it’s my parents. They’re old so maybe if I don’t move, they won’t see me, like the T. rex.
No dice. Footsteps approach, heels. The newcomer puts a hand on my hip and pushes until I move over.
“What do you want, Jasmine?” I picked up her scent halfway between the door and this chair. Which I’ll never admit. Makes me sound like a serial killer. She just smells so damn good, that rich, spicy-sweet scent.
When she doesn’t answer, I turn onto my side, facing her. The lounger is big enough to fit both of us if we spooned.
“I say again, what do you want, Jasmine?”