Page 83 of The Match Faker

19

JASMINE

Three hours later and despite last call, the sidewalk outside Moonbar is still packed. I try the door, but it’s locked, unsurprisingly. Do I knock? Nick led me in through the back when he brought me here. Unfortunately, this requires me to walk down the back alley, which is terrifying at almost three a.m. Dumpsters line one side, in between back doors to the various businesses on the block. The wall of the adjacent building is covered in tags and street art. There’s one light on above the back door to Moonbar; the rest of the way is dark, a lighthouse in a sea of trash and dark corners. My only option is to run toward that halo of light as fast as my high-heeled boots will let me. I skid on gravel and salt and I grab the back door, jerking on it as hard as I can. Also locked.

Fuck.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles and I can’t help but look over my shoulder, like Ghostface has been hiding in the shadows for a moment just like this. I try again, as if that’s ever worked in the history of locked doors. It does not. I knock again. Maybe Nick’s already upstairs, in bed. Maybe he’s not even alone. A sound echoes down the alley, an unidentifiable noisethat the closed captioning on my TV would describe as [loud scraping], and a chill runs up my spine.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I try the door one more time, jerking it back and forth, growling through the exertion, taking out my frustration on the metal handle and rusty hinges. Because I am the idiot who thought coming down a dark alley at night was a good idea, the idiot who couldn’t let her literalperfect matchwoo her into a stable, loving relationship because I was too upset about this bar. I am the idiot who is outside, in the cold, in the middle of the night, desperate to find out why the hell all the work I did impressing his family, while being bullied by a child and an octogenarian, was worth nothing.

On my final pull, the door gives with an echoing screech, and I stumble back as it swings violently and slams against the wall.

Nick stands there, backlit by the hallway light. He wears his glasses, but any delight I might have from seeing him in them is overshadowed by the scowl on his face.

“We’re fucking closed,” he shouts. His voice echoes down the alley and along my skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake.

I shiver, not from the cold, but out of fear. He’s never yelled like that before. Regardless of whether he knows it’s me, I look away to get myself under control. I don’t want him to see me cry. Ever since I was a kid, listening to my dad yell at my mom, all it takes is one well-directed shout from a man to have me in tears.

“Jasmine?” he asks, his tone laced with confusion. “What…”

“What happened to the loan?” I ask, erecting the barriers I need to get through this conversation.

He deflates, leans against the doorjamb and pinches his nose beneath the bridge of his glasses. “Jazz.”

“Don’t call me that.” Now that I can’t use the door as my emotional punching bag, I’ll have to use Nick. “You said your dad agreed to the loan. The whole reason I went to Muskokawith you was so you could get that loan to save your bar, and now the bar is closing.”

“Jazz,” he says. “Jasmine.” He holds out his hands like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “Will you come in? It’s cold and—” He looks left and right. “You’re standing in a fucking alley. Why didn’t you just text me?” Standing to one side, he holds the door open.

Holding my breath, I brush past him, but I stop just beyond the threshold, unsure if I should go upstairs or into the bar.

“I didn’t text because I didn’t think you’d answer,” I say quietly.

The door slams shut, and Nick stands directly behind me. Not touching, but just barely. He sighs, puts his hand on my waist, moving me gently to the side so he can pass in the narrow hallway.

“You can wait upstairs if you want. I’ve got to finish closing,” he says over his shoulder as he pushes through the swinging door.

I linger here, butterflies migrating to the spots on either side of my ribcage where he touched me. It’s because of those butterflies I don’t go upstairs. I don’t need to be in such close proximity to a bed right now.

I follow him into the low-lit bar. “You can talk and close.”

The floors have already been swept and mopped clean, garbage emptied, and tabletops wiped down. Instead of closing, he leans against the bar, his arms braced on its edge, head down.

When he looks up, his face is gaunt. “Was that him? The guy you left with?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, fisting my hands. “What happened to the loan?”

“Of course it matters,” he roars, his face flushed and chest heaving.

“Don’t yell at me,” I yell back, for once feeling brave rather than reduced to tears.

He turns his back to me, his hands in his hair. When he faces me again, he’s calmer, controlled. “I’m sorry.”

I cross my arms, a useless protection. “He wanted to do karaoke. That’s why he wanted our first date to be here in the first place. I didn’t want…”

Nausea churns in my stomach. I’m not sure how to even finish that sentence. I didn’t want to tell him the truth, another lie. I’m not sure anymore.