Page 98 of The Match Faker

“Oh.” Maybe I need to rethink if she’s upset with me.

The last time she slept at her house was in August.

“Okay,” I say, once I realize that I haven’t said anything for an awkward amount of time.

“I’m probably just tired. Maybe burnt out a little?”

Fatigue could be a factor. I did wake her up after my shift so she could sit on my face for a bit. Even though she doesn’t take bar shifts – we tried that, and she got way too flustered – she’s still forced to be on my schedule.

Jasmine was the missing piece we didn’t know we needed at Moonbar; she’s got a binder for every possible situation; she’s improved our marketing tenfold when it was previously zero. Gone are the days of forgetting to reorder vermouth or restock napkins with our logos on them. She even found a way to promote Underground Karaoke while still adhering tothe number rule of Underground Karaoke: no one talks about Underground Karaoke.

We sell merch now, too, and she got us all T-shirts for us to wear on shift. Rocco was most excited about the fact that she got our names embroidered on them. She blessed Moonbar with all her Jasmine-iest qualities, and we’re thriving, but I can see how all that work could burn her out.

“Do people usually barf when they’re burnt out?”

This gets me in trouble. She scowls and pushes me toward the door. “Tyrone is waiting. Go taste his wines. I wrote down our needs in the notebook on the bar.” She points a stern finger at me. “Do not go over budget.”

I hold up my hands in placation. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Don’t go under budget either.” Then she gives me one final push out the door.

Turnsout Tyrone is pretty chatty, so he doesn’t leave until Rocco arrives and it’s time to start opening. The bar fills up fast since it’s a Thursday and Underground Karaoke is loud and fun but impossible to sneak away from to call or even text Jasmine to ask how she’s doing. At two in the morning, I text her, knowing she won’t see it until the morning. Then, I text Jade, because she’s always up now.

Me: how is she?

Lil’ sis: qué?

Me: your sister

Lil’ sis: ????

Lil’ sis: why what’d you do?

Me: NOTHING!!!

Me: she was sick today. threw up and went home.

She doesn’t respond until I’m out of the shower and in a bed that feels far too spacious.

Lil’ sis: just checked on her. she’s snoring.

Me: take a vid. we can use it for blackmail later

Lil’ sis: dude you are diabolical

She sends me the video, which is just a black screen since Jasmine’s room is pitch black from her blackout curtains, but over the whoosh of her sound machine – a tool I got her hooked on – her breaths come in soft snorts.

She snores delicately. Because of course she does.

I fall asleep to the lullaby of her snores, rather than think about if Jasmine is okay, why she never told her sister she was sick. Or why she hasn’t reached out to me once since she left.

“Remember Yasmin?”Jasmine sets down her fork with intention, not hard, not softly, but with far more concentration and precision than the action usually deserves. She dabs at thecorners of her mouth with her napkin, even though she’s barely touched her lunch.

I stuff my fork into my mouth, my fork laden with leafy greens and sweet potatoes and whatever other root vegetables she’s stocked my tiny kitchen with. But even after I’ve masticated longer than necessary, I can’t recall a single instance of meeting Yasmin. Best case scenario, this is a friend I’ve forgotten about. Worst case scenario, she’s an ex I’ve forgotten about, though that seems unlikely. Even for me.

“No,” I say around a mouthful so large Jasmine shakes her head huffing fondly. I hope. She smooths the already smooth red and white checked tablecloth that covers my kitchen table. I’ve never once owned a tablecloth before but one afternoon I came upstairs scrounging for a snack and there it was, along with her and the table set for two. Now we eat lunch together every day. Except for yesterday, when she stayed home claiming continued illness – and wouldn’t let me come over at all to help – and the day before, when we were so busy we never even had lunch.

“You met her the first time we went to your parents’,” she says shyly. “In the pool house?”